"Did you see a teenage boy? Old coat, shabby hat!" one of the men barked at the conductor, voice rough enough to make the poor fellow stumble back a step.
Klara tilted her head, watching from her seat, eyes narrowed just enough to study him. The man was wiry, skin darkened from years of sun. His features set deep, sharper than the average Backlund face.
Highlander… or close enough.
She hummed to herself, remembering scraps of geography she'd skimmed in old papers. The Hornacis mountains, hot winds, dry lands, people who once bled entire armies before gunpowder made them relics of another age. Now they poured into cities like this one — as laborers, as muscle, as trouble. Always trouble.
The conductor stammered, trying to form words, but before he could, a gloved hand rose in the air.
The man didn't need to speak. That single gesture was enough to silence both the conductor and the demanding highlander.
Klara's pulse hitched before she even looked at him.
His eyes, cold and cutting, swept the carriage — not hurriedly, not carelessly, but with surgical precision. As though every passenger were a suspect, every breath weighed against some invisible law. Then, with the faintest motion of his head, he signaled.
The other men in black coats nodded and filed toward the next carriage without hesitation. Only two figures remained: the judge himself and the wolf-grinned man lounging near the door, amusement radiating from him like smoke.
Klara pressed her lips together to hide her grin.
"Wow," she muttered under her breath.
Imagine walking in and just hardcore roleplaying as the Main Character. Gloves? Check. Silent hand gestures? Check. Brooding aura? Oh please—this man straight up stole my style. Klara lampooned, half a smile adorning her lips.
The wolf-grinned man snorted softly as if he'd heard her, but her commentary didn't stay witty for long.
Because suddenly, the Judge's head turned.
His gaze found her like a spotlight in a dark theater.
Klara's entire body went stiff. She jerked her eyes away instantly, heart skipping.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Can he read minds? Don't tell me he can read minds. Shit.
The silence dragged, heavy enough to smother, until the whistle of the train broke it.
Choo! Choo!
The carriage doors clamped shut with a final hiss, and the steam metro lurched forward. The rhythm of its wheels began to echo through the carriage: chug, chug, chug.
But Klara's nerves only twisted tighter when the door to the far end creaked open.
There he was.
The boy. Old coat, battered top hat, haversack slung over his shoulder. He stepped in slowly, keeping his head bowed as if trying to fold himself into the shadows.
Klara's lips curled into a smirk, breath ready to form the first words of praise — bold of him, sneaking in here twice, maybe he really has a shot at surviving Backlund.
But then she froze.
Because the Judge had already moved.
No hesitation. No words. Just the clean, merciless precision of a man who had been waiting.
And in an instant, the boy was caught.
Klara leaned her cheek against her knuckles, eyes darting from paper to the strange collection of people in her carriage. She clicked her left molar gently, the little trick instantly pulling the curtain back on the mundane world.
Spirit Vision flared to life.
First the boy. Predictable—fatigue clung to him like smoke, his emotions taut as a bowstring. Yet under it all, there was… calm. Calculated calm. Well, well, she thought, lips twitching faintly. Smart little street rat… but not smart enough. Should have stuck to throwing stones at his neighbors and getting yelled at.
But her attention wandered. Naturally.
The wolf-grinned man was next. Her eyes brushed across his aura—
—and blinked.
What in the actual hell?
It was… chaos. Nothing sharp, nothing constant. Like a spinning wheel where every color landed at once. Amusement flaring, then vanishing. Aggression flickering then dissolving into boredom. A tangled mess of contradictions that made her vision pulse uncomfortably.
She shut her mouth tightly, biting back a laugh that threatened to escape. Yep. That's about right. Wolf-man is either crazy or pretending to be. Guess we'll never know. Lucky me.
Rolling her eyes to herself, she shifted to the one that had been drawing her attention since the second his hand lifted in command.
The Judge.
Her vision hit a wall.
Not fog, not distortion, not even emptiness. Just—nothing. A void. Like trying to peer into a starless night sky, her Spirit Vision slid uselessly across him, refusing to land.
Her throat hitched, and before she could help it—
"Hic!"
The sound popped out sharp and embarrassing.
The Judge turned.
That gaze was a blade. Clean, straight, cutting her down to her bones.
Klara snapped her eyes forward, hands tightening around her newspaper. Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. I am not here. You are not here. I am but a humble, innocent woman waiting for her train stop, thank you very much.
Her brain ran every possible explanation in a scramble. Broken? No. Her ability was fine, worked perfectly seconds ago. Interference? Maybe. Or—worse—maybe the answer was exactly what she didn't want it to be.
… This, This man is trouble.
The thought sat heavy.
