The sky above Eskelson remained overcast, dull gray clouds rolling in from the sea like a warning. Amidst the distant clatter of hooves and low hum of wary conversation, Halsey and Lars kept their pace steady.
"So," Lars muttered, hands tucked in his coat, "how do we find your friend? This 'Alain Rouge'?"
"He disembarked with us," Halsey said, her voice calm but focused. "I saw him waving from the docks. That means he's still in the city. Probably staying at one of the local inns."
Lars offered a shrug, more alert than relaxed. "Then we work backwards. Head to the harbor, pick up his trail. Shouldn't take long."
The pair weaved through the narrow lanes of Eskelson, the tension of recent days still hanging thick over the cobbled streets. Merchants were more guarded, sailors huddled in corners, speaking in hushed tones. But despite the anxious air, clues remained.
At the harbor, they approached dockhands, a few stableboys, and a pair of carriage drivers. Halsey flashed a charming smile, describing a tall man in a dark-red suit, well-groomed, polite, foreign.
"Saw someone like that," one of the younger drivers said, squinting. "He tipped well. Asked for a place with a sea view. I dropped him off near Guller's Bend. That side of town has a few decent inns."
With that, they moved, heading in the direction indicated. Halsey paused briefly by a shop to question the owner, who nodded eagerly.
"Yes, yes, tall gentleman. Polite. Bought a tin of tea and a pair of gloves. Went that way."
Lars sniffed the air, eyes narrowing as he picked up the faint scent of imported cologne. He led the way, cutting through alleys and past open verandas.
Eventually, they arrived at a three-story stone inn trimmed in teal paint, a carved sign reading The Azure Rest swaying gently above its entrance.
Inside, the reception desk was modest. A woman sat behind it, flipping through a ledger.
"Evening," Halsey said pleasantly. "We're looking for a friend of ours. Alain Rouge. We just got in and hoped to surprise him."
The receptionist blinked, then flipped through the entries. "Ah, yes. Mr. Rouge checked in earlier today. Second floor, Room 7."
"Thank you," Halsey said, slipping a small coin across the desk with a smile.
They climbed the stairs quickly. At Room 7, Lars gave the agreed signal: three knocks, followed by one. A pause.
Then, the door creaked open.
Charlie stood there, immaculate as ever in a black waistcoat and gloves. He bowed slightly.
"Miss Durness," he said smoothly. "And guest. Please, come in."
They stepped into the well-furnished suite. Velvet drapes muted the light, and soft ambient music played from a hidden phonograph.
Alain Rouge turned from the window, expression pleasant. He looked every bit the refined gentleman, dressed in a deep red vest.
"Ah, Miss Durness," he said with a graceful nod, his eyes flicking briefly to Lars. "And company. I must say, the pleasure is mine."
He stepped forward smoothly, offering the illusion of warmth without ever quite committing to it. "I had intended to seek you out sooner, but the state of the city… well. A gathering storm is best watched from cover. Still, I'm glad you came. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, and your rather formidable friend?"
Halsey smiled politely, unhurried as she removed her gloves and folded them in her hand. "You'll have to forgive the intrusion, Mr. Rouge. But given the circumstances, I thought it better to act quickly than politely."
Alain tilted his head, intrigued. "A woman after my own heart."
She ignored the bait. "The city's tension hasn't gone unnoticed. There are figures moving behind curtains, some too quiet, some far too loud." She let her gaze drift, briefly, to the closed window. "We've been advised, indirectly, that the safest route forward is one under supervision. That is, a certain group of… official men and women."
"Ah," Alain said softly, tapping one knuckle against his lip. "And here I thought you were here to borrow sugar."
"It's not quite sugar we're after," Lars muttered from behind her.
Halsey glanced back, silencing him with a look before returning to Alain with her poised smile. "No one wants to be seen stepping into a lion's den. But if one must… it helps to do so in the company of someone they'll hesitate to bite. Someone invisible enough not to threaten, but significant enough to open a door."
Alain let the silence stretch for a moment, watching her. "You're quite practiced, Miss Durness."
"Only when survival's on the line," she said evenly. "You seem to have a certain... air of respectability. One that the right eyes might overlook, and the right officers might quietly wave through. That is all we're hoping to borrow."
There was no plea in her tone, no overt request, just calm implication.
