Archive of Our Own

A storm is brewing in Nasha Town, playing a dirge for a young woman whose life was brutally taken.

Dark, gloomy clouds have gathered over the region to mourn with rain.

You feel the moist air on your tongue and shudder as it coats your cold nape, unwelcome, while you remain crouched over the crime scene, shielding it from the gawking reapers.

It is not so uncommon for dead bodies to be found around The Flagship tavern.

Some lose themselves in their liquor so immensely, they fail to notice the passage of time spend in this indulgence—their own undoing. They spend their final moments all opaque, with breaths heady and laughs hazy, their vitality already exhausted. Like flowers in the drought, they wilt and wither.

Murders of all kinds—especially between rivals going for each other’s throats in the most literal sense—are not unheard of either, as their culprits are emboldened by the land close to being lawless.

It was only when a well-off daughter of one of the richest merchants in the city is found dead, discarded near the hub of vices and information sharing, unfit for someone like her, that the crowd gasped resoundingly, and all hell broke loose. More so when Milena Tojadska’s body was ascertained as gutted, now left as little more than an empty shell, devoid of both organs and life.

Milena lived a tragically short existence of twenty-one years, largely devoted to proving she was more than the privileges her father’s wealth afforded her. In the end, it didn't matter—people formed their own opinions anyway, both before and after her death. Spoiled, born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and while she was known to be kind, she could never have understood any real struggle.

You draw your own conclusions, but unlike the denizens of Nod-Krai, yours are not meant to judge her scruples. For a detective like you, only facts hold weight, and while one’s subjectivity can help in deriving oracular clues from others, you shove your own personal feelings aside.

And you might as well be the ghost yourself—haunting the nook behind the wine crates gathering dust in the entrance corridor of The Flagship, as you linger in the dark, post-mortem oppression to gather evidence.

With no true governing body in Nod-Krai to handle crime, someone like you must step in, confronting the pandemonium consuming the city. The Voynich Guild, whose focus is disputes involving merchants, requested you specifically.

Unfortunately, the conundrum surrounding her death isn’t made more soluble just because it occurred near a lively spot. If anything, the throng of suspects roaming around the busy hour Milena’s body was found only complicates your job. Though there is one particularly distinctive delinquent you intend to put under your microscope later.

People talk too. They live in fear of being next. They speculate, and pry for every grisly detail. The pressure to calm them weighs heavily on you. And knowing that the Curatorium of Secrets—or Snezhnayan diplomats—might meddle, drawn by the grotesque specifics of the slaughter, or even possible political implications, makes this perhaps the most important case of your life.

As an operative of the Voynich Guild, you heard of her murder long before most citizens, gathering evidence before the story could be distorted with each retelling, reshaped by bias, until the truth would turn into almost unrecognizable.

Still, they scurry toward you: excited, confused, curious, scared, fascinated by death even as they are repulsed by it. “Me! Me! I want to know! How? Why?” Only to be disappointed, for the body is no longer here, removed hours ago, even if you still can taste your coffee from four in the morning. You are no stranger to morbid curiosity yourself, but there is a certain debauchery in wanting to turn Milena’s death into a spectacle.

“Please, allow me to work in peace. There’s nothing of interest to be found here. The Guild is doing everything in its power to catch the culprit and will provide updates as necessary,” you urge, after yet another disruptive question lands.

The man behind it curses you, indignant, his accusation falling off his tongue like a whip: you must be withholding information, and you are definitely money-hungry.

You sigh. Adjusting your jacket, you glare at him until he turns his head away, uncomfortable by the sight of a revolver peeking underneath your leather brown.

He’s another fool anyway—the monetary value of your work leaves little room for sentiment. Still, you do believe you deserve a bonus, especially after this. Being considered an adept detective doesn't necessarily earn you luxuries; if anything, the pay is meager, and you break your back for the sake of the game. You refuse to accept every case deemed as not interesting enough.

Your supervisor didn't mind waking you up early for all that clamor. It’s your third time here too. No hidden weapons. No fingerprints, hair, fibers, or any other organic trace overlooked during your first or second sweep. Nothing remains after Milena’s body has been already taken to the morgue—not even blood speckles—adding to the mystery of her death.

From what you've been told, her body is in an unusual condition, and so you’re eager to run to her, like a hound catching scent. A notepad full of testimonies from bunch of strangers, mostly drunk people, weighs heavily in your other pocket. Yet little within those offers anything specific that wouldn’t be a drunk man’s daydream.

On your way back, you stop by a food stand, taking in familiar faces and the lively scenery of Nasha Town, before you will move forward to find Milena in what must be her deadliest form. The scene moves on. Children scamper and tumble until they blur, melting into the cold metal of buildings. Merchants bicker over inches of space despite their mature age. An old woman leans on her husband and hurries him home, impatient for safety, rattled by the atmosphere of death she has long anticipated for herself. Life continues, stubborn, indifferent, yet beneath it drums a tension that everyone feels, inching towards suffocation, just like you have heard that Milena was strangled.

“Milena…”, “that Tojadski merchant's daughter, “poor girl”, “don’t be stupid; it was clearly a lovers quarrel”, “some sadist”, “people disappearing”, “Wild Hunt”, “I heard she was gutted”,—you hear whispers of theories from every direction, each making their own credence. But you’ll make your own judgment—impartially.

A private morgue, too expensive for most to afford a cozy spot at, as the place where the dead rest, should have brought you some repose from the bustling restlessness outside. Instead, it’s hard to organize your thoughts even if the space is clear of the crowds you just escaped.

The unsettling, low, droning hum of the cooler—run by whatever machinery technicians of Nod-Krai conjured—could convince anyone it’s the dead rising. Their psyche would be affected by the dim scene with flickering lights too, making one wonder if the next blink might reveal someone, or something, lurching forward, especially when the light scarcely illuminates the white tiles of the floor and the walls, forcing the imagination to work and fill the gaps.

The metal, diagnostic bed at the center of the room hosts the object of the detective’s scrutiny. Naked as the day she was born, Milena lies on the ghastly white sheets, marred with drops of blood left behind by hands too careless to properly clean the table between examinations. You suspect that, if you were to lower your head to lend your ear, she would beg to be taken away from this overladen vision of an afterlife.

You are now drowsily listening to the doctor’s talk. There’s no specialized forensic pathologist to be found around, so this simple doctor, Daroslav, does his best. An old man with barely any hair left, yellow scleras and once-white shirt, inherently as tired in his appearance as you are tired today, finally fixes his glasses that were constantly trying to slip from his nose—something he had not bothered to correct until now. It’s the least he could have done after you’ve been bothered by his obtuse mannerism.

Everything needs to be noted by you, yet everything feels irritating today. Nothing makes sense so far, and people work far too slowly for what your brain is desperately trying to solve.

You drill holes into the dead woman. So pale is she now, that every blue vein beneath her skin becomes visible. However, that pallor, along with purple of her lips, the bruising encircling her neck, and petechiae scattered across her eyelids are the only assurances that she is no longer alive. She could be simply a fresher body, but it had been hours since she ended up on the table—enough for the lividity process to appear. And yet, something resists. It’s as if her body and blood froze in time, for it rejects decomposition—no livor mortis yet, no settling of blood in the lower part of the body—defying every logic. Even her limbs are unnaturally pliable when the doctor lifts her hand, bending with a softness that suggests sleep rather than death. With her like this, it’s the only way you can look at her without grimacing more than the vermilion exposed house of body provokes you to.

“You mentioned that her organs are missing,” you say, wriggling at the thought, “some of them, that is.”

“Yes. Liver, heart, stomach… and uterus,” Daroslav informs with a sigh, removing his obnoxiously long gloves. “She was killed before they were removed, likely very short after, for her to remain in such a… preserved state. The body must have been handled soon after death.”

“Liver, heart, stomach, and uterus…” you repeat quietly. “I see. Although, I believe we have a bigger problem.” You inhale deeply before speaking with rare for you uncertainty. “Doc… I understand her body is cleaned of those organs, but how come she’s staying such a pretty lady?” Your perplexity and the reminiscence of sleep, you rub off from your face.

It’s confusing—and unsettling. She is still an angel, dark hair framing an alabaster face, and if you were to lift her eyelids, they would reveal bright, lilac eyes—the same eyes that once brightened her father's days.

“I wonder about that myself. There is barely any sign of decomposition,” he spits on his glasses before he polishes them with the hem of his shirt. “However, we weren’t given enough time to draw conclusions too definite. Cold conditions can delay the process, and the removal of internal organs, along with significant blood loss—especially if the body was thoroughly cleaned—may further slow bacterial activity. Still…” he pauses, placing his glasses back upon his nose, crooked as ever. “Not to this extent.”

Your eyelid twitches faintly, though you let him continue.

“As I said, she must have been killed recently… or stored in a cold, maybe even in a cooler like ours. You see this incision along her torso? It is far too precise for an amateur. Whoever did this, they are clearly experienced in slicing and eviscerating people,” his appalled tone is the only thing that allows you to believe he himself won’t kick the bucket due to his age soon. “And yet, there’s marks consistent with strangulation, suggesting something far less controlled, as if rage came first, and only after, deliberation.”

You nod, and nod, and nod, committing each detail to memory.

“Additionally, her body has been cleaned externally as well—her nails are spotless underneath, but chipped, so Milena fought, yet we don’t have any biological trace of the assaulter to collect and send to a more qualified facility. Outside of that, there is no signs of sexual penetration.”

All of this is a lot to gather, so it is hard to comprehend—you understand the logistics, yet the concept behind her killing eludes you. The feasibility of such act especially.

“Hm…” you sink into his chair, ignoring the frown derived from your intrusion, “But… if her body will continue like this… if it resists decay… is that truly possible?” Your gaze sharpens, cutting as cleanly as the scalpel resting nearby. This situation… is still fascinating, frustratingly unfathomable or not.

