u/Kaze-Azumi3061

[Field Investigation Report — District 15, O Corp Nest Border]

Investigator: Erza

Weather: Windy! My hair got stuck in my mouth three separate times today. Very rude weather.

Status: Energetic, emotionally betrayed, and still thinking about my missing lunch.

Hello! Official investigation report begins now! (Moses told me to “focus” and “stop adding sparkles in official documentation,” but that sounds like a her problem, honestly.) Please read the important parts carefully because I spent a lot of time writing this and my hand hurts a little. Also if this report goes missing again I’m blaming Vespa because he keeps using my paperwork as a coaster for coffee cups!

I arrived at District 15, O Corp Nest Border at approximately 13:08 after receiving reports concerning missing workers, strange noises beneath the drainage tunnels, and repeated sightings of a “woman carrying a lantern with no face.”

Which is creepy! But also kind of stylish in a mysterious way.

The district itself looked mostly abandoned when I entered. Stores half-open, Streetlights flickering even though it was daytime, One noodle stand was still running somehow despite having absolutely no owner present. The broth was still warm too, which means somebody either left recently or ghosts have learned culinary arts.

Both possibilities are concerning. Maybe? No, totally! Ghost are real, they are the one who keep cutting the power when I wanted to shower.

No active Syndicate presence observed at first glance, though I did find signs of recent movement near the eastern alleyways. Empty shell casings and Cigarette piles. Alongside one boot hanging from a telephone wire for some reason.

Only one boot.

Where did the other boot go?

Important question nobody else seems interested in answering.

At around 13:26 I discovered several ventilation shafts emitting warm air despite the district power grid being officially shut down three months ago. I placed my hand near one of the vents and heard whispering underneath.

Not normal whispering either.

Like the kind where you can’t tell if it’s words or breathing.

I politely informed the vent that if it planned on eating me it should at least wait until after dinner.

No response received.

Very impolite.

Continuing investigation.

Found graffiti markings spread throughout nearby buildings. Symbols repeated often enough to be intentional. Mostly stars, crescent moons, eyes, and one very detailed drawing of a frog smoking a pipe while wearing a suit.

Honestly?

Kind of incredible artwork.

I took a picture for evidence purposes.

And maybe personal admiration for a little bit. Okay I lied, I end up taking 5 whole minutes taking pictures with myself in it.

At approximately 13:42 I located an underground maintenance entrance hidden beneath a collapsed bus stop. The hatch appeared forced open from the inside. Scratch marks visible along the metal edges suggested something either escaped recently or desperately wanted fresh air.

Neither option made me happy.

The tunnel beneath smelled awful.

Like rust, wet cloth, and old rainwater sitting inside broken pipes for years. I nearly slipped climbing downward because somebody abandoned soup containers across the staircase. Who throws soup on stairs? That feels targeted.

While exploring lower tunnel sections I began hearing metallic tapping noises echoing through the walls at uneven intervals.

Three taps.

Pause.

Two taps.

Pause.

Then laughter somewhere deeper inside.

Tiny note for command:

I do not enjoy hearing laughter underground where there are supposed to be no people.

That is a deeply unpleasant experience.

Investigation continued smoothly until approximately at 14:01, then suddenly I encountered a group of Syndicate members near the collapsed railway sector carrying strange folded papers covered in numbers and symbols. Initially assumed cult activity because they kept reciting sentences in unison like creepy theater kids. One of them calmly informed another that his “prescript” demanded self-disembowelment if I moved three more steps forward.

Which is insane behavior.

Anyway, I moved four steps forward out of curiosity.

Things escalated immediately afterward.

Short combat summary because paperwork is exhausting: they attacked, I attacked harder, and now the eastern alleyway looks like a natural disaster happened specifically to criminals. Several concrete pillars destroyed. One truck overturned. One Syndicate member somehow embedded headfirst into a noodle sign.

Still not entirely sure how that happened physically.

Important detail though? Not a single scratch on me! Which means my combat performance today was extremely elegant and cool-looking.

Oh! I also attached photographic evidence below because documentation matters. Because don’t I look cute here honestly?

At approximately 14:13 I discovered several abandoned sleeping bags surrounding a portable radio station. Most equipment had been destroyed intentionally. Wires ripped apart. Batteries removed. One radio was still active though, playing static mixed with faint music.

The song sounded cheerful.

Like the kind children sing before terrible things happen in horror stories. I turned it off immediately because I absolutely NOT want to be in a horror movie scenario.

Nearby I also recovered multiple notebooks filled with names and dates, though many pages had been burned beyond readability. One surviving sentence read:

“THEY ONLY COME OUT WHEN THE PIPES SING.”

I don’t know what that means.

And respectfully?

I would like to continue not knowing.

At approximately 14:47 something moved above the tunnel ceiling directly over me. Heavy footsteps. Too heavy to belong to a normal person.

I drew my axe immediately and prepared for combat.

Nothing emerged.

Which somehow made it worse.

I remained in the tunnels for another twenty minutes and located traces of biological residue near the northern drainage sector. Dark fluid, it has Thick consistency. Possibly organic, Possibly industrial waste, Possibly both because this city hates classification systems like for goodness sake! What do you mean I can abuse the gun loopholes by just making it shoot out knifes?!

I collected sample for laboratory analysis, and stepped in it accidentally.

And that's how my Boots ruined.

Tragic. I hate it here.

During temporary surface return around 15:19 I encountered Vespa near the southern checkpoint. Important side note before continuing:

That bastard ate my strawberry cream bread yesterday.

He said he “thought I wasn’t going to finish it.”

I WAS SAVING IT!

Therefore, as lawful compensation, I confiscated half his Beef Bourguignon while he wasn’t looking.

This is called justice. He noticed eventually and got really dramatic about it too.

Claimed I “stole mission supplies.”

Wrong. Mission supplies don’t usually come with extra meat and decorative egg slices.

Anyway investigation resumed afterward.

At approximately 15:26 the industrial pipes throughout District 15, emitted an extremely loud vibration audible across the entire district. Windows shook. Loose signs fell from nearby buildings. Several birds immediately flew away from the rooftops all at once.

Then the whispering started again. Except this time it came from every direction.

I could hear voices inside walls. It's in the goddamned walls, Inside drains, Inside the ventilation systems, it's everywhere!

One voice distinctly said:

“Don’t look up.”

Naturally, I looked up immediately because I refuse to be bossed around by haunted plumbing infrastructure.

Observed movement along the rooftops afterward. Humanoid silhouette. Tall figure carrying what appeared to be a lantern emitting pale orange light.

No visible face. Figure disappeared behind the smoke stacks before pursuit could begin. Which is unfair because I was absolutely ready to be a heroic hero that save the day.

Current assessment is that District 15, O Corp Nest Border is being utilized as either:

1. An illegal transport route

2. A hidden shelter for displaced civilians

3. Some horrifying underground cult situation

4. Or all three at once because apparently this district enjoys multitasking so much, it might aswell be called District "Operate Everything."

Additional findings include:

[Found seven broken surveillance drones piled beside a drainage canal.]

[One vending machine only stocked peach soda. Not related to investigation but still suspicious behavior.]

[Observed handwritten warnings painted across walls saying “SHE WALKS WHEN THE LIGHTS FLICKER.” Very dramatic handwriting for someone who really in needs of a electronic, you know.]

[Tunnel echoes occasionally sounded like crying. I decided not to investigate that part alone because contrary to popular belief I enjoy surviving.]

[Pretty sure something followed me for approximately four blocks after leaving the district. Could not confirm visually.]

Final note for command:

If future assignments involve underground tunnels filled with whispering again, I am requesting hazard pay, emotional compensation, and dessert reimbursement.

Preferably cake.

Also somebody tell Vespa I’m still not sorry about the Beef Bourguignon and I will eat it again, I am never apologize until the end of time!

HE STARTED THIS WAR! I'M GIVING JUSTICE TO MY BREAD!

End Of Report.

Original art link:https://x.com/kikikiko84/status/2057256966628774137

We dream because reality is often too cruel to survive without it. Dreams are the candle we hold against the dark, the foolish little stories we tell ourselves so tomorrow does not feel impossible to reach.

I used to think that was strength.

That if I kept dreaming hard enough, loudly enough, brightly enough, then the world would eventually bend in shame before my conviction. That justice would arrive for those who waited. That kindness would be rewarded. That every tragedy merely existed so a hero could rise to answer it.

How childish I was.

The City does not care for dreams. It grinds them down into dust beneath its wheels and asks whether you are finished crying yet.

And yet...

Even after years of stagnation, after watching ideals rot into compromises and heroes become little more than tired people carrying sharper weapons, I cannot bring myself to despise the dream entirely.

Because dreams were never meant to change the world.

They change us.

A dream is not a promise that fate will listen. It is the refusal to become identical to the cruelty surrounding you. A stubborn declaration that somewhere beneath all the scars, disappointments, and humiliations, there still exists a person capable of wanting something beautiful.

Perhaps that is why I still ride forward despite everything. Not because I believe I will win, Not because I believe this story grants happy endings. But because somewhere along the road, I realized the dream was never the destination.

It was the thing that kept my heart from falling asleep before I arrived there.

If the burden ever begins to weigh your shoulders down, then let me carry this dream a little farther for you. I would rather gather this dream broken juvenile dream and carry it forward into the unseen tomorrow. Not for myself alone… I will carry it for those who can no longer reach for it, for the dreamers who fell with their hands still outstretched, for the voices that were silenced before they could finish what they wanted to say!

“Thus, I set forth upon another adventure, to seize that dream which twinkles so far above us still. Thou mayest know me as Quixote… or Don Quixote. And so, I shall bear this dream upon my never-ending steed, onward with Rocinante, toward horizons unseen, and tomorrow is knight that is I, Don Quixote.”

Original art link:https://x.com/qingqingxiaoo/status/2033805528992768228

In my year's of traveling the world alone as the timekeeper, I've learned much about what waits down in the relentless rewind the storm left for us. I leave to lose myself, and I leave to love myself, only to come back better than how I left myself.

I sometimes wish I could escape this reality and be happy. I sometimes hated myself for going, why couldn't I be the kind of person who stays? Stay with them, those who depart because of the storm.

I sat across from Sonetto in silence, It was easier that way. She held onto my hand without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps for her, it was.

For me, even small kindnesses felt dangerous.

The Foundation taught us how to survive the end of the world, but never how to endure kindness.

And somehow, through every sleepless night, every bloodstained mission, every silence I could not bear alone—Sonetto remained beside me.

Sonetto had always been there.

Through every terrible silence afterward where I could only stare ahead and pretend the weight inside my chest was manageable. Whenever I turned around, she was there beside me with that calm expression, speaking softly as though the world had not already exhausted itself trying to break us apart.

And somehow, that frightened me more than the storms ever did.

Because I never knew how to thank her.

The words sat awkwardly in my throat every time I tried. Too small for someone who had spent so much of her life beside mine. Too fragile for all the things she had quietly endured with me.

