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Chapter 7 — The Situation of Rosemarie Post [II]
Johan stared at the townsfolk.
He didn't say a word, but his expression spoke for him — pure, simmering rage. His eyes were wide, his jaw slightly open, a thick vein throbbing at his temple. His breathing slowed… measured… forcing himself not to lash out.
Then he looked down at the little girl in his arms.
He adjusted his grip and began to walk in the direction she had come from, voice low but carrying enough venom for anyone listening to feel it burn.
"You didn't help a child… don't expect to be helped either."
He didn't look back.
The street behind him was silent, only the faint shuffle of weak feet and the creak of rotting wood breaking the air.
Johan found a sheltered corner between two collapsed brick walls. He scanned it — no footsteps, no movement. Safe enough.
With a thought, World Over Run shimmered into being behind him, the air distorting slightly as its unseen influence swept over the girl. He dialed her luck up — not by much. By five hundred percent. Enough to tip the scales of life in her favor.
From his bag, Johan pulled a packet of biscuits, breaking one and sliding the crumbs into her mouth. Then, he poured water carefully into her lips.
Her breathing steadied.
A faint sound escaped her, half-slurred and dreamlike:
"Hnn… I don't wanna… run…"
Her eye blinked open — the only one she had — and caught the shifting color of the sky above, a strange, storm-sick darkness rolling in.
She tried to push herself upright.
A voice stopped her.
"Who are you… and what happened to you?"
She turned.
A man crouched nearby, arms resting loosely on his knees. He looked like he belonged anywhere but here — somewhere clean, sharp, alive. Mid-twenties maybe. Deep red hair fading to gold at the tips, the kind of hair that caught light and held it hostage. His face was angular, eyes a piercing reddish-blue that didn't quite blink enough.
One ear was hidden beneath a sheet of hair. The other wore a dangling earring — a round golden glass with a long golden thread swaying in the dead air. His skin sat somewhere between tan and milk, warm but not inviting.
She flinched.
Then, quick as a bow, she bent forward.
"Please, Mr. Johan Joestar… please help my sister."
Johan's brows lifted , but his stance didn't change. He was shocked. His voice was even, but there was heat in it.
"How do you know my....name?"
Her posture tensed. She stammered, tripping over syllables like they were stones.
"W-Well… well… well…"
Then she dropped her head lower, hands clutching her dress.
"I-I… I saw it on your identification card…"
Johan's voice dropped half an octave.
"Stand up."
She hesitated. Then obeyed. Pink hair slid forward, covering her other eye and face as she stared at the ground.
Johan rose, stepped forward, and lowered himself into a squat, meeting her at eye level.
His tone was calm, deep… and carried a threat sharp enough to cut.
"But my identification card says Johan.....Qstar."
The girl's lone eye widened. Her pupil shrinked to a point.
And then she saw it.
Johan was smiling. Not fully. Just enough. His gaze locked on hers, a glint of unnatural green lighting up his irises.
She gasped and crumpled back to her knees, one small hand trembling against the dirt. Tears welled in her eye.
"Just tell me how you knew," he said.
Her lip trembled.
"You… you wouldn't kill me if I tell you?"
Johan's brow furrowed.
"Why would I kill a little, fragile girl?"
She raised a shaking arm, pointing behind herself.
"Because of… this."
Johan's eyes followed her gesture.
At first, it was shadow.
Then it moved.
Something — no, someone — was clinging to her back, hunched low, as if it had been there the whole time. Its body was a nightmare stitched from two halves: one side plated in slick green chitin, three crab-like legs splayed for balance; the other side disturbingly human, with two elongated legs covered in stretched red skin. Black dark spots were in irregular order.
Eight eyes in total. Four on the green half, four on the red. Each one a different color — pale blues, sickly yellows, blood oranges, and a dead white.
The air smelled faintly metallic.
Johan's heart slammed once against his ribs.
The girl's voice was almost a whisper.
"If you can see her… her name is…"
She hesitated, as if the act of speaking it would cost something she didn't have.
"…‹Lying Eyes›."
For the first time in a long time, Johan froze.
His pupils dilated, and sweat slid down the back of his neck. His mouth parted just enough for the cold air to sting his teeth.
He wasn't confused.
He wasn't calculating.
He was — truly — terrified.
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To be continued→