Alain gave a slow smile. "Ah. I see. A request veiled in a compliment, wrapped in a precaution, delivered with charm. Now that's a proper introduction."
He glanced once more at Lars, then back to Halsey. "And tell me, Miss Durness, how long exactly do you intend to stay hidden inside the lion's den?"
Alain's question lingered in the air, soft and almost rhetorical, but Halsey knew better. Every word was a thread laid carefully, every tone calculated. She answered in kind.
"Long enough to pass unnoticed. Short enough not to wear out our welcome." She crossed one leg over the other, posture relaxed, voice cool. "We won't draw attention. We simply need passage. A shared coincidence."
Alain chuckled under his breath, then turned toward the side table where a decanter of brandy waited. He poured himself a glass, swirling it absently. "It's not that I mind the request. In truth, it's flattering to be approached so tactfully."
He took a sip, then continued, "But surely you understand, Miss Durness, nothing aboard a Mandated Punisher ship is truly quiet. Even shadows have registration numbers."
"We're not asking for invisibility," Halsey replied. "Only for association. A few degrees of separation between us and suspicion."
"And you believe I can provide that?"
"You have the polish," Lars spoke for the first time, arms crossed, tone blunt. "They'll see your suit and silver tongue and look right past you. Past us."
Alain gave a wry smile. "He speaks like a hammer, but the point is made." His gaze flicked back to Halsey. "You make good arguments. Better than most."
She inclined her head slightly. "I've had practice."
A beat of silence passed, and Alain leaned back in his chair, setting the brandy down with a soft clink. "Very well. I'll consider it, granted you agree to one thing."
Halsey arched a brow. "Which is?"
He gave a small shrug. "Conversation. Nothing binding, just… exchange. If we're to be partners in subtlety, I'd like to know the minds I'm walking beside. Besides, " he flashed a smile, ", I'm terribly fond of stories."
Halsey's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "I'm not in the habit of storytelling."
"Good," Alain said, eyes twinkling faintly. "That means yours are worth hearing."
Lars narrowed his gaze slightly, but remained silent.
Halsey nodded once. "Then we'll talk."
"Splendid. I'll arrange the necessary preparations." Alain rose from his seat with the poise of someone who never truly sat down. "And should the Punishers ask too many questions, well, let's just say I know how to answer them."
He gestured toward the door. "I imagine you still have matters to attend to. I'll be in touch before departure. Be ready by then."
As they turned to leave, Charlie appeared soundlessly near the door and opened it for them. Just before stepping out, Halsey paused.
"Thank you, Mr. Rouge."
Alain dipped his head. "Let's hope, Miss Durness, that this is merely a quiet voyage."
She gave a thin smile. "It rarely is."
And with that, she and Lars slipped out, leaving behind the warm lamplight and polished charm.
…
The door clicked shut behind them.
Jack remained by the window for a while longer, watching the darkness stir above Eskelson's rooftops. A faint grin pulled at his lips.
"They tracked me down just to ask for help," he mused aloud, voice half-amused.
Charlie made no reply, merely adjusting the cuffs of his coat in silence.
Jack chuckled to himself, moving away from the glass. "They really thought I didn't notice them? Come now. You don't tail an Angel with a Reaper and a Reader and expect subtlety."
He walked slowly across the room, removing his outer vest and tossing it across the back of a chair. His fingers briefly hovered over his chest, pulling aside his shirt to expose the faint glimmer of the Fool's Mark, a bluish-black.
"Babayaga, now… That's, what, the fourth potential transmigrator I've run into since I have transmigrated?" His tone was dry. "Either I'm terribly unlucky, or someone's tilting the odds."
His gaze lingered on the mark, thoughtful.
"Or maybe the deck's being stacked."
…
Meanwhile, under the creeping shadow of early evening, Halsey and Lars walked briskly along one of Eskelson's narrower side roads.
Lars didn't break stride when he said, "We've got company. Two, maybe three. Tail's been steady for the last three turns."
Halsey nodded subtly, her expression calm. "Same ones from before?"
"Don't think so. Different steps, quieter."
They exchanged a look and immediately adjusted their path. A quick left, then a right. Across a narrow bridge and through the tight market corridors. The pace remained natural, but their route wound like a maze, pulling them into quieter, less-traveled parts of the city.