Outside, the city passed in muted colors beneath the evening glow. Sonetto brushed a strand of orange hair behind her ear before glancing toward me, her expression gentle enough to make my chest ache.

“You’ve been staring for a while now, timekeeper.”

I looked away immediately. “I have not.”

A small laugh escaped her, light and warm. “You’re a poor liar.”

“…Perhaps.”

The train carried us steadily eastward, its metal frame trembling softly against the rails. For a while, neither of us spoke. I listened instead to the quiet murmur of passing passengers and the rain brushing gently against the windows as another mission drew closer.

Then, quietly, before courage could abandon me again, I tightened my fingers around hers.

“…Sonnetto...Thank you,” I murmured.

Sonetto blinked once. “For what?”

For staying with me after everything, For seeing me as a person before a Timekeeper, For waiting beside me during every uncertain tomorrow, For making this lonely road feel less cold.

But when I opened my mouth, none of those words came out properly.

“…For being here, sitting beside me like this.” I said instead.

It sounded terribly inadequate. I don't know why I manage to screw that up. Yet Sonetto smiled as though I had given her something precious.

It was ironic, in a way.

Back then, Sonetto could never understand why I wanted to see the world beyond the Foundation’s walls. She stood faithfully beside its rules while I kept searching for cracks between them, desperate to breathe air that did not feel repress into this building. We stood on opposite sides of the same window for so long that I once believed we would never truly understand one another.

And yet now, after learning I alone remained untouched by the Storm, after the world quietly separated me from my friends in the most cruel way possible, she was still the one standing beside me.

Not the Foundation, not the people who praised me as useful. But as Sonetto De Vivi.

Perhaps that was why her hand felt so warm in mine.

Because when the world began to feel unreachable, she was the only thing that still felt real.

Original art link:https://www.pixiv.net/artworks/143816117

Dear manager Dante, I hope this letter finds you well! It’s been a little while since we last spoke, and I’ve been thinking about you lately.

I still remember the sound of District 4.

Not the screaming. Not the fighting. Not even the horrible wet noise that thing made when it split itself apart and tried to swallow us whole.

What I remember most is the silence afterward.

The kind that settles after people stop moving.

Sometimes, when the halls here are too quiet, I still hear it again. I’ll be folding towels or carrying a bucket down the corridor, and suddenly I’m back there, staring at that impossible apple with my legs refusing to move. My coworkers used to laugh at me because I froze under pressure. “Yuri’s too soft for this job,” they’d say, though never cruelly. We were all exhausted back then. Everyone in L Corp was always tired. Still… I think they were right.

I was too soft. Too naive as agent of Lobotomy Corporation, someone that can be replaced easily.

And when that thing looked at me, I realized how badly I wanted to live.

It shames me a little, manager. Even now.

People died beside me. People better than me. Braver than me. Some of them never even got the chance to scream before everything became red and teeth and noise. Yet all I could think about was how terrified I was. How desperately I wanted someone to pull me away from it all.

Then you did.

At the time, I didn’t understand what you even were, manager. I still don’t, if I’m being honest. But I remember hearing voices around me arguing about the next mission already, about moving forward, about losses and objectives and efficiency. The kind of things people in the City always say after surviving tragedy.

Then I heard you ask them to send me somewhere safer.

I remember looking up at you while my hands still trembled, hearing that ticking echo softly in the ruined corridor, and realizing someone was arguing for my future instead of my usefulness.

Do you know how frightening kindness can feel after living in the City for so long?

It felt unbearable. I almost cried right there from confusion alone.

That request is the reason I ended up here in the cleanup department. Not because I earned it through strength or talent, but because someone looked at me after District 4 and decided surviving was enough reason to deserve gentleness.

Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night expecting to see roots crawling along the walls.

But instead I hear the sound of mops against tile floors. The little rattling wheels of supply carts. Someone complaining that another sinner tracked blood through the hallway again. Ordinary things. Small things.

Peaceful things.

I became an LCE maid after the incident. Strange, isn’t it? I used to think cleaning was meaningless work compared to the people who fought on the front lines. But after everything that happened… I think I understand now. Somebody has to remain after the violence ends. Somebody has to wash the blood out of uniforms before it hardens. Somebody has to pick broken glass from the corners of the room so no one else gets hurt.

The City never stops making messes.

So I clean them.

It’s honest work. Quiet work. I think I like that.

The other agents tease me because I hum while working. One of them said I smile more now. I didn’t notice until she pointed it out. Maybe surviving changes a person in embarrassing ways. Or maybe I simply forgot what it felt like to wake up without dread clawing at my stomach.

Though… some days are still difficult.

When I pass by cafeterias, I remember eating with my old coworkers during break hours. Complaining about management. Sharing stale snacks. Talking about nonsense to distract ourselves from the next shift. Back then, I thought those moments were temporary, forgettable things.

Now I treasure them more than almost anything.

Funny, isn’t it?

The City teaches people to dream big. To survive. To climb higher. But when death finally brushed against my face, all I wanted was another lunch break with people who are gone now.

I’m trying not to forget them.I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

That’s another reason I clean carefully. Silly reason, maybe. But if I keep these halls warm and tidy, if I keep things gentle for the people still living… then perhaps their deaths won’t feel entirely meaningless. Perhaps kindness surviving in this awful place is its own kind of rebellion.

And manager… thank you.

Not just for saving me.

Thank you for speaking to me like I mattered afterward.

Thank you for dragging me away from that thing in District 4 when my legs stopped working and my courage failed me. I still remember the smell of rotten sweetness in the air, the sound of flesh splitting open around us, and the horrible certainty that I was about to disappear like everyone else. I think part of me already accepted it. Not because I was brave… but because I was tired.

Back then, I told myself I only wanted to help. That if I worked hard enough, if I did my part quietly and properly, maybe it would mean something.

But the truth is uglier than that.

I wanted someone to notice me.

Just once, I wanted someone to say I did well. That I mattered. That all the fear and exhaustion and awful work amounted to more than becoming another disposable employee whose name would be forgotten by next week. I know it sounds selfish compared to what everyone else sacrificed, but when you live in the City long enough, even small kindnesses start feeling luxurious.

And when you saved me… when all of you did… none of you laughed at me for being terrified.

Miss Ishmael held my shoulders steady while I could barely breathe. Sinclair kept asking if I was hurt even though he looked ready to collapse himself. Don Quixote spoke to me like I was some heroic survivor instead of a trembling coward covered in tears and dust. Even Meursault, in his own strange way, looked at me like I was still alive instead of already dead.

A lot of people in the City save lives because it benefits them somehow. But you looked at me afterward like I was still a person instead of another casualty waiting to happen. I don’t think you realize how rare that is here.

Sometimes I wonder if you’re taking care of yourself properly. Please try to rest when you can. I know the sinners probably make that impossible. Especially Miss Ryōshū. And Miss Rodion seems like the type to accidentally destroy a room and leave without explaining anything.

If you ever pass through this branch again, I’ll prepare tea for you. Nothing expensive, unfortunately. Just something something warm to fill up your stomach after a hard day.

I think warmth matters more than luxury anyway.

Until then, I’ll keep cleaning.

I’ll keep living.

And for the first time in a very long while… I think I’m happy about that.

Sincerely,

Yuri

Original art link:https://x.com/iur5021/status/2032758743633637682

Today, everything changed.

If you feel like you’re on a lucky streak that’s too good to be true… you might want to pause, take a breath, and check the table again. See if the cards are stacked, if the smiles are too wide, if the room feels just a little too warm. Because sometimes, the only thing winning is the trap closing around you.

Unfortunately… I’ve run out of luck.

At first, there was nothing. No sound, no shape—just a suffocating darkness that pressed against my eyes until I couldn’t tell if they were open or not. My body felt distant, like something left behind at the table while my mind wandered off without permission. I thought maybe this was what it felt like to finally lose everything.

Then I saw her.

She didn’t emerge from the dark. She was simply there, as if the world had been waiting for her before it bothered to exist at all.

“Ah… there you are.”

Her voice was soft, almost playful, but it carried something underneath it—something that made my chest tighten before I even understood why.

She stepped closer, boots quiet against a floor I still couldn’t see.

“I was wondering when you’d open your eyes properly,” she said, tilting her head, studying me like I was already hers. “You’ve got such a look about you… like you’ve just realized the game was rigged.”

I tried to speak, but my throat felt dry, unused. “…Where… Where am I?”

She smiled, delighted, as if I’d said something terribly amusing.

“Questions already? Oh, I like that.” She placed a hand lightly against her chest, bowing with exaggerated grace. “My sincerest apologies for the delayed introduction, I'm Rodion. But you can call me Rodya.”

“A docent of the Ring,” she continued, almost proudly. “A Fauvist, if you care for labels. And you…” Her gaze sharpened, softened, then sharpened again. “…you’re something much more interesting.”

I forced myself upright, though my body protested. “I’m… Ishmael.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “Just a representative of Jeong’s Office. I work at a casino. I'm just carrying out my duties as an observer. ”

“That’s all...?” she asked, stepping closer. Too close.

Her hand reached out before I could react, fingers brushing along my cheek—gentle, almost affectionate, and yet it made my skin crawl.

“Don’t say it like that,” she murmured. “It sounds like you’re trying to make yourself small.”

“I am small,” I said quickly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “There’s nothing special about me. I just deal with odds, numbers, people losing more than they can afford—”

“—and you watch, and hunt those who defy everything.” she interrupted softly.

Her thumb pressed just slightly against my skin, enough to make me flinch.

“You watch them fall apart. You watch hope turn into desperation.” Her eyes gleamed. “You understand it. That moment when they realize they’ve lost. That’s not something ‘small,’ Ishmael.”

I shook my head, pulling back, but her hand followed, not letting the distance stay. “You’re wrong. I just stand there. I’m not part of it.”

“Not part of it?” She laughed, a quiet, breathy sound. “Oh, that’s precious.”

Her grip tightened—not painfully, but enough that I couldn’t ignore it.

“You’re exactly part of it. You’re the witness. The quiet little anchor that keeps the moment real.” Her voice dropped, almost reverent. “Without you, it wouldn’t feel the same.”

My chest tightened. “Why… are you telling me this? What's so special about bring me here? ”

“Because,” she said, leaning closer, her forehead almost touching mine, “you’re my inspiration.”

The words didn’t register to me, “…What?”

Her smile widened, something fragile and unsteady hiding beneath it.

“Ta-da,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to gesture behind her.

And suddenly, the dark had shape.

Something vast loomed there—stitched, uneven, grotesquely beautiful. Layers upon layers of pale, textured surfaces, like skin pulled from something that had once been alive. The seams were deliberate, almost artistic, forming a patchwork that rippled like a frozen wave.

“‘Artwork: Dead Lake, Living Heart.”” she announced proudly. “With the Great Lake’s patchwork texture as my inspiration, I took the hides of different whales from the lake and stitched them together. Call it my signature piece.”

Hehe.

Her laugh echoed strangely in the space.

I couldn’t look away.

Not because I wanted to—because something in it held me there, like the table when you’re one hand away from winning everything back.