That was the only explanation. And suddenly, sitting across from him for the rest of the ride felt less like coincidence and more like sharing a bench with a lion pretending to nap. She kept her head tilted politely, smile faintly fixed, every movement deliberate, amicable.
But the weight of his gaze never left her. Not once.
The metro hissed to a stop twenty minutes later, steam trailing up past the platform windows. The doors slid open with the groan of iron, and for a heartbeat, the carriage filled with shifting bodies as passengers gathered their things and moved toward the exits.
The Judge didn't move immediately. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, stayed locked on the well-dressed woman who had spent the last stretch of the journey flicking her gaze toward him. Not constantly—she was clever about it. But she had been watching. Calculating.
And Adrian Bellacorte didn't miss when someone studied him.
Odd.
That was the word that kept threading into his mind. Odd, because most people avoided his eyes the moment they caught the weight of them. Yet she had risked more than a glance. There was something under that polished exterior, something that tugged faintly at the edges of his instincts.
She was hiding something.
And Adrian had learned long ago: anything worth hiding was worth paying attention to.
He rose when the crowd thinned, stepping neatly onto the platform, the black leather of his gloves creaking faintly as he adjusted them into place.
A sharp whistle cut the air beside him.
Ronan, hands shoved into his pockets, grinned like the devil himself. "Well, well. What's this? The Judge showing interest in a lady? Be still my heart."
Adrian didn't bother turning, didn't even break stride. His eyes rolled once, calm and practiced. "Wasn't she the same woman a petty thief tried to rob earlier?"
Ronan snorted. "Sure was. Calm about it too. Didn't even flinch. Like she already knew it was coming. If you ask me—and you should, because I just said so—she's interesting." His grin widened as if the word itself amused him. "Yeah. Very interesting."
Adrian's reply was nothing more than a grunt, low in his throat. He dismissed it with the efficiency of a man not easily baited, redirecting his attention back to what mattered.
The boy.
He stood there, head lowered, shoulders hunched under the ragged haversack, trying to vanish into the swarm of passengers. But Adrian's eyes cut through crowds the way knives cut through cloth. There was no hiding. Not from him.
"Bring him to the orphanage," Adrian said evenly, his voice as precise as the snap of a clock hand. His men moved without hesitation, stepping to either side of the boy, their hands light but firm.
Adrian paused in front of him, placing one gloved hand atop the boy's head. The touch was not gentle, not cruel. Simply inevitable.
"Do not," Adrian said, voice cold, sharp, absolute, "repeat this."
The boy dared to glance up—and froze.
For in Adrian's eyes was no softness, no mercy. Only clarity. Pure, polished crystal, reflecting the boy's own face back at him. A mirror that stripped him bare.
The boy swallowed hard, throat bobbing, and nodded quickly.
"Good." Adrian released him. "Make sure he is fed properly," he told his men, already turning away. "And monitored at all times."
They bowed their heads and guided the boy off the platform, disappearing into the bustling veins of the station.
The Judge's gaze lingered only a moment longer, not on the boy, but flicking once—just once—toward the woman in the fine clothes who still stood among the dispersing crowd.
Odd. Very odd.
Adrian slipped his hand into his coat pocket. The leather of his gloves brushed cool metal as he drew out the watch with practiced ease. He flicked the lid open with a soft click.
7:20.
The thin hands gleamed faintly in the light of the station's lanterns. His lips pressed into a line, then curved faintly downward in something not quite a frown. A sigh escaped him, quiet, but audible enough for the man beside him.
"Good work today," Adrian said simply, snapping the watch shut with a neat motion.
Ronan barked out a laugh, unrestrained, sharp enough to make heads turn. He tossed his head back as though the ceiling of the world were in on the joke.
"So Judge time is done, huh?" His grin spread wolfishly as he leaned closer, voice pitched just enough for the curious ears around them to catch. "Is it the Executioner's turn now?"
A hush rippled through the nearest passengers. They didn't stare—no, Backlund had taught them better manners than that—but their eyes slid sideways, trying to appear discreet as they listened.
Adrian ignored them. He always ignored them. He adjusted the cuff of his coat, smoothed a hand across his dark hair until it sat perfectly, then turned his gaze to Ronan with the weight of inevitability.
"Not at all," he said, voice flat, calm. "There are no leads that require my attention. The minor ones I can entrust to you." His tone sharpened by a hair, not unkind, but edged with command. "As usual, do not wake me unless it is of utmost importance."
Ronan's mouth opened. He inhaled as if preparing for some quip or excuse, his grin already curling—
—but Adrian's eyes slid to him. Just the eyes.
Flat. Silent. Cutting.
Ronan froze, lips still parted, teeth catching the edge of his tongue.
"Running out of money for food," Adrian said evenly, pinching his words together as if arranging them on a scale, "is not a good reason."
A beat of silence.
