When the last word slipped from her lips, the air changed. Inside the bowls, the mixture and blood twisted together violently, drawn into the pupils of the doppelganger's eyes.
Then suddenly there was nothing.
The liquid was gone, leaving the bowls spotless and dry, as if scrubbed clean by unseen hands. What remained were the eyes, swollen and trembling, their irises swirled with a trapped storm of red and faint silver, as if holding the memory of every tear shed in envy.
Rosa turned to Diana, her expression unreadable. "Now we just swallow them," she exhaled slowly, steadying herself. With a flick of her wrist, a faint shimmer rippled across her form as she activated her hidden inventory skill. The garments dissolved into motes of light, vanishing into the air. Her body stood tense beneath the dim glow of the candles, bare to the ritual and to the change that was about to come.
She lifted the eye to her lips.
The eye exuded warmth as if alive; it throbbed faintly against her palm like a small, defiant heart. For a moment, she hesitated, but her resolve held firm. Her soft lips slowly parted as she brought the squishy eye's membrane to the tip of her tongue, gently settling it on top of soft flesh. Slowly tilting her head back, she rolled her tongue, pulling it deeper inside.
Gulp! The moment it slid down her throat, Rosa's breath caught.
Her body arched as heat and cold collided within her chest. It spread outward like lightning beneath her skin, searing through her veins and burning memories into her mind.
Crack!
Her shoulders jerked backward as her collarbone shifted, the bones twisting, elongating. Another snap followed, then another, echoing through the small room. Her frame expanded, her hips narrowing as her muscles tore and reformed to fit a broader build. Her hands clenched hard enough for her knuckles to pale as her tendons writhed beneath the skin.
Her face began to change next. The fine lines of her jaw coarsened, cheekbones pressing inward before pushing out again. The delicate slope of her nose broke with a wet pop, reshaping into something heavier. Even her voice, caught in a soundless gasp, lowered and reformed into a deeper register.
Diana could only watch.
Her breath hitched as she saw Rosa's entire form convulse, bones knitting, shifting, then locking into a structure no longer her own.
When it was done, Rosa, or rather 'Harvey,' stood before her. His chest rose and fell with heavy, unsteady breaths. The faint shimmer of spiritual residue flickered across his skin before fading completely, leaving only the man's reflection staring back at her through eyes that still held Rosa's quiet focus.
The figure met Diana's gaze, and for a terrifying second, only Rosa's emerald eyes looked out from the familiar face, a ghost in a stolen shell.
"It's your turn," Rosa's voice said.
****
The carriage rocked gently along the cobblestones, its wheels whispering over the uneven road as the late-morning sun pressed through the curtains in thin, weary strands.
Beyond the window, Mellodi Geori Street was starting to come alive. Vendors lifted the flaps of their stalls, their hands still sluggish from sleep. Guards in mismatched uniforms exchanged dull greetings, their words fading into the hum of the lively city.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Somewhere down the lane, a bell struck eleven times, each chime heavy and deliberate, as though marking the heartbeat of the hour.
A boy on a bicycle swerved past, his clothes stained with sweat as he scattered tabloids into doorways. One of the papers fluttered briefly against the carriage glass before tumbling away into the gutter.
Damon leaned his forehead against the cool pane, watching a street mime pantomime death and resurrection in the square below. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere, drawn back to the meeting an hour before.
Marco's lover, Harley, had met them at the door. The blonde wasn't happy to see Vincent, but she remained courteous nonetheless. Deeply shaken by Marco's condition, she moved like someone unraveling under the weight of worry. It took George a full minute to calm her down.
When they finally entered the back room, Damon was left speechless.
Marco sat there beneath a lamp, his frame gaunt, his lips colorless. He looked as though he had already lived past his own ending, a corpse aware it had yet to be buried. His red hair lacked luster, slowly fading into an elderly grey, and his eyes seemed hollow, as if no light could enter.
Before George could utter a word, Marco had spoken. He said he had dreamt of their arrival the night before. His voice was cracked, his hands trembling as he reached for a piece of paper. The pen left small blotches of blood where his nose had started to bleed, yet he kept writing, scrawling an address with a steady, fevered precision.
"The answer you seek," he had murmured, "waits there."
Even now, Damon could hear that calm tone, as if the man had already seen how this story would end. What unsettled him most wasn't the prophecy itself, but Marco's final request: that Vincent remain behind while Damon and Henry go alone. He hadn't explained. Perhaps couldn't or he simply didn't want to, Damon wasn't sure.
The carriage jolted, pulling him back to the present.
"We're here".Henry said quietly.
Damon blinked, the carriage slowing to a stop. He looked outside. The street was quieter here, lined with old brick houses and iron fences.
"34 Winchester Street.. "He murmured, reaching for the door handle. He glanced once at Henry, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Guess it's our turn to see what fate's hiding."
Henry snorted softly. "You say that like we aren't about to break into someone's house before lunch."
"If luck's on our side, we won't have to," Damon said,
The moment he stepped down onto the street, his core suddenly felt overwhelmed by darkness.
'What's happening?'His sharp senses screamed that something was wrong around him. Acting decisively, he activated Mystic Eye and observed his surroundings, but for a moment, he didn't see anything strange.
Yet as he surveyed the area, his attention was soon pulled to a gloomy trace of intent radiating from the House's attic.
"You're not thinking of just ringing the doorbell, are you?" Henry muttered.
'Does he not sense that?!'Upon thinking this, Damon instantly understood the reason.
Just master Tomoe said, the door he had opened within made him susceptible to being easily affected by the emotions of others with strong wills. It was a passive trait that he currently didn't have the ability to decline.
Standing outside the gardened bungalow, Damon looked at the building once more through the locked iron gates and took a deep breath before he replied, "We have badges, don't we?"
At that moment, a voice sounded.
"Hey, you lads shouldn't bother those folks. They've been through enough already."
Hmm.. Damon turned his head curiously and caught sight of a middle-aged man standing at a neighboring house entrance. He had straight black, shoulder-length hair and sharp eyebrows. He sported a beige Huaren tunic suit made distinctive by its high stand-up collar, four chest pockets, three buttons on each sleeve, and loose-fitted pants.
"I'm serious," the man said with a firm tone. "If you cause trouble here, I'll have you reported to the authorities."