The destroyed bar, 9:56
Alexander stared into Julius's eyes, not with panic, but with a weighty, slow-building dread that began to curdle beneath the surface of his composure. His mind turned, gears grinding against the gravity of the image he had just seen. It had pierced through his caution—a lifelong instinct honed through war, betrayal, and the art of survival. Yet despite every whisper of skepticism that tried to rise within him, something about that photo—its lighting, the blurred background, the unmistakable look of terror in the child's eyes—struck him as unbearably real.
It wasn't just that he believed the image. It was that he feared how easily he believed it.
He wanted to reject it outright. And in theory, he should have. Forgery was simple now—cheap, fast, and horrifyingly convincing. Artificial intelligence could render nearly any scene with a level of realism indistinguishable from truth. A child in chains? Easy. A tear streaking down her cheek? Easier still. But Julius hadn't even tried to offer proof. He had simply let the image speak for itself. That unflinching confidence—that casual cruelty—made the entire situation feel all the more real.
And that was the thought that unsettled Alexander most.
He leaned back slowly against the arcade machine beside him, letting its cold metal framework press into his shoulder blades. The once-colorful joystick sat cracked and faded beside him, dust clinging to its base like forgotten memories. He exhaled through his nose—not sharply, but long and drawn out, like a man releasing something he couldn't quite put into words. A sigh of shame. Not merely fear. Not even defeat.
Shame—for daring to believe, even for a second, that he had failed her.
His hand twitched unconsciously near his coat pocket, where the faint outline of a worn photograph rested. A much older image of Layla, bright-eyed and carefree, with a ribbon in her hair and a scraped knee from climbing trees in the courtyard. He had sworn an oath long ago, etched deeper than blood, carved deeper than his own name. To protect her. To keep her from harm, no matter the cost.
Now that vow felt brittle. Fractured.
He swallowed, trying to force the bitterness down, and turned his eyes toward Seymour. The man's expression mirrored his own: tight, stern, and carrying the weight of quiet fury. Though they were not blood relatives, Seymour had always regarded Layla as kin. As something precious. And like Alexander, he did not tolerate threats against those he considered family.
"How do I know this image isn't fake?" Alexander asked at last. His voice was steady, plain, but not indifferent. There was iron beneath his calm. "For all I know, you could've generated it yourself. She might be asleep in her bed right now, in Nimerath. Safe. Untouched."
He didn't blink as he spoke. He wanted Julius to hear his words as a challenge, not a plea.
Julius paused. There was no smug retort—not immediately. Instead, his eyes flicked around the decaying room. He scanned the splintered floorboards beneath his boots, the cracked arcade screen at his left, the ceiling with its sagging tiles stained with moisture and time. Then, at last, he looked back at Alexander.
"That's a very important question," he said, his tone soft yet hollow, like a practiced actor slipping into a familiar role. "Unfortunately for you... I can't prove its validity."
He lifted the device again, displaying the image a second time. The same frame. The same twisted scene. Alexander's eyes did not flinch away, though every fiber of his body screamed to look elsewhere. The sight carved itself deeper into him the second time, as if the photo grew more disturbing with repetition.
Why show it again? It wasn't persuasive—it was cruel. Yet Julius didn't leer or grin. If anything, he looked bored. Dispassionate. Detached. That made it worse.
Alexander narrowed his gaze.
"Mockery?" he asked coldly.
Julius gave a faint shrug. "You can call it that, if it brings you comfort. I'd call it... an illustration. A possibility. A glimpse into what could be real. Or not. It doesn't matter."
Alexander said nothing, but the muscles in his jaw tightened perceptibly.
Julius continued, voice barely above a whisper, "But if I am telling the truth… then your granddaughter's life is in my hands."
There it was. The slow, subtle descent into sadism. His words hung in the stale air like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. Not a threat, but a declaration. Julius's smirk returned, thin and sharp, and he leaned forward slightly, as though the very act of proximity could assert dominance.
Silence coiled between them.
Then, in a voice chilled with contempt, Alexander asked, "Then say her name."
The question struck with surgical precision.
Julius blinked once.
A heartbeat passed.
Another.
Nothing.
He didn't know it.