“No,” Daroslav answers, oddly flustered by your engrossment. “Or rather… not under normal circumstances. I have never seen anything like this. If there is a cause, it is beyond what I know.” His voice lowers, now edged with something conspiratorial. “If such a method exists—a compound, perhaps—it would not be something readily available. Not to the public.”

“A compound?”

“You never know, with the Fatui spreading through these lands as they do. They are always eager to recruit our young.”

“But… what would even be the purpose of preserving a body?” you are skeptical about his claim, now trying to look for a logical explanation in the gray ceiling above you. “A dead mass, ought to be buried anyway…”

“Organ harvesting, perhaps,” he suggest with enthusiasm, hoping you’ll entertain his theory.

“But that can be done with a body as it is,” you make a counterpoint, counting irregularities in the structure above you. If you squint your eyes enough, surely you will be able to see an outline of Milena’s open body already imprinted on your mind.

“You might want to transport them long-distance. Clients from all across Teyvat, able to find their perfect match only across the continent…” the attempt to feed you some weird ideas continues, Daroslav’s voice taking a naughty beat.

You sit straight, suddenly redirecting your gaze at the doctor who flinches in response. “Are you saying we’re dealing with a black market organ seller?” you now ask with more alertness.

“I mean—”

You cut him off next second, waving your hand. “Forget it. That’s plain stupid,” you grumble.

“How so?” he deflates in his enthusiasm, a balloon of perverse hope you have burst unabashedly.

“That would be inefficient,” you reply flatly. “The body was left in plain sight, in the very center of activity. The organs risk damage through strangulation. And most importantly: Milena is far too prominent of a target for such a purpose.” Even Fatui usually goes after those in need and on their own, children especially.

“Right…” he concedes quietly. All of this suddenly seems to be too much for the doctor, as he gesticulates at you to free his seat. You stand up, yet your now soliloquy continues.

“A body displayed in such a condition is not concealment—it is declaration. A mark left behind.” A realization settles in your head. “A serial killer, perhaps… one announcing themselves at last, or newly arrived in this region. Someone experienced… A doctor even, maybe. Precision like that…”

You can't recall anything like this happening around here before. Possibly a boastful killer… You'll have to dig into the guild’s archives.

“You didn't kill her, did you?” you ask humorously.

Daroslav’s mouth opens wide. “That's just—”

“I know. I’m pulling your leg!” you clarify before you could give him a heart attack.

He huffs at you, collecting himself. “In any case…” The doctor peers at you with mustered solemnity, patting down his clothes after you ruffled his feathers. “I’m no psychologist, but if there’s anything serial about this tragedy, it’s the fact they must have done this plenty of times before. Whatever it might be, people of Nod-Krai would do well to exercise caution. No more… drunken escapades after dark.”

Your laugh earns you a narrow look. “My apologies, it’s just that…” you say lightly, though your humor fades quickly, “I doubt many will abandon The Flagship so easily. It’s their second home, you know? Much like it has now become a resting place of Milena’s soul…” you drawl the last sentence, finally donning on some seriousness yourself.

Arms crossed, you soak in the severity of the situation, your gaze settling at the poor woman veiled in sheets, or rather, what would be of be her leftovers. Incomplete in her physiology, her skin hangs more loosely over her hollow beneath, like a curtain over a broken bird cage. As unsettling the visage is, you trail the cut line awaiting its sewing, and you notice a certain craftsmanship behind the work. Only someone lacking heart would be capable of tearing her apart and playing with her body like a butcher…

No. Not heartless like she is now. Sensitive perhaps; making sure there is no impurities left post death, whatever symbolism the missing components suggest. And yet, Milena was judged unworthy of staying on this earth with you, in this world, her killer playing a god of her life.

Alas, even the angels are hated; if anything, they take the most venom, since it cannot penetrate those already poisoned. Not that you know her personally, but she has never caused enough harm for it to be recorded.

When Daroslav turns around to note down your observations, you wipe the single tears of sympathy.

“The question that remains is,” you continue talking, “where are her organs? Is this really a work of a serial killer? Could they be consumed? Will they be later utilized in some way?” your voice is fueled with immense verve, dangerously close to enthusiasm.

You’re excited—as inappropriately as others are—you hate to admit. It’s once in a blue moon that something truly worthy of your attention surfaces… Even more so when all of Nod-Krai is forced to play along, circumspect about where will they wander with their feet, avoiding any ghoulish arms waiting to seize them in the dark. And yet, that newness is what makes you feel as if you are an amateur again; the most you were taught about didn’t encompass elaborate-murder solving. Corruption and missing people is the pinnacle of your responsibilities.

The doctor clears his throat, taken aback by all the fantasies you throw at him. He refuses to look you in the eye, unwilling to foster the freak-detective’s fascination. “How do you arrive at such conclusions so quickly, may I ask?”

You smile, evening out your tone as if suddenly remembering your manners. “Please, forgive me. I have some experience in situations like that, and sometimes, that’s what people do.”

In truth, you are still guessing—but the human mind tends towards patterns that you follow, maybe alone with a couple of old detective stories.

“Now,” you say, gathering your jacket, your legs trembling as they beseech you onward. “I’m really grateful for your insight. I will return as needed… Meanwhile, I have many other things to take care of…”

“Oh? Do you have a suspect already?” Daroslav asks curiously.

“Yes. I was informed he was seen near Milena’s body.”

And judging that his man was seen leaving the very spot where Milena was found, the future seems very promising.

The road leading from the Nasha Town to the Final Night Cemetery is long. The further you go, the more it sinks its claws into you, the fog hugging you from every side. Visibility is mercilessly taken away from you, yet while it should stir disquiet, you embrace it with curiosity.

The search for the culprit cannot halt simply because the path becomes frightening; you let the lighthouse’s light to guide you, as intended, hoping it might grant you some clarity for the case as well. Your leather jacket, an old memento from your mentor, shields you from the wind. It is as though you are wearing her skin, as you have espoused much of her wisdom.

You were informed about the man seen at the crime scene. Nestled at the exact spot, shortly before the time Milena was found, secluded from the usual clusters that gather at The Flagship— he fled the moment other visitors noticed him, naturally casting suspicion upon himself in the eyes of Nod-Krai’s citizens.

Of course, it could have been anyone who drank at The Flagship the last night, perhaps someone even entirely unrelated to the location—many pass through these grounds. Except, vanishing as though caught in the act is suspicious, and a man already branded eccentric will always be the easiest to accuse.

The Ratnik, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.

You cannot help but question the sanity of a man who chooses to live here. A place so steeped in somber stillness could easily turn one queasy; all the more when the ghosts begin to appear, as though drawn by the wind itself. When they do, they trail alongside your path like they're street lanterns. You assume they were once warriors, fallen to the persistent Wild Hunt that has plagued Nod-Krai for countless years.

Dead people, you suppose, need nothing more.

At the lighthouse’s base, besides the dilapidated wooden veranda, nothing of note greets you. To reach the door, you must cross the garden of gravestones, the largest monument looming at its center, frostlamp flowers bowing beneath your boots—their shades reminds you an old tale of blue light that Lightkeepers supposedly prayed to for protection. It’s quiet here; it is no peace. The grotesque swirl of blue and purple of grasses drains the land of vitality—no green as a connotation with nature—leaving something hollow in its place, especially with the never-ending darkness here. Anything to avoid a pesky neighbor? Not that you have guarantee to find Flins here.

“Is the owner here?” you throw humorously towards the cluster of ghosts encircling a bonfire, as if they could be warmed once more. You stare hard at one of them, its head barely balanced upon its shoulders. Charming.

None reply, all hurry away from you after they look through you as if you are not even present. Odd. You would have thought spirits might take delight in haunting you, but then again, what do you know about ghosts. They either don’t like newcomers, or…

Finally reaching the lighthouse door, you give it a knock so loud it would shake even the dead from their rest. Nothing. The silence remains after you knock again. You take it as permission to snoop around, pulling on the handle—surprisingly, the mechanism gives away. “Jackpot!” Or a bear trap.

You lift your foot, ready to step inside—

“There is nothing worth stealing here, I quite assure you.”

Your foot slams down in shock, nearly sending you stumbling as your head snaps towards the voice. There he stands, the missing man himself, suddenly before you. Your chest immediately takes you on the route of driving you near a cardiac attack. The ghosts, it seems, have departed for reasons unrelated to you, despite your original assumption.

“Whoa!” you exclaim, all startled. Someone appearing out of thin air is unsettling enough, but he resembles a specter in his own right, dark-clad like night, pupils all yellow-lackluster. The blue glow of his lantern has your eyes blinking rapidly, in chase to adjust to the bright force. “I promise, I’m not a thief!”

The man smiles, placing his hand on his chest, inclining his head in a short, courteous bow. “Hello there, not a thief. I hope the curious spirits around have not caused you any undue distress…?”

You step back, closing the door behind you, letting the space between you stretch with you sinking onto the collapsing bench in front of the lighthouse. You shake your head in answer, narrowing your eyes as you take in his appearance, trying to gauge his intentions. A humorous entrance is something you would have done yourself, but should an average person take a possible break-in so lightly…?

The Lightkeeper—you assume must be the man in front of you—is still a suspect. You ought to be cautious. “No, Mr. Flins,” you say at last, forcing your voice to convey something more than disregard for his politeness.

“Oh?” His brow lifts ever so slightly at your recognition, something faintly amused touching his expression. He makes no move to close the distance—thankfully, instead lingering by the metal door, observing you. “You seem to know who I am. Are you coming here with something specific in mind? That is, if you in were, in fact, not stealing from me,” he cannot help but crack another joke.

Something about him and his exuberance irks you—that’s the sensation you’re given right off the bat. You have met many types in your life, yet this sensation is… different. It could also be that chucklesome persona, the contrast between it and his gloomy appearance, or even the way ghosts seem to be reverent of him. You can’t put your finger on what it might be exactly.

