Chapter 2:
The Lost

At Noah’s temporary residence, the clock had passed midnight. The moon floated high, pale and detached. John banged at the door until a servant cracked it open.
“What do you want at this hour?”
John didn’t answer. He pushed past the man and climbed the stairs, storming into Noah’s room.Noah was sprawled on a red carpet, one arm draped across his eyes. He stirred groggily as John slapped his arm.
“Get up, Noah. We need to go.”
Noah blinked against the dim lamplight. “What... John? What are you doing in my house?”
John’s eyes burned with purpose. “I know who it is.”

The streets were hushed now, cloaked in moonlight and the occasional flicker of a lantern in someone’s window. The loud city from earlier was nowhere to be seen. It was as if the world held its breath. Noah walked beside John, still half-asleep and clutching a small oil lamp.
“Are you sure? He seemed like someone who cared. He loved those kids.”
John’s steps didn’t slow. “Then let’s ask him. Directly.”
They reached the teacher’s home. Noah knocked—once, twice. Silence. No answer. He raised his hand again, but before he could strike, John stepped forward and kicked the door open with his leg.
“What are you doing? That’s not... legitimate,” Noah said, wide-eyed.
John barely glanced at him. “Who cares? The Prince is with me.”
Inside, the house was dark and quiet. Dust danced in the lamplight. A wall clock ticked with a sound too loud for its size. John moved quickly through the rooms. “He’s not here,” he said, then turned toward the staircase. “Search upstairs.” Noah hesitated, but nodded. He climbed slowly, the narrow stairs groaning beneath his boots. At the top, the hallway felt colder. He raised the lamp. His breath caught.

The upstairs floor was... red.
Not carpet. Not paint. Blood. Thick and dried in streaks. It covered the boards so fully the original color of the floor was undetectable. Nearby, a hammer lay discarded. Dried blood clung to the metal.
Noah’s heart slammed in his chest. “John!”
John burst into the room moments later, eyes locking on the horror. He didn’t gasp. Didn’t flinch. He simply took it in.
“I knew it,” John said grimly. “Tonight, he’s gone to see his therapist.”

In the dimly lit office, bookshelves circled the room like quiet sentinels. Between them, two simple chairs sat facing each other near the center. A single candle flickered to life in Jennifer’s hand, casting a gentle glow on the worn wood of the floor. Jennifer, a composed woman in her late forties, eased into her seat with a grace refined by years of guiding broken minds. Though age traced her skin, serenity still shaped her presence. Across from her sat Micheal, hunched and trembling.

"So," she said softly, voice smooth like a lullaby, "the two investigators think you’re the criminal?"
Micheal shifted, agitated. “I have no clue what they found or what they think.”
His voice cracked. His fingers trembled visibly. “They said nothing, but I… I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”
Jennifer reached across and gently took his hand, her touch grounding. “Calm down, Micheal. Everything will be alright.”
But Micheal pulled away and eyes glassy.
“How can it be?! I can’t control myself. I black out—I wake up and things happen. I don't know who I am anymore!”
Tears streamed down his face as he covered it with both hands. Jennifer stood slowly, her voice steady. She moved to him, placing a calming hand on his arm.
“We’ll find a way. This isn’t your fault. We can control this.”

Outside, the street was still and blanketed in moonlight. John and Noah stood just steps from the door. Noah raised a hand, stopping John.
“No breaking doors this time,” he said, voice laced with quiet command. “Let’s try talking first.”
Noah knocked. Once. Twice. Then again.
Inside, the knock rang through the room like a gunshot.Micheal froze. Panic surged in his body.
“They’re here. They know everything,” he whispered. “They’re going to arrest me.”
His hands shook violently as he backed away from the candlelight.
Jennifer moved quickly to him, her tone urgent but firm.
“Sit down. Stay calm. I’ll handle this.”
She stepped out into the hall, composed. The door creaked open.
“What can I help you with?” she asked politely, standing in the narrow doorway.
John didn’t hesitate. “We need to speak to Micheal.”
Jennifer’s smile thinned. “He’s in the middle of a therapy session. I can’t allow any interruptions.”
“He’s dangerous,” Noah added, his tone flat but firm. “This isn’t optional.”