The man who claimed to hold Layla's fate—who'd tried to wield her as a weapon—had never even bothered to learn her name.
Alexander's breath caught, but not in fear. This time it was disbelief. And then—suddenly, without warning—he laughed.
It wasn't joyful. It wasn't sane. It was the laughter of a man who had been standing at the edge of a cliff and discovered the ground beneath him was solid after all.
"You don't even know her name," he said, every syllable wrapped in scorn. "That picture is a fake."
He smiled, and it wasn't a pleasant smile. It was the kind of smile wolves give when they know they've caught the scent of weakness.
But Julius's expression didn't falter. His lips remained curled at the edges, though the eyes behind them betrayed something else—calculations, rewiring, improvisation.
He spoke slowly. "I didn't think you'd be this gullible."
Alexander's grin faded.
"You think I did this?" Julius asked, raising an eyebrow. "You think I orchestrated it? No, no, no. I'm just a musician in his ensemble."
The shift in tone was subtle, but unmistakable. The cold, flippant arrogance returned to Julius's voice like an old friend. His smile remained, but it no longer bore the sharpness of a blade—it was a mask. Carefully positioned. Deliberately vague.
The phrase hung in the room like a riddle.
Alexander's features froze. He had only begun to scratch the surface. He had assumed Julius was the puppet master. But now it seemed—he was only a player.
A musician.
In whose orchestra?
The implications echoed into silence.
Then Julius turned. His gaze drifted, as if sniffing for weakness, until it landed squarely on Seymour.
"And don't think I've forgotten about you," he said, his voice low and theatrical. "You too must submit… or else."
The threat fell flat.
Seymour's eyes didn't even flicker. He stepped forward slowly, measuredly, his boots crunching faintly against broken glass beneath the bar's ruined floor. The space between them vanished until only inches remained. Though Julius towered nearly a head taller, Seymour stood as if the difference meant nothing.
Half his face—smooth, weathered, calm—remained utterly expressionless. But the burned half? That side twisted into something resembling a grin. Not one of amusement, nor of mockery, but of control. A grin that told a very clear story: I am not afraid of you. I am not impressed.
"'Or else'?" Seymour repeated, tilting his head. "I'm fond of intimidation. I admire it when done properly. But this—" he gestured vaguely at Julius, "—this lacks conviction."
Julius blinked, caught off guard.
"If you give me a reason—just one—to submit," Seymour continued, "I'll do it. I'll devote myself entirely. Worship your cause. Pledge loyalty with every breath in my lungs."
He leaned forward just slightly.
"But as it stands… you've failed to earn it."
A faint shimmer—grey and ethereal—began to ripple around Seymour's form like mist curling from hot coals. It licked at his shoulders and jawline, subtle but undeniable.
Julius paused.
Then, unexpectedly, he softened.
"My apologies," he said with unexpected politeness. "This whole diplomacy and manipulation thing… it's new to me."
Seymour said nothing, watching him like a scientist observing a lab rat attempt to juggle.
Julius smiled, wider this time.
"So let me rephrase."
The air changed.
Without warning, a blast of sickly green aura erupted from Julius's frame. It spilled across the floor like a flood, crawling up walls, creeping along surfaces like vines that had waited centuries to bloom. The lights flickered. The temperature dropped. It felt as if the entire room had sunk a meter into the ground.
Julius's voice dropped—grave, guttural, no longer entirely human.
"Submit," he growled, baring his teeth, "or die."
The green energy surged—sickly and unnatural—casting warped shadows that clung to the walls like parasites. And then—stillness. Only the low hum of that corrupt aura pulsing through the floorboards. Julius and Seymour locked eyes. Not as men. Not even as enemies.
As forces.
Seymour didn't move. His expression, half-scorched and half-stern, did not shift.
Alexander exhaled slowly. The sound was deliberate, grounding.
"Hey, brother."
Seymour turned his head slightly.
"You still remember Father's favorite saying?"
A beat passed. Then Seymour's grin deepened—not cruel, not cold. Just… real. Something dangerously close to warmth flickered across the ruined half of his face.
And then, in perfect unison, the two men said:
"The enemy of my enemy… is my friend."