The old walls held more than just silence — they remembered the breath of those who died here.

The night was thick, like wax frozen on candle ribs. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, framing the monastery's peaks with a pale light. Fog hung on the slopes, drifting across the stones and creeping into the window openings, as if it wanted to hear the secret itself.

The Monastery of the Seven Martyrs had stood on a hill for over a thousand years.

Once a pilgrimage site, it was now visited only by priests and investigators. For the past few months, things had happened inside that were spoken of only in whispers: a series of murders. Each body was found near frescoes depicting ancient martyrs, and each time, death repeated the pattern.

"They say the last one was found near the bell tower," — you said, looking at the gray gates that creaked as they entered.

The wind stirred your coat, causing the fabric to rustle softly. Gravel crunched beneath your boots. You held a lantern in your hand — a weak light in the black sea of fog.

Three steps behind, Optimus walked. Human now. Or at least as human as the shell created for missions among humans would allow. Tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes the same deep color that once glowed beneath his helmet. His gait remained the same — confident, measured.

"The crime scenes match the iconography. But the motive... is elusive," — he said in a low voice as you stopped in front of the old wooden door.

"But the fear matches," — you responded, examining the cracks in the door.

"None of the brothers dare spend the night in the cells."

The interior smelled of cold, wax, and old wood. The lantern revealed time-eaten columns, vaults with peeling plaster, and frescoes darkened by centuries.

One depicted a man nailed to a cross; another, a woman with scorched hands, as if in flames. And somewhere there, behind the main altar, was the place where the last victim was found.

You crouched down by the footprints on the floor. Drops of blood — dark, already congealed, but still visible in the beam of the lantern.

"The pulse was strong," — you said quietly, more to yourself than to him.

"He was fighting. But it was as if... there was no one there. No signs of a struggle."

Optimus stood nearby, looking at the fresco. His eyes reflected the candlelight — tired, thoughtful.

"Perhaps they saw something," — he said.

"Something we don't understand yet."

He walked closer to the wall, his fingers brushing the faded paint. A layer of dust crumbled, revealing a fresh scratch beneath — as if someone had recently dragged a sharp object across the surface.

"That's new," — you noted, straightening up.

"No one's been here since the last murder."

"Then," — he turned to you, — "the killer is still nearby."

The phrase was spoken evenly, without fear, but echoed like thunder in the silence of the monastery.

The fog outside grew thicker, as if moving. There was a rustling sound outside — as if someone had walked across the courtyard, their clothes catching in the reeds.

You turned your head toward the door. Your heart beat a little faster.

"Did you hear that?"

Optimus nodded and took the lantern from your hand, placing it on the floor.

"Don't turn off the light," — he said.

He moved quietly toward the door, his hand resting on the handle of the old revolver he carried not out of habit, but just in case. The door creaked faintly under his fingers.

Beyond it, only fog. But a shadow darted around the corner of the building.

"Inside!" — he said curtly, and the next moment, somewhere near the window, there was the sound of glass breaking.

The lantern fell, the light wavered, the walls came to life. For a moment, it seemed as if the frescoes had moved too, as if the eyes of the martyrs were watching you.