"Aaaand cut," Kane said, snapping his fingers.
The sharp sound cut through the heavy silence of the room. On the cold floor, Philop—who had been squirming like a trapped insect—went instantly still. His head struck the floorboard with a dull thud as his consciousness abruptly gave out.
Riana stepped around the limp body, her eyes lingering on Philop's bruised face. "So? Did you find anything useful?"
"Nothing substantial," Kane replied, rubbing his temples with a weary sigh. "Only that he's paralyzed by fear of a man named 'Rosel.' Whoever this Rosel is, he's our prime suspect. He's the one pulling the strings and ordering the collection of 'sacrifices.'"
Riana's lips curled into a faint, serene smile, the kind that didn't reach her pale eyes. A light flush crept onto her cheeks, giving her pleasant expression a deeply unsettling edge. "A complete waste of time, then. It's always pieces of trash like him—used up, tossed into a gutter the moment their stupidity becomes a liability, leaving us to mop up the mess."
Upstairs, on the third floor of the Ashen Cell's temporary safehouse, the atmosphere was starkly different.
Late afternoon sunlight filtered through a dust-moted window, casting long shadows across the small room. Arthur sat propped against the wooden headboard, watching his sister struggle with a small pairing knife and a crimson apple. Her knuckles were white, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. She clumsily shaved off thick chunks of fruit, nearly slipping against her thumb twice.
It was painful to watch.
"Give it to me," Arthur said quietly, holding out an open palm. "I can handle it."
"No!" She puffed out her cheeks, a splash of red rising on her neck. "Brother, you're injured! There is no way I'm letting you lift a finger. I can at least do this much—I need to be useful." She lowered her eyes, her tone dropping to a quiet murmur. "You're always the one looking after me..."
Arthur looked at her earnest, desperate effort and felt something soften in his chest. Reaching out, he gently patted her head, took the knife and the half-mangled apple from her small hands, and went to work.
Though Shin had never peeled fruit in his past life, his hands moved now with fluid, practiced ease. With a few swift, delicate strokes of the blade, he carved the red peel into the elegant, curving silhouette of a swan.
The girl's eyes widened, shimmering with genuine delight. "Whoa... How did you do that?"
Shin offered a faint smile. "Do you want to eat it?"
She clearly did, her gaze locked onto the carved fruit, but she shook her head stubbornly. "NO! I brought it for you. You're the sick one, remember?"
Shin picked up the fruit swan, making a low, childish swooping motion through the air as if it were gliding down toward her. She tracked it eagerly, her mouth opening on instinct as Shin brought it close.
"Open wide—"
She snapped her jaws shut around the apple with an enthusiastic bite, chewing quickly like a starved creature. The instant the sweetness hit her tongue, her expression brightened into pure, unbothered bliss.
Then, realizing how easily she'd been tricked, her face flushed red again.
"Urgh! You did it again! Stupid, stupid Arthur!"
Shin couldn't help a dry laugh from slipping past his lips.
How long has it been since I laughed like this? he thought, watching her cross her arms and huff. It feels like a dream... minus the burning ache in my ribs.
She truly loves her brother. But her real brother is dead, and I am a stranger wearing his skin. I can't tell her the truth—not her, not anyone. They'd think I've lost my mind. Then again, given the supernatural abilities those officers displayed, maybe reincarnation isn't the craziest thing they've heard.
His gaze lingered on her small, smiling face as she hummed a soft tune, reaching for a second apple.
Still... maybe I can let this lie last just a little longer. Just a little while.
Come to think of it, I don't even know her name. I can't just ask—that would sound insane. Her surname is Leonor, same as mine. I just need her first name.
Three sharp knocks broke the quiet. The interval between them was perfectly uniform.
The sudden noise startled the girl; the knife slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the bedside table. Arthur reached out on instinct to steady her, then pulled his hand back, leaning heavily into his pillows.
"Come in."
The door opened the way hospital doors open when the person on the other side has decided that the way you open a door matters. Quietly, and with absolute intention.
She was short, wearing a dark, forest-green jacket with crisp white stripes lining the cuffs. A dark leather folder was tucked neatly under her left arm. She stepped inside, stopped near the small table by the entry, and reviewed the papers while standing upright, her eyes moving down the page with steady, measured focus. She was checking her expectations against the reality of the room.
"Vivienne Holt," she said, without looking up from the folder. "Combat Medic, Physician Division. I've been assigned to your recovery."
She spoke the way people speak when they have repeated a phrase a thousand times—not dismissively, just with clinical efficiency. The introduction was functional data, not a social gesture.
She had not looked at him yet.
When she finally raised her head, her gaze swept over him in a single, thorough pass. Top to bottom. Professional and unhurried—the posture of someone examining a responsibility. Whatever she noted, she kept to herself. Crossing to the bedside, she rested the open folder on her forearm and laid two fingers over his pulse point before saying another word.
"How did you sleep?"
It wasn't a casual question. A pen was already hovering over the page in her opposite hand.
"Fine."
She noted something down. Shin had the distinct impression that "fine" had its own specific code in her medical lexicon, complete with a translation key.