“…It’s… horrible,” I managed, my voice trembling despite myself.

For a moment she went still, and the room felt like I had forgotten how to breathe with her in it. Then her gaze sharpened again, something quiet and dangerous sliding under the surface of her expression, like a blade turning just slightly to catch the light.

“Horrible?” she repeated softly, and the word didn’t feel like a question so much as something being tested against me.

I swallowed hard, throat dry, panic already climbing up my ribs. “It’s… wrong, you—this isn’t art, it’s—”

Her fingers tightened.

Not enough to break me.

Enough that my thoughts snapped mid-sentence, like something had pressed down on the back of my mind and forced it to stop moving. I could feel my breath stuttering, uneven, too loud in my own ears, my body reacting before I could tell it not to.

“…Say it again, say it like you mean it, Ishmael.” she whispered, closer now, voice almost gentle in a way that made it worse.

“I—” My voice cracked immediately. I tried to pull away, just instinct, just survival, but there was nowhere for it to go. My shoulders tensed, my chest locked, every warning in me screaming at once to run, to push, to do something, but all of it came out as shaking silence for a moment too long. “It’s not beautiful.”

The words finally spilled out, rough and small, like they had to fight their way through me to exist.

The room went silent instantly after.

Then her expression shifted—barely, but enough that I felt it more than saw it, something in her eyes going still and focused in a way that made my stomach drop further. “…You’re honest,” she said softly.

Her grip loosened.

Not gone.

Just… changed. Softer, almost careful now, like she was holding something fragile instead of restraining it. And that softness didn’t feel like safety. It felt like being noticed too closely to ever be allowed to disappear again.

“And that’s why I like you,” she said, almost gently now, brushing her thumb over the spot she’d just hurt. The contrast made my breath hitch. “You don’t lie to make things easier. You don’t pretend to see something you don’t.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“I know,” she cut in, smiling again, but this time it was quieter. “That’s what makes you perfect.”

Perfect.

The word sat wrong.

“I’m not your inspiration,” I said, weaker this time. “I’m just...a Rep who got unlucky.”

Her head tilted.

“Unlucky?” she echoed. “Is that what you think this is?” She stepped closer again, and this time I didn’t move back.

I should have.

I knew I should have.

But my body didn’t listen. What a shitty situation I've got myself involved.

Her hand slid from my cheek to my shoulder, then down my arm, slow and deliberate, like she was tracing something only she could see.

“Why are you having trouble looking away now?” she asked softly.

I didn’t answer, I Couldn’t, I just don't know.

“Look at you,” she whispered, her voice low and warm beside my ear. “You’re trembling already.”

“Ishmael—”

“NO!” My voice cracked violently. “DON’T SAY MY NAME LIKE YOU CARE ABOUT ME!”

The claw shifted again.

I choked on the pain, shoulders shaking, but the fear only made the words pour out faster, harsher, desperate enough to cut.

“You terrify me! Every time you look at me I feel like I’m drowning!” I hissed. “You stand there acting gentle while tearing pieces off people until there’s nothing left except what you want them to be!”

“Oh, Ishmael…”

She said it with such aching tenderness that it made my stomach twist worse than the pain.

“You really have been alone too long.”

Her fingers loosened—not enough to let me go, never enough for that but enough to stroke slowly along the marks she had made.

“You think love must feel safe all the time.” Her smile trembled faintly. “But people cling hardest when they’re frightened. When they’re desperate. When they finally realize someone will stay no matter how ugly they become.”

Rodya smiled at that. I could hear it more than see it, the soft curl of amusement hidden inside her breathing. Then her finger pressed lightly against my lips, silencing me before I could force another excuse out.

“Shh,” she murmured. “Don’t ruin the moment trying to defend yourself.”

The pressure wasn’t rough.

That was the worst part.

If she had grabbed me violently, if she had screamed, if she had acted like the monsters people whisper about when they mention the Ring… maybe it would’ve been easier to hate her. Easier to run.

But she touched me carefully.

Like something precious.

“You don’t have to understand it yet,” she said softly. “Love takes time to sink into people like you.”

My chest tightened.

This was wrong.

Every part of this was wrong.

The stitched mass behind us—the “Dead Lake, Living Heart”—hung silently in the dark, layers of whale hide sewn together into something grotesque and breathing-looking. I could smell the salt, the old blood trapped in the seams, the strange sweetness of preservation chemicals. It should’ve made me sick.

Instead, all I could focus on was her hand holding mine.

“You’ve run out of luck,” Rodya continued quietly. “That just means the game changed. Mm… and now you’re mine.”

The word struck harder than it should have.

I tried pulling back slightly, but her fingers immediately tightened around mine, not enough to stop me physically—just enough to remind me she noticed.

“Ishmael…” she whispered my name slowly, savoring every syllable like it meant something sacred. “Do you know how long I searched for inspiration?”

Her free hand rose to my cheek again, thumb brushing against the skin beneath my eye.

“I carved bodies open,” she confessed gently. “Stitched flesh until my fingers cramped. I stared at the Great Lake until I thought I’d drown just looking at it.” A quiet laugh escaped her. “And then I met you.”

“I’m just a damn Jeong Office rep, Rodya!” I shouted and let out a hollow laugh. “That’s it. I sit in smoke-filled casinos for twelve hours a day watching idiots gamble rent money they never had in the first place.”

“No.” Her expression softened with something frighteningly genuine. “You watch people realize they were doomed from the start. You understand despair.” She leaned closer. “And you wear it so beautifully.”

I couldn’t breathe properly with her this close.

“You looked at my work,” she continued, smiling faintly. “Everyone else lies. They call it genius because they’re scared of offending me.” Her eyes locked onto mine. “But you looked horrified. Honest. Cruel, even.”

“…Cruel?”

“Mhm~” She nodded happily. “You rejected it. Rejected me. Better to get hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie.”

Something sharp flickered across her face then—not anger. And somehow that terrified me more.

“I kept thinking about it afterward,” she admitted quietly. “How it felt when you looked at my art like it disgusted you.” Her fingers trembled slightly against my skin. “Do you know what that did to me, Ishmael?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

Rodya laughed softly again, though it sounded uneven now.

“It hurt,” she confessed. “It hurt so badly.” Her eyes lowered for just a second before lifting again, bright and obsessive. “And I loved it.”

My stomach twisted.

“You’re insane…”

“Mhm.” She smiled immediately. “Probably. Art's supposed to be ferocious, vicious—enough to seize attention with just a single glimpse. ”

Then...

A gasp tore from my throat as something sharp suddenly slid into my side. Not deep enough to kill.

I looked down in horror.

One of the clawed rings on her hand had pierced through my clothes, thin blades buried into flesh as she held me against her.

“Agh—!”

“There,” she whispered shakily, almost relieved. “There it is.”

My knees weakened instantly.

Warmth spread beneath my ribs.

Rodya held me tighter before I could fall, pressing her forehead against mine while I struggled to breathe through the pain.

“Do you know how many times you looked at me like I was filth?” she asked softly. “How many times you pulled away?” Her voice cracked faintly. “I kept wondering if maybe I should stop chasing you.”

The claw twisted slightly.

I bit back a cry.

“But then you’d speak to me again,” she continued, smiling through something dangerously close to tears. “And I’d remember how beautiful you sound when you’re scared.”

“You’re sick,” I snarled, the words ripping themselves out between ragged breaths. “Do you even hear the things coming out of your mouth anymore? You tear people apart and stand there smiling like you’re blessing them for it.”

My laugh came out wrong—too sharp, too breathless, too close to breaking.

“You call this love?” I hissed. “Clawing into people until they can’t think straight? Making them afraid to leave you? You ruin lives and dress it up in soft words like that somehow makes you gentle! What does all this mean to you, Rodya!”

“There you go,” she whispered lovingly. “Saying my name properly, ditch the rest of these mediocre pieces and stay with me.”

My hands weakly pushed against her shoulders, but she only laughed under her breath and leaned closer, almost affectionate as she kept the claw inside me.

“You play rough to get, Ishmael.” Her tone was teasing now, sweet enough to make my skin crawl. “Rejecting my art, rejecting my feelings…” She brushed her nose lightly against mine. “You’re so cruel to me.”

I pushed harder despite the pain, panic bleeding straight into fury. “You think because you smile softly it makes this any less disgusting? You think trapping people, crushing them until they can’t breathe without you, is affection?”

“Mhm.” She smiled wider. “And you’re still here, good enough for me. Don't you feel undervalued at your own rubbish workplace?”

I hated that she was right. The pain should have forced me away, should have carved enough fear into my ribs to make me run while I still remembered how. Instead, all it did was make her feel real in a way nothing else ever had. The ache in my chest, the sting where her fingers had dug into my arm moments earlier, the unbearable warmth of her body keeping mine upright—it all blurred together until I could no longer tell where the hurt ended and where she began. I resented her for that most of all. Resented the way she looked at me like she already knew I would stay. Resented the softness hidden beneath her cruelty, because if she had only been cruel, truly cruel, then leaving would have been easy.

The almost desperate way she clung to me, like she feared I’d disappear if she loosened her grip even slightly.

“You know what I think?” she whispered. “I think you wanted someone to ruin you properly.” Her fingers slowly slid lower, blood staining them as she traced the wound she made. “Someone who’d look at every ugly part of you and still say mine.”

My vision blurred—not merely from pain, but from the exhaustion that came after struggling for too long against something far larger than myself.

From the terrifying comfort of no longer resisting.

At the casino, there’s a point where you stop believing you can win back what you lost.

After that, you stop fighting the odds.

You simply let the table take the rest. It happens silently, somewhere between one failed hand and the next, when the numbers stop mattering and the chips no longer feel real beneath trembling fingers. After that, the game changes. You no longer fight the odds because you understand, at last, that the house was always going to win. Every desperate wager becomes less about victory and more about surrender.

Rodya’s arms wrapped around me fully now, careful despite the blood dripping between us.

“I love you so much, Ishmael,” she confessed quietly. “More than my art. More than the Lake.” Her voice softened into something almost childish. “So don’t look away anymore.”

The “Dead Lake” loomed behind her in silence, stitched skin gleaming faintly in the dark like a waiting canvas.

And as she held me there, bleeding and trembling against her chest—

I realized I couldn’t tell anymore whether I was terrified of her…

or terrified that part of me wanted to stay.

Original art link:https://x.com/fanjing1124/status/2054058623299727416

I have always believed that people misunderstand cruelty.

They point at blood, at screams, at the grotesque unraveling of flesh, and call that cruelty—as if pain alone is what defines it. But pain is simple. Pain is honest. What is far more insidious… is the quiet acceptance of things that should never have been allowed to exist.

And so I watch him.

The little bird who hatched too early.

I think that is what pains me the most.

Not the blood staining his trembling hands, nor the shattered bodies left cooling beneath dim neon lights, nor even the hollow stare that slowly overtook his eyes each time the blade descended again and again and again. No, what pains me is that Sinclair never understood there could have been another way. The shell cracked before warmth could reach him, and so he crawled into a world where cruelty had already become indistinguishable from routine. How tragic it is, to be born into violence so completely that one no longer recognizes it as violence at all.