Before Jennifer could reply, Micheal appeared in the hallway—disheveled, wild-eyed—and holding a knife. In one swift movement, he pressed it against Jennifer’s neck. She gasped, paralyzed by fear. Her mouth parted in shock. Her wide eyes shimmered in the candlelight, frozen on Micheal’s trembling hand.
“Put the knife down,” John ordered, stepping forward slowly.
“No!” Micheal shouted, breath ragged. “It’s over. Everything’s over!”
“No, it isn’t,” John said calmly. “You’re not alone in this.”
“I’m not even human!” Micheal’s voice broke. “I’m a monster.”
Noah stepped forward, measured and unshaken.
“You’re not a monster, Micheal,” he said, voice regal but warm. “I saw your eyes when you looked at your students. You cared. You’re not like the real monsters. This—this isn’t who you are.”

John turned slightly, glancing at Noah in surprise. Just hours ago, the prince had dismissed Micheal as nothing more than a dumb teacher. Now, his words carried conviction. Real empathy.
John nodded once. “Put the knife down, Micheal. Let us help you.”
Micheal’s grip loosened. The blade clattered to the floor.He collapsed in sobs.John moved quickly, securing the knife and placing a steady hand on Micheal’s back. Noah kept his distance, watching in silence as emotion overtook the man.
Later, outside Jennifer’s home, John turned to her. “Are you alright?”
Jennifer, still pale, nodded. “Yes, I’m fine.”
But her voice trembled slightly. Her arms were wrapped tightly across her chest. And the fear in her eyes told a different story.

The morning air in Constanța buzzed with noise and movement. Crowds swelled in front of the Bureau, a storm of onlookers, gossipers, and curious townsfolk pressing close to the gates. Word of the captured serial criminal had already swept through the city like wildfire—carried on the wings of street whispers and newspaper headlines. The return of famed investigator John, and more shockingly, the involvement of Prince Noah himself, only added fuel to the commotion.

Inside the Bureau's interrogation room, the chaos outside seemed like a distant world. The lighting was dim, walls lined with aging shelves and a thick pane of glass separating the observers from the accused. John sat across from the suspect, his voice calm and measured.
"Tell me everything you remember," he said softly. "If you speak the truth, we may be able to lessen your sentence."
Noah stood just behind John, arms crossed, watching the broken man across the table. Micheal’s voice came out flat—almost as though the words had died before leaving his throat.
“I already told you. When my wife died… I lost something. I found out afterward—she was pregnant.”
He swallowed. “I couldn’t cope. I’ve had sleepwalking episodes since I was a child, but after that... it got worse. Some nights I’d wake up outside, other times in my classroom, unsure how I’d gotten there.”
He let out a breathless laugh—one without joy. “I saw doctors, dozens of them. Nothing worked. Then I met Jennifer. She understood. She lost her husband in the war, and she had a miscarriage. She knows grief like I do.”

He paused, breathing ragged.
“I’ve been seeing her for six months. At first, I felt better. She took care of me—mind and body. But even that didn’t last. I’d look at the children in class and… instead of healing me, it tore me apart. Reminded me of everything I’d lost. Then… it happened again.”
He trembled. “I woke up with a hammer in my hand. I saw… her. One of my students. Her head was smashed in. Her body—torn. I remembered doing it. All of it.”
He broke down, burying his face in his hands.John looked away, shutting his eyes for a long moment. Noah turned to face the wall, expression unreadable. He had seen greed, cruelty, and madness before—palace politicians with secrets in their pockets and daggers in their smiles—but this… this was different. This man was barely a person anymore. A ghost haunting his own life.

