Chapter 188: The Calamity rising!!!

Elias Finch,grew up in the sprawling, historic labyrinth of London, developing an early, obsessive fascination with forgotten objects, overlooked histories, and the “lost” beauty beneath the city’s modern veneer.

He wasn’t violent in his youth, but rather a solitary, brilliant collector of curiosities – from antique keys to fragments of old buildings, all meticulously categorized and preserved.

His shift to villainy began as a twisted form of artistic expression and social commentary.

As “The Curator,” Elias doesn’t seek global domination or wealth. Instead, he kidnaps individuals he deems “unremarkable,” “wasteful,” or “unappreciated” by modern society. He then stages elaborate, horrifying “exhibitions” with them, transforming his victims into static, tortured art installations in forgotten tunnels, abandoned warehouses, or secret chambers beneath London.

Each “piece” is designed to highlight a perceived societal flaw: the indifference of passersby, the fleeting nature of fame, the disregard for history, or the obsession with consumerism.

He leaves cryptic clues and meticulous notes (signed “The Curator”) at each scene, framing his atrocities as necessary lessons for a world too distracted to see its own decaying soul. His methods are precise, aesthetic, and psychologically chilling, designed to shock the city into self-reflection, one gruesome exhibit at a time.

He sees himself not as a killer, but as a forced preservationist and a dark artist, creating masterpieces of societal critique.

But there is something more, The Curator is the secret son of a notorious figure who once reigned on the CIA’s most wanted list for audacious, high-stakes robbery crimes. The official file on his father, Alistair Finch, was marked closed after his body was mysteriously recovered from the depths of Silverline City Lake—a sudden, neat ending to a decade-long manhunt, which The Curator has always suspected was far too simple to be true.

…..

London — The Private Palace of the Curator

A mansion carved out of old bones and older money, where every corridor smelled faintly of varnish, dust, and the quiet madness of things too carefully preserved.

Elias Finch stood in his workshop —

a cathedral of horrors disguised as an artist’s studio.

A new canvas lay before him, stretched taut, pristine, waiting to be violated by vision.

He hummed a soft tune, something Victorian and unsettling, as he polished a narrow steel shaping tool until it gleamed like a surgeon’s favourite scalpel.

Tap. Tap.

A polite knock on the heavy wooden door.

Elias didn’t look up.

“Come in.”

His voice floated like silk over a razor.

The door opened and a tall Black woman entered, dressed in a crisp black suit, her movements precise, disciplined.

Ruby — his most loyal acolyte, and the only one with enough composure to step unannounced into his sanctum.

Elias finally turned.

He walked toward her with that eerie glide — slow, deliberate, almost theatrical.

As he reached her, he lifted the blade and placed it gently against her neck, as though testing the curvature of a sculpture.

His eyes were wide, bright, frighteningly alive.

“Ohh, Ruby…” he breathed, his voice a strange mix of affection and threat,

“visiting me so early? How eager you are…

A smile stretched unnaturally.

“…to witness my next masterpiece.”

Ruby didn’t flinch.

Not even when he pressed the cold metal harder.

Her face remained straight, posture dignified.

“My lord,” she said softly, unmoved,

“I bring news. Important news.”

For a heartbeat, Elias froze.

Then —

the madness simmered.

The blade withdrew.

He stepped back, eyes focusing sharply.

“I am all ears, darling.”

Ruby inhaled.

“Sterling Enterprises… the organisation you asked me to investigate… the one you suspected had a hidden puppeteer.”

Elias tilted his head, the familiar curiosity blooming in his smile.

“Yes. Yes. Go on.”

Ruby continued,

“Your suspicion was correct. It is run by none other than Timothy Sterling’s true grandson.”

A pause.

A grave one.

“…Miles Sterling.”

Silence fell across the workshop, thick and suffocating.

Elias’s eyes widened slowly…

then narrowed…

and suddenly—

He burst into laughter.

High-pitched, deranged, echoing off walls adorned with macabre installations.

“Miles! Miles Sterling!”

He clapped once, sharply.

“The grandson of Timothy Sterling… what a delicious twist of fate…”

He pulled his hair back with both hands, laughing harder as he spun around the room like a child discovering a new toy.

“Ruby, darling… do you hear it?”

He pointed upward, as though listening to ghosts.

“My father… Alistair Finch… must be grinning in his grave. His long-awaited dream, the one death stole from him—”

His grin turned feral.

“—I can finally finish it.”

With a sudden violent motion, he hurled the sharp steel tool into the untouched canvas.

The blade stuck dead centre — splitting it open like a wound.

Elias exhaled, thrilled.

Then, eyes burning with zeal:

“Ring the signal.”

His voice shifted into something colder.

Royal. Commanding.

“Gather the treasure hunters. Every last one.

Tell them the Curator summons them.”

Ruby nodded once.

“Yes, my lord.”

And she left.

Elias remained alone in the workshop… staring at the torn canvas like a man beholding prophecy.

“Miles Sterling…”

A whisper became a vow.

“…our artful little collision is long overdue.”

….

Star Harbor — Sunday Morning, Pearl Villa

Miles called out from the foyer,

“Asher, Hope — are you two ready yet?”

In response, two small rockets disguised as children came bouncing out of their room.

Asher practically slid across the floor.

“Big brooo, let’s go!”

Hope twirled behind him, shoes mismatched, hair messy, excitement overflowing.

Elena’s voice cut in from the kitchen,

“Wait, wait! What about breakfast?”

Miles coughed dramatically, scratching his cheek.