The weird lantern he carries, a strange blue light unlike any kuuvahki flame you have seen, heightens the unaware. Lightkeepers have a duty to take them with them everywhere, as a sign of ongoing service, and yet… Hopefully, it’s only Electro-Vision-infused. The idea of catching a malefactor now feels less thrilling and far more precarious.

Recognizing his sharpness, you decide discretion is prudent. “I meant the part about not being a thief…” you reply, “I hope you can understand my entrance was only because you of concern for your door. You’re making things easy for thieves, you know.”

He nods in agreement, allowing you to continue your introduction.

You recline on the bench, remembering the authority of confident body language. “As for the why I’m here—my apologies for the intrusion. It’s an urgent matter. I am a detective who works for the Voynich Guild…” You produce your insignia, dangling it in the air. It has no legal power, though it distinguishes you from a simple comer. “I’m sure you have heard about the morning incident in the Nasha Town.”

He raises his brow again, then smiles politely. “The Voynich Guild…” he repeats thoughtfully. “Then I gather this must be a grave affair indeed, for there to be someone sent to a humble me. Though I confess, I am not certain what matter would require your presence here of all places.” He maintains eye contact without the slightest flinch. “Would you care to enlighten me?” Crossing his arms after he hangs his lantern on the hook dedicated for it, he pricks up his ears.

You turn slightly as you tuck the badge away, allowing a fleeting grimace to cross your face unseen. He should know. Anywhere near The Flagship should. The entire Nasha Town, if not the most of Nod-Krai knows about the incident too, and while he lives in seclusion, he surely is coming back from somewhere while having people talk behind his back. It’s quite hard to determine whether he’s purporting his oblivion, or if he’s actually unaware—too smug to be innocent, too calm to be obviously guilty.

You face him again, with solemnity, hoping there’s enough humanity in him to reciprocate that emotion. “Very well. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but...A body was discovered this morning. At The Flagship. The daughter of a merchant. Murdered… quite brutally.”

“Oh.” His lips form into a circle, and he sighs softly, more contemplative. “That is unfortunate,” he says after a moment, lowering his gaze briefly, as if paying respects to the deceased. “She must have been young.“ Then, looking back at you: “What happened?” he asks, all troubled.

“She was strangled. Then… her organs were removed. We have yet to locate them,” you blurt out quickly—watching him. It’s not impropriety speaking, but a way to catch him off-guard, go see a reaction unfiltered by expectation.

Flins’s brows knit together, his body stiffens ever so slightly. Then he lets out an awkward chuckle, as if to disperse the tension you suddenly manifested in him. “That severe, you say…” His surprise looks rather genuine. Yet there’s something off about the man. A bit too calm for someone step by step being implied to be a suspect, apathetic even. Still, his gaze pierces you, yellow eyes void-like, as if he claims to know you better than you know yourself.

“And certainly unprecedented,” you add. “With that, it’s hard for us to gain a foothold, or form a… modus operandi,” it’s a term you've borrowed from some fancy novel imported from outside the border, “especially with how little clue there is.” You inform him of those few things—letting him be involved in the case should paint a right illusion: he’s not yet accused of any wrongdoing, which could lure to more cooperation.

Frustratingly, he only hums in acknowledgment, then turns the conversation around. “May I ask how does this concern me?” A small tilt of the head, more curious than worried about the prospect of being accused of crime of a high range. If anything, he’s more interested in swallowing every inch of you with his eyes, something haughty being cast at you.

You rise, brushing off your jacket, agitation pricking at your nerves. You serve him another serious look. “There was a report placing you at the scene shortly before the body was found. Alone. Squatting behind the same empty crates where she was later discovered. Of course, you could have been a simple passerby, like anyone else, which means you’re not accused of anything at the moment. Yet your sudden departure upon being noticed casts shadows of suspicion. We’d like to ask you a few questions that could help us out—especially, what were you doing here, and whether you have seen anything suspicious yourself,” you try to cajole him, keeping your tone solemn yet respectful.

You see no real worry—only a small frown, more as if you were inconveniencing him by making a scene. “We?”

“Yes, I act on behalf of Milena’s father, Drogomir Tojadski.” The name is big, so you anticipate his reaction. He gives you one, allowing you to witness his eyes widen slightly under the blue light spread over his face; your stomach flutters with excitement at the telltale sight.

“Milena…?” he sounds surprised.

“Yes,” you nod eagerly, “Did you know her?”

“Yes. Albeit, briefly. She would come here sometimes,” he says solemnly. “What tragic news you are relaying to me…” he clutches his chest, as if pained, his eyes full of sorrow. “Sadly, we we weren’t given too much time together…”

“Can you tell me a bit more about this?” you ask urgently. Him knowing her only earns him more consistency as a main suspect.

“Your diligence is… commendable,” he’s ready to shoot you down. “It is only that…” Flins starts thoughtfully, turning his head to the side, already sympathizing with your disappointment. “You are well aware there is no real law established in Nod-Krai. Nonetheless, factions exist, and anything that concerns someone like me, concerns us Ratniki also, falling under that jurisdiction. If any investigation were to occur, it can only proceed by their decree. Your only choice with me is, well…”

You know all these rules; technically, you have no power over him, and so you hoping for cooperation is hoping for benevolence. “Forcing me to answer your questions,” you finish the sentence for him, your excitement dissipating. You come a little closer to him—a small show of trust. You're not here to disincorporate him entirely. “I assure you, I have no intention of fighting or hurting you.” Brains over brawn. Unless he attempts aggression himself. “I know Guild often moves motivated by financial, or any type of beneficial gain for that matter, but my own goal is singular: to unravel this poor girl's tragic death.”

“Is that why you have a weapon in your inner pocket?”

Your breath hitches.

“Do not fret. I understand that someone like you must protect themselves. Who knows the next person that dares to cross you…” he says lightly. Flins studies your frown, and smiles again, all understanding. “You strike me as a person with a good head on their shoulders.”

The compliment catches you off guard—especially with how earnest it sounds. Yet you’re no illustrious detective. You think you don't even know what you're doing. Your boss threw you into the situation like into deep waters. He could have asked that woman Nefer for help, however, she… is far more rapacious than you are.

“Thank you,” you say, with slight fluster. “So, I’ve heard that… a ghost of an unjustly death lingers on earth…” you allow a wry humor.

That could solve all of your issues—if only you could ask Milena about what she witnessed in the zenith of her tragedy, even beg for the leftover smudges of her bleary memory. You would ensure the culprit is caught without any hesitation, cleaving through the truth.

“You are quite astute about the fate of ghosts. Alas… as it has been said—I fear such matters are not mine to discuss,” Flins replies, regretful-sounding.

You almost click your tongue. You have barely scratched the surface today. “Can’t I have a small peak inside, at least?” you laugh after saying that, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

He laughs too, yet answers bluntly, “I’m afraid not.” Then he adds, “Though I would have welcomed the opportunity to host you. I’m certain the journey here can be somewhat… onerous.”

Gratefulness for his refusal is what you should feel now, as suddenly, you can no longer imagine the idea of being alone with him. Something about the possibility of being his ghost makes your skin prickle—call it a detective’s intuition.

“I see,” you say dryly, yet carefully polite, “In any case, thank you for lending me your time. Please… keep yourself safe.”

Flins extends his hand. “You as well, little detective. I do hope your efforts bear fruit.”

“… Little detective?” you visibly tense up, not fond of the nickname he gave you enough to reject his handshake.

He withdraws, as if realizing something. “Oh, where are my manners,” he says kindly, yet undeterred by your coldness. “Please, excuse me, it’s a force of poor habit I have, teasing my coworkers.” You don’t buy his sudden humble apology. “Pay it no mind—little is a form of endearment, not condescension.”

Fondness. From a stranger. Does this man know you? No, that cannot possibly be…

Still, the encounter gave you enough reason to keep your wits about you, around this peculiar Lightkeeper. “I see,” you say slowly, “It’s okay, I do that a lot too. Some whimsy doesn’t hurt…” you trail off, stepping past him. “Have a nice day. We might meet again soon.”

“Please, wait,” he calls, and you turn around, “Yes?”

Flins and his damned lantern join your side, falling into step beside you, “Allow me to escort you back to the shore. It’s getting late, the fog thickens, and the time Wild Hunt favors such conditions.”

It’s as if he’s trying to give you a headache on purpose, being unbearable.

“I’m alright,” you assure curtly.

“No need to be modest. It is really not an issue, only my utmost duty,” he insists, frustratingly chivalrous.

You want to tell him it isn’t modesty, especially when he places a guiding hand on your back, as if you two are old acquaintances.

Observing you walking expeditiously in response, he chuckles softly. “Are you truly so concerned about them? Fear not—I will protect you, should it come to pass.”

“Nope. Just a hectic schedule,” you reply dryly.

“Of course. I don’t intend to disturb it.”

The walk to the exit is filled with a stream of exceptionally curious inquires from his side; some less or more personal, mostly about your expertise—never quite crossing a line, yet coming close to. Your mind works carefully, avoiding revealing anything that might compromise either yourself or the investigation. However, it’s really the last words he gives you before he’d let you go that leave the deepest mark. “You know, I have heard of you.”

Under regular circumstances, they shouldn’t matter. You are rather famous around Nod-Krai’s veterans; infamous, you’d even call yourself. You're not exactly known for being strait-laced. But when you peer at him properly, analyzing his eyes dancing like a flame put on by your very presence, you get a sense of something deeper being laced into his admission. There is depth that transcends mere curiosity.

You wrap your jacket more snugly around yourself, letting the sea breeze carry his words and envelop you in thick silence.

“I’m sure whatever your ears caught, it was doubtfully anything flattering about me,” you scoff at the thought, but you are frozen in spot by his lantern you find yourself transfixed by.

“Hm…” pressing a finger to his chin, he hums to himself. “In the traditional sense, no…”

“Is there any positivity in an unorthodox sense, then?” you mock, meeting his eyes again.

As the thunder cracks and strikes overhead, the smile that forms on his face sends a shiver down your spine; you really need to get out of here.