John leaned forward gently. “You said you tried to stop yourself?”
Micheal nodded between sobs. “I tied myself up while I slept. Took pills. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. I hurt the only person who ever tried to help me. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t—”
John interrupted, quietly. “Let us decide where you belong. Just tell us—where are the bodies?”
Micheal’s tearful eyes widened. “I… I don’t remember.”
John blinked. “What?”
Noah stepped forward sharply. “What do you mean you don’t remember? You said you saw them. What did you do with the bodies?”
Micheal slumped forward, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

In the hallway outside the interrogation room, Noah paced furiously.
“This is complete bullshit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Nonsense!”
John stood nearby, arms folded. “It might be true. He’s fragmented. The damage in his mind runs deeper than we can guess. He may truly not remember.”
Noah exhaled hard, the frustration curling in his shoulders.
“I need to speak to Jennifer,” John said, turning toward the Bureau door. He paused and looked back. “You coming?”
Noah waved him off. “No. I’ve got somewhere else to be.”
John didn’t press. He simply nodded once and stepped into the street, the morning crowd still murmuring outside, the city of Constanța already bracing for the next shadow to fall.

In the library of the Bureau, silence wrapped the shelves like a second skin. Dust floated gently in the morning light slicing through tall, arched windows. Noah sat perched on the edge of a branch-like window seat, books open in front of him. Despite his noble posture and tailored coat, he looked distant—lost in thought. He did not cared about the people before. But now, something about this case twisted inside him. It wasn’t just about earning a good name anymore. There was something wrong—something didn’t fit. A false conviction wouldn’t help his reputation. If the truth emerged later, it would all come undone. He turned a page, then stopped.

{Most sleepwalkers don’t remember what happened when they wake up.}
Noah’s brow furrowed. He recalled Micheal’s voice—shaky but sure.{“I remembered everything I did.”}
Noah tapped his finger on the line. Confusion stirred. He flipped further.
{Stress or anxiety can worsen sleepwalking. Most sleepwalkers are harmless. They might move or talk, but their brain is mostly ‘asleep.’ A sleepwalker might respond in simple ways—like sitting when guided, or turning if gently nudged.}
The book snapped shut with a sharp clap.
“No,” Noah sensed that something wasn’t right.
He leaned down and pulled another volume from the pile beside him. The title glinted in the light:
{Can a Psychoanalyst Control Someone’s Mind?}

Meanwhile, across town, John stood once again before the modest home of Jennifer, the therapist. He knocked firmly, once, twice. The door opened with a slow creak. Jennifer, her posture graceful despite the night’s chaos, offered a faint smile. She stepped aside.
“Come in,” she said simply.
John removed his hat, his movements stiff. The hallway was still and smelled faintly of chamomile. He followed her into a sunlit sitting room where muted colors and soft cushions offered a quiet peace.
“Would you like some tea?” Jennifer asked.
“No, thank you,” he replied, sitting slowly on the edge of the couch.
Jennifer took the seat across from him, folding her hands in her lap. A streak of sunlight illuminated a strand of silver in her hair. John studied her.
“You knew everything about Micheal. So why didn’t you contact us sooner?”

Jennifer’s gaze didn’t waver. “You saw what he did to me last night. He’s unstable. Every conversation, I had to measure my words. And none of you would’ve known if he murdered me in that moment.”
John’s tone deepened. “But things are more complicated now. You may be seen as an accomplice. You need to tell me—where are the dead bodies?”
Jennifer’s eyes widened. “Dead bodies?”
“They’re missing. He’s confessed. He’s close to you. If anyone knows where they are, it’s you.”
She leaned forward, voice sharper now. “You’ve misunderstood me. I’m not an accomplice. I gave him guidance, that’s all. I’m just a woman who nearly got killed by a man unraveling in front of me.”
John shifted, letting the silence stretch.
“Then tell me this—where do you think he might have hidden them?”
Jennifer exhaled slowly, her voice softer. “He never said. I talked to him a lot, but... not about that.”
John rose, setting his hat back atop his head. “If you remember anything—anything at all—contact me.”
Jennifer hesitated, then asked, “What happens to Micheal now?”
John paused by the door. “The evidence is strong. He’s confessed. Given his mental state, the judge will likely send him to a psychiatric facility.”
Jennifer nodded slowly, then turned and walked toward a shelf in the corner. She returned holding a small cloth doll with a button eye.
“I keep a few of these for patients with children. I heard you have a daughter.”
John accepted it, his eyes momentarily softening.
“I’m not your patient,” he said quietly. “But... thank you.”
Jennifer gave a small nod as the door clicked shut behind him, the doll still warm in his hand.

