The Relic Designer

“Happy birthday.” The soft light from the living room chandelier spilled across the pale yellow tablecloth, bathing the whole space in warmth. Richard and Margaret Cross stepped inside from the storm, carrying a cake wrapped in a white box. They were smiling as always—never bringing home the bad moods from work, never showing a trace of exhaustion, though both had clearly been running in the rain. From behind the kitchen curtain, Ethan Cross emerged, carrying a tray of freshly cooked food.He didn’t speak. He set the dishes down, quietly taking his seat at the table’s edge. Richard sighed and shook his head with a gentle smile. “This boy…” He slipped off his wet raincoat, removed his boots, and neatly placed his wife’s slippers by her feet. Richard, tall and impeccably dressed in a dark suit, looked every bit the gentleman. Margaret, in her white blouse and jeans, had the calm grace of someone who could run a boardroom and still make it home for dinner. She complimented Ethan’s cooking, tossing her coat aside as she walked toward the bathroom. The sound of running water echoed from within. When she returned, a few drops of dark red stained the edge of the sink. “Busy or not, we’ll always come home to celebrate your birthday,” she said softly. Ethan didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the television. “Breaking news: The Rainy Night Butcher strikes again. A third victim was found earlier this evening in Ravenshade’s Old Quarter.” “Police have identified a suspect. Residents are advised to remain calm, lock their doors and windows, and avoid going out after dark.” Rain lashed against the windows, thunder rolled outside. The warmth of the room clashed with the storm’s fury, creating a strange, heavy stillness. “Why do you always watch these things?” Richard said, picking up the remote, a trace of concern in his voice. “The media thrives on fear and misery. Don’t feed into it.” Ethan didn’t respond. He just glanced around the cozy little home—too quiet, too perfect. Every wall was soundproofed, lined with acoustic material. As long as there wasn’t a full-blown fight, no one outside would ever hear what happened in here. The new wind-cooling refrigerator stood humming softly. It circulated air inside instead of freezing it solid—perfect for keeping meat fresh without a smell. The kitchen drawers were filled with vacuum-seal bags, each large enough to hold a fist-sized piece of meat. And beneath the counter lay packets of heating powder—mixed with water, it could accelerate decomposition. So maybe… some of the meat went into the fridge, while the rest got buried elsewhere. Behind the bathroom door was a roll of waterproof plastic, enough to cover the entire floor. Meat processed in there, Ethan thought, probably wasn’t the kind you bought at a*****e. He looked down at the spotless floor. His fingers trembled slightly. The whole house was designed for warmth and comfort—yet his pulse drummed with unease. Margaret came out smiling, carrying the cake. “Come on, sweetheart,” she said, “your father and I brought this all the way through the storm.” She carefully unwrapped the cake and placed eighteen candles on top. Eighteen. But Ethan was twenty-six. Richard lit the candles, Margaret turned off the lights, and darkness swallowed the room. The flames flickered, lighting their faces. They smiled at him. The exact same smile. Perfectly mirrored—every curve, every angle. Ethan felt their presence closing in. Their bodies seemed to shift, warping at the edge of the firelight. “I wish…” he said quietly, “that Mom and Dad could stay with me forever.” It was the first thing he had said all night. Because he loved them. And they loved him. No matter how busy they were, they always came home. Every night. When the lights came back on, Ethan’s back was soaked with cold sweat. He removed the candles one by one, wiped them clean, and placed them neatly in a metal box. There were already many candles inside. “Wishes won’t come true if you say them out loud,” Richard said with a grin, already digging into the food. Margaret smiled fondly, placing food on Ethan’s plate. Ethan didn’t eat. He just sat, staring at the small piece of cake before him, counting his heartbeat as his fingers rubbed the calluses on his palms. “Breaking update! Authorities warn that the Rainy Night Butcher may have entered a residential area. Citizens in the Old Quarter—stay indoors and lock your doors!” “Suspect is a male, aged twenty to thirty, between five-foot-nine and six-foot-one…” Fifteen minutes passed. Ethan studied his parents’ every movement. Then, quietly, he scooped a bit of cream with his spoon and tasted it. Sweet. Almost too sweet. Like swallowing a dream whole. Then—thud! Margaret collapsed. Her hand twitched, eyes fluttering shut. Richard rushed to help her, but his body stiffened mid-step, as if his veins were filled with lead. “Guess I overdid the dose,” Ethan murmured, his trembling finally stilling. “Even after all this time, I still get nervous.” His expression was unreadable as he looked down at his fallen parents. “I just can’t tell,” he whispered, “whether I’ve lost my mind… or the world has.” He went to the closet, pulled out