As they moved, Halsey slipped a hand into her satchel, fingers brushing the edge of the artifact. The Rose Bishop's Cross. It was an artifact corresponding to a Sequence 6 Rose Bishop, granting its wielder full command over Flesh and Blood Magic, the ability to reshape, weaponize, and manipulate living tissue with grotesque precision. With it, Halsey could create explosive flesh bombs, weave defensive cloaks of muscle, launch blood slashes, and even curse enemies by binding their flesh to her will. It allowed temporary regeneration, battlefield control, and ranged corrosive attacks. However, the artifact came with a brutal cost: each use gnawed at her sanity, flooding her with an uncontrollable urge to consume blood and flesh. This visceral hunger lingered for hours afterward and left her dangerously irrational.
Eventually, they cut through a crumbling side-street and ducked into a wide alley flanked by tall brick buildings.
That's when the silence broke.
Two figures dropped from the low rooftops above, landing with practiced precision. Their bodies shifted, muscle thickening, limbs distorting. Coarse hair burst along their arms, claws unfurling from their fingers. Yellow, slit-pupiled eyes caught the last gleam of light.
A third form limped into view from behind a water barrel. Its gait was unnatural, jerking with stuttering movements. Frost shimmered around its body. The smell of decay hit them like a wave.
Then the fourth came, silent, invisible.
Halsey's eyes narrowed, instinct warning her a heartbeat before the whisper of cold air brushed her neck.
"Wraith," she breathed.
"Fun crowd," Lars muttered.
Halsey nodded once, already slipping her hand into her coat. The winding street ahead was silent, abandoned save for the rising stench of something rotten.
Then the first Werewolf lunged with a growl that reverberated in her bones, its claws slashing toward her neck. She threw herself sideways, rolling over the ground, her hand snapping out the red-tinted cross from her satchel and looping it around her neck in a single motion. A clasp clicked beneath her fingers.
The Rose Bishop's Cross pulsed and her flesh twisted.
Her form melted in places, shoulders, arms, and waist softening into cords of slick red tissue. The Werewolf charged again. This time, she didn't dodge completely. She ducked low, letting its claws slice across her malleable upper shoulder, where the blow sank in like cutting into overripe fruit. Blood sprayed, but did not spurt. Instead, her shoulder rippled, absorbing the shock.
From her other hand, she flung a blob of dense, writhing flesh. It slapped into the beast's flank, then exploded in a shower of corrosive blood and tissue.
The Werewolf roared, staggered. It shook its fur, chunks of melting flesh sloughing off, but it kept moving.
Another lunge. This time, Halsey crouched and let her lower body twist, flesh uncoiling like a serpent. A long tendril sharpened into a curved, talon-like blade and slashed upward. The beast twisted, dodging most of it, but not fast enough to avoid the tail-end of the arc as it carved across its thigh. Blood sprayed, sizzling as it hit the pavement.
The beast growled and bared its fangs, but its steps were faltering now, injured, though still very much alive.
Meanwhile, Lars faced the real chaos.
The second Werewolf dashed in first, claws gleaming, but Lars didn't bother backing up. He met the attack head-on, sidestepping at the last instant. His left foot twisted, pivoting, with his fist covered in near white-fire shot into the creature's ribs, and the pop of bone beneath the impact rang through the alley.
The werewolf groaned and staggered for a moment, but still continued its onslaught.
Lars ducked low, too low for a normal man, then sprang back up with both fists lit aflame, knives drawn in a cross-slash.
Then the Zombie struck. A cold punch slammed into his side. Lars' Fire Armor flickered and hissed, barely holding under the blow. He slid back, boots skidding over frost-slick stone.
The Zombie came again, both fists swinging, laced with the aura of rot. One grazed his shoulder, instantly stiffening the area. He grit his teeth, twisting away as a long, flame-wreathed whip exploded from his palm. The fiery lash wrapped around the Werewolf's arms, yanking it backwards momentarily.
This moment of distance was all he needed.
He flipped his dagger in hand, stepped forward, and rammed the blade into the Zombie's side, just beneath the ribs. The dagger ignited with the culling lethality of a blaze of white flame. Lars had aimed precisely at one of the Zombie's weakpoints in full and the creature shrieked in a gurgle as its side blackened.
But the fight didn't pause.
The Wraith appeared, flickering from the reflections present in the frostened ground, coming from the Zombie, its incorporeal form hovering above ground, eyes glowing with cold malice.