“Yes,” he says softly, “One might say so. Because…” his face leans in close to yours; you don’t show cowardice, standing with steel in your feet. “… labels, after all, oftentimes stem from the fallacy of perception. And I would be eager to see what else is there beyond them, detective.

Until next time.”

You watch him go before you could demand some good explanation. His long, blue hair swaying like a midnight ink touching moonlit frost—disappearing into the evening like a ghost. Much the same, you feel unable to expose your back until you are sure he’s gone. You take a few steps after. Still propelled by distrust towards the Ratnik, you turn around a beat later; you blink rapidly when you notice his sudden disappearance. He should have been there, in your vision’s field, for a few more seconds.

You cannot yet parse him. The devil is in the details, yet you cannot form any coherent opinion about him, for he blocks anything truly vulnerable about himself with a sprinkle of sophistry and immaturity.

True to his words, he does seem to know you.

People pride themselves on understanding others, yet seldom embrace the responsibility that insight demands. To claim knowledge of another is to stand at the precipice of something far less comfortable than mere observation—understanding does not end at recognition, it insists acceptance, and acceptance, more often than not, is where people falter. Going from acceptance to hatred so fluidly is often a reflection of one’s own fear and limitations—isn't it human to be imperfect and ugly? To see them not only in the moments they present to the world, polished, but in those concealed ones where their less agreeable qualities reside. It is easy to admire what is agreeable. Therefore, there is courage in facing someone wholly—both their beautiful and their vile, their unguarded and the uncompromising.

Flins, in his own peculiar manner, seems almost willing to offer that from the very beginning.

Leaving the cemetery, you don't see another pair of eyes watching you from behind the biggest grave of the yard.

On your way back to the city, your thoughts involuntarily drift to Kyryll. If you were accused of murder, at least in the eyes of people around you, would you wander and chatter freely, as though nothing weighs upon you? Perhaps, he is simply accustomed to worse than such scrutiny, having faced death countless times as a Ratnik. Still, the notion of spilling blood by your own hand should unsettle even the iron stomach.

It seems certain you will encounter this man again. You must have left him with the the impression of someone respectful. Someone who, despite he appearing peculiar to others, is not judged by you for no sound reason. Yet, you failed to avoid showcasing any suspicion: he got you good, as you’re not used to allowing one to frustrate you enough to betray yourself… In this profession where composure is currency and every expression can be bartered against you. If only for a moment, you allowed yourself to become something of a spectacle for a man who clearly delights such things.

Nonetheless, for now, you shove that blunder to back to the back of your head, recognizing your priorities—finding the missing organs of the poor Milena, the only clue in the grotesque game that could lead you somewhere at the moment.

Especially that, Nod-Krai would disapprove of Snezhnayan diplomats getting involved in the sub-field; already, the nature of the crime stirs the gossip mill easily.

As you kick pebble on your path, sauntering tiredly, you think nothing aligns. There's no practical reason for Milena’s body yo have been left in such an exposed location as The Flagship, nor for it to have been treated with such meticulous care, bordering on reverence.

For anyone willing to think outside the box, there is clearly something psychological in the act, the message to decipher. To uproot the killer, you must think like the killer. Leaving a body clean from the inside, in a pristine condition… As if to mummify it…

Such practices evoke the practices of Sumeru, or at least someone inspired by its culture. Yet those who partake in the custom do not create death—they honor it. They do not carve life away. they tend to what remains. Her brain remains intact, too.

The killer could be trying to be respectful, making sure no part they deemed dirty is left in her after her death. Or they could be degrading her, leaving an empty shell to lower the woman’s value, or even steal from her. They could be eating those organs right as you’re thinking about it. So many questions, and yet, no one to answer for them so far.

You do not get to be the one who finds Milena’s organs; at least, when it comes to one of them. Her liver is delivered to you and her father a day after she was found—casually left outside The Flagship, in a white porcelain box that comes off as far too expensive to be ordinary, imported, suggesting someone from her sphere. Would Flins really be able to afford such container?

A liver that will never filter anything impure again, cleansing Milena from the filth of this world. Her ability to protect herself was stolen from her. The thought settler heavier than it should: it’s not merely a missing organ, but something once responsible for her persistence. She no longer can metabolize the world and remain whole through it. The killer’s choice feels like selection, not entirely disposal. She cannot judge anymore.

Finding nothing else inside the box that brought horrors to the workers ending their shift, you deliver her belonging to the morgue, only to learn nothing about her condition has changed. Worry gnaws at you—perhaps the doctor was right about the possibility of a substance that slows, or even stops, decomposition—all kinds of things can happen or be made in Teyvat. Perhaps it’s used differently than assumes; not as preservation for transport of organs, but something about a sick display of body.

It’s not healthy to let the gruesomeness get to your head too much, so you only let your nose scrunch at the inconvenience of it all—being pulled away mid-breakfast only to end up handling what will, in time, be placed back into her coffin. A coffin currently in making, surely to be lined with white silk befitting an angel.

At the very least, it’s becoming evident it was a killing with motive. Your case truly has grown into something of a paramount importance.

With you in constant motion, it’s time for another questioning. The father of Milena, Drogomir, is also a suspect, having been the closest with his daughter. It is quite often that the family member is the one responsible. You have been stalling this meeting, largely because his state is… delicate. It cannot help him that he looks like an older copy of her—dark hair, purple eyes. It’s only his short posture, wrinkles of she, or strands of gray that do not hold a candle to her. Every peer into the mirror is peer into Milena’s eyes.

So far, his grief is gut-wrenching to witness. And unless he is deliberately performing grief in front of The Guild, he has been cooperative, guiding you through possible scenarios with eagerness. Unlike Flins yesterday, there is no weird friction between the two of you. If you were to frame someone in his position, you would do so without reaching for paranoid detective like you; pantheons of his standing are not above pulling some strings, and there are still several women missing in Nod-Krai.

“She was such a beautiful and smart girl… even after her mother died, she still pushed through everything…” the man weeps… right onto your shoulder and its favorite jacket. “People judged, me, her, me for not marrying another woman, and her for not settling down instead of focusing on her studies, but we endured! We only had each other, and now I have no one… Heavens, my poor Milena! And now some monster is scattering her organs like they’re dandelion seeds!”

You cringe at the dampness staining you, imagining it going past your flesh layers, his grief soaking into your pores and painting you with melancholia just the same. You try to ignore the growing pool of misery for the sake of maintaining good connections with a client. You have to be nice and empathetic, laments difficult to take or not. Especially given how unstable his condition has become. From what one of the maids informed you, Drogomir has already been seen by a doctor three times. Not for some heart condition, but his mental state, although these two can easily go hand in hand.

“I'm sure she was everything you describe her to be and much more. I’m sure she felt loved by you,” is the reassurance you muster, best to your ability.

As you let Drogomir sacrifice your jacket as necessary collateral, glad it’s made of impenetrable leather, you take one more look at the small mansion’s common room. It’s easy to notice how he has it much better than most people. Marble—had to be exported from Snezhnaya trade, royal purple velvet everywhere—a self-made title?, lacquered, polished parquet—will Milena’s coffin have the same finish? And of course… a gigantic portrait of his very daughter.

It would not be surprising if someone resented Milena for such disparity. But envy alone rarely produces such precision. This is not disorder, jealousy. This is controlled.

Then you spot her—a tiny figurine of Tsaritsa. It sits quietly among opulence, but you recognize the possible implications. A household that openly trades with Shezhnaya, perhaps even aligns itself with it more deeply than mere commerce. You’ve already heard about Drogomir making business with its merchants, skimming over his profile the moment you received the case. If he spills too much to the other side, they might complicate the investigation. Especially that, murders of high-profile causes panic that spreads faster in such circles; merchants fear instability more than crime itself. Who will pay for their damages?

Drogomir finally lifts his head, and you sigh inwardly. You take in one more glance at the figurine, fascinated by the way it made cold Tsaritsa look benevolent. A small, warm smile pulling you in, having you wonder if she’d weep over Milena too, or call it a common tragedy humans face daily, secular even…

“Goodness me, I am terribly sorry,” he’s embarrassed, “here I am, sobbing on your shoulder like an outgrown baby,” the widower suddenly remembers himself, and frees you from the grasp of his waterworks.

Now freed, the expensive settee feels like the safest place. You resist the urge to clean your shoulder in front of him. Thankfully, he offers you a handkerchief, feeling guilty for leaving a track of burden on you.

“No, it's quite alright,” you clear your throat. “I cannot comprehend even half the pain you are experiencing. I also understand this is difficult, but, can I depend on your cooperation for your daughter’s sake?” you speak solemnly.

Drogomir, still all flustered, nods his head rapidly, and sits on the armchair across you, only to stand up a moment later and spin around the room. How can he rest, knowing someone is playing with his daughter’s body?

“Ask me anything. Anything at all. I will answer everything if it means that monster is caught!” he demands fervently.

You like such vigor better. More lively, more human, more beautiful, raw and asking you to poke it further—but now is not the time.

“Very well,” you say. “When was the last time you saw your daughter?” you ask, clasping your hands together. You already made such inquiry yesterday, yet he was in a shape worse than today.

The man's brain overheats, for he stops his stops crying at the question, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"Take your time. I understand if your head is addled with grief.”

"Y-yes… yes, it is…” he says nervously. “I… I think it was… goodness, it feels as if it was just yesterday,” he shakes. “B-but… that cannot be. She already was dead… oh… the staff said… she’s been gone for a week… yes… that seems right…” he mumbles to himself, his voice destabilizing.

"A week?” you repeat, sharper now. “Where was she?”

"She was away for a trip. Research related,” a maid, older Anastasya with red hair, interrupts, coming in with water for the poor man. He gulps it down immediately, nearly choking on it. “I understand the importance of finding this despicable murderer,” she says firmly, “but I must beg you to start wrapping up things, detective.”

"I wish I could,” you reply dryly. “Alas, we can’t seek justice for Milena without proper evidence.”