“Yes… yes, that’s exactly what I was calling them for. Breakfast.”

Elena rolled her eyes — smiling anyway.

“Look at them. They’re so excited they forgot food exists. I made special banana pancakes today.”

Asher’s head snapped toward the table.

“BANANA PANCAKES! I want to eat!”

Hope gasped,

“Me too! Me too!”

Elena gave Miles a knowing look.

Miles put his hands up.

“What? I’m also going to eat. How can I miss anything you make, Mom?”

Daniel chimed in,

“I want pancakes too.”

Elena chuckled,

“Come sit then, all of you.”

The staff began serving. While Miles reached for syrup, he noticed a new face among the helpers.

Miles tilted his head. “You’re new? Where’s Miss Martha?”

Elena wiped her hands. “She’s on maternity leave.”

Miles blinked. “Maternity? She was married?”

Elena gave him that motherly stare. “What do you think, son? Do you imagine everyone is single just because you don’t have a partner?”

The new house-help tried — and failed — to hide her laughter.

Miles groaned. “Mom…”

Hope poked Miles’s arm. “Big bro, what is maternity?”

Miles softened instantly. “It means she’s going to be a mother.”

Hope gasped. “Really?! Can I see the little baby later?”

Asher was excited “I want to see the baby too!”

Elena smiled,

“Ask her when she comes back. Now finish breakfast. Don’t you want to go skating?”

Asher lit up,

“YES!”

Hope bounced,

“Stella is also going!”

Miles blinked.

“Stella…? Ah. Celina. I forgot to tell you — Celina’s joining us.”

Asher clapped,

“Really?! I want to meet big sister Celina again!”

Elena asked casually,

“How is Celina anyway? She promised she’d visit the restaurant often, but she hasn’t come even once.”

Miles shrugged.

“Mom, she’s the boss of Wraithbourne Group now. She’s busy surviving meetings every day.”

Elena smiled warmly,

“Tell her to visit sometime. I’ll make something nice for her.”

Miles nodded.

“Okay. I’ll tell her.”

They finished breakfast with laughter and crumbs everywhere.

Soon after, Miles and the twins headed out — tiny gloves, scarves, and chaos in tow — toward the Subzero Centre.

And there, already waiting with steaming cocoa and impatient excitement, stood Celina, Becky, and Rose.

….

Russia – Outskirts of St. Petersburg

A snow-bitten wind rattled the windows of an old hunting lodge.

Inside, a man with white hair, a white beard, and a voice roughened by years of violence sat in a leather chair. A cigar burned slowly between his fingers, smoke curling upward like a ghost. A half-finished glass of whisky glimmered beside him.

His phone buzzed.

He answered without looking.

“Da ~ a?” (Yes?)

A voice came through—tense, hurried.

“Brother, we received a signal… the Treasure Hunters’ frequency.”

The old man froze mid-sip. His eyes sharpened.

Then a slow smile crawled across his scarred face.

“Let me guess… London?”

“Yes, brother. Confirmed.”

He chuckled—a deep, cruel sound.

“So… Alistair’s pup is finally making real art.”

He tapped ash off the end of his cigar.

“I hope he isn’t digging a grave like his father. That fool drowned himself in greed.”

He stood up from his chair, bones cracking, but power radiating from every movement.

“Prepare for the meeting. We are heading to London.”

….

Germany – Munich

In a steel-lined basement filled with weapons, a muscular woman sharpening a machete stopped mid-stroke.

Her radio crackled with the same signal.

She smirked.

“Hmph. Been years since the Curator made any big noise… time to hunt again.”

….

South Africa – Cape Town

A man covered in tribal tattoos looked up from a table stacked with illegal diamonds.

He heard the coded chime.

He laughed softly.

“So the gallery reopens.”

….

Middle East – Dubai

A sheikh in a private penthouse paused his lavish party when an encrypted notification appeared on his watch.

“Interesting… This time it will be mine.”

….

Hong Kong

A thin old monk closed his prayer book, eyes glowing with something far darker than faith.

“The treasure showed up again.”

Across the globe, dangerous men and women, once scattered and silent, now stirred like sleeping beasts awakened.

All of them had heard the same signal.

All of them were heading toward the same place.

London.

So, the….Silverline City..

A warm morning breeze drifted across Basil Jefferson’s farmhouse as he enjoyed his outdoor breakfast — black tea steaming beside a plate of fresh bread and jam. He was calm, almost unusually so, trimming the edges of his newspaper with a butter knife, when—

“Master!”

A man sprinted across the yard, nearly tripping on the stone pathway.

Basil didn’t look up immediately.

“You’re disturbing my morning, Linn. This better be good.”

Linn stopped just short of the table, panting heavily.

“Master… you need to hear this.”

Basil finally raised his eyes, annoyance fading into a deeper, sharper alertness.

“Hear what? What is it?”

Linn swallowed hard.

“There was a signal.”

The chair scraped loudly against the floor as Basil stood up abruptly.

His face tightened.

“…From where?”

Linn lowered his voice, as if the trees might be listening.

“London.”

For a full second, Basil froze — not breathing, not blinking.

Then,

“They found out…”

His tone dropped into something cold and fatalistic.

“Alert the Grandmaster immediately. And begin preparations for the meeting.”

Linn nodded quickly.

“I’m on it, sir.”

He took a deep breath, then ran back toward the farmhouse, footsteps echoing with urgency.

Left alone in the quiet morning, Basil stared at the horizon — wide silver clouds hovering over the hills.

He murmured to himself, voice low and heavy,

“The calamity is coming back soon…”

To be continued…

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