Night Weather Pub, Eastern Sector.
Rosacer sat in his seat, a beer mug in hand. Due to his title of Foulborn, he could not truly enjoy the drink, as it instantly transformed into an elixir. Still, it eased the exhaustion brought on by his lack of sleep, so he savored every drop.
Suddenly, a voice rose from a group seated near the corner by the entrance.
"Those black-ass jokers cannot be trusted."
Without turning his head, Rosacer activated the Grafted Sigil and formed an eye at the back of his neck.
The voice belonged to a woman. She had black hair and narrow eyes of a pale blue hue. Her appearance was strangely mesmerizing, sharp rather than soft.
The woman slammed her fist onto the table again, this time harder than before. The impact drew attention, and the bartender shouted from behind the counter.
"If you break the table this time, Dolores, you are paying for it."
Dolores scoffed, leaning back in her chair, the wood creaking under her weight. "The Men in Black might buy your ass, but not mine. I will not stop until they get what they deserve."
Rosacer's grip tightened slightly around his mug.
'Is she connected to them? How… it sounds like she is not on friendly terms with them. It could be a trap too. Let us wait and see.'
The drunk woman did not stop. She kept slamming the table and shouting slurs at the nearby customers. Some of them were even hurled toward Rosacer, as he was the only one in the bar wearing a black suit. She pointed at him and sneered, calling him a "wannabe Men in Black member."
She nearly threw her half-filled beer mug at him, but a security guard intercepted her midway. He hoisted her onto his shoulder and carried her outside. Sounds of thrashing followed shortly after.
Moments later, the guard returned, calmly dusting off his hands.
Just when the commotion was over, one of the drunken men shouted, "Dolores is more of a whore than a fighter. She'd be better off back in bed." The others quickly chimed in with their agreement.
Slowly after that, the conversation drifted toward something else. Before long, the men were openly discussing their favorite whores, laughing without restraint.
'This truly is different,' Rosacer thought inwardly. 'I did not expect a forsaken city to indulge in whoring.'
Yet this told him something important. The condition of the eastern sector was good, far better than the southern sector at least. There was excess here. Leisure. People who could afford to be crude and careless.
And soon, he would deprive them of this peace.
He would kill the ruler who upheld their order and stability.
The thought brought no satisfaction, only a faint sense of irony. Rosacer mocked himself silently for ever considering himself someone with morals.
'Well, I have already killed people,' he thought, recalling the collector he had slain in Sector Six.
Without wasting a second, he slipped a vial as payment for the beer and then left.
In an alley, a drunken woman staggered forward, her steps unsteady as she fought to keep her balance. The faint lantern light barely touched the damp, shadowed walls, and the air hung heavy with the reek of urine and vomit.
She laughed to herself, muttering words that made little sense, and nearly fell before catching the wall with her palm.
Suddenly, a man stepped out from the darkness.
Then another.
Rough hands grabbed her arms before she could react. She gasped, trying to pull away, but her strength failed her. One of them chuckled softly, a sound full of mischief.
"Easy now," one of the goons said. "You should not wander alone like this."
She tried to shout, but a hand covered her mouth, cutting the sound short. Her struggles weakened quickly, dulled by drink and fear.
Suddenly, tentacles began to form beneath the woman's skin, pushing outward as if her flesh were no longer able to contain them. Her light blue eyes dulled into a lifeless shade, the clarity within them draining away. Her hair started to morph, strands twisting and thickening unnaturally, while from her back, wings erupted in a violent burst of torn flesh and blood.
The alley could no longer contain her.
Stone cracked beneath her convulsing body as the wings forced themselves wider, scraping against the walls, shedding blood and membrane across the damp bricks.
The goons had already moved back, their expressions dreadful.
One of the men stumbled back, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. The other tried to run.
He did not make it three steps.
A tentacle lashed out, wrapping around his ankle, the surface of it slick and warm. It tightened with a wet sound, bones folding in on themselves. He screamed once before another tendril pierced his throat, lifting him off the ground as his blood spilled across the alley floor.
The second man collapsed to his knees, sobbing, hands raised in pointless surrender.
She turned her head toward him.
What remained of her face twitched. Her eyes, now dull and glassy, stared without recognition. Her jaw unhinged slightly, strings of saliva stretching as something inside her throat moved in unusually manner.
The wings beat once.
Wind blew out of the alley, almost fluttering the electric lantern.
The force knocked the man flat against the wall. Before he could recover, the tentacles surged forward, enveloping him, muffling his cries as they crushed, pierced, and pulled him apart piece by piece. The sounds ended quickly. The alley fell silent again.
Her body shuddered.
Slowly, the tentacles began to retract, sinking back beneath her skin as if retreating into hiding. The wings shrank, folding inward, bone grinding against bone until they tore free and dissolved into blackened residue that dripped onto the stones.
She collapsed.
By the time the mist thickened and swallowed the alley, only a broken body remained, barely recognizable as human. Her chest rose weakly, each breath shallow and uneven.
From the far end of the alley, footsteps approached.
Rosacer stopped a few paces away, his expression unreadable as he took in the aftermath. The stench of blood and warped flesh hung heavy in the air.
"A monster," he murmured quietly.