The library was quiet, save for the scratch of turning pages and the ticking of an old brass clock. Noah sat beneath a low-hanging reading lamp, surrounded by a fortress of books. His posture was stiff, his fingers thumbing over the same line again and again. Evening shadows crept across the wooden floor, but he didn’t seem to notice. Outside the reading area, David lingered, shuffling nervously. He had waited for hours, hoping to impress, to be noticed. Finally, he dared to speak.
"Your Highness, perhaps you should rest. You’ve been reading since—"
“Quiet.” Noah’s voice sliced through the air. His eyes were locked on the page. He found it.
{The manipulator acts like a reflection of the victim — building fast trust. Making someone doubt their memory, thoughts, or sanity. Repeating phrases or ideas subtly until they become belief. Triggering someone’s past pain to control their behavior.}
The book snapped shut in his hands, the sound sharp against the library’s hush.
“Take me to the burial ground,” Noah said, rising.
David’s face twisted in confusion. “Right now? We can go in the morning, Your Highness—”
“Right now,” Noah repeated, his voice cold and steady. “Move.”
Elsewhere, in a quiet second-story restaurant cloaked in dusk, Jennifer pulled her coat tight as she slid into a corner booth. She wasn’t alone. Her guest sat with his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a worn hat. The flicker of candlelight caught the scar running across his cheek.
Goth. Jennifer pushed a metal box across the table.
“I want protection,” she said flatly.
Goth tapped ash into the tray, his voice low. “Not interested in old ladies.”
Her expression didn’t change. “Come to my house tonight. There will be an attack. Two men. Finish them.”
The box opened with a soft click. Cash.
Goth’s smile was slow, amused. “Now I’m interested.”

Back at his home, John finally sat down to eat. The doll Jennifer had gifted him earlier rested on the table beside his plate. Its stitched smile was oddly unsettling in the evening light. He looked over at Ms. Brown, who was slipping into her coat.
“It’s time to pick up Elizabeth.”
She nodded. “I know, Mr. John. I’m on my way now.”
For the first time in days, John exhaled with ease.

At the burial ground, a different kind of work was underway. David, caked in dirt and sweat, heaved another shovelful of soil from the grave. He grumbled beneath his breath, each scoop a new curse against Noah. Noah stood several feet away, face half-covered by a handkerchief, refusing to soil his boots.
“This isn’t legal,” David muttered. “We should contact the family.”
“The family is in prison,” Noah replied flatly. “Now dig.”
Finally, the coffin groaned open. The body of Micheal’s wife lay still, her features softened by time. Noah’s eyes didn’t linger on her face.
“Cut the belly,” he said, gesturing.
David paled. “What?”
“You heard me.”
The man cursed under his breath, but obeyed. With trembling hands, he made the incision. There was no blood — she had been dead too long. Instead, maggots spilled out, writhing through decayed tissue. Noah didn’t flinch.
“She was never pregnant,” he said.

Micheal sat in his cell, arms wrapped around his knees, head heavy with a storm of thoughts. His future was a void. He didn’t want to spend years imprisoned — he wanted it over. An execution. Darkness. The cell door creaked open. Noah.
He walked straight in, grabbed Micheal’s arm. “Are you sure your wife was pregnant?”
Micheal blinked. “Yes, she was. She told me and we—”
“No, she wasn’t.”
“What?” Micheal stood, his face twisting in disbelief. “You lie! We talked about our baby, our future!”
“How far along was she?”
“I... I don’t know.”
“Was it a boy or a girl?”
Silence. Micheal looked like a man unraveling. “Why don’t I know? That doesn’t make sense—”
He collapsed back onto the cot. Noah crouched beside him.
“She wasn’t pregnant, Micheal. Jennifer controlled you.”
“No...”
“Yes. She planted ideas in your mind, built trust, triggered your pain.”
“But she helped me...” “No, she used you. Where are the children’s bodies?”
Micheal’s eyes trembled. “She... she said she’d cover it. Bury them. But some of them... some are still alive.”