Then it shrieked, a sound like tearing metal laced with nightmare.
Lars' eyes glazed for a moment, teeth clenching in agony. He dropped to one knee, stunned. Blood trickled from one nostril.
Halsey whirled in time. She slammed a blood-weaved cloak around herself, shielding her mind from the brunt of the spiritual scream. Her flesh twitched unnaturally, but she endured.
The Wraith floated toward Lars, phasing forward through the frozen ground, intent on finishing him off.
But Lars wasn't done.
He turned his head towards the Wraith, giving him a sly smile accompanied with vicious glaring eyes of a hunter meeting its prey.
A brilliant white fireball, compact and dense, erupted from his mouth, burning straight into the Wraith's path. The spirit darted to the side, turning incorporeal, but it was too late.
The blast was too big to avoid completely, sending the Wraith aside, half of his body burning, before he fled into one of the frozen ice's reflections.
Lars staggered upright, promptly readying himself in stance with his fire whip in hands.
And in front of him, the Werewolf and Zombie prepared to lunge once more.
The Werewolf facing Halsey was no longer charging with the same ferocity.
Blood foamed at the corners of its jaws. Its footing faltered as it lunged, one claw dragging slightly too slow, off-rhythm. Halsey saw the opening, sharp and calculated. She weaved around the limp arm, bringing her fingers together in a sign and releasing a final Flesh Bomb at point-blank range.
The pulsing mass latched onto its shoulder and detonated with a splatter of red heat. Corrosive blood hissed against fur and flesh. The beast shrieked and crumpled, stumbling backward into the alley wall.
Halsey didn't let up. A long tendril of living blood lashed forward, sharp as a blade, and she carved into the creature's thigh, forcing it down. Its regeneration was still at work, trying to recover, but the Blood Curse had taken root, coiling through veins, disrupting instincts and slowing reflexes. It was dying, and it knew it.
She stared coldly into its dimming eyes. "You chose the wrong prey."
The beast made one last swipe. She ducked and rammed her hand forward, plunging a writhing stake of flesh and blood into its chest. The creature convulsed, then fell still.
Over at Lars's end of the alley, chaos unfolded in brutal rhythm.
The Werewolf came at him from the left, fangs bared, claws arcing down like twin blades, while the Zombie barreled in from the right, its fist already freezing the air. Lars spun low, avoiding the first claw swipe, then twisted on his heel as the Zombie's punch came crashing down.
Crack.
The blow skimmed his shoulder, sending a jolt through his arm. His Flame Armor absorbed most of the cold, but not all of it. He hissed through his teeth and retaliated in the same movement. The burning lash from his flaming whip cracked through the air and struck the Werewolf across the chest, staggering it back with a howl.
"Two-on-one?" Lars said with a smirk, despite the pain in his joints. "What, the undead can't count now?"
The Werewolf roared and pounced again. Lars ducked under its claws, using its momentum to slip past it. As the Zombie followed up with a lunging strike, Lars sidestepped, just barely avoiding the blow, and spun behind it. He struck its back with a fiery punch, burning flesh and charring bone.
But it didn't stop.
Both enemies came at him again, relentless. The Werewolf slashed; the Zombie raised its hand, frost circling its fingers. Lars gritted his teeth, parried one strike with the whip, and planted his foot into the Werewolf's gut, just enough to shove it back. Then he twisted and slammed a flare of flame into the Zombie's side, only to feel its icy aura cling to his leg in retaliation.
He was wearing down. His Flame Armor flickered at the edges, fraying with every impact. Even with his enhanced resilience, he couldn't keep this up forever.
Then, he felt his movements freezing to a halt.
His pupils dilated.
The wraith's form shimmered and grew inside his eyes, possessing him. He felt the unnatural weight press down on his mind, forcing its way through.
With a snarl, Lars let go of his Flame Armor entirely.
And ignited.
His entire body burst into flame. The alley lit up in a violent inferno as he set himself ablaze, scorching flesh and uniform alike.
The Wraith screeched and flared inside him, driven out with a flash of ethereal backlash. It erupted from his chest in a spiral of smoke and scattered sparks, fleeing into the nearby sheet of ice. Lars staggered, flames licking his coat and skin, his breathing ragged.
He clenched a fist, and the fire receded.
