The darkest, most harrowing hours had finally passed.
At the rim of Old Dunlin's sky, a faint, golden dawn unfurled like a promise long overdue.
Soldiers stood guard outside the crypt. The night's war had at last ended. Every corpse had been burned on the spot, and the ashes drifted upward—falling again like black snow.
Bathed in that long-lost light, Red Falcon, standing among the outer ring of the royal guard, extended a hand. A single flake of that dark snow settled onto his palm. A moment later, falling rain washed it away.
It was raining.
A thin, whispering drizzle descended from the bleak heavens, cleansing the demon ash. The dawn was cold—bitingly冷. Officer Press stood off to the side, still dazed, still understanding nothing. He clutched the gun Red Falcon had given him. Rain soaked through his clothes, and a shiver ran down his spine.
As morning light pushed through the smoke-choked horizon, the wind carried with it the charred scent of battle.
"I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. Henceforth, a crown of righteousness is laid up for me."
A weakened voice crackled through the communicator—static-laden, ancient, almost sacred in tone. At the sound of it, the tension frozen on Red Falcon's face finally eased. He lowered his head toward the device.
"I thought you were dead."
"Came close. Galahad's sword went straight through my chest. A little to the left and I'd be gone. But it seems the Lord still watches over me."
Robin's voice.
He was alive—against all odds.
"Looks like you'll need a long rest," Red Falcon said.
"Yeah… though I'm a bit disappointed. I thought I was finally on my way to heaven." Robin chuckled weakly. "I'd even finished my confession. Then these idiots dragged me back again."
"Of course we did, Robin. We're brothers. You don't get to escape this hell before the rest of us."
Red Falcon finally exhaled, the warmth of the sun brushing against his face like hope itself.
No one had died, after all.
Thank God.
——
Lloyd trudged along the Thames, every step a battle. The wounds across his body were slowly knitting themselves together, but even so, his vision flickered at the edges. Only when the cold rain struck his skin did his senses sharpen slightly.
The frigid air swept through the rain, washing away the smell of blood and smoke that clung to him.
At last—after who knew how long—he saw the small boat. Eve was slumped beside the wall, her complexion pale, her hair plastered to her cheeks by the rain. She looked utterly exhausted.
The two locked eyes. Then, almost involuntarily, they both laughed.
What a night.
If demons hadn't been involved, Eve would've written it all into a novel—though in her version, she was certain the story would star a heroic woman dragging along a useless detective.
"You look like you're about to die," Eve said, pushing herself to her feet.
"So do you."
Lloyd staggered toward her. Eve quickly reached out to steady him, and they leaned on each other—two wounded souls barely managing to walk straight.
"You need a doctor, Lloyd."
She looked at his blood-drained face with growing worry. Her own wounds weren't fatal, but Lloyd… anyone else with those injuries would already be dead.
"I can't go to a hospital."
He refused instantly. The secret blood inside him wasn't something any ordinary person—doctor or not—could be allowed to touch.
"But you need those wounds closed!"
"I know," Lloyd muttered. He understood the danger. But he couldn't risk it.
He carried a secret heavier than anyone knew. He was a walking prison—his own body locking away things that should never be released.
And he couldn't die.
If the jailer fell, the prisoners within would not stay contained for long.
His blurred gaze swept across the street—
—and then, strangely, luck smiled upon him. He let out a crooked grin.
Under Eve's baffled stare, Lloyd forced himself upright and raised his Winchester. The gun was practically useless in his condition, but it made for a convincing threat.
He stopped in front of a door.
The polished brass plaque read:
147 Hammerling Street
He knocked. Hard.
Loud enough to wake the dead.
Inside, Director Buscarlo jolted from his sleep and stumbled downstairs, furious. Ever since that strange man had threatened him with a shotgun days ago, he'd been plagued with nightmares. Finally, he had slept peacefully—only to be awakened again at dawn.
He flung open the door, ready to unleash his rage.
But the sight waiting for him froze him in place.
That familiar face.
And that familiar shotgun.
"Good morning, Director Buscarlo!"
Lloyd cheerfully pressed the barrel against the man's forehead, his pallid face lighting up with a warmth disturbingly similar to seeing an old friend.
——
"So… does this count as a home invasion?"
"No. This is simply borrowing a friend's place for the night."
"You really think pressing a gun to someone's head and kicking the door in qualifies as 'borrowing'?"
"It only shows how intimate the friendship between Director Buscarlo and I truly is."
It took Buscarlo less than a minute to accept reality.
Now Lloyd was sitting comfortably on his sofa, bare-chested, stitching up his own wounds.
The director's home was stocked with medical supplies—far from a full hospital, but more than enough. Buscarlo stood trembling at the side, watching Lloyd calmly extract shard after shard of metal from his flesh with a pair of forceps.
