The desert evening was quiet, but it was the kind of quiet that pressed down like a weight. The sand whispered under Elior's boots as he walked beside the bunker. He kept his head low, eyes heavy, breath steady.
The laughter and warmth of the party were still echoing behind him, but out here, it was only the wind and the cold stars.
He didn't speak a word. His mind was already elsewhere.
Tonight.
The thought sat sharp in his chest. Tonight, the entities will return. The hunt would begin. They always came with the dark, drawn by something he didn't yet understand.
Faces hidden in the black, voices that never fully spoke, only whispered.
His broken arm ached faintly even under bandages. He flexed his other hand, remembering the weight of his dagger, the cold pull of his Face when it stirred. The strength was there, but so was the cost.
He slowed his pace. Looked up at the sky. The stars had always felt like watching eyes. Tonight they looked even closer, colder.
He muttered to himself at last, a low whisper no one would hear.
"Not them. Not again. If it has to be me, then it'll be me."
The wind curled around him. Elior's jaw tightened. He turned back toward the bunker, back toward the firelight and the people who didn't yet know what was waiting in the dark.
Elior slowed when he passed by the far end of the bunker.
Through the slit of a doorway, a faint sound reached him. It was.... soft, mournful, like the desert itself sighing.
A violin was being played....
Inside, Rosario sat alone, the red sentinel robe flowing around him like a curtain of blood. His head bent, long pink hair draped across his shoulder, bow moving gently across the strings.
The tune was hollow, yet deep, weaving sorrow and peace together. For a moment Elior just stood there, listening. The sound made his chest ache.
He stepped in.
"Come," Elior said simply, voice firm but carrying
Rosario didn't answer immediately. His fingers lingered on the strings, finishing the last note.
Then, with a small smirk that almost hid his shadowed eyes, he rose. Elior reached, not for his hand, but his shoulder, and guided him out.
When they emerged, heads turned. The firelight reflected on Rosario's robe like a shard of bloodstone. He set his violin against his side, silent now. Elior lifted his hand to gather everyone's attention.
"We've eaten," Elior spoke, voice cutting steady through the chatter. "We've laughed. But a party isn't a party without a race, is it?"
The younger ones stirred at once, faces lighting up. Their energy crackled in the air like sparks. Elior grinned faintly.
" Kids.... just run. Whoever touches that stone first.... wins."
....
Tom shuffled out of his room, muttering to himself as he tugged at his vest.
"Hat… where's my glorious, bug-deflecting, head-saving hat?" He found it sitting crooked on the cot. Dusty, unimpressive, but to Tom, it was dignity in fabric form. He brushed it off, plopped it on his head, and smirked at the mirror shard leaning on the wall.
"Perfect. Now they'll know who's the stylish bastard here. Everyone thought it's Elior. But it was me, Tom! Hahaha!"
He strutted a few steps, imagining applause. Imagining Grace giving a soft laugh. Imagining Vera rolling his eyes so hard they'd snap. Tom chuckled, gripping the doorknob. "Alright, sunshine. Let's blind 'em with this hat."
But when he stepped forward into the hall, the world… shivered.
A black smear oozed across the wall, stretching, pulsing. Like ink alive, writhing in silent spasms. The shape leaned, distorted, swelling and twisting like a mass of worms that had forgotten what direction was.
Tom's chest tightened. His hand hovered near his slot.
"…Who's blocking my runway?" he asked, voice sharper now.
The thing didn't move closer. Didn't step back. It just trembled in place, like it existed between breaths.
A tone impossible to trace, as if it came from beneath thought itself.
"—You. Will. Rot."
Every syllable crawled under his skin, sinking into marrow. His ears rang. His hat didn't feel funny anymore.
Tom clenched his teeth. "I've heard worse threats from Grace when I steal her tea." He shifted his stance, ready to strike. "But I don't like pests standing in my doorway."
The shadow swelled, rippled once more then collapsed. It sank into the floor like water spilling through cracks, leaving only silence.