“No, let them search for truth, Nastya…” he Drogomir mutter, “I cannot rest until I know my Milenka receives peace and honor.” He collapses into an armchair, “Ask me more, detective. I place her fate in your hands.”

That is a dangerous sentence.

You’re reminded of the weight of the situation. There is no time to waste, even if a dead woman can't walk, yet you also cannot expedite things carelessly—dare you not leave some stones unturned.

“Alright. I’ll be frank with you. How many enemies do you have, and, was any of them especially angry with you in last span of weeks?” you ask seriously, not beating around the bush. It’s not a question of if, but of how many. A man well-prospering in Nod-Krai is a man already hated, yet in this case, it’s also about possible rivals from the guild itself.

Flush appears on his face, as he tries to come up with some clincher to clear his merchant name he wants to keep spotless; only sighs with acquiescence after. “I’ve always had many adversaries. Other sellers, people jealous of the way I live, men offended by my refusal to marry off my daughter…”

The last picks up your curiosity. Someone obsessed with his daughter surely would be capable of killing her should she had said no… right? Suffocating her… then dispensing her organs for everyone to see… the show of ownership.

“Okay… however, was there anything that stood out more, that has brought you trouble lately? Any threats, breaking in, complaints from your daughter?”

Milena’s father ponders over your question, then shakes his poor head. “No.”

“Does Milena have any ex partners that might have been aggressive towards her?”

Shaking his head again, it’s more aggressive. “Absolutely not! She was focused on school. Boyfriends are… distraction,” he says with repulsion.

“You didn't think of preserving your family's name? You do care about it. She was twenty-one, not a child,” you prod with suspicion.

“She was twenty-one,” he insists. “There was still time. She deserved better than impulsive choices.” He’s definitely protective of his daughter. Typical father.

“I see. Did Milena behave in any unusual way?”

“No. She seemed… quite happy instead,” he admits reluctantly.

“Happy, huh…” you wonder what could have gotten her in such good spirits. “Did she mention anything about the reason behind that mood?” you ask eagerly. Perhaps, she’s been pulled into something, manipulated to become one’s victim.

Something resurfaces in his addled mind, as the man looks at you with realization. “Wait, could this be it? She mentioned seeing him,” he says suddenly, straightening. “I thought of it as nothing relevant at the time, but now—”

You stand up from the comfortable cushion and approach the mourning the father with motivation, almost shaking from excitement. “Please, every detail is important for the case. Who was he?”

“Well… She said she helped him out sometimes, just tidying up things around his... graveyard,” he recalls with recognition, as well the frown at his beautiful daughter seeking out obscure spaces like that. “That man was a bad influence on her, you see. Distracting her.”

It’s him, you summarize immediately. “Did she mention anything suggesting he behaved inappropriately with her?”

The poor man looks up at you with confusion, flustered by you squeezing his shoulders with the aberrant for the situation energy. “No, I mean, yes— she said he’s quite a strange man, living there alone. He frightened her sometimes. She was a good girl, you see, worrying about everyone despite their shortcomings…” he trails off, then snaps his eyes wide open and his breath stutter. “Are you saying he did this?” He trembles and you know you're stepping into a steep territory of his mind.

You can't make any promises just yet. It's easy to jump to conclusions and allow yourself to be fooled by them. “He’s only our suspect, might as well be innocent. It’s not smart to go after him at the moment,” you warn, sensing his growing agitation. “One wrong move, and the real killer might get away.”

Drogomir’s hands clench, and he slouches his body under your palm. “If you say so… but if it’s him in the end, I will…” he balls his hand into fists.

“Please, let us take care of the rest. For now, I need you to focus staying safe,” you pat him and let him go. “You don't know if you won't be the next target.”

He gasps. “Yes, yes… I have men guarding me,” he says to comfort himself, “And I really am placing my faith in your hands. For Milena… thank you, detective…”

As you watch Anastasya usher him to rest, you promise yourself you will work your hardest to earn that need permit to question Flins. Flins will be questioned again—properly this time—and you’ll make sure of it.

Right as you're about to enter the grounds of the scraggly city, your hurried stride is interrupted. “Excuse me, detective…!”

Hearing your name, you turn around, finding a young boy with a notepad jogging towards you. “Yes?” you ask tentatively, already anticipating vexing curiosity.

Your thoughts have begun to agglomerate into a dark, heavy cloud on your mind, dense with fragments that refuse to equate into anything coherent. It is hard to entertain anything beyond your primary objective, and so your walk has turned sharp, almost aggressive in its intent. Any interruption now feels like inconvenience and more like intrusion. Especially that it’s not unwise to believe this boy has been following you ever since you left Drogomir’s house—pretty much in character for a journalist. Those that are still children are particularly cunning.

“I’m from the local newspaper, Nasha Express. My name is Anton,” he says, slightly out of breath but bright-eyed. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your case, to, you know, comfort people of Nasha Town.”

You take a proper look at him. Blond. Puny. Yet brimming with a kind of restless energy that seems out of place in the shadow of what he is asking about. Of course. Press. There’s always inquiry, and while you don’t fault people for their interest, not entirely, they have a way of circling the truth like carrion birds, incorrigible when denied. This one is surely asking about the genesis of the murder.

“Well, I can’t promise anything too insightful at the moment. We are still in the middle of an investigation, and sharing certain details prematurely may aid the culprit,” you say in one breath, as if reciting a protocol you know like the back of your hand.

“Of course,” he nods with understanding, “I can only assume it’s nothing rudimentary of work, right?”

“Have you ever heard of someone scattering organs around for fun?” you reply dryly. “It is the sort of thing one encounters only in Inazuman crime novels.”

“N-no…” he falters, blushing at your bluntness, “That’s why everyone is curious. We haven’t seen anything like this for ages. And… we do have many people disappearing. Especially with… Fatui recruitment.”

“I’m pretty sure this murder is not connected to any abduction,” you clarify.

The boy furrows his brows, struggling against a conclusion that refuses to be practical. “Then… why would someone do something like this?”

“Well, you sort of answered your own question—everyone is curious.”

He tilts his head, not quite following.

“That murder became a show rather quickly, did it not?” you sigh. “It’s not hard to imagine that someone might have intended it to become one.”

“So they did it for attention?” he asks, concentrating hard on your words.

“In a way.” Your lips curve slightly, although there is little humor in it. “Which is precisely why I would beseech the citizens of Nod-Krai to restrain themselves from indulging in speculation. Conspiracy has a way of feeding vultures like that.”

“Is that even possible?”

“If they wish to know what truly happened, they have little choice,” you answer, a trace of scorn in your voice. “Now, if that is all—”

“Detective,” young voice stops you in tracks. “Just one more question.”

“Yes?” you acquiesce, turning around.

Anton studies you—no longer with an erratic curiosity of a boy chasing a story, but with something more calculated.

“Have you ever thought of murdering a person yourself? Have you ever killed a person before?”

You go still.

It’s the sort of question that can easily put you at disadvantage, even if the truth is, everyone has thought of killing someone. The thought is universal, it’s only committing the act that’s rare—albeit, not too rare in Teyvat. And life is measured differently by everyone. Some see it as sacred, the mere act of breathing a miracle—yet take it from others without hesitation. Some reduce it to currency, assigning value where it profits them and discarding it where it does not. Others—perhaps the most dangerous—slap moral exceptionalism on murder, so long they’ve committed them in the name of greater good. Maybe even think world demands blood—necessary evil. Wars will always start and end, for people are greedy—maybe inherently. Some have no choice but to kill. Life can have no meaning at all. Reduced to biology function. A system that simply starts and ends.

If you say yes, you look like a psycho. If you say no, you are dishonest. So you settle for a golden medium. “I have thought of killing another person to defend another person. But I have never considered pulling a trigger for my own pleasure.”

You make your exit right after, not waiting for his reaction. Then you hear it and your steps falter.

“Thank you, little detective. It was an interesting answer.” The words land lightly, almost playfully.

You think your ears have to be deceiving you. Did Flins send you after me? is what you almost ask but stop yourself. “Little?” you whip your head around with a question. The boy doesn’t answer, already running away.

You’ve gotten yourself involved with a rather curious trio. The commander, the doer, and the jester. They have their respective names, yet your mind refuses to retain them in that form; instead, they settle into categorized by you functions. You find yourself wondering where Milena would have belonged among them—or whether she had floated between roles, adjusting herself to fit whatever shape was required of her. Perhaps she had been simply desperate enough to remain close to them, as you don’t like her friends at all. Their appearances don’t matter to you either. You focus on the look in their eyes: demanding, pliant, and amused—expression that do not waver, fixed deeper than bone marrow, immune to circumstance.

People's filth begins to encroach your mind, with persistence that unsettles you. Milena’s friends present only simulacrum of humility, feeling constructed. At first glance, they appear saddened, yet there is a dissonance beneath it, misalignment between what is shown and what is felt. Nonetheless, you attempt to dismiss it for now, to instead focus on the matter at hand—gathering information.

You sit across from them in a coffee shop Milena loved to visit. Everything is supposedly comforting: beige walls without any holes in them, a fireplace that keeps the place warm, and red carpet that pronounces their shiny shoes. The coffee, you note, is expensive—another proof of the world Milena once lived in.

“Has Milena been acting strange before the last time you saw her?” you ask, repeating the same question you posed to her father. Answers tend to shift depending on the listener; friends, after all, are often entrusted with truths that never reach family

“She’s been giddy…” says the jester, tracing with the rim of their cup, their tone light and almost entertained.

“Giddy? Do you know the reason?” you lean over the table, your voice turning intimate.

“She liked that weirdo,” the commander answers, “Although, I suppose, he is somewhat handsome… chivalrous even… enough for even someone like Milena lose her mind over,” the commander says. “‘You know, a different status.”

“Flins, you mean?” you ask.

They all nod.

“Did any of you meet him personally?”

“I saw him from afar…” the jester replies. “He has a… certain posture. Surprisingly, very eloquent.”

“Did she have feelings for him?” you cannot help but wonder.