John was at home, finishing his lunch when he heard the door open. Noah, standing , slightly out of breath and holding a stack of books. Without waiting for an invitation, Noah rushed in.
"The real criminal is Jennifer, not Micheal," he said sharply, then glanced at John's half-finished meal. "And you're having lunch? At a time like this?"
John raised an eyebrow, setting his fork down calmly. "Why not?"
"Because you arrested the wrong person!" Noah snapped.
John folded his arms. "Micheal is unstable. You can't trust what he says."
Noah set the books down and opened one, flipping to a marked page.
"Look here—most sleepwalkers don’t remember what happens when they wake up. But Micheal does. He remembers everything, John. That's not sleepwalking. And sleepwalkers? They can walk and mumble, but they can't plan or kill."
John paced around the table, dismissive. "You can't accuse someone based on what's written in a book."

"Fine," Noah said, voice firming. "Micheal's wife wasn't pregnant either."
John froze mid-step. "How do you know that?"
"Doesn't matter. Micheal said Jennifer took the children's bodies and promised to bury them. She manipulated him, John. She used his trauma to control him—classic psychological manipulation."
John shook his head, laughing. "That’s a Farce."
"She’s a psychoanalyst, John. This is what she does."
As John walked past the table again, his hip bumped into it. A loud crack rang out. The small porcelain doll Jennifer had gifted him fell and shattered on the wooden floor. Everything stopped.
Inside the broken doll was something red, something soft, something horrifyingly real. A patch of skin.

Someone had been busy, Jennifer. But this—this wasn’t therapy anymore. She had taken the children. Quietly. Deliberately. Not out of cruelty, not in rage—but with a devotion that chilled the bone. Like a sculptor at work, she removed their skin with a surgeon’s calm. Careful. Focused. It took time. She didn't rush. This kind of transformation demanded patience. Once their raw bodies lay exposed, she layered them with something new—cement, cold and gray. She shaped it smooth, flawless. No blemishes. No bruises. No trace of the child that had once been there. Just faultless faces, unmoving limbs. Perfect dolls.

John picked it up, confused. He didn’t know what it was, or why she gave it to him. Without thinking, he slammed it against the corner of the table. Cement cracked. Splintered. Shattered.
And beneath it—
A child’s body. Skinless. Bloodless.
The room went quiet. Before John could speak, Ms. Brown burst in, panic all over her face.
"I can't find Elizabeth! They said a woman picked her up!"
John and Noah exchanged a glance, then sprinted from the house.

At Jennifer's house, John didn’t bother knocking this time. He kicked the door open with a crash that echoed through the quiet street. They swept through the rooms, but it was Noah who spotted a narrow staircase leading downward.
"John! Over here!"
The basement was dimly lit by a flickering bulb. The smell hit them first—metallic and damp. Cement bags were stacked in a corner. Knives of every shape glinted on a worktable. And in the far end, red-streaked fabric—skin, not cloth. Children’s voices whimpered faintly from behind a makeshift wall.

At the center of it all sat Jennifer, her face obscured by shadows. John’s rage exploded. He drew his sword and charged.
"Where is my daughter!?"
But before he reached her, another blade clanged against his—stopping him cold. Goth stepped out from behind Jennifer, his expression unreadable.
Jennifer stood, unbothered. "Let’s talk," she said smoothly.
John’s jaw tightened. "Bounty hunter."
Jennifer continued. "I have your daughter. Negotiate, and she lives."
Noah stared at the man dressed in black, a slow chill creeping over him. Then it struck him—the man he had bumped into that morning. It was him.
He had never seen a bounty hunter before. Only heard stories. Shadows that killed for money, like ghosts in the dark. How vile!. How anathema the profession was to everything he believed in.

