The morning paper carried death.
Noah sat in the Chrome Hearts base, a cigarette burning low between his fingers as the inked words caught his eye.
[ "The Saint of St. Eldred Found Dead. Cause Unknown. Relic Involved in Incident."]
He stared at the line for a long time. The air in the old theatre—the headquarters they had turned into a base—felt colder, thicker. Outside, the city of Victoria was loud as always: carriages on cobblestone, shouts from vendors, a fog of coal smoke hovering like a ghost. Inside, it was silent.
He lowered the newspaper slowly, his silver mask resting on the table beside him. The polished metal reflected his tired eyes. Chrome Hearts members whispered across the hall, too afraid to ask what he'd read.
Because everyone knew—the Saint's death would not end with mourning. It would begin with blame.
Noah exhaled, his tone calm but edged with thought.
"Where did this happen?"