“She denied that when we asked…” the doer tears up at the thought, their voice shaky. “But whatever it was… she seemed happy. Truly happy, for the first time in a long time. Why couldn’t we make her feel that way too…?”

“Don’t be a crybaby,” the commander cuts in abruptly, and the doer immediately apologizes, shrinking into themselves with shame. The jester only observes.

“Don’t torment yourself,” you say instead, as nice as you can. “If she was your friend, I’m sure she valued your presence as well.”

You find yourself thinking that the doer frustratingly lacks a certain resistance. Unless… that is what sustains their and the commander’s arrangement—symbiosis, disguised as companionship, where the doer has a place without having to face the world on their own.

“Thank you, detective,” they murmur.

You stir your coffee slowly, and feel the trio’s attention on you, mostly expectant, as if awaiting the next source of stimulation.

There is vultures everywhere these days.

“Say, earlier, you mentioned she likes traveling? Where was the last place she visited.”

“Oh, you know, she went here and there…” the commander says listlessly. “Probably somewhere interesting.” So they don’t really know.

“What was she like, anyway?” you try another question, squirming in your seat from irritation.

“She was… kind,” the doer answers immediately. “Helpful. And her smile, wow, so bright! Like the sun. She was always there for us, for me,” the doer says fondly. “Always so inquisitive.”

No pejorative terms, at least. It seems many people loved Milena, despite the bad word spoken about her by strangers.

“And helpful,” the commander repeats the doer’s words, as though to reinforce the statement with their own claim. “What a plight her death is, truly… we won't be able to attend those charity events again.”

You drop your teaspoon. “Charity events?” Your mind reels from the topic change.

“Yes,” they shrug. “The cause matters, obviously, but many attend for the gathering itself. Milena always ensured we were invited.”

You pause, feeling your throat tighten. “Is that… what concerns you the most?”

“N-no, of course not!” the commander responds quickly. “We simply had plans—events we were meant to attend together. It is only now we realize she will no longer be there with us, for us…” They hesitate again. “How unfortunate…” The jester lets out a quiet laugh.

“I see,” you acknowledge, your tone cooling, “Thank you. That will be all.”

It’s the third day of the investigation led by you. Milena’s murderer seems to run a strict schedule.

What’s found next is… her stomach. Placed with the same audacity as before, in the very coffee shop you visited only yesterday. There is a certain irony to it that does not escape you—that her remains seem to follow you, appearing where you have just been, as though the killer trains not only her memory, but your steps well. For now, you dismiss it as coincidence. These are still places tied to Milena first and foremost.

Her stomach that no longer can consume, inert and stripped of all purpose. It will no longer consume, process, or indulge. Gluttony and consuming obsession have been excised from her entirely. The stomach is not simply an organ of excess—it’s also about necessity, survival, breaking down the world into something the body can endure. Her indulgence was condemned, so was fuel harvests and meat a body renders into another form of life. Perhaps the killer deemed her greedy, for the craving of what only few can have, for all these extravagant meals especially. Or maybe they turned her into a real prey, with no stomach acid to wash them down. Maybe they’re hungry themselves. Hungry for more than food.

At the morgue, you inquire about Milena’s state once more. When the doctor slides her body from the cooler and you are met with the same unchanging visage, you cannot help help the quiet gasp that escape you. She looks untouched by death as always. No progression, no surrender to the natural process, and you were just told that the doctor conducted an additional experiment—leaving her in the warmer room for hours—just in case truly nothing happens. The theory of some foreign interference, unnatural preservative, gains your respect again.

After the quick run, you end up climbing that damn Piramida city where Ratniki make their place, steeling yourself for an unpleasant meeting. You approach Kyryll’s superior, after a few others tried to stop you, knowing an explosive collision is bound to happen again.

“Oh… it’s you.” Nikita, the Starshyna of the Lightkeepers, does not bother to disguise the distaste that appears beneath his dark mustache as he recognizes you.

In retrospect, it’s rater amusing, that you have never had the (dis)pleasure of meeting Flins through him—proving the latter’s hermit lifestyle. Although, you heard he’s quite a storyteller, admired for it.

“I see you've been informed about my interest already, Sir Nikita,” you greet with a wry smile. There’s just something invigorating about being being dislikes so thoroughly, it can have your blood pumping—perhaps it’s that they already made assumptions, only to be surprised when you show them it’s been merely the tip of the iceberg called you. “How is Illuga faring?”

Nikita doesn’t stand up from his desk to greet you, nor does he offer to shake your hand; instead, he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms—gruff. You, in turn, make yourself comfortable against the wall of his office, uninvited yet unbothered.

“Listen,” he begins, rubbing his face with a weariness that’s here even if it’s just morning, “I’ll make this clear from outset—anything pertaining to flins and that dead woman’s case remains within the confines of our duty.”

“You’re withholding information from a heartbroken father who has just lost his daughter,” you counter bluntly, idly swinging the bag at your side, “much like he lost his wife years prior.”

He doesn't budge, as if anticipating such antics from the infamous detective. A certain reputation precedes you, as always. “I know well of your kind,” Nikita chides, “You care for coin and amusement. Your glibness makes a mockery of matters that require restraint. The man’s well-being is not your concern, is it?”

Under different circumstances, you might have laughed—there is, after all, a sprinkle of truth somewhere within that accusation. But today, for once, you don’t find it amusing—not when the case has begun to root itself beneath your skin. “It is not about me, nor about you,” you say sharply as you point at him, “How exactly is Drogomir meant to find his daughter’s killer otherwise? Or do you not intend to question Flins at all? Are you investigation, or are you protecting him?

It works out for you a little. Nikita’s eye twitches, and he's itching with a sudden need to defend himself underneath discipline. “Protect him?” he scoffs. “The Lightkeepers exist to protect others. At the cost of their own lives, and for the compensation that scarcely reflects it. Flins is no exception.” He shakes his head. “Have you seen the conditions he lives in?”

“There’s always a black sheep in some vacuum,” you oppose and step closer to his desk. “People playing a Johnny-on-the-spot are not a rarity.”

His anger grows. “Flins might be peculiar at times, but he is no murderer—”

“I never claimed he was,” you interrupt, watching him turn dumbfounded, “Nor did I suggest that his eccentricity makes him suspicious. That assumption was entirely on your own.” You let your words sink in. “My concern is simple. He was present at the scene. He fled. That warrants questions.”

Nikita’s mouth opens, then closes again, his argument disappearing. Your berating seemingly embarrasses him, as you are right it’s him who immediately assumed Flins is being seen as a murderer—he is used to people finding his man shady.

“I am not here to arrest him. I don’t even have enough legal power to do that,” you continue, “I am asking for permission to question him. Not whether he killed Milena—but whether he saw anything of importance.”

“It's still a part of our investigation that’s ongoing,” he argues a little bit more, but now, he’s thinner in confidence.

Exhaling through your nose, you take a walk in front of his desk. Nothing in this case is proceeding copacetic so far.

“An investigation from which you excluded the victim’s own family,” you point out with a sigh. “If you don't want people start questioning your good deeds, or The Guild breathing down your neck, you would do well to demonstrate your openness. Before some Snezhnayan diplomats will storm into the crime scene, to restore the disrupted trading route—that is, if they aren’t coming here already. Those who station here are already gossiping.”

He suddenly realizes that you must be right—for once, there is something he can agree with you on. News spread fast, and if the father will tell others about the Lightkeepers withholding information from him…

“If it helps you to be at more ease,” you add, almost conciliatory, “I can question him in front of you. No hidden agenda will slip past you, hm?” It’s really for your safety. You don’t trust Flins enough to be alone with him, and he’s also no yes-man. But you will certainly not let him bog you down in your process of discovering the truth.

“I’d much rather speak to the Guild directly—” his gaze flies to your bag at your side. “Hold on, what’s in that bag?” It is just now he starts noticing the stench emitting from it.

You smile. “Oh, this?” you lift it, “One of Milena’s organs. I’m delivering it to the morgue after it was found in the town. Your office just happened to be on the way. Do you want to take a gander?”

Of course it’s not her organ. It’s your dinner. The morgue is not even this direction, and her stomach is already secured. But the first sounds funnier, and knowing you, and with his nose overwhelmed by the putrid smell, he doesn't question the validity of your words.

Nikita turns green. You’re horrifying and disrespectful. “Tomorrow, eight in the morning sharp. Now, leave this office this instant!” he barks, throwing himself up to open the window.

When the day of set meeting comes, fourth, another organ is found—Milena’s uterus, withing the premises of the school she once attended. Of all the gestures thus far, this one gives you chills in a manner far more insidious. It is not merely the violence of the act, but the implication of what is being said. Some would reduce a woman to singular function of bearing life. And yet, even within that fertility, there is something worth grieving. Perhaps Milena did want children. Perhaps she envisioned a future not dictated by her father’s shadow, nor the expectations of others. That too, has been stolen. But uterus is not solely a vessel for birth. It is creation in its most cyclical, most enduring form—a testament to persistence, to pain endured and survived in silence, a body that renews itself even as it suffers. It is vulnerable, yes, but oh so resilient. For the killer, perhaps, it’s only about any type of creation, especially with someone whose mind was so bright and promising.

With the organ safely transported to the morgue, another piece to restore the art piece her body is, you return to your own office.

You are currently being reminded just how verbose people can get. You have gained the permission to interrogate Flins, but not to search his lighthouse—Ratniki’s property. What if he hid some substance here? Not that it matter much—should he be guilty, he would have long since ensured nothing remains to be found. A man like him does not leave loose threads. Nikita brought Flins to your tiny office, as per his promise. You immediately noticed how the suspect does not look worried, but rather… amused. No, amused is an ineffectual word. He’s like a child exploring a new environment. And your office hardly deserves such fascination.

A rented attic above one of the Guild’s checkpoints, dim when there’s no windows for light to enter—some items are photosensitive, with mismatched furniture you have accumulated over time to your whim. It’s all practicality—tools of all manner arranged randomly, each somehow useful. In the center, your heavy desk stands, bearing the brunt of your labor.