Jennifer continued. "You caught Micheal. Soon, the truth would come out. I needed protection."
"Why use Micheal?" Noah demanded.
Jennifer’s voice was calm, too calm. "Because broken people are easier to mold. He was close to the children. He gave me access. I used his grief—just like the world used mine."
Goth watched silently. He’d worked with the greedy and vile—but this woman, she disgusted even him.
"I poisoned your daughter," Jennifer said. "You have half an hour. Arrest me, and she dies."

John lunged again, fury overtaking fear. But Noah was faster. He drew his sword—his father’s sword—and struck. Goth intercepted, but this time, his blade snapped in half. His eyes widened. Kingly steel.
Goth had fought the nobility before. But this sword, and this man, were different. Dangerous.
Jennifer used the moment to run.
John turned to pursue, but Goth kicked the door shut. He planted himself in front of it.
Noah pressed forward, raining blows, one after another, relentless—but Goth was faster. He slid beneath a wide slash and kicked Noah hard in the ribs, sending him crashing into a stack of crates. John charged next, heavier and more brutal—his strikes weren’t elegant, but they were seasoned. Goth ducked the first swing, parried the second, then elbowed John in the gut and kneed him back. Clang. Slam. Gasp.
Noah recovered and leapt back into the fight. Now they flanked him—Noah from the right, John from the left. But Goth was like a ghost—vanishing between attacks, deflecting with only half a blade and a gloved hand. He moved not like a man, but a weapon forged for chaos.

But John’s heart wasn’t in the fight. He shouted between clashes.
"She’s just a child! Let me go to her! She has nothing to do with this!"
Goth paused. For a long second, the only sound was heavy breathing and the hum of the flickering bulb.
John stepped forward. "You don’t want this on your record. A dying child?"
Goth wiped the blood from his mouth.John had been right. In the end, Jennifer had paid for it all—paid for silence, for obedience. But it was the innocent child who would suffer.
And Him—the young, once-glorious man. Noah knew— he shouldn’t have gotten involved. Not any deeper.
If he stayed, this case would shatter him. Just like his sword. He exhaled and stepped aside. John ran.

Jennifer hadn’t gotten far. The old woman stumbled through the woods behind her house.
John found her near the trees, grabbed her by the collar, and slammed her against the trunk.
"Where is she!?"
Jennifer just laughed. "You’ll never find her. Only her body. That’s why I gave you the doll—for your grief."

Back inside, Noah faced Goth. Goth tossed him the money Jennifer had given him. That meant he didn’t finish the job. He turned to leave, but Noah raised his sword.
"Where is she?" Noah demanded.
"Not my business," Goth muttered.
Noah stepped forward. "I’ll find you. I’ll find all of you. And I’ll stop you."
Goth twirled the kingly sword between two fingers, a grin curling at his lips. "No, you won’t, prince."
And then he vanished into the shadows.

John dragged Jennifer through the front doors of the Bureau, rain clinging to their coats. Inside, the noise died. Everyone knew who she was now. "A six-year-old girl is missing," John barked to the assembled officers.
His voice cracked, but the urgency in it held them. "Elizabeth. Search every street, every alley, every house. Now."
Without waiting for confirmation, he pulled Jennifer into the investigation room and slammed the door behind them. He tossed her into the chair. Papers fluttered. A dull thud echoed through the room.
"Where is she?" he demanded.
Jennifer only smiled, cold and distant. "She dies right now."
John’s fist came down on the table—bang—the sound loud enough to rattle the hallway. Outside, heads turned. Inside, the silence rang. Noah stepped in quietly. He glanced at Jennifer, then moved to John's side.
"Calm down," he whispered. "We'll find her."
He leaned in closer. "What if... we torture her?"
John didn’t blink. His jaw clenched.
"She skinned children without flinching," he muttered. "Torture is mercy to someone like her."
He turned to Noah. "Watch her. I'm going out."

Noah looked at Jennifer, his mind tangled with unspoken thoughts. He knew there was no answer she could give him—none that would undo what had already been done. She understood now what her own future held. There was no more running, no more hiding. She had used the lives and bodies of children as a veil, a twisted balm to mask her sorrow and fill the hollow of her solitude.