“They’ll thank me later,” the little bird muttered, though his voice had begun to fracture, like glass under pressure. “Once it’s gone… once the false parts are gone… they’ll remember. They’ll feel again. I'll bring everyone's salvation, to purge this filth out of this world.”

The little bird stands in a room that smells of oil and iron, of something that tries very hard to imitate life but fails in ways only the perceptive can notice. His hands tremble, though not from fear—no, not anymore. That trembling is something else now. Anticipation, perhaps. Or reverence.

“Don’t move, I'm only here to help.” he says, voice soft, almost pleading.

The man before him—if one can still call him that—whimpers, metallic joints twitching where bone should have resisted. Fingers that are not fingers scrape uselessly against the floor. “P-Please…! I only replaced my lungs because I couldn’t breathe anymore…!”

The little bird stared at the man as though he were looking at a corpse trying desperately to imitate life.

“No,” he whispered. “No… that isn’t breathing anymore.”

The halberd dragged against the floor with a metallic shriek. “You tore yourself apart piece by piece until nothing remained, don't you think that's a sad thing?”

“I can fix it,” the little bird whispers, stepping closer, boots pressing into a dark stain that has long since lost its warmth. “You don’t have to live like this. You don’t have to pretend. I Can Fix It!”

“P-please—” the man chokes, something wet bubbling where a throat struggles to cooperate with machinery. “It helps me—this… this keeps me alive—”

Alive.

What a fascinating word to misuse.

The little bird pauses, and for a fleeting moment, something fragile flickers across his face. Doubt. A memory of gentleness, perhaps. Of a world where such replacements were called miracles instead of abominations.

Then it breaks.

“No,” he says, more firmly now, shaking his head as if rejecting a lie he has heard too many times. “No, it doesn’t. It replaces you. It eats you piece by piece and calls it salvation. A poison disguise as medicine.”

The little bird breathing grew uneven. Rapid. Laughing beneath it. “How much of yourself must you replace before you stop being human? A leg? Both hands? A HEART?! YOUR FACE?!?”

The worker sobbed. “THIS IS THE CITY! WE DON’T HAVE A CHOICE! EVERYTHING IS UNFAIR SO WHAT OTHERS CHOICE DO YOU THINK I HAVE!!”

And ah…There it was.

That phrase.

The lullaby of this rotten city.

We don’t have a choice. That's a lie, We always do have a choice, even doing nothing is a choice you don't realize you have made.

Metal tears from flesh with a resistance that suggests it has rooted itself far deeper than it should have, as if the body itself had begun to forget where it ended and the foreign thing began. The man screams—how beautifully he screams, how desperately he clings to that last assertion of humanity, and Sinclair’s expression twists, not in horror, but in something that resembles relief.

“There,” he breathes, almost smiling. “Do you feel it? That’s you. That pain—that’s proof you’re still here. Ah...how beautiful it is. How natural it is.”

The man sobs, or tries to. It comes out wrong, like everything else about him being torn to shreads.

I find myself tilting my head, observing this scenario.

Experience without understanding…It is a delight people indulge in far too easily. They accept, they adapt, they allow themselves to be reshaped by things they never truly question. They call it progress. Survival. Necessity.

“You’re still human,” the little bird insists, even as more pieces are torn away, even as the boundary between salvation and destruction dissolves under his hands. “I’ll bring you back, I’ll take it all away, Every fake piece. Every lie. Those prosthetic, I'LL PURGE THEM OFF YOU!!”

There is room filled with blood now. More of it than before. Enough to drown a person's doubt, enough to paint conviction across the floor in thick, undeniable strokes.

And yet, what strikes me most… is how natural this all feels.

He continued, because stopping would require acknowledging something far more horrifying than bloodshed: that he no longer knew where mercy ended and violence began. The line had been erased long before he was born. Perhaps before any of us were born. A civilization raised upon endless suffering cannot help but inherit its logic. Children learn morality by watching the world around them, and the world around Sinclair taught him that hurting others is acceptable so long as one believes it serves a greater necessity.

So the little bird sang with blood in his throat and called it compassion.

How could he know better?

No one ever showed him gentleness without conditions. No one taught him that a human life should remain precious even when inconvenient. He emerged into a world already rotting, already mechanized, already numb, and mistook numbness for wisdom. When everyone around you accepts brutality as ordinary, rejecting it begins to feel irrational. Insane, even.

And so Sinclair became insane in the only way the City permits.

He loved humanity so desperately that he destroyed it with his own hands.

Isn’t that sad?

The little bird only wished to help the others fly again.

But he had never once seen the sky.

Original art link:https://x.com/nwxigeidh/status/2052361772699374053

XIII — Death

People often misunderstand the card.

They look at the hanging rope, the dark frame, the number etched above like a sentence waiting to be carried out, and they tremble before they even understand what they are seeing. They call it an omen. A curse. An ending sharpened into a blade.

But death was never only cruelty.

I learned that slowly.

Not through books alone, though I drowned myself in enough of them to forget the color of the sky. Not through the Sephirah either, nor the countless documents stained by hands long gone. I learned it from watching people.

From watching how desperately they cling to things already dead.

A wilted flower preserved between pages.

An apology repeated years too late.

A dream rotting beautifully inside someone's chest because they fear what comes after letting it go.

Humans call that devotion.

Perhaps it is.

Yet even forests must surrender their leaves when autumn arrives. The tree is not evil for shedding them. Winter is not immoral for being cold. There are things in this world that survive only because something else had the mercy to end.

I used to hate that truth.

I wanted every story to continue forever. Every smile preserved perfectly like ink dried onto paper. I thought kindness meant saving everything.

But libraries teach cruelty a lessons.

Some books decay no matter how gently you hold them. Some pages blacken from mold hidden beneath the cover. Some words become poison simply because time refused to carry them forward.

And so our library director Angela choose to let those book to rest, rather than keeping them on the shelves forever.

To archive.

To burn.

To let silence swallow what no longer belongs among the living.

The first time I understood that, I cried.

Not because something had died.

But because I realized death could be gentle. Yet back then, I choose the worst one, back when I tell the head about the lab in the outskirts.

There is a mercy in endings people rarely speak about. A quiet dignity. Like blowing out a candle after someone has fallen asleep at their desk. Like closing the eyes of a suffering animal. Like finally allowing yourself to become someone new, even if the older version of you begs not to disappear.

The tarot depicts a skeleton carrying a banner.

People only notice the skeleton.

Never the banner.

Never the sunrise waiting behind it.

I think that is humanity’s greatest sorrow. They look at transformation and mourn only what was lost, never what may bloom afterward.

Yet I cannot blame them.

Even now, part of me still fears change. Still fears opening a door knowing the girl who walks through it may not be the same one who entered.

But perhaps that is what it means to live.

To die, little by little.

To let old griefs rot away.

To bury old selves with trembling hands.

To mourn them properly instead of chaining their corpses to your heart.

Death is frightening because it asks for trust.

Trust that spring follows winter.

Trust that dawn follows the longest night.

Trust that the person you become afterward will forgive the person you used to be.

So when I look upon the thirteenth card, I no longer see execution. I see a gentle release.

I see a garden after pruning, preparing itself to bloom more beautifully than before. I see empty shelves waiting for new stories. I see the painful kindness of turning a page despite loving the chapter that just ended.

And perhaps...

Perhaps that is why the card smiles at me now.

Not because death loves suffering.

But because it understands that without endings, nothing would ever truly begin.

Original art link:https://x.com/duanxiaosheng1/status/2018574853759283494

Today was another successful day.

Another target gone. Another contract completed neatly enough for the office to call it “professional work.”

The city outside the windshield stretched endlessly in pale lights and empty roads while rainwater reflected the headlights like broken glass. I rested one hand against the steering wheel, humming quietly to myself as the engine carried us home.

Heathcliff was asleep in the backseat, arms crossed even in his rest as though still prepared to punch someone awake. Sinclair leaned against the window beside him, breathing softly, his weapon nearly slipping from his hands every time the car hit a bump in the road.

I smiled a little at the sight.

Most people in the City cannot afford cars. That is why the streets feel so empty at night. Walking is cheaper. Suffering usually is.

The silence should have felt lonely, but somehow it didn’t tonight. The soft rumble of the engine, the occasional mumbling from Heathcliff in his sleep, Sinclair shifting slightly whenever the car turned too sharply… it made the vehicle feel strangely warm. Like something close to a home.

I loosened my tie slightly and glanced at the rearview mirror.

People always say the world would be better with less violence. Less Fixers. Less mercenaries. Less people like us carrying guns through the dark.

Maybe they’re right.

But I think there is another truth nobody says aloud.

People fear becoming unnecessary far more than they fear becoming cruel.

After all, if nobody needs you… then what remains of your worth?

The thought lingered quietly inside me while the office building slowly came into view beyond the fog. Its lights were still on. Someone was probably awake inside waiting for us to return.

For a moment, I simply sat there listening to the soft breathing behind me.

Strange.

The City is enormous, yet moments like this make it feel very small. Small enough that perhaps people like us could still fit somewhere within it without disappearing entirely.

I turned off the engine.

The warmth inside the car faded little by little, but not completely.

The office building remained still beyond the windshield, its windows glowing faintly against the dim horizon.

Only then did I notice the light creeping into the car. Soft orange slipping through the edges of the city skyline, resting across Heathcliff’s face and Sinclair’s shoulders.

“…Hm?”

I blinked and glanced toward the watch clock.

Five in the morning.

For a moment, I simply stared at it in silence before laughing quietly to myself.

“We started driving at three, didn’t we?”

I leaned back against the seat with a small sigh.

“Hah… bad habits.”

The city outside had already begun waking up. A train rumbled somewhere in the distance, lights flickering on one by one inside nearby apartments. Soon enough, the streets would fill again with workers, Fixers, people pretending they had somewhere important to be.

I rested my chin against my hand, watching the morning light slowly swallow the darkness inside the car.

“Though, I suppose it’s one of those charms people don’t appreciate.”

My reflection looked back at me faintly through the windshield. Tired eyes. A small smile. Blood still dried near the cuff of my sleeve.

“Everyone says waking up early is healthy, productive, admirable…” I murmured to myself. “But not everyone is meant to be a morning bird.”

I glanced behind me again.

Heathcliff snored loudly enough to make Sinclair flinch in his sleep.

A quiet laugh escaped me.

“Some people are simply night owls.”

Like us.

People who only truly breathed once the city had gone silent.

For a while, I stayed there listening to the engine tick softly as it cooled, reluctant to leave the warmth trapped inside the vehicle. I have always been a night owl rather than a lark. The middle of the night is just as advantageous as the middle of the day.

I finally turned around fully in my seat and tapped the backrest lightly.

“Wake up,” I said softly.

“We’ve arrived home.”

Art original link:https://x.com/kiscript\_/status/2031350982568030503

I woke to the smell of apples.

