Ronan stopped caring about the coins that night. The moment Beatrix walked away he flagged down the first carriage he saw and climbed inside, eyes fixed on the passing streets the whole way.
Every gap between buildings pulled his attention. The carriage was empty besides him, which saved him from anyone noticing how his hands stayed tight on his knees or how his gaze kept sweeping the shadows for any sign of red eyes.
Nothing showed itself. The ride stayed quiet except for the steady clop of hooves and the faint creak of leather.
When the carriage reached the Fereom District he paid the driver and stepped down fast. His feet hit the ground and he started toward his house at a quick walk that nearly turned into a run.
Then he caught sight of Mr. and Mrs. Callyst ahead, strolling back from their own evening out. Ronan forced his pace back to normal, drew a steady breath, and smoothed his face before they noticed him.
Their eyes met a moment later. Mr. Callyst spoke first. "Oh, Percy, you're back already?"
Ronan managed a small smile. "Yes… it's been quite a day."
Mrs. Callyst tilted her head, already picking up on something. "What happened?"
He shook his head, keeping it light. "You know how it is. Just some rough customers."
The old couple had come to the tailor shop before, so the excuse landed without trouble. Mrs. Callyst let out a sympathetic sigh and patted his shoulder. "Oh, poor dear… it must've been hard."
"I'm fine, Mrs. Callyst. I'm used to it."
"Well, that's how a man should be," Mr. Callyst said, giving his other shoulder a firm pat.
Ronan nodded, hoping the cold sweat on his palms stayed hidden. He fell into step beside them and asked where they had been. Mrs. Callyst smiled. "Nowhere special. Just two old people taking an evening walk. There's not much else for us these days besides being old and boring."
Ronan shook his head again. "Mrs. Callyst, I don't find you boring at all. I think you're quite kind and endearing."
"That's just a kinder way of calling someone boring," Mr. Callyst said flatly.
"I didn't mean it like that…" Ronan started, but Mrs. Callyst laughed and nudged her husband.
"Don't bully the poor boy."
Mr. Callyst chuckled, and the three of them kept walking together, trading small words about nothing in particular. After a while the tight feeling in Ronan's chest loosened just enough for his breathing to come easier.
The red-eyed figure still sat in the back of his mind, but the simple talk with the couple made the street feel less empty.
They reached the row of houses and said goodnight. Ronan went inside alone. The small rooms greeted him with the same quiet they always held.
Normally Percy would have headed straight to bed after a drink, but Ronan had no interest in lying down hungry after everything. If something came for him tonight, he wanted food in his stomach first.
He moved to the kitchen and put together what he could. A fried egg, several slices of bread, and a few tomatoes cut rough on the side. It was plain, but it filled the plate.
The warmth of it settled some of the nerves while he ate in the quiet house. When he finished he checked every door and window, sliding wooden sticks into place and pushing furniture against the frames where they might hold. He went over each one twice before the worry eased a little.
On his way to the bedroom his eyes caught the kitchen knife on the counter. He stared at it for several seconds, then picked it up. A blade like that would do little against the thing he had seen, but holding it felt better than having nothing at all.
He set it on the floor beside the bed and lay down. Exhaustion pulled at him hard, and the room stayed still except for the faint creak of settling wood.
Outside the city, Charles stood in an alley under moonlight, pipe smoke drifting from his curved bowl. The ground around him was marked with blood and one grotesque hand that lay severed but had not yet vanished. It sat there, edges slowly thinning yet still solid enough to see.
Footsteps hurried up from behind. The younger investigator stopped short when he saw the scene, breath coming fast. His eyes went to the hand, then to Charles.
"…He escaped?"
Charles let out a slow stream of smoke. "Yes."
The younger man swallowed and glanced at the stains again. "Are you alright, Senior?"
Charles waved the question off. "Nothing worth mentioning. Just some scratches on my clothes." He looked down at the torn sleeve of his overcoat. "Hm… seems I'll have to visit a tailor shop soon and get it fixed."
"Should we call Amantha to track him down?" the younger investigator asked.
Charles walked past him without turning. "No need. I don't think we can track him if he truly decides to close himself off." His steps carried him deeper into the alley. Over his shoulder he added, "Clean it up."
The younger man stayed where he was until Charles's shape faded beyond the moonlight.
Then he looked back at the blood and the wrapped limb. The alley reeked of iron and something thicker that clung to the air.
He drew a small vial from his pocket, the yellow liquid inside glowing faintly under the moon. He shook it violently before uncorking it and let drops fall across the stains. A low sizzling rose as the blood began to sink and dissolve into the shadows. The yellow liquid spread out across the blood enveloping the ground with yellow colour and dissapearing after .
For the severed hand he used a cloth from his coat, bundling it tight before tucking it under his arm. When nothing obvious remained he turned and walked away, his figure soon lost in the same darkness that had taken Charles.