The chair across it awaits to be warmed by Flins, yet he’s choosing to be a busybody to your equipment displayed on the shelves instead... As if the dead woman back in the morgue can wait a bit longer. Your jaw tightens. She of course won't move anywhere, but any delay in solving the case invites unforeseen contingencies.

Your office stores a plethora of tools, not limited to one specialization—anything could come in handy for you one day. Amid those more dull ones, rests a small balance scale, copper bowls weighing it down on the both sides—he takes great interest in this one.

“Tipping the scales—did you know that’s how they conclude justice in Fontaine? I find it to be—” “Mr. Flins, please don't touch that scale,” you interrupt his antics sharply—as well the unwarranted lecture on the foreign law to be spouted by the loquacious man.

“Oh,” his mouth forms nearly a petulant line at your denial, “Does this scale serve a decorative purpose?” his finger hovers, then presses. Consequently, there's a pressure strong enough to be weighing one of the bowls down. Anxious, you stand up from your chair, reaching with your hand to stop him.

“No. But it’s been calibrated and any indelicate touch will sabotage that setting,” you scold. “Please leave it alone.”

“Hm... but a scale is meant to handle a load..” he frowns, pressing on it again.

“It has a weight limit,” you deadpan. “And you’re about to exceed it with your hand.”

Push it down too hard and the modules inside will shift their assumed shape; you need your scale to be as precise as possible, down to milligrams.

He pauses, as though considering this sincerely. “I see,” Flins acknowledges with an exaggerated politeness. “That makes perfect sense.”

“Yes, so…” you sit back down, thinking the crisis’s over.

But of course, he “accidentally” presses his hand on one of the bowls, when standing up from his crouching position. Your breath hitches, stunned. “Oh,” he says again, as though surprised at his own mistake, “my apologies. I fear I misjudged its sensitivity. Though I believe I saw a similar device once in a souvenir shop in passing. It functioned quite well, if memory serves. Tarno’s establishment is where I purchase my gems. My collection is constantly expanding; in fact—”

You can tell he’s been testing you rather than being arbitrarily disrespectful; gauging how easy it is to provoke you, even though he's the one to be interrogated. What makes you crack. You cannot tell why. Nonetheless, you tuck the mention of the gems to the back of your head—if he owns them, then what about porcelain boxes?

“Would you please sit down,” you point at the chair in front of your desk, sighing with exasperation he probably wanted, but… “Your tea is becoming cold,” that's your workaround excuse.

It works out for you, thankfully. “Ah, yes. Where are my manners,” he concedes, stepping away from the shelf as if nothing happen. “I must be talking your ear off.” He takes the seat—finally. He greets you properly, at last, smiling, “So we meet again, dear detective. I do hope I can be the best of help for you.”

While there finally was an earnest recognition of the weight of the situation, you can still sense that he, in his own Flins way, is happy to see you—quite an aberration, considering the circumstances. Something warm, yet misplaced. You have encountered obsession before—aspiring minds enthralled by the romance of deduction, having read too many middling novels—(well, you did too, but with a bit of skepticism.) Flins seems like a bigger evil than those dilettantes. He also has a rather noble speech and mannerism, counterintuitive for a regular soldier—and you assume Nikita knows a little more about his background.

“That we do,” you say, your tone clipped. “I’m glad to see you willing to cooperate.”

He’s not shaken by your phlegmatic attitude. “Of course. It is only proper to assist in bringing a grieving father some measure of peace… should it come to pass.” So archaic.

“Right, your boss…” you remember, with displeasure. “He is not with you? I thought he wanted to be present during your… interrogation.”

Kyryll shakes his head. “He was otherwise detained. It would seem he places his trust in you. You must have made quite the impression,” his voice carries a ring of amusement. A good impression. He probably knows about your brazen show.

You don’t entertain his mention. Instead, you gesture toward the untouched plate before him. The medovik he brought as a gift sits untouched—honey and walnut that can make anyone's mouth water. Only that you don’t trust him enough to eat his food. You offered to share therefore—especially that sugar loosens tongue, and you could use him being drowsy.

“You're not eating? Are you allergic to any of the ingredients?”

“No, nothing of the sort,” he waves his hand. “I like to maintain a healthy discipline. Healthy body, healthy spirit.”

“And yet you frequent taverns?” you ask skeptically. From what you’ve been told by others, he was a regular comer, too.

“A glass of red wine is often recommended,” he replies, unperturbed. “It gladdens the liver.”

You wiggle at the liver mention. He notices, still smiling. “Very well,” you force the conversation forwards, “I’ll try to keep it brief,” you say curtly. “Can you confirm that you were near The Flagship at approximately four thirty in the morning?”

“Yes,” Flins says with no qualms. Quite cooperative. “A rather customary hour to depart such established. The air, just before sunrise, the breeze—they are very pleasant and bring clarity,” he says with pleasure in his sigh, as if he’s right there in the ambience.

“Then, can you tell me what exactly where you doing here, around that time?”

“Drinking. Conversing. Enjoying myself one does in such places. There's this brand of wine I particularly enjoy… delivered straight from Mondstadt. The nation of freedom, yet not—”

“Mhm,” you say with boredom, “Is there anyone that can vouch for you and confirm that you were there?” you ask impatiently. Your pulse is spiked, drumming against your neck, and this room is so hot.

You seriously can’t tell what it is about this Ratnik that plays on your nerves; you’re not used to losing your cool… At least, to this extent. And yet, he keeps nudging you toward it, making you something uncomfortably close to a foil character in your own investigation.

Perhaps it's the way he constantly looks as if he knows something you don't—and is self-indulgently holding it out of your reach. Not the first person to do so, but only few ever manage to introduce real uncertainty—others were mostly cocky, loud with confidence they would never substantiate, brittle when tested. It’s almost like encountering that one person that bothers you for no tangible and sensible reason, yet insists on occupying your mind, isolating you from the broader group that perceives them differently.

“Yes. I was conversing with Demyan. You recognize him, yes?”

“Yes. The bartender of the Flagship.” That’d give him some alibi, if he factually has a witness. You hate that. “Did you leave the tavern at any point during the night?”

If he were to be a killer, perhaps he would first deposit the body before entering, to linger for a few hours as though seeking closure, and then, on his way out, be unable to not take a final glance at his work—confirming that reality had complied with his intension. It’s not as if someone was babysitting Flins and keeping an eye on him, an adult. It was difficult for the doctor Daroslav to precisely ascertain how long the body had remained there, given the artificially slowed progression of decomposition, which distorted any correct estimation of time of death. Still, you assume Flins would have sufficient time to soak in the atmosphere.

“No,” he replies simply, his eyes glinting with mischief. Your pulse rises, and you rake desk with your nails.

“Not even briefly?” “Precisely.”

“What time did you arrive?” You move in your chair, squeaking it on purpose. He doesn't budge.

“About midnight.”

“When you finally left, at… four thirty?” “Yes, four thirty.”

The tension between you two escalates. While your grows, so does his interest, and yet, he keeps his posture in chair impeccable. It’s really the tiny twitches of his lips and his eyes appealing less dull that allow you to know Flins isn’t a lifeless machine.

“Then why,” you ask irritably, leaning forwards just slightly, “were you seen hugging the crates outside The Flagship, hiding behind them?”

“You see…” his tone shifts into a… flustered tone. “When I spoke of my fondness for that particular wine… I did not exaggerate.”

You furrow your brows, unsure what he’s getting at. “What about it? Was it the wine in the crates?”

“For a fleeting moment, I entertained the notion of appropriating a bottle for myself,” he admits as if ashamed, from the fall of his blue hair. “An unseemly impulse, brought on by indulgence. But I did not act upon it. The moment I realized I had been observed, I abandoned the idea entirely.”

You stare at him. “You… tried to steal wine.” The absurdity of his claim hangs between you. Flins has never admitted to killing Milena, nor has he been troubled by the thought of doing so; yet he acts culpable about stealing a bottle of wine.

“Yes,” his smile turns embarrassed, however, I am no thief. It was a result of… inebriety. A most undignified act of mine.”

“And this occurred minutes before Milena’s body was discovered.” “Yes.”

You watch carefully, dissecting the way he scratches his cheek and chuckles nervously. A perfect actor. At least, the levity finally recedes. Flins dons on some seriousness, straightening his posture that already left little room to complain. “I understand I may have appeared… flippant,” he says politely, “It was not my intent to diminish the gravity of the matter. Rather… it is simply how I navigate such… disquieting circumstances.” Now he claims it to be a coping mechanism. Being mature. Interesting. It doesn’t last for too long, as something… warmer enters his gaze—meant for you, and the way you passionately inspect him. Disgusting.

You take a route of being blunt, as your last resource to derive truth from him. No pretense. “Mr, Flins,” you begin firmly, “it is entirely plausible that many were still drinking at that hour. I am not disputing that. Wrong place, wrong time. However, you must understand—you were seen emerging from the very same secluded crevice where Milena was discovered merely seven minutes later or so.” Your gaze sharpens, pinning him in place. “She may have been here for some time already. That alone suggests you could have been the first to encounter her body. An entire group witnessed you, no one else that wasn’t simply passing by was noted. And as it happens, you knew her personally. Of course,” you pause, gathering your breath, “it could be as your claim. A moment of stupid drunk decision. But…” you trail off.

“Yes…” he hums softly, fingers resting against his chin as though weighing your words on your own scale. “I suppose that would make me… a most convenient suspect.” Yet his gaze doesn’t waver, penetrating you—staring at you like a picture, enough to make your heart race in a different way with how captivated it is. “However, I did not see any body.”

“What? Why are you staring at me?” He’s making this entire interrogation cumbersome, yet you still take the bait. Your hand lifts to your cheeks, instinctively. “Do I have something on my face?” you ask with both irritation and fluster.

“No.”

Is he trying to derail you? “Then enlighten me.”