Not the rotten kind that gathered in the backstreets markets, bruised and half-eaten by desperate hands. No, this scent was soft. Sweet. Warm enough to remind me of something human.

For a moment, I forgot where I was.

The City was gone. The noise. The smoke. The endless sound of machinery chewing through lives somewhere far beyond the walls. All of it had disappeared beneath the hush of rustling leaves overhead.

And standing before me was Yuri.

She's Alive.

My chest tightened immediately. Not from joy, but from fear.

Because she shouldn’t have been alive.

I remembered it too clearly. Her screams. The blood. The way her body twisted into something that no longer resembled a person. I remembered watching helplessly as reality swallowed her whole, where retrieving the first golden bough feels so hellish.

“Gregor?” she called softly, Her voice nearly broke me.

I stared at her without answering, afraid that even speaking would shatter the scene apart. Yuri tilted her head slightly before smiling in that awkward, gentle way I remembered.

“You look exhausted,” she said. “C’mon. I wanna show you something.”

I should have refused.

Instead, I followed her.

Cowardice comes in many forms. Sometimes it is easier to believe in impossible things than accept grief. The forest stretched endlessly around us, quiet and untouched. No corpses. No Syndicates. No smoke staining the sky black. Only green leaves dancing beneath sunlight, something far more welcoming than anything the city has to offer.

And at the center of it all stood the golden apple.

A giant thing split open at its center like a home carved from flesh and fruit alike. Warm light spilled from inside. I could see a small table, potted flowers, books stacked carelessly beside cushions.

A place to live.

Far away from the City.

Yuri stepped inside first, turning toward me with an expression so painfully hopeful that I felt something inside my chest begin to rot.

“We can stay here,” she whispered. “Just us. I made it myself to ensure the city can't reach or hurt us anymore, a home where nothing bad can happened.”

I couldn’t breathe properly.

My insect arm twitched violently at my side.

No.

NO NO NO NO—

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be...

...But God, I wanted it to be.

I wanted to sit beside her at that little table. I wanted greet her in the mornings that smelled like tea and apples instead of gunpowder and sewage. I wanted one single memory in my life untouched by regret.

Yuri reached for my hand carefully.

“You don’t have to go back anymore, we can live here and share stories. I need to know a love I can depend on, a love that says, 'I will be with you through it all' is that too much to ask?”

Her fingers were warm, That was the cruelest part.

Hallucinations shouldn’t feel warm.

“Yuri…” My voice cracked. “You’re dead...I don't know anymore. I don't know, I don't know, god, I'm so tired.”

She flinched, Only slightly. Then smiled again. Smaller this time. She's sad of what I word I told her and I regret saying it when she greet me with a warm smile. Why is the right answer always felt so wrong?!

“I know,” she admitted quietly. “But…Can’t you stay a little longer? The city...It offers us nothing and yet takes everything. Don't you want to leave it all behind?”

My throat tightened so badly it hurt.

Because I could. I could stay here forever if I wanted. Sink into the dream, Pretend the world outside did not exist, Pretend I hadn’t failed her, Pretend I wasn’t still carrying her death around like rusted metal buried inside my ribs.

... I hated myself for hesitating.

I took one trembling step forward. Yuri’s eyes widened with hope so pure it nearly made me surrender completely. Then my gaze fell toward the roots beneath the apple’s walls. They weren’t roots.

They were nerves. Veins. Trembling strands of flesh buried beneath the soil like exposed organs desperately trying to imitate nature.

The moment my blade pierced the apple, Yuri screamed.

Not the scream of a monster. Not the distorted cry of something inhuman. Just a terrified girl, that I have cut down.

The flesh of the apple split apart wetly, juice spilling down my hand like diluted blood while the walls of the little home began to convulse around us. The flowers blackened instantly. Roots burst from the floorboards like exposed veins, writhing desperately as if the entire dream feared death.

Yuri stumbled toward me, panic flooding her face.

“N-no… no, wait—Gregor, please—!”

Her body flickered strangely, pieces of her dissolving into drifting petals before painfully reforming again. She grabbed my coat desperately with trembling fingers.

“WHY?” she cried. “WHY CAN’T YOU JUST STAY?! WHY DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO DISAPPEAR?!”

I couldn’t answer.

Because if I opened my mouth, I knew I would beg her forgiveness instead.

Tears streamed down her face now.

“Why… why must I lose everything I hold dearly?!” she shouted, voice breaking apart. “My friends… my home… you…”

“Gregor…” Yuri looked up at me one last time, terrified like a child abandoned in the dark. “Please… I’m scared…I don't want to be alone again...”

Then her body split apart completely.

Petals. Flesh. Blood.

Everything scattered into the wind.

And all I could do was stand there while the last warm thing I had left disappeared from my hands again.

Sometimes wrong doors are just as valuable as right doors. And I hate myself for not choosing it...

Original art link: https://x.com/luoyerrrrr/status/2040697935059714191

The garden is quiet tonight.

Too quiet.

I rested my head against the edge of the cold ivory table, feeling the cold lacquer against my skin while crimson petals gathered around my feet like tiny corpses. Flowers always die beautifully. That is the tragedy of them. Even at the end, they insist on remaining lovely.

How cruel.

My fingers traced the stem of a camellia absent mindedly, already feeling its softness begin to wilt. The room smelled of perfume and iron; sweetness rotting together until they became impossible to separate.

A decorative flower has no place in the ecosystem. It gives no fruit. No medicine. Bees do not rely on it. The soil does not grow richer from its roots. It merely exists to soften the ugliness around it.

And yet people call it beautiful. How cruel.

Once, this place was unbearable with noise.

Sumire would lecture me with that tired look in her eyes, pretending she wasn't worried. Gekkabijin laughed too loudly whenever silence lingered for too long. Garofano always carried the scent of gunpowder back into the halls no matter how elegantly she dressed herself. And Thistle…

Ah.

Such a stubborn little thorn.

I told her once that flowers who resist the wind only break faster. She looked at me with those defiant eyes and said perhaps breaking was preferable to bending. What a foolish child. What a foolish beautiful child.

Now their rooms remain untouched behind closed doors.

Waiting.

Just waiting.

I was the one who assigned their missions. I handed each of them a destination with smiling lips and composed eyes, like a proper gardener trimming away branches where necessary. That is my duty. The Garden does not survive through hesitation.

So why does this mansion feel colder after every farewell?

The moonlight spilled across the floor in pale ribbons, catching the silver strands of my hair. I could hear the distant ticking of the clock somewhere down the corridor. Each second sounded like another footstep leaving me behind.

Perhaps flowers were never meant to bloom together forever.

Some are cut early and placed into crystal vases to be admired until they decay.

Some are crushed beneath boots before anyone remembers their names.

And some remain rooted in the same lonely soil long after the season has ended.

I closed my eyes.

“Sumire should have returned by now…”

The words escaped quietly into the empty room. No answer followed. Of course not. Why would I even think of such juvenile thought.

The Garden has always obeyed me without question, yet obedience is such a hollow thing once silence becomes the only voice left beside you. They leave because I command it. They disappear because I ask them to.

A leader should never grieve over the movement of her own chess pieces.

Yet I still remember the way Gekkabijin rolled her eyes whenever I scolds her. The way Garofano cleaned her weapon at the dinner table despite knowing it irritated me. The way Sumire lingered after meetings, as though she feared what would happen if she never fill her purpose.

Such small things.

Small enough to hurt.

I lifted one of the fallen flowers from the floor and turned it slowly between my fingers. Bruised petals stained my pale skin red. Beautiful and Fragile, with a color so pale it looked like it's dying.

Just like all of them.

Just like me.

People speak of flowers as symbols of devotion and love, but they forget another truth.

Flowers bloom alone. Even in vast gardens, each blossom faces the sky by itself.

I smiled faintly at the thought, though no one remained to see it.

Outside the windows, the wind moved through the fallen roses with a sound almost like whispering voices. For one selfish moment, I imagined the Garden returning all at once—Sumire scolding someone, Gekkabijin complaining, Garofano laughing, Thistle quietly watching over the others.

But imagination is a dangerous comfort.

Especially for someone like me.

So instead, I remained where I was, surrounded by dying flowers and fading perfume, listening to the silence left behind by everyone I had sent away with my own hands.

The mirrors reflected a woman draped in silk and exhaustion, a flower arranged carefully inside a crystal vase so others could admire how beautifully it wilted.

How pitiful.

The loneliest flowers are always the prettiest ones. People admire them from afar, afraid to touch the thorns, unaware that the flower itself wishes desperately to be held.

Original art link:https://jun8100305.lofter.com/post/7440547f\_2bcde6932

Today was one of the most strange days I’ve ever experienced.

The company gave us an actual vacation.

No mission to retrieve a Golden Bough. No hunting people down through ruined districts. No fixing distortion tearing people apart from the inside. Just a simple order from the Chief Executive Director of Limbus Company.

Just a simple, “Go treat yourselves.”

At first, none of us believed it.

Gregor looked exhausted enough to accept anything without question. Sinclair kept asking if there was some hidden condition attached. Yi Sang merely stared out the window as though vacations were a concept from another dimension entirely. Heathcliff seems to expect we're going to hunt another bastard in this city.

Rodya, meanwhile, crossed her arms and laughed.

“Yeah right. This is definitely a setup. We get there and suddenly we’re fighting a giant crab abnormality or something.”

Considering our luck, I almost agreed with her.

And yet—

Several hours later, there I stood beneath the summer sky with sand beneath my feet and the ocean stretching endlessly before me.

The beach.

An actual beach.

The salty breeze brushed against my face while waves rolled calmly onto the shore. Children ran through shallow water nearby. Vendors shouted over one another about grilled squid and drinks chilled with too much ice. Somewhere farther away, Don Quixote was already screaming about finding “the legendary treasures of the seaside! Verily I shall participate myself in this noble quest.”

I could hardly process any of it.

For years my life had only been steel floors, rusted pipes, bloodstained hallways, and the endless scent of oil and seawater trapped inside from somewhere beside me. Even when I looked at the ocean now, my body instinctively waited for alarms to ring.

But there were no alarms.

Only sunlight.

And Dante standing beside me quietly.

“You okay?” they asked.

I adjusted the brim of my hat awkwardly. “You’ve been asking that every ten minutes.”

“You look like you’re preparing for combat.”

“I might be.”

A faint laugh escaped them.

I sighed and looked down at myself again.

Honestly… this outfit felt ridiculous.

The dress fluttered lightly in the sea breeze, exposing far more skin than I was comfortable with. I kept pulling at the fabric every few seconds as though that would somehow make it longer. I wasn’t used to clothes like this. Back on the ship, practicality mattered more than appearance. Heavy coats. Thick gloves. Clothing meant to survive grime and storms.

Not this soft fabric and pale summer colors.

I still didn’t understand how Faust and Rodya convinced me into wearing it.

“Honestly,” I muttered, “I feel underdressed.”

“You look nice, it's refreshing to finally see everyone in something new.”

The response came so naturally that I stared at Dante for a second longer than intended.