The man's worldview was collapsing.
Lloyd had pulled nearly two pounds of iron out of his body—by any rational measure he should have been long dead. And yet he was not only breathing but energetic enough to crack jokes with Eve while performing surgery on himself.
"Miss… are you his friend?"
He looked toward Eve. She sat on the opposite couch, wrapping her own arm. Compared to Lloyd, her wounds were nothing more than surface cuts. A few stitches would do.
Hearing the question, Eve glanced at the unfortunate director, unsure what he was trying to imply.
"…Probably," she answered after a pause.
"You really need to reconsider your social circle, young lady! This won't do!"
Buscarlo remembered her—the persistent girl who wouldn't stop pestering him during Walter's autopsy. But how had that diligent detective ended up mixed together with a lunatic like Lloyd?
Was she an undercover agent from the Sualan Bureau?
The more he thought, the more his nerves crumbled. The more you know, the quicker you die—his brain was now replaying every corpse he had examined with them involved. Lloyd hadn't even touched him, yet Buscarlo had already imagined a dozen gruesome deaths for himself.
Just as he was mentally drafting his last will, Lloyd spoke.
"Director Buscarlo, do me a favor and stitch this part up, would you?"
Lloyd exposed his back. He couldn't reach it himself; he needed the doctor.
Could Buscarlo go closer? He was terrified—Lloyd felt less like a man and more like a vengeful spirit clinging to him.
But before he could refuse, Eve quietly picked up the shotgun beside her.
The cold, sharp glint in her eyes said everything.
This wasn't "poor choice of friends."
This was outright collusion.
Where was the meticulous, truth-seeking detective from a few days ago? How had everything changed so drastically?
Lloyd ignored the director's spiral into panic and simply revealed the deep wound across his back. As the secret-blood within him calmed, his unnatural regenerative ability faded—he needed someone else to suture it.
"Don't look at it."
Buscarlo reluctantly took the needle and thread. He didn't understand what Lloyd meant by "don't look." They were both men—what was there to avoid?
And then he understood.
That eerie tattoo—alive, shifting beneath the skin—writhed in his vision.
He tried to focus, tried to decipher its shape.
Pain stabbed through his eyes.
For one dreadful moment, it felt like a living hawk had pecked his vision into darkness.
"I told you not to look."
Lloyd's tone was cold. He struggled to pull a blanket up to cover most of his back.
"W-What… what was that…?"
Cold sweat drenched Buscarlo. His breathing came in harsh bursts, as though he had run a marathon. Both his mind and body felt crushed beneath a weight he had never known.
"Pressure on your cognition," Lloyd explained, detached. "Like staring at a book packed with words—so dense the information crashes into your mind all at once. A dam bursting. Even the strongest walls crumble under a torrent. Your brain protects itself by shutting down… fainting… erasing what it can't bear."
His gaze was distant, but Eve understood—he wasn't talking to Buscarlo.
He was speaking to her.
Tonight she had stepped onto the dark side of the world. Once tainted by that realm, one never truly came back. It was a mire—reach into it once, and it drags you deeper.
Buscarlo's eyes grew somber as he stitched the wound. He no longer dared look toward the tattoo, but an uncanny lure tugged at him—like a serpent whispering from the branches of a forbidden tree.
"Just… what are you people…?"
When he finally finished, he wiped his brow. Lloyd, in his eyes, was no longer merely a criminal. Even a simple doctor could sense that this man's body was fundamentally wrong.
"Doctor, it's better you don't know too much."
Lloyd picked up a sheet of paper—his handwriting slightly warped from the pain.
"Your shift starts soon. As the director, you should be able to access these. I'd like you to bring them back afterward."
It was a list of medications.
"You're not afraid I'll call the police once I'm out?" Buscarlo asked.
Lloyd shook his head.
"You've felt it—the indescribable wrongness. If they come for me, it won't be the police. It'll be… others. And as far as they're concerned, anything tied to the 'anomalous' gets erased. You and I are standing on the same battlefield now."
A simple threat—but effective.
Buscarlo shot Lloyd one last hateful glance, then slammed the door on his way out, leaving only Lloyd and Eve in the quiet house.
"I remember he had a daughter… seems his wife took her. Life really is harsh."
Lloyd commented absently while looking at a family photo.
Across from him, Eve pulled up a chair and sat down.
"Lloyd Holmes," she said quietly. "I think it's time we had a proper talk."
"About?"
Her expression was tangled, conflicted. She hesitated a long moment before speaking.
"About why you saved me. And… all of this."
She lifted her hand.
The bandages unwound.
Beneath them, the gashes had already healed halfway.
Her eyes trembled—fear and bewilderment intertwining in their depths.