Ronan clicked his tongue, muttering something that was probably a curse in a language no one had the right to know, then stuffed his hands into his pockets. The grin returned anyway, crooked and alive, like it had never left.
The two men left the station.
The streets of Minsk were damp with evening fog, lantern light blurring against the air as if the city itself wanted to erase its sharp corners. Their boots echoed across cobblestones, Adrian's measured and precise, Ronan's loose, off-beat.
The people noticed. They always did.
Those who recognized Adrian inclined their heads subtly, some slowing their steps, others crossing to the opposite side of the street with cautious politeness. He returned the acknowledgment with a nod—no more, no less. Calculated recognition.
Ronan, of course, did the opposite.
"Hey there," he called, finger-gun snapping at a startled baker hauling flour. "Heeeyyy." Another grin tossed toward a pair of young men smoking outside a tavern. "My man! Eyyy!"
A woman clutching her child tightened her grip, half-pulling the boy along, but Ronan waved at the kid anyway.
"Don't mind us!" he shouted cheerfully. "City's finest right here. Sleep easy tonight!"
Adrian kept his gaze forward, coat brushing lightly at his sides as he walked. He neither encouraged nor stopped Ronan; the chaos was part of the man's rhythm.
The fog thickened around the streetlamps, their glow pressing halos into the air. Somewhere in the distance, the deep hum of a locomotive shook the ground faintly. This city pulsed like a machine, relentless, each cog sharper than the last.
Adrian did not break stride once.
Their walk wound through the outer stretches of Minsk Street, past boarding houses with cracked windows, past corner shops locking up for the night. Here and there, faces leaned out from behind curtains. Not to gawk—never so direct. But to check. To confirm.To find out.
The Judge had passed through.
They reached the row of terrace houses just as the lamps began to dim.
Ronan slowed, rocking back on his heels. His hands lifted, giving Adrian a mock salute that was closer to a bow gone wrong.
"Well," he drawled, grin sharp as ever, "that's my cue. Try not to get too lonely without me, Judge." He dragged the word out as though it tasted sweet in his mouth.
Adrian stopped and turned his head just enough for their gazes to meet.
He said nothing.
The silence itself seemed to stare at Ronan.
"…What?" Ronan spread his arms wide, still smiling, though the edges were tighter now. "Not even a goodnight?"
Adrian held his gaze. Still silent.
Ronan's grin twitched. He laughed, short and sharp, then turned on his heel. "Fine, fine. Be boring. You're good at that."
He waved once, careless, and disappeared around the corner, swallowed by fog.
Adrian stood a moment longer. Then he turned back to the terrace row.
Unit 19.
The door creaked faintly as he pushed it open. No warmth greeted him, no decorations, no attempt at comfort.
The room was not a home. It was simply a resting place.
Everything within had a purpose.
Near the wall: a rack of weapons, blades polished, rifles stacked in perfect order. In the corner: a training dummy, padded and scarred from use, its wooden frame bolted firmly to the ground.
A desk sat beneath the window, papers stacked in neat columns—reports, maps, leads. Not one out of place.
Weights lined the floor, iron gleaming dully. A single chair rested at the desk, a single bed against the far wall.
No paintings. No trinkets. No clutter.
Every inch efficient. Cold. Functional.
Adrian set his gloves onto the desk with the same care one placed a scalpel. His coat followed, folded once and draped across the chair. His fingers lingered at the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with steady precision.
The silence stretched. The stillness of a city that moved endlessly outside these walls but never crossed their threshold.
"…This city," Adrian murmured, voice low, almost swallowed by the quiet, "is dull."
He stripped the shirt from his shoulders, the faint scar-work of years crossing his skin. His body was cut with the kind of sharp, disciplined efficiency his room reflected—nothing wasted, nothing ornamental, all purpose.
And in the building across the street, high in an open window framed by curtains not fully drawn—
Klara leaned forward on the sill, chin propped on her hand.
Her cheeks were warm, her lips tugging into a smile she didn't even bother to hide. She let her eyes wander over him, openly, shamelessly, because who would ever imagine her watching?
"…not bad," she whispered to herself, smirking.
But then—her brain clicked.
Her eyes widened. Her pulse spiked. And with dawning horror, she realized exactly who she was ogling.
"...oh no."
She ducked so fast she nearly tripped over her own skirt, heart pounding in her ears.
Just in time.
Because Adrian straightened slightly at his desk, a faint shift in his posture. His head turned toward the window, eyes narrowing as if tugged by some invisible string. That prickle at the back of his mind—the sensation of being observed.
His gaze slid toward the night air beyond his glass.
Only the fog. Only the city's quiet hum.
Klara, pressed flat against the floorboards of her rented room, bit her lip and muffled a nervous laugh.
"That was close…"