She checked his bandaged shoulder, his temperature, and the tray of vials on the stand—each motion part of a rigid routine she executed without hesitation. She didn't project artificial calm; her composure simply existed, occupying the space as naturally as the furniture.
Then, at his shoulder, she stopped.
Her eyes shifted to the folder. Then back to the bandaged shoulder. Then back to the chart.
Her pen held still for the first time.
"This doesn't match," she muttered under her breath.
She flipped back a page, scanned the entries, then flipped forward again. The faint crease between her brows deepened into something that sat squarely between professional confusion and sharp suspicion.
She checked the file cover—the registration number, the name—then looked directly into Shin's eyes before returning to the notes. The thought passing behind her gaze was unmistakable: wrong patient, wrong chart. Yet she dismissed it just as quickly, ruling out the impossible to focus on the reality in front of her.
"You've healed significantly beyond where you should be at this stage," she said, her voice deliberate. "Significantly."
She wrote a longer note this time, the pen moving with the focused weight of a physician documenting an anomaly. "Do not move or use the arm until I give explicit permission."
"Sure..." Shin murmured, caught off guard by her intense scrutiny.
She stared at him for a single, unblinking second. Then she noted that down as well.
In the corner, his sister had gone entirely still. The half-peeled apple hung forgotten in her hands as she watched the medic with wide, cautious eyes.
Vivienne turned toward her. Her expression remained unchanged—attentive, detached, absorbing every detail without offering anything in return.
"Are you his family?"
The girl blinked, straightening up instantly. "Yes. I'm his sister."
The pen moved across the paper. "Name?"
She hesitated, a faint flicker of discomfort crossing her features. "Florence Leonor."
Vivienne jotted it down without breaking rhythm. "If his tissue continues regenerating at this rate, he may be cleared for discharge in two days. In the meantime, administer the doses prescribed by Doctor Nouzen."
Florence bowed her head in deep respect. "I will. Thank you for caring for my brother."
Vivienne offered no warm response to the gratitude. She merely blinked, gave Shin one final, probing look, and turned to leave, the door clicking shut behind her.
What a strange woman, Shin thought. Then again, a combat medic on the front lines probably loses a piece of her humanity just to survive the work.
His eyes shifted back to his sister.
Florence Leonor... A noble name.
He released a soft breath and spoke her name aloud, testing the sound. "Florence..."
The moment the word left his lips, her expression froze. The warmth vanished from her face, replaced by a look of stunned disbelief.
Before he could process her reaction, her eyes welled with big, fat tears. She let out a ragged sob, crying out with the raw, broken heartbreak of a child whose favorite toy had just been crushed.
Shin panicked, shifting uncomfortably on the mattress. "Wait—I'm sorry! Did I say something wrong?"
"No... sob... It's me!" she wailed, wiping her wet cheeks with her sleeve. "I'm the one who did something wrong! That's why you won't use that name anymore!"
"'That' name?"
"Yes! The name you've called me ever since we were little!" Her shoulders shook as she struggled to breathe through her tears. "You always loved the garden... You loved the roses. So I asked you back then who you loved more—me or the flowers. And you said you loved Fleur more!"
The memory flickered into Arthur's past—a sun-drenched garden years ago.
A younger Arthur sat motionless in the grass beneath the sprawling canopy of an ancient oak tree. From behind the trunk, a little girl burst out with her arms raised.
"Rawrr!" she yelled, trying to sound like a beast.
Arthur didn't flinch. He didn't even turn his head. His hollow, lifeless eyes were fixed entirely on a withered, ash-grey rose held loosely in his palm. He looked at it as though he were staring into an abyss.
Florence quieted down, sliding onto the grass beside him to stare at the dead bloom. "Brother... do you like roses?"
Arthur waited a long moment, the silence stretching between them before he spoke. "I do."
"Even when they're dead?"
"It decayed because it finished its purpose," Arthur murmured, his voice hauntingly quiet for a child. "Someday, everything fulfills its purpose and turns to dust."
Florence had been too young to grasp the weight of his words. She simply tilted her head, pressing her knee against his. "Then... who do you love more? The roses, or me?"
A soft breeze swept across the sunlit yard, lifting the dry, brittle petals of the grey rose and scattering them into the wind. Arthur finally raised his head, his hand reaching out to gently rest on her hair.
"I love Fleur more."
"Fleur?" she asked, blinking up at him. "What's that?"
A faint, rare smile touched Arthur's dry lips. "It's my secret name for you. It means 'flower.'"
Back in the quiet room of the temporary office, Fleur was still sobbing, her small body trembling.
Shin had no personal recollection of that warm afternoon, but he could feel the passion in her voice. He understood what that moment meant to her.
Reaching out, Shin gently placed his hand on her head, running his fingers through her hair just as Arthur had done years ago.
"I'm sorry for making you cry," Shin said softly, keeping his voice steady and gentle. "But listen to me... Even now, after everything... I still love Fleur more."
Her crying ceased instantly. Her eyes snapped wide, shimmering with tears, as if an unbearable weight had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. Without a word, she leaned forward and buried her face into his chest, her arms wrapping tightly around him as her sobs quieted into tiny, muffled hiccups.
"Are you still crying?" Shin asked with a faint, fond smile.
"Am not!" she mumbled fiercely against his shirt, sniffling loudly.