A new wave of armor formed around him, and he burst forward in pursuit, but the Zombie cut him off, barreling in with another swing. Lars blocked it, ducked low, and retaliated with a rising knee set alight. The Werewolf followed again, this time more frantic than furious, slashing wildly.
He parried once, twice. Then a claw tore across his thigh.
He grunted. Blood sprayed. He didn't slow.
Instead, he provoked them both. "Is that all you've got? One's a brain-dead lump and the other's a dog with mange."
Both enemies growled, enraged. Their movements became reckless, exactly what he needed.
He sidestepped the Zombie's punch and rotated the Werewolf into its path, causing them to stagger into each other. In that breath of space, Lars took aim.
A white-hot fire spear formed in his hand, humming with energy.
And hurled it with culling precision.
The compressed projectile tore through the air, striking the Werewolf in the torso. It didn't pierce, it erupted. The creature's howl was swallowed in the explosion as its body was flung into the wall, charred and crumbling.
Lars wasn't finished.
He snapped both arms outward, and a flock of fire ravens burst from above his shoulders, streaking toward the Zombie like guided meteors. They struck one after another, blazing, melting, tearing.
The air filled with the smell of burning rot.
The Zombie convulsed, twitching violently as flames danced over its limbs. It tried to swing, but its arm fell off mid-motion, half-melted.
With a final roar, Lars raised both hands, clenched his fists, and detonated the last of the ravens.
The blast echoed down the alley.
And the creature dropped, sizzling, unmoving.
Lars exhaled. His body shook. His knees threatened to give, but he caught himself.
Across the alley, Halsey turned toward him, bloodstained and breathing heavy.
They both knew what came next.
The frost-riddled wall ahead shimmered.
A crack formed.
Then the Wraith emerged, sliding out from the broken reflection in the ice like ink poured through glass. Its form was partially translucent, the details of its face blurred beyond recognition. As it glided toward them, the air grew unnaturally still, then snapped with the pressure.
Lars moved first, flaring his fire armor brighter. His eyes narrowed as he muttered, "You're mine."
The Wraith blinked sideways, instantly appearing to Lars' left. A clawed hand lashed forward, trying to begin another Possession. But Lars was already ducking low and pivoting, his dagger ignited with a glow of white-hot flame.
The blade slashed through the edge of the Wraith's form. Not enough to strike the center, but enough to tear its body. The ghost reeled back with a soundless screech.
Halsey didn't try to attack directly. She couldn't, not when the Wraith could phase through nearly everything she threw. Instead, she focused on keeping Lars alive.
As the Wraith circled for another pass, Halsey extended her hand. Flesh and blood magic twisted outward, forming a slick wall of pulsing tissue. It caught the brunt of the ghost's momentum when it lunged again, buying Lars another second to reposition.
"You'll have to do better than peekaboo," Lars growled. He hurled a compressed fireball, not at the Wraith itself, but at a nearby frozen wall. The flames shattered the ice, scattering reflective surfaces the Wraith could use to blink again.
The spirit twisted midair to avoid the explosion and flickered toward a nearby window.
Halsey was ready. She slammed a strand of Flesh Magic into the window's edge, disrupting the surface. The Wraith blinked, then jerked as it failed to fully phase.
Half in, half out.
Lars struck. His spear formed mid-motion, compressed fire twisting into a white-hot point. He threw it with culling precision engraved into the attack.
The Wraith tore free of the failed blink just in time, but not fast enough.
The spear clipped its torso, searing through its core. His body exploded like shredded silk. The ghost reeled and staggered, flickering violently.
Then it shrieked.
The wail tore through the air, a spiritual cry that rattled the soul. Halsey dropped to one knee, blood dripping from her nose. Lars flinched, but held steadily.
"I've heard worse," he spat.
The Wraith vanished again, this time rising into the air, diving down with speed like a dive-bombing specter.
Halsey raised a dome of flesh just in time, cushioning Lars from the full force of impact. It distorted around him as the Wraith's claws phased through, trying to pierce through muscle.
But the opening was brief.
Lars roared, his body erupting in flame. Fire spiraled around him, trailing like wings as he surged upward. He didn't aim this time. He simply grabbed the Wraith mid-dive.
The spirit-body screamed as his fire-drenched hand locked on its core.
"Burn," Lars hissed.
His palm flared at once and he exploded in a blaze.
The alley lit with blinding light as ghostly screams twisted into silence. When the fire died down, Lars landed hard, stumbling on impact.