“…You said that too fast.”

“It’s true. Besides, things don't always give us a break, people been taken out of the picture so much...sometimes I still can't get over it. ”

I clicked my tongue quietly and turned away before they noticed the heat rising to my face.

The others were already causing chaos.

Don Quixote had buried Sinclair in sand up to his neck while declaring him a “defensive fortress.” Meursault stood motionless beneath an umbrella like he’d been assigned guard duty by the concept of vacation itself and also seems like he doesn't like the sun. Heathcliff and Hong Lu were arguing over beach volleyball rules despite neither understanding them.

And Rodya—

God.

The moment she smelled grilled seafood, she transformed completely.

The woman who spent the entire bus ride claiming this trip was suspicious suddenly sprinted toward the food stalls with enough excitement to rival a child entering a candy store.

“Ishy!” she shouted while holding three skewers already. “This place is incredible! I always wish to live in the sunshine, swim the sea, and having the most colorful drink you can imagine~”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Ishy.” She waved a hand dismissively. “C’mon, don’t be such a boring person. Enjoy the vacation.”

“I would enjoy it more dressed normally.”

“Nah.” She walked over and tugged lightly at the ribbon on my hat. “Besides, I picked the best one for you~”

“You picked the most embarrassing one.”

“And yet you look adorable. Funny how that works.”

Watching her happily bounce between stalls somehow made the entire scene feel real.

Before I could protest further, Rodya hooked an arm around my shoulders and practically dragged me toward the shoreline.

The irritating part was how effortlessly cheerful she was.

The moment we arrived, every trace of skepticism vanished from her body entirely. She moved between food stalls with the excitement of someone discovering heaven itself.

I slowly walked closer to the shoreline, feeling warm water brush against my ankles. The ocean reflected sunlight so brightly it almost hurt to look at. Strange. I had crossed countless seas before, yet this was the first time the water didn’t feel hostile to me.

Dante eventually stepped beside me again.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

The wind carried laughter from behind us while gulls drifted overhead lazily.

Then Dante asked softly, “When was the last time you rested like this?”

I tried to answer immediately.

But nothing came out.

Because I genuinely couldn’t remember.

My entire life had been survival after survival after survival. Finding a purpose where I was expected to work an office job until becoming a sailor's. Even rest aboard ships was temporary, always interrupted by labor, storms, or fear.

So instead, I simply shook my head.

Dante looked toward the horizon quietly. “Then you should enjoy today. Take the time to make memories today, for tomorrow is never promised we'll be this happy.”

I glanced at them.

The sunlight reflected faintly against their clock-face while ocean wind tugged gently at their coat. Somehow, standing there beside everyone, they looked less like a manager carrying impossible burdens and more like… just another exhausted person trying to breathe.

And for the first time in a long while, I felt something unfamiliar settle inside my chest.

Peace.

A Small Fleeting moment from all the fight, to rest from all the tragedy we have to endured all this time.

A real moment where picking up my mace and shield isn't required for once.

A wave crashed harder against my legs, splashing water onto the hem of my dress. I immediately stepped back in irritation while Dante quietly help beside me.

“…Don’t laugh.”

“You looked personally offended, I haven't even laughed like ever.”

“I am personally offended that all of this happened so suddenly, when our regular mission involved killing so many people that I forgot to even rest and think.”

I stared at the ocean again afterward, listening to the others shouting in the distance, feeling sunlight against my skin instead of rain or rust or blood.

Strange.

The sea had taken so much from me over the years.

Yet somehow, today...

...It finally gave something back.

Original art link:https://x.com/lim\_dubu/status/2052444742013857977

[Field Investigation Log — District C-19]

Investigator: Hella

Weather: Weirdly nice. Suspiciously nice. Like it's too good to be true.

Status: Alive, hungry, and currently stepping in something that I hope is mud.

Okay. So. Official report starts now.

I arrived at District C-19 at around 14:32 after receiving complaints about illegal signal broadcasts, missing residents, and “something smiling from rooftops.” Which, honestly, is the most normal sentence I’ve heard all week.

The city looked dead.

Not quiet dead either. More like “everyone left their soup on the table and vanished” types of dead. Windows open. Laundry still hanging. One TV inside an apartment still playing some cartoon with terrible voice acting. The dog in the show sounded like a middle-aged smoker trying to imitate a child.

Important detail?

No gang fight happening right now.

Which is strange. Syndicate bastard usually gang up on me any chance they get.

Anyway, the roads were covered in graffiti. Most of it normal gang tags, but some symbols repeated often enough that I wrote them down. Triangles. Eyes. Smiling moons. One drawing of a fish smoking a cigarette.

Actually kind of talented.

I took a photo of it.

For evidence.

Definitely for evidence.

There were tire marks leading deeper into the district, probably military-grade vehicles judging from the width. Maybe smugglers. Maybe scavengers. Maybe government people pretending they’re not government people. Hard to tell nowadays because everyone wears tactical gear and acts dramatic.

At approximately 14:51, I noticed all the clocks inside nearby buildings had stopped at exactly 3:17

That’s weird.

Not “oh spooky coincidence, this place is haunted .” weird either.

Like genuinely weird.

One apartment had twelve clocks. Why someone needs twelve clocks is already concerning, but every single one stopped at 3:17.

I checked my own watch afterward because at this point the owner probably a sinner or someone who has don't know how time work.

Continuing investigation.

Found traces of forced entry at an abandoned convenience store. Shelves mostly empty except for canned peaches, mint candy, and one singular pickle jar sitting upright in the center aisle like it paid rent.

I don’t trust that pickle jar.

I poked it with my pipe.

Nothing happened, but I still think it knew I was there.

Behind the counter I discovered blood stains leading into the storage room. The blood has been dried, Roughly three days old. No body present. However, there was a handwritten note pinned to the freezer door.

It said:

“Oh Lord We Love To See You Suffer.”

Not useful.

Very theatrical though.

Even though i don't know what the hell it means.

Whoever wrote that absolutely practiced it beforehand.

At around 15:10 I heard metallic banging from the upper floors nearby. Investigated immediately because I’m brave and also because curiosity is a terminal illness at this point.

The stairwell smelled awful.

Like wet concrete mixed with burned plastic and old coins. Don’t ask me how coins smell. They just do.

Halfway up the building I found dozens of cassette tapes hanging from strings across the hallway ceiling. No labels. Just dangling there.

One of them was still playing.

Static mostly.

Then laughter.

Then someone whispering:

“Don’t let her see your teeth.”

Naturally, I smiled immediately after hearing that because I refuse to let haunted architecture tell me what to do. Nothing attacked me though, so maybe confidence really is key.

Reached rooftop at approximately 15:17.

Observed one white armored vehicle parked below near the southern alley. Engine cold. Nobody inside. Driver seat contained instant noodles, two shotgun shells, and a tiny plush rabbit wearing sunglasses.

I confiscated the rabbit.

Shortly after rooftop observation, the industrial pipelines across District C-19 emitted an extremely loud metallic shriek audible throughout the entire area. Not mechanical failure loud. I mean genuinely awful. Like an animal screaming through broken speakers.

Then something important happened.

The giant industrial pipes running across District C-19 suddenly let out this horrible metallic shriek like an animal being skinned alive through a radio speaker. The whole district echoed with it.

Honestly?

That part got me a little.

I drew my weapon immediately and scanned the rooftops. Thought I saw movement near the eastern water tower. Humanoid shape. Tall. Too thin.

It vanished when I blinked.

Hate when things do that.

Classic horror movie nonsense.

Pursued the area anyway because apparently I enjoy suffering. Nearly slipped crossing rooftops due to frozen noodles scattered on the concrete by what I can only assume was another experiment subject that escape from somewhere.

Important note for command:

Something in this district either escaped or is still trying to.

Current assessment is that District C-19 is being utilized as some combination of smuggling route, ritual ground, or deeply cursed urban development project. I would appreciate if future assignments stopped involving locations that feel spiritually infected, like for goodness sake.

Additional findings include destroyed surveillance drones stacked neatly beside an alley, repeated phrases painted across walls referencing the moon, and an unusual amount of grape soda stocked in local vending machines. I do not know why that detail bothers me, but it does.

I checked the area afterward and found only wet footprints leading toward a locked maintenance hatch. Footprints stopped halfway there like the person simply ceased existing.

I hate this district.

Further inspection of the hatch revealed scratch marks on the inside, meaning something wanted out more than it wanted in.

Which is also bad.

At approximately 15:42, I concluded the district is likely being used as either:

1. A smuggling route

2. A ritual site

3. Some deeply annoying combination of both

Additional notes:

[Found three dead surveillance drones stacked neatly like pancakes.]

[One alley cat followed me for twenty minutes then disappeared after staring at an empty balcony.]

[Someone spray-painted “THE MOON IS LITSENING” onto a church wall, they spelled listening wrong.]

[Vending machines here only stock grape soda for some reason. Why? Don't know and could care less but end up bothering me for the whole day. ]

[I think I’m being watched. Like seriously, I think there's a hooded figure somewhere around that ice cream shop at North.]

Also, Chief?

If you’re reading this report later from your nice safe office with your nice safe coffee machine, remember the promise you made.

You said if I finished this investigation you’d approve my request and give me two weeks off.

I want that for my reward.

Because if I come back tomorrow and find out this district has moving shadows too that I know you'll send me again just for the sake of it, I am going to personally march into headquarters and—

[FILE REDACTED]

[LANGUAGE VIOLATION DETECTED]

[MULTIPLE EXPLETIVES REMOVED]

And you better keep your promise after this. Seriously. Two weeks off, and those expensive noodles from the upper district. The real ones. Not the cheap garbage that tastes like salted cardboard.

I’ll forgive everything if there’s dessert included.

End Of Report.

Note: The story is entirely made up by me. And not in anyway associated with the artist, This is just something I made up entirely for the sake of fun.

Original art link: https://conpect.lofter.com/post/34ba01\_2b586375f

The jazz playing in the bar was soft enough to drown beneath the clinking of glasses.

A nice place for people pretending they were still human.

I sat alone beneath the amber lights, swirling the crimson drink in my glass while the city outside drowned itself in rainwater and neon. The alcohol burned sweetly down my throat, warm in the way a bad decision always is.

Funny thing about liquor.

People know it ruins them.

Know it burn through their wallets, rots livers, destroys families, makes monsters out of decent folk because it convinced them the world is a bastard that needed a punch.

And yet we still drink.

I laughed quietly to myself, resting my cheek against my palm.

“Y’know,” I muttered, glancing beside me, “booze kinda reminds me of politics.”

The seat next to me was empty.

Didn’t stop me from talking anyway.

“You got someone awful, right? Someone everyone hates. Taxes people to hell, ruins lives, stomps all over everyone…” I swirled the drink in my glass. “Then one day—boom. Gone.”

The imagined figure chuckled. Or maybe that was just the ice shifting in the glass.

“You’d be happy, right Rodion?” the voice beside me asked.

“Course I would.” I drank again. “Anyone would.”