a pair of leather restraints—the kind used to subdue violent psychiatric patients—and bound his parents tightly. On the TV, the news about the Rainy Night Butcher kept looping. The storm outside raged on, but none of it seemed to matter anymore. Ethan dragged the unconscious bodies toward the bedroom. It wasn’t easy. They were heavy. He loved his parents. And they loved him. No matter how busy they were, they came home every night. But— When he opened the bedroom door, chains clattered. Dozens of faces stared back at him. Richard. Margaret. Again. And again. Piled together, twisted in impossible ways, their smiles frozen in grotesque imitation of life. Every night, they came back. Even if he tied them up, more would return. “Are they people?” he whispered. “Or monsters that just look like them?” Their mouths stretched open. Their eyes bled red veins. And in broken, inhuman voices, they rasped— “Stay with us…” “Stay here… forever.” Ethan leaned against the doorframe, lighting a cigarette. Smoke drifted in lazy curls as he watched. He had been trapped here for three days now. And it had all started that night—All Souls’ Night. That night, he’d quit his job at Black Hollow Penitentiary, determined to work full-time as a game designer. At 11 p.m., he boarded the last bus from Hollowridge to Ravenshade, sketching ideas for a small game meant to strengthen family bonds—Family Forever. He even added an ad for his landlord’s bakery to make some extra money. The premise was simple: Parents should spend more time with their kids. No matter how busy they were, they should always come home at night. As the bus rolled on, passengers left one by one. By the time it entered a tunnel, Ethan realized—he was the only one left. Even the driver was gone. He got off, heard someone speaking ahead, and followed the voice into the dark.Then… nothing. A gap in his memory. The next thing he knew, he was home—terrified. And at 3 a.m., someone knocked on his door. His parents stood outside. Smiling. Holding a cake. When he turned to fetch slippers for them, his phone rang. It was his mother. Her real voice. Telling him it would rain for days, to take care of himself, to stay safe. Cold dread crawled down his spine. He turned—and saw Richard and Margaret standing silently behind him, heads bowed, smiling. The cake. The wish. The game. Somehow, the game had come to life. Twisted. He had tried to run, but outside the door was only darkness—cold, endless, unnatural. So he stayed. And decided to play through the game. It couldn’t be that hard, right? Survive in the house. Stay alive until he turned eighteen. Let his parents complete their “companionship.” Three nights later, Ethan’s hands were trembling. He never wanted to see another cake again. He stubbed out his cigarette and dragged the latest pair of “parents” into the bedroom. Their faces contorted, straining against the bindings, unwilling to let him go. “Every time they come back,” Ethan whispered, “there’s one more candle on the cake. Eighteen candles… the end of the game. That’s when I’m free.” He looked at them one last time. “If you were really my parents, you’d want me to leave. Not stay trapped here forever.” The more they struggled, the more he knew—he was close to the end. He shut the bedroom door. The air grew warmer. The news became clearer. The rain outside sounded… real again. “Three days,” he breathed. “Three damn days. I can finally leave.” He hurried to the front door, peered through the peephole. The hallway lights flickered between yellow and black, the world outside wavering like a glitching screen. “It all started in that tunnel,” he muttered. “If the game came alive, the answer’s there.” Ethan’s mind raced. He’d studied hundreds of unsolved mysteries. If this was real, if his game could reshape the world—then no one in Ravenshade was safe. The hallway grew brighter. He reached for the lock—then froze. Footsteps. Fast. Wet. Coming closer. His pulse quickened. He pressed his eye to the peephole. Someone turned the corner. A man in a raincoat. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Raindrops dripping from his hood. Ethan exhaled. It matched the police description perfectly. The Rainy Night Butcher. “Well,” he murmured, tension easing, “for a second, I thought it was Mom and Dad again.” He glanced back at the bedroom door. He didn’t dare open it. If the game had a reward for finishing, he’d rather not find out what it was. He grabbed a roll of bandage, wrapped his leg to fake a limp, picked up a trash bag, and slowly unlocked the door. Fresh air rushed in. He inhaled deeply. The raincoat man turned at the sound of the opening door. Raindrops slid down his hood as he froze, then smiled faintly. Ethan smiled back, calm and polite. “The rain’s awful tonight,” he said. “You’re soaked. Come in—warm yourself up.” The man hesitated, but stepped inside. His gaze drifted over Ethan’s “injured” leg, then to the half-eaten cake on the table. The cozy home. The smell of food. The lingering warmth in the air. All of it stirred something dark inside him. And as he stepped fully into the house, his lips curved into a cruel, hungry smile. This would be, after all, the last warm and ordinary night.