The moment of respite after Victor's vanishing act was short-lived. Gereon had just finished convincing himself that a cigar and a nap counted as 'strategic recovery' when the air shifted again — this time sharper, colder, like the world itself had sucked in a breath. He glanced up at the fractured cathedral spire, and sure enough, three silhouettes stood against the half-broken skyline.
"Wonderful," Gereon muttered, kicking a loose head aside; the blood had started to dry. "They've upgraded from dramatic solo entrances to ensemble performances. What's next, a dance number?"
The first figure stepped forward. He looked almost unremarkable at first glance—neatly pressed shirt, dark vest, hands clasped behind his back—but the longer Gereon stared, the less there seemed to be. His boots didn't crunch the rubble, his shadow didn't fall right, and even the dust avoided him as if embarrassed by his existence.