They searched all night.
John scoured the alleys of Varethorn, lantern in hand, coat soaked through. Every shadow looked like Elizabeth. Every child’s voice was a ghost. Noah led a second team, combing the northern district and checking abandoned buildings. But the city gave them nothing. When dawn broke, the sky turned pale and gray. John sat on the stone stairs outside the Bureau, head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. His body sagged—not just with exhaustion, but with defeat.
Noah stood beside him, silent.
John’s voice, when it came, was raw. "She was all I had."
Noah didn’t answer. There was nothing gilded to say. A man ran up from the street, breathless.
"I—I found a child’s body. In the school storage room."
Time stopped.
John stood slowly, staring. "The school? Why didn’t I think of that?"
He ran. Inside the dusty storage room, time stopped again. There, among broken desks and forgotten chalkboards, lay Elizabeth.
Still. Too still.
John dropped to his knees. He gathered her into his arms. Her hair still smelled like lavender soap. Her skin was cold.
His heart didn’t break. It stopped. His tears didn’t fall. They had already been spent.
He held her like she was still warm, still his, still breathing. But she wasn’t.

The funeral came in the rain.
The skies wept for him, because John no longer could. The cemetery was quiet, the air heavy. Rain fell like silence made liquid. John stood at the grave, unmoving. A black umbrella hovered over him, forgotten.
Noah stood to the side, soaked, head lowered. There was no royal dignity now—just grief. He didn’t know if this was justice or tragedy. He had caught the criminal. But he had not saved the victim.
Was that still a victory?
Far beyond the crowd, watching from the mist, stood another figure. Goth.
He stood under a tree, cigarette wet between his fingers, not lit. Goth didn’t know them—not their names, not their stories. But he knew the feeling of loss all too well. And for the first time in years, the bounty hunter felt something close to sorrow.

The elder care center sat like a forgotten relic at the edge of town — a squat, crumbling building where silence wrapped the halls like dust-laced curtains. The moon hung low above the roof, its pale light barely reaching the curtained windows. Inside Room 13, an old woman pulled the thin blanket up to her chest. Her silver hair was neatly tied, her nightgown buttoned to the throat. She was just beginning to drift into the blurred edge of sleep when— Knock. Knock.

The sudden sound jarred her eyes open. Her wrinkled fingers gripped the blanket. No one visited at this hour. No one should.
She rose slowly, slippers brushing the floor, and made her way to the door. Her bones ached with every step. Cautiously, she opened it.
Two figures stood in the hallway — two men — both in nurse uniforms, both too stiff, too quiet. The one nurse smiled faintly, holding a small silver tray.
“We’re here to give you your nightly injection.”
the man said with a warm voice that didn’t reach her eyes.
The old woman blinked in confusion. “But… I already had my check-up this morning. I don’t—”
Before she could finish, the nurses stepped inside. The man closed the door gently behind them.
“No need to worry,” the another man said. “It’s a routine follow-up. Just a little booster. Helps you sleep better.”
They were already guiding her backward — not rough, but firm. The man eased the old lady onto the bed, fluffing the pillow with clinical efficiency. The man uncapped the syringe, drawing clear liquid from a small vial.
The old lady’s voice trembled. “I don’t feel unwell. Why would I need—”
“Shh,” the man cooed, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Just a little pinch.”
The needle pierced her arm.A moment passed.

The nurses cleaned up swiftly, sliding the syringe back into its case. Neither said a word as they walked out, closing the door with a soft click.
The old woman lay still for a moment, blinking at the ceiling. Then she tried to rise — slowly, cautiously.
But her vision doubled. The room swam. Her breath came shallow and fast. Her chest clenched. One trembling hand reached for the nightstand, missed. Her legs gave way, and she crumpled to the cold floor, a thin gasp escaping her lips.
The silence returned.
Later — five, maybe ten minutes — the door opened once more. The same two nurses stepped inside, their faces unreadable.
They checked her pulse. Nothing.
The man nodded. The other man rolled out a black body bag from under the bed. Together, they lifted her with practiced ease. The old woman was gone. And the center, like always, remained quiet.