Tom's arm throbbed. He looked down. Around his elbow, faint lines of fungus, so small they looked like freckles at first, but the longer he stared, the more they pulsed—roots sinking in, itching veins.
The ache crawled up his forearm, sharp, insistent. He hissed, covering it with his sleeve.
"…Great," he muttered, voice low. "Haunted shadows, rotting veins, and I still have to smile at a party."
Tom didn't wait long. The ache in his arm wouldn't let him.
He slipped into a quiet corner behind the bunker, under the faint orange sky, and opened his system link.
"Elior," he whispered. His voice didn't carry his usual teasing weights.
"I need you here. Now."
Moments later, Elior appeared from the far side of the dunes, his pace quick, his eyes reading Tom's face before a word was spoken.
Tom pushed his sleeve up without another thought.
The marks pulsed faintly, fungal threads crawling under the skin.
Elior's gaze narrowed. He didn't say anything immediately. Just stared, calculating, his hand hovering close but not touching.
Inside, his thoughts sharpened.
Hhan Jdu… It can't be…
He remembered the name too clearly. A disease carried through shadows and old worlds. A corruption that infects veins, twists bodies. At first, it seems like a blessing— regeneration, endurance beyond normal limits. After that, the mind goes mad. The hunger begins. The host turns against himself, chewing his flesh while still laughing at the taste.
He exhaled slowly, careful not to show alarm in front of Tom.
Tom caught it anyway. "That face of yours," he muttered, jaw tightening. "Not exactly making me feel better."
Elior crouched down, speaking low.
"It's not just an infection," he said. "If it spreads, it won't stop. It will change you. Make you stronger, yes… but it won't be you anymore. You'd end up tearing yourself apart piece by piece."
Tom forced a chuckle. "So… an ugly upgrade. I've had worse offers."
But his grip on the arm betrayed the strain.
Elior's eyes didn't leave the spreading pattern. He thought fast.
Herbs. There's only one cure for this rot before it roots too deep. A desert plant. Silver stalk, blue-veined leaves. Bitter as poison but it works. If I don't find it tonight…
He rose, sharp and serious now. "I'll fix this. But you can't let anyone else see it."
Tom's lips curved faintly, though his voice was flat. "So I just… keep smiling? Easy enough. It's my specialty."
When he looked down at his arm again, his smirk faltered. Elior turned toward the desert horizon, where the wind carried dust and warmth.
Rosario stood at the edge of the bunker's rooftop, coat swaying in the gusts, violin case resting against the wall like an abandoned shadow.
The moon gave his pink hair a silver edge. His face was unreadable, almost carved from marble.
He slipped a hand into his robe, pulled out a small, rusted device. Its edges cracked like it had been dug from ruins. A wakie-talkie. The faint static buzzed alive.
Rosario pressed it to his lips, voice low, detached, but precise.
"The work here is done."
A pause. Static hissed back at him, then a distorted voice which was distant, warped like it came from another layer of reality.
Rosario didn't blink.
"The infection has been seeded," he continued. "Once the boy makes contact with anyone, any living flesh. The fungus will travel vein to vein."
His hand tightened slightly around the device, though his face never shifted from calm.
"They will think it's an illness. They will pray for herbs, for cures. But by the time they understand what it really is…"
The night air cut across him, carrying sand.
"…their trust will be gone. Their hope eaten alive. That is the order you gave, isn't it?"
The voice on the other side muttered something incoherent, like laughter buried under glass.
Rosario lowered his eyes toward the bunker below. Light flickered inside. He imagined the boy—Tom—scratching at his elbow, trying to laugh the pain away. Elior already moving, already planning. Grace and Vera, unaware.
He spoke again, quieter now, as though confessing to the desert.
"Then it begins. One touch, one mistake. That's all it takes."
He clicked the wakie-talkie off. Silence returned.
Rosario slipped it back under his robe, eyes still fixed on the roof's edge.