Ash floated gently from above.
The Wraith was gone.
Lars coughed once, then straightened.
Halsey, pale and panting, managed a tight smile. "Nice… improvisation."
"Could've used more help," he said, half-joking.
"I'd have stabbed it if I could."
He gave a grunt and nodded.
"Let's not get followed again." Halsey remarked.
"Agreed."
The alley lay in eerie silence. The charred stench of scorched fur and flesh lingered, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood and decay. Halsey and Lars stood amidst the ruined ground, battered but standing.
Slowly, faint glimmers of light began to pulse from the remains of the four mutants, pale, translucent, spectral. The Beyonder Characteristics were forming.
Halsey didn't speak. She simply moved beside Lars and pressed a hand lightly to his side. The Rose Bishop's Cross, still looped around her neck, pulsed once.
Flesh knit. Burns cooled. Bruises darkened, then eased. It wasn't a full recovery, but enough to keep him moving.
"Thanks," Lars muttered. His face was taut with exhaustion, but steady.
Minutes passed before the four Characteristics fully emerged, just above the corpses, one from each body: two warped, bestial claws from the Werewolves, a rotting flicker from the Zombie, and a hazy, spectral sheen from where the Wraith had fallen.
Halsey didn't hesitate. With swift precision, she conjured a thin web of flesh-thread from her palms and plucked each one of them. The threads curled the Characteristics inward, sealing them in fleshy orbs, which she tucked carefully into a velvet-lined compartment in her satchel.
"We need to go. Now."
No more words were needed.
Despite their aches and bruises, they moved fast, avoiding crowded streets, skirting main roads, ducking into alleys and forgotten paths. The fear of reinforcements from the same batch from these mutants or the Mandated Punishers, kept them sharp.
By the time they reached the hotel, both were panting, their breath visible in the night air.
Halsey led the way inside. Once in their room, she dropped her satchel on the table and yanked the door shut behind them.
She unclasped the necklace and removed the Rose Bishop's Cross with shaking fingers, already sweating. Her eyes glistened with residual power and something darker underneath.
From within the satchel, she retrieved a thick, ivory-colored cigar case. One by one, she slotted the four Characteristics inside, locking them down separately.
Then she placed the cross inside a separate pocket and sealed that too. Her hands lingered on the case for a second, steadying herself.
"Lars." Her voice was low, sharp.
He turned toward her, eyes narrowing slightly at the sudden shift in tone.
She met his gaze. "It's the artifact. The backlash is setting in. It's not just the fatigue. I'll… lose control for a few hours."
Lars' jaw tightened. He nodded once, fully serious now.
She continued, voice colder. "No matter what I say. If I scream. If I beg. Don't open the door."
"I got it," he said.
She moved toward the room and stepped inside. Her motions were stiff now, fatigue dragging at her frame like chains.
With that, she closed the door, locked it, and slid the brass key underneath.
Lars picked it up silently, tucked it away, and turned his gaze toward the hallway, standing guard.
After a moment, he moved to the chair in the corner and sat down slowly, elbows on his knees. His arms still ached, bruises blooming beneath his coat. Smoke and blood clung to him like a second skin.
He thought through every moment of the ambush, their trackers, the coordinated assault, the Wraith's possession, Halsey's Flesh Curse, his own self-immolation.
Four mutants. And they survived.
He let out a breath that sounded half like a scoff.
"Damn lucky," he muttered. "Way too damn lucky."
His hand unconsciously went to the pocket holding the four Characteristics.
And then, slowly, his eyes drifted back toward Halsey's door.
A silence hung, thin, stretched, fragile.
Then the screaming started.
At first, it was a low, guttural rasp, barely human. Then came the pounding. Slamming against wood. Claws scraping the inside of the doorframe.
"Lars!" she shrieked. Her voice was strained, wild. "Open the door! I can't, let me out!"
He didn't move. Her fists thudded harder now. The door shook in its frame. She sobbed, snarled, screamed again.
"I'm fine! It's passing, I swear, just let me out for a second!"
Lars remained where he was, jaw locked, eyes fixed forward.
He sat through all of it. Every scream. Every plea. Every crash against the door that marked the twisted urges.
And when it finally fell silent, after what felt like hours, he didn't relax.
He just stayed in place. Waiting and watching.
Guarding until morning came.