I snapped my fingers with a grin.

“And everyone celebrates! Drinks all around! Freedom, joy, fireworks. Anything you like we can get it for the glorious victory~”

I raised my glass toward them anyway.

“But then the next morning comes.”

The smile on my lips weakened slightly.

“Head hurts. Stomach twists. Everything smells rotten. Alcohol will turn you into the same bastard your father was.”

I leaned my cheek against my hand.

“Turns out getting rid of something ugly doesn’t mean what comes after’ll be beautiful.”

But alcohol has this nasty habit. It leaves slowly, quietly, and all that remains afterward is the headache… the emptiness… the mess you made while trying to feel alive for five miserable minutes.

“Hah… there we go. Knew you’d take it.”

The bartender looked over with mild concern, but I only flashed him a lazy smile. The kind that said don’t worry about me even when maybe someone should’ve.

That was always my best trick.

Be loud enough, cheerful enough, friendly enough… and people stop asking questions.

Another drink came. Then another...

The room around started to look weird after that. The music stretched strangely, like it was underwater. Faces blurred together into a watercolor mess of strangers pretending they weren’t lonely.

Still, I poured another drink and slid it toward the empty seat.

“Here,” I muttered softly. “This round’s on me.”

The untouched glass sat there between laughter and cigarette smoke while I drank mine alone.

And somehow… that felt even worse.

Original art link:https://x.com/Luanxm1309/status/2053413890411626641

Today’s another unsuccessful day without finding another arcanist.

It’s December 31st, 1999.

The storm started hours ago, and I stood alone beneath my umbrella while the world dissolved around me.

The storm took them in different ways. Some dissolved quietly, their names peeling away from reality like wet paper. Some walked backward into yesterday until they became children again, then nothing. Others simply stared too long into the rain and forgot why their hearts were beating.

A woman walking beside the tram became petals of ash halfway through a sentence. A child reaching for his mother stretched apart into thin strips of light before vanishing completely. Even the sound of footsteps disappeared eventually, as if the world itself forgot they had ever walked there at all.

I watched it happen again.

And again.

And again.

The Foundation sent me to the western part of Europe to search for surviving arcanists, but every city I reached was already empty by the time I arrived. Empty cafés with warm tea still resting on tables. Empty train stations with clocks still ticking toward midnight.

The clocks spun backward.

Buildings returned to scaffolding.

Letters faded from gravestones.

Even grief became something new.

Because I am the only one left who can still walk through the storm without becoming something else.

I stood beneath the ruined balcony with my coat pressed against the wall, listening to the city groan somewhere behind the fog. The towers in the distance looked drowned already, their shapes fading in and out like half-remembered dreams. Sometimes I wondered if they were still there at all.

I removed one glove slowly and looked at my hand. Thin cracks of pale color crawled beneath the skin, then recalling everything new I've seen in today unsuccessful mission.

One woman forgot her own daughter while holding her hand. One soldier walked backward into gunfire with tears in his eyes because he believed the war had not started yet. One man vanished quietly mid-sentence, leaving only his shadow burned into the wall behind him.

I kept walking through storms that erased others from the world piece by piece, and every time I survived, people looked at me with relief for only a moment before fear replaced it. Because surviving something unnatural long enough eventually makes you unnatural too.

The rain begin to drifted sideways around me. I tilted my hat lower and continued down the empty street alone.

The silence hurt more than the storm ever did.

There was a time when I used to brave these streets with others beside me. Their voices used to fill the cold spaces between thunder. Arguments. Laughter. Small complaints about soaked boots and sleepless nights we've been experiencing.

Now I can barely remember their faces correctly.

One by one, they became strangers staring at me with unfamiliar eyes until eventually even that disappeared.

I’ve seen everything. I’ve met the kings, the queens, the presidents... I have one thing that I would like to do: to try to reach peace.

But being left behind by reality itself while everyone else is carried away. What can you really do?

A strong gust of wind pressed against my coat as I leaned against the cold wall beneath the city. My fingers trembled slightly around the umbrella handle, though I could no longer tell whether it was from cold or exhaustion. Maybe both. Maybe neither. I can't tell anymore, nor do I even try to take time answering the said question.

For a moment, the entire city stopped breathing. In that silence, I heard my own heartbeat.

I clenched my hand and stepped deeper into the storm because there was no one else who could. The rain seeped through the edge of my umbrella and ran down my cheek like tears I no longer had the strength to shed.

Then I stepped forward once more into the Storm, alone as always, carrying the unbearable privilege of being someone the world refused to erase.

“I have endured. I have been shattered until even my name felt unfamiliar. I have walked through hardship so long that suffering became routine. I lost pieces of myself trying to survive. Yet somehow… this ruined body still drags itself forward, not because it healed, but because it no longer remembers how to stop.”

Original Art Link:https://jianxingbaibaier.lofter.com/post/1fb8fe14\_2b91e27c8

The first few cuts still felt so cold.

Steel screamed through flesh, through bone, through walls thin enough to pretend they could protect someone. I could still hear my own breathing back then. Every swing of my blade painted another red line across the world, and for a while I believed that meant something, Every scream I still heard after their body went cold, Every familiar face seems foreign.

Then the bodies began to pile too high. Then the faces stopped staying still. Eyes melting into mouths, mouths splitting into laughter, teeth inside the walls, fingers inside my hair, somebody screaming my name or maybe begging or maybe laughing I don't know anymore. Everything moved. Everything breathed. The blade hurt to hold. God, it hurt. My hands blistered around the handle until the skin tore open and fused with it, nerves screaming every time I swung, but it was the only thing still real, the only thing heavy enough to remind me I existed. So I kept swinging. Every colors feels to mix without unison. Red. Black. Static.███ █████ Something warm hit my face. Something cracked beneath the blade. Bone? Wood? Glass? A person? I couldn't tell. I couldn't tell anymore. The sword cut through shapes and shadows and memories alike until the entire world became ████████████. I thought I found someone standing there at the end of the hallway. Someone familiar. Someone important. I ran toward them crying without realizing it, blade shaking so badly it felt lodged in my arms like a disease. They reached toward me. I swung. Silence. Then warmth spilled onto my feet. I stared down for a long time, trying to remember what exactly I had just killed.

The corridor twisted into streaks of crimson and violet light. Someone begged. Someone cried for their mother. Someone called me by a name I almost recognized.

I cut them down before the memory could finish forming.

The blood on my hands never dried anymore. It layered over itself like old lacquer, warm over cold, fresh over ancient. Every heartbeat around me sounded the same. Every death sounded familiar.

Maybe because I had heard them all before.

Maybe because I was no longer killing people.

Maybe I was only killing echoes.

My sword moved before thought could catch up. Bad Habit. I think? I don't know...

I carved through another silhouette and watched black spill across my vision like ink drowning paper.

███ ███████ ████ ██ ████.

I stopped moving for a moment. Did someone say my name?

No.

No, that wasn't right.

Ryoshu...

...Was that my name?

The thought hurt.

I pressed a trembling hand against my face and found tears there before I even realized I was crying. Strange. I couldn't remember the last time I had done that. Or why.

Mother used to—

██████████████████

Father said—

██████████ █████ ████

The memories shattered before they could fully exist. Only pain remained, pain and familiarity.

I staggered forward through the hallway of corpses, my reflection flickering in broken screens along the walls. Red eyes. Black hair. A monster wrapped in human skin.

At some point the sword had become lighter than my own body.

At some point killing had become easier than remembering.

A man crawled toward me through the blood, reaching out with desperate fingers.

"Please...█████████" he whispered.

I looked at him for a long time.

I knew this face.

No.

I knew all faces.

That was the problem.

The blade came down anyway.

For a second the world flashed white.

Then black.

Then blurred again into endless violence.

Slash.

Slash.

Slash.

Until the screams became static.

Until the blood became rain.

Until even my own thoughts were cut apart into pieces too small to recognize.

Who am I?

What was I made for?

Did I once have parents waiting for me somewhere beyond all this red?

Or had I always been like this?

A blade swinging endlessly through a world too broken to remember my existence.

Everything felt painful.

Everything felt familiar.

And somewhere deep beneath the ringing in my ears, beneath the wet sound of steel tearing through flesh, I realized the cruelest thing of all.

I no longer remembered what I was trying to avenge.

Original Art Link:https://x.com/nnnnnnnnn\_atsoo/status/2053068733917356177

‎‎The rain had stopped hours ago, yet the streets still reflected the city lights like pools of spilled mercury. The air smelled of dust, blood, and burnt paper.

‎The book was heavier than I expected.

‎Not because of its size. The pages were stained dark at the corners, some with ash, others with blood that no longer belonged to anyone alive. One of the remaining men beside me coughed into his sleeve, trying to hide it. The other walked with a limp severe enough that every step sounded like a nail being hammered into wood

‎“We’d better hurry up,” I muttered, forcing one foot ahead of the other. “Or surviving this long will have been for nothing.”

‎The two remaining subordinates behind me said nothing. They were too exhausted to speak. One limped with a broken leg wrapped in torn cloth, The other carried his arm against his chest as though he were afraid it would fall off if he loosened his grip.

‎I looked down at the thing in my hands.

‎“Book of the Index, eh…” I let out a dry laugh. “Wasn’t half bad. We did manage to take care of this right.” ‎The words sounded hollow the moment they left my mouth. “With this, we won’t be Purged at the very least.”

‎At least. It won't be a guaranteed death.

‎That was all victories amounted to now, we survived.

‎Not living, but barely survived.

‎The Library had taken almost everything from us.

‎I still remembered the sounds. Pages turning like funeral bells, The screams cut short, The terrible silence afterward. Some of my men vanished so quickly I never even saw their bodies fall. One moment they were beside me, cursing and laughing through gunfire, and the next they were reduced to books lying neatly upon the floor.

‎As though the Library had decided their entire lives could be summarized into paper.

‎I clenched the Index’s book tighter.

‎How many did we have left now? Very few.

‎Honestly… It was a worthless sight. The Night Awls used to move like a black tide through the Backstreets. Boots against pavement, Cigarette smoke, Rough laughter, Men and women too stubborn to die.

‎Now there were only three shadows walking through an empty street.

‎The city lights above us flickered weakly through the fog. Somewhere in the distance, a train screeched against rusted rails. Nobody spoke. Even the City itself seemed tired tonight.

‎After some time wandering through roads that barely felt real anymore, I noticed figures waiting beneath a broken streetlamp.

‎For a moment, my hand instinctively reached for my weapon.

‎Then I recognized the uniforms.

‎Night Awls.

‎A few surviving crew members from the office. Men who once bowed deeply to me before departing on separate assignments days ago.

‎Their faces changed the instant they saw me alive.

‎"It's been an honor to meet again, Capitano.…”

‎One of them actually smiled.

‎Another lowered his head immediately, ‎“We heard rumors the Library swallowed your entire squad.”

‎“You made it back…ugh...Despite all the wound, We have survived the thumb purge with the book of the index."

‎I stared at them for a long while before answering.

‎Behind me, my remaining subordinates straightened slightly, as though the sight of familiar faces reminded them they were still human.

‎One of the younger crew members stepped forward carefully. “Did… did we win?”

‎Such a simple question.

‎I looked at the book in my hand again.

‎Then I looked at the empty spaces around us where dozens should have stood.

‎The silence stretched long enough for the others to lower their eyes.

‎Finally, I answered.

‎“We completed the mission, The Library was relentless. It's beyond what any of us had in mind...”

‎A victory where most of your comrades become corpses is difficult to call a victory at all. ‎One of the survivors laughed quietly to himself, though it sounded closer to choking. Another removed his coat and held it against his chest.

‎I could still remember their names.

‎Every single one of them.

‎The dead had a terrible habit of remaining clearer in memory than the living.

‎The wind suddenly stirred through the alleyway.

‎A flock of black birds burst from somewhere nearby, wings beating violently as they flew past us into the sky. For a brief moment, all of us looked upward together.

‎The birds disappeared into the dark haze above the City.

‎And somehow… watching them leave felt lonelier than any of our expected. The bird have gone blindly through the dark haze, I don't expect them to return anytime soon.

‎I exhaled slowly and adjusted the book beneath my arm. “…Keep moving,” I said quietly. “The dead already stopped walking, we don’t get that luxury yet.”

‎We have won a battle but lost a war whenever we achieve some minor win that leads to wider loss.

‎original art link:https://x.com/yongsadragon/status/2007981306454618378

‎

Today, I met someone I once knew.

And of all the days for fate to bring us together again, it chose the worst possible one.

The city was still drowning in smoke and ash. Buildings groaned like dying animals, and black dust drifted through the streets where people had screamed only hours before. Even the air tasted wrong, bitter enough to stay on the tongue.

I recognized him immediately. Despite lacking a face to recognize, That blade and suit is unmistakably him.

He stood in the middle of the ruined street with his sword hanging loosely at his side, though his grip around the handle was tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He looked thinner than I remembered. Older too. Misery had a way of carving years into a person.

When his eyes found me, they sharpened. I think.

“You,” he muttered.

I exhaled slowly. “It’s been a while.”

“A while?” He laughed quietly, but there was nothing human in it. “After all this time, that’s what you say to me?”

I didn’t answer.

He stepped closer, boots crunching over shattered glass and blackened debris. “I’ve been looking for someone,” he said. “Someone I can kill with my own hands.”

His voice trembled near the end. Not from fear. From restraint.

“I know, with all that malice you've gathered. There's nothing a word can convince you to not.” I replied.

He stared directly and say. “Then answer me honestly.” He pointed the blade toward my chest. “Was this your doing?”

The wind howled between the empty buildings.

“Was this your precious dream, Red Gaze?” he continued bitterly. “Your ambition? Did you cause the Pianist incident? To take everything from me?”

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then I answered plainly.

“No.”

Just one word. A straightforward, Simple answer that have no intention of a lie. But he looked at me as though I had insulted the dead.

“No?” he repeated. “That’s it? That's it?!”

“There are many things I’m guilty of, many person I have to fight.” I said quietly. “But not this, I never wish a downfall so bad like what you have experienced.”

His breathing became uneven. I could see it in his face—not really, I'm just guessing. No doubt, it's grief desperately searching for somewhere to stab itself into. And I happened to be standing closest to it.

“She died because of this city,” he whispered. “Because of monsters like you.”

Before I could speak again, he drew his sword.

I barely blocked the first strike. Sparks burst between us, scattering into the darkness like fireflies. He kept swinging after that, fast and reckless, every movement filled with rage he had carried for far too long.

“YOU SHOULD’VE DIED INSTEAD OF HER!” he shouted.

I pushed him back and drew my own blade.

The sound of steel clashing echoed through the ruined street. Dust rose around our feet. The city itself felt dead already, and we were merely two ghosts pretending there was still something left worth fighting for.

He attacked wildly, but underneath it all, I could tell he didn’t truly care whether he won. He just need me dead here, dead and forgotten.

He only wanted someone to blame.

And perhaps… I wanted to be blamed.

Our blades met again and again until the black dust around us became so thick I could barely see his figure anymore.

He simply needed someone left alive to hate.

And perhaps...

I was the easiest person to point his sword toward.

The last thing I remember was his blade descending through the storm of black dust while he screamed loud enough to drown out the ruined City itself.

Then everything disappeared into black dust.

Original artist link:https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/122437273

The city was beautiful from up here.

The glow from the lights below shone with gold and orange hues in the evening haze while the cars seemed to float past as fireflies in an endless sea of roads. The wind caressed my face, giving me a second feeling of being forgiven.

Unfortunately, this is not a thing people like me should enjoy. Neither will I earn that forgiveness.

I rested my body against the rail, my dead cigarette hanging loosely from my lips, and listened to the silence between us. Despite all that I've done, My Lord continued to stand beside me. Close enough that we were touching shoulder to shoulder.

Black feathers fluttered down from above. At this point, it could as well be just ashes. The city is quite confusing in that way.

"Isn't it ironic?" I spoke in a whisper and forced a feeble grin. "In spite of my treachery, you and I are still holding each other's hands like a pair of lovers."

The words were bitter on my tongue.

They were also true.

I betrayed her, lied to her, made my choices against what was right. Yet whenever I looked at her, some selfish part of me still wished she would reach out and tell me to stay.

And the worst part?

She did. She still loved me.

I almost broke right there.

“You shouldn’t do this,” I whispered. “You should hate me. If you love me, it only gets better. If you hate me, it only gets worse. I'll continue to be me... Enemy of the foundation... Too cruel to be a lover...”

My chest ached so violently I could hardly breathe. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I wanted to take back every cruel word, every selfish choice, every trembling moment where fear mattered more to me than he did.

But she only tightened her grip slightly, as though afraid I would disappear if she let go.

That kindness hurt more than any punishment ever could. Because I realized then that no matter how far apart we drifted, no matter how many storms stood between us… I still loved her enough to wish for a future I could never be part of.

I laughed softly to hide the trembling in my voice.

“You know…” I murmured, staring at the city lights below, “if things were different… If I was with the foundation, maybe I would’ve said yes.”

I would say yes to staying.

I would say yes to take her hand in mine.

I would even gladly say yes to the foolish little dream where neither of us had to say goodbye.

But dreams are nothing, but delusions we wish are real. And I was always the first to ruin them. Ruin this relationship, like how I ruin other life's by taking them away with this gun in my hand.

“My Lord… if you truly hate me... I really suggest that you should kill me yourself. Revenge is always served cold… preferably beside a table of bitter oranges and a corpse that finally learned its place.”

I tried to laugh after saying it, but the sound died somewhere in my throat. The truth was uglier than betrayal itself.

I thought that if I could make you despise me enough. If I became cruel enough, selfish enough, unbearable enough. Then perhaps leaving me behind would not destroy you.

Perhaps I could turn myself into something easier to bury.

But you looked at me with that same unbearable kindness, and suddenly I realized hatred would have been merciful compared to this.

Because if you hated me, at least I could become a villain in your story. Instead, you loved me still and that was far more painful.

So I lowered my eyes, unable to bear the warmth in yours any longer, and thought quietly to myself. If I have a final word I would say:

Please…

Even after everything I’ve done…

Don’t forget about me.

Note: The entire description story is entirely made up by me, So keep that in mind since the original post doesn't contain this mini story made by me. I like to add little story in art I find interesting.

Original Art Link: https://x.com/Callme\_Wilsonn/status/1982006850867601453

Today, I decided to visit the old glasshouse.

The door resisted when I pushed it open, swollen by years of rain and neglect. The moment it finally gave way, the scent of rot greeted me like an old friend I had long wished to forget.

The flowers had decayed. The grass had withered. And above all else, every plant inside this home had become nothing more than pale remains reaching toward a sun that no longer cared enough to nourish them.

Once, this had been a beautiful place. A sanctuary where fragile things were allowed to grow slowly beneath careful hands. People came here to water the soil, trim dying leaves, whisper gentle things to saplings as though kindness itself could alter their nature. Now there remained only fragments of what could have become beautiful flowers.

I walked deeper into the greenhouse, past shattered pots and vines strangling empty iron frames, until I saw him standing there in silence.

Branches pierced through his body like roots reclaiming forgotten soil. Pale blossoms bloomed from his chest and shoulders, feeding upon him as though he were merely another dying tree in this garden. Yet he remained standing. Motionless. Quiet.

Like he had accepted becoming part of the ruin.

And suddenly, I remembered the old days.

Back when it was only a seed resting inside a small clay pot near the window. I remember watering it carefully alongside another flower beside me, watching both slowly grow beneath warm sunlight filtering through the glass overhead.

For a while, I truly believed flowers could last forever if someone cared enough.

But flowers die.

People leave.

And eventually, even memories begin to rot.

I have been gone for a long time now, alongside the other flower who once bloomed beside me.

Leave and forget...

That is how the City survives.

"Idealism is a beautiful illusion people praise only when it benefits them; the moment it becomes inconvenient, they call it naïveté and look away.”

A picture of an Ideal painting is nothing but a painting, The same things goes for the people of the city.

Outside, people continue walking forward without looking back. Inside, the glasshouse quietly continues dying, petal by petal, until even beauty itself forgets what it once looked like.

Link: https://konohaboomboom.lofter.com/post/1cbbdd76\_2ba38ec22

The Child once believed there was nothing crueler than being ordinary.

In the City, people vanished every day without even the dignity of remembrance. Bodies were swept from alleyways before the blood had dried. Names dissolved faster than smoke. To live quietly was to die twice.

So The Child laughed louder than others. Loved harder than others. Hurt others more deeply than others.

Because violence, too, was a way of becoming special.

The wedding veil clung to her face, soaked red at its edges. Blood dripped from the axe head in slow, heavy drops onto the chapel floor. One body twitched near the altar, fingers desperately dragging across crimson-stained marble before finally going still. Another had split open across the pews, ribs exposed like broken ivory beneath torn flesh.

And still, The Child smiled.

“Do you know what’s funny?” she asked softly, nudging a corpse with the heel of her shoe. “They all wanted love too~”

The axe dragged behind her with a wet scraping noise.

“They just wanted the clean kind. The pretty kind. The so called 'Perfect' wedding, Don't Cha think so.”

A man coughed somewhere beneath the pile of bodies. Alive. Barely. She crouched beside him, dress sinking into the blood pooling across the floor.

“You looked at me like I was pathetic before,” she whispered. “Like I was just another drunk girl pretending to laugh.”

The man tried to crawl away.

Thunk.

The axe buried itself into his hand.

The Child tilted her head.

“But now?” She giggled weakly, almost sadly. “You’ll remember me forever.”

"You have haunted me in my dreams, followed me in my memory, and enamoured me… You have become my obsession, of which I will never dare to let go. "

And so her honeymoon became painted in red.One that, sadly, many people make.

People of the city only wish to be seen.

Even if they must paint themselves in red to do so.

Link: https://x.com/nyak\_138/status/1769946825006739542