"Your eyes,” he murmurs, “they take on a certain… luminosity when you pursue an answer. It is quite phenomenal,” he praises. “One might almost forget the grimness of the subject, watching you think.”

You stare at him with bemusement, though your stomach twists in a surprising way, not entirely immune to his silver words. Whatever glow you might have, it’s irrelevant at the moment!

"Thank you?” you say with a gulp.

"You are most welcome,” he replies with a chuckle following, as if he has been granted something precious.

“Anyway,” you grab the cake for yourself, more out of displaced agitation than hunger. You miss his satisfaction. “You knew her personally,” you finally go back on track, now pushing away your prejudice against him. “Tell me about it.”

Flins observes you with particular attentiveness as you take that first bite, as if the simple act was bringing him pleasure too. “She was a frequent visitor to the island I inhabit,” he begins at last, his tone softening into something intimate.

“For what purpose?” you ask with intrigue.

“At first, it was curiosity… She has heard the usual tales about the cemetery—a place of fog and unrest, of ghosts that refuse to be forgotten. Such stories tend to attract certain groups...” He’s getting distracted by you, taking longer pauses between his statements. “There’s some people that occasionally wander into that territory, enticed by the idea of something unexpected happening. Yet upon discovering that the reality of my living consists of merely… humble existence, her interest shifted into some kind of pity.” He wets his lips. “She began to insist on bringing me provision, or tidying up some neglect. A funny notion, considering that the son of Starshyna Nikita, Young Master Illuga, has already thought of doing the same.”

Two people caring about him, as if he’s some man in need and not a walking trouble. Did he manipulate them, or does he seriously read as someone poor to these two? He is still making himself to appear an outcast, after all. To be able to infer, you’ll have to ask Illuga yourself later.

“And during these visits, Mr. Flins, ” you lick your teaspoon and he stares at you harder, “did she ever mention anyone troubling her? Did she appear distressed to you?”

“Well... Nothing that would strike me as unusual…” but his words are careful picked as ever, “The usual tribulations of youth—academic burdens, persistence of suitors, the… complexities of familial expectations.”

The last picks up your curiosity the most. Conflicts with a parent could be normal, so they can be an issue downplayed. Drogomir seemed enthusiastic about loving his daughter, but you’ll never the know the half of their real relationship, unless Milena were to rise from dead and tell you herself. You notice the way he lets his words settle, like bait cast into your waters.

Pushing your face closer to his, you lower your voice. “Can you elaborate on what exactly they were arguing about?” the attempt to hide your excitement does not go unnoticed by him.

You still cannot clarify and say it’s Drogomir who killed his daughter, and not possibly the Ratnik trying to throw the shady light at him, yet there’s something worth exploring in this providential offer, as you find each clue to be a prompt for gambling with fate, seeing if it’ll offer anything real good this time. If anything, both sides have been attempting to blame each other.

The recipient languidly stirs his tea, doing the same to your emotions as he knows well your patience is running thin, before he puts on a worried look. “You see… I had reason to believe that Miss Milena… may have… developed certain… feelings towards me,” he says carefully.

He chuckles at your look of disbelief. Milena wanting… him? Although, it cannot be said he’s unattractive, her father told you she was scared of him—sometimes.

“Her father,” he continues, “appeared to arrive at a similar conclusion. I was informed, through her, that he wanted our meetings to cease.”

“Why? Does he dislike you?” you ask with a shake of your head, expelling the cursed thought of Flins being your own love interest.

“This is beyond dispute,” he snickers, “Sir Drogomir maintains rather… exacting standards regarding those he deems worthy of his daughter. And I—,” he nods at himself, mocking his humility, “am but a humble Ratnik, living in a dilapidated lighthouse.”

Humble is the last word you’d use to describe Flins. “Did he ever get physical with her? Has she mentioned ever feeling unsafe with him?” you plant your hands against the desk, leaning forward again.

“To be honest with you…” he says quietly as if it’s a secret between you two, “I believe she implied a certain… possessiveness. A sense of obligation beyond filial devotion. She spoke often of her duty to remain by her ‘papa’s side, so he is not left alone.” He looks around your office in thought, his gaze hanging on an empty bird cage, “Yet there was hesitation in her confessions. Unease. As if the choice were not entirely her own.”

A father being possessive of his daughter certainly could be a motive; if she were to insist enough on leaving his nest, finally shaping the independent boundary, he could take on the mindset of “it’s me or no one.” The approach to her killing would be reverent if he still loves her despite deriving her of life. Old Drogomir really is lonely; if anything, he stubbornly froze himself in the old times’ prime, vicariously fantasizing through what used to be.

It’s amazing how selfish some parents can be. Growing a smaller version of themselves, frustrated when they tread their individual paths. Using children as a pawn to their loneliness, or recalling what the sacrifice they committed as though it grants them eternal claim. Reclaiming their rights when things don’t go as planned—calling their children ungrateful even. Tale as old as time. Instilling fear trough protectiveness is also another possibility. To raise a life, only to refuse it its own. It is not always malice-driven, but neither is it innocent.

“Detective?” Flins gently waves his hand in front of you, pulling you back from the recesses of your head.

“There could be guilt involved, yeah,” you blurt out. “But we need more than implication. Every family faces some kind of struggle. It’s not much, unless he’s been actually abusive with her,” you set the dish aside, brushing your thumb absently over your lip.

Flins eyes them, lingering here.

“I suppose she offered nothing more substantial,” he continues, although his voice has a faint distraction, “only the persistence to remain by his side. She was inclined to take upon herself the greater share of responsibility in many things. That girl…” a small shake of his head, almost disapproving, almost fond. “So accommodating. To a fault.”

For once, you let him ramble. "Go on.”

“One time comes to mind,” he says, setting back against the chair that the light above him halos him with something creepy, “She abandoned her exams after receiving a letter from her father that suggested grave sickness, though with reassurances that a physician was present.” He purses his lips, looking intensely at you so you don’t dare to avoid him. “She rushed to him regardless, only to discover it was no more than a common flu. A dramatization, nothing more.”

The more you hear Flins blabber and feel a bloom of headache behind your eyes, the more you believe Drogomir might—with emphasis on might—have some possessive issues. The event showcased is worth looking into. Unless it was actually one of the prescient event.

“Well,” you drawl, steepling your hands, “Loneliness can make some parents… inventive. Not always maliciously, although it does complicate things.” You stare back, challenging him. “Instead, I will ask you this—you say her father was aware of her supposed feelings for you?”

“Yes.”

You hum with interest. “Did he ever initiate contact?”

“Not directly,” he taps your desk. “Instead, I received a very lengthy letter, written by him. Ardently speaking about his dissatisfaction with me.”

Your mouth pops open. Drogomir told you he heard of Flins, but not about any attempt to contact. “And you’re telling me this just now?”

“Yes, but I replied accordingly to the question which was about her relationship with him, not my with him, nor our vendetta,” he says innocently.

You take a deep breath, one worth many regular ones. “What was in that letter exactly? Were there any threats?” You don't like throwing many questions at once, as they tend to give people an opportunity to fake a correct answer based on what these questions imply. With him, it’s mandatory to not let him omit anything. “In fact, I’d love to see it myself; if you still happen to have it, of course…”

“Yes,” he nods, reaching for his inside pocket. You examine the letter he places right under your nose.

Unraveling it and recognizing Drogomir’s writing, your mind makes connections. This specific line you catch, after reading other cursive speaking about how the possible fiance is undeserving and should stay away:

“[…] I won’t let my precious girl be stained by a grimy man like you! I raised her on my own, I spoiled her, fed her, taught her, made sure she lacks nothing! What can you give her?! She’s mine, my daughter! My child! If you want to keep your job, you better stay away from her! […]”

The rest of the letter is somewhat repetitive, with Drogomir highlighting all the aspects of how his ownership.

“It is certainly something,” you murmur to yourself, humorlessly laughing. “What did you do after?”

“Sir Nikita advised me to discontinue relationship with her. For the sake of avoiding… unnecessary repercussions.”

“And how did she react to your rejection?”

“She was quite sad,” he says gently, “then furious at her father. I had to beseech her to not plead in my case,it would have served neither of us,” Flins says solemnly.

“When was this?” “A week ago.’

“A week— a week ago?” you ask, aghast. The same span given by Tojadski household. If what Flins says is true, it meant Milena must have been alive until at least a week ago—and that some fight might have broken out between her and her father. “Mr. Flins, do you even realize how much this short notice changes things?”

“I would have never considered Sir Drogomir capable of hurting her,” he replies calm as ever, ”so pardon me for having faith in him.”

“This…” you sputter, then sigh, “This isn’t about giving someone benefit of doubt. Your personal feelings don’t matter in the investigation,” you reproach him for his secrecy.

He only blinks at you, as if unable to reciprocate your desperation.

“Forget it. I’ll deal with you later,” You now know the father’s passion for making sure his daughter stays alone is nothing to ignore. “You haven’t heard from her since then, until she was found dead?”

He shakes his head.

Back to the old man, then. “Thank you for today, Mr. Flins.”

“Oh,” he frowns. “Our meeting is concluding?”

You nod.

“Very well.” He stands up, and extends his hand like he did last time. Wanting him gone already, you are ready to shake his hand—only for him to lift it to his lip and press a kiss.

Your heart stills. “What are you—”

“Expressing my gratitude and respect,” he says fondly, looking at you from under his lashes.

He knows how to mess with your head, always throwing something unexpected at you. You yank your hand back before quickly approaching the door which then you shove open. Wordlessly, he follows and thankfully leaves. But the erratic rhythm of your heart does not.

“But… you went through her things and found nothing … why again?'“ You can tell Milena’s father is nervous about your unsolicited visit, something he couldn’t have steeled himself for. You want to believe it is nothing more than a man guarding a shrine—his late daughter’s room, meant to stay untouched, as if she still lived here. Yet your suspicions, newly seeded by Flins, do not allow leniency.

With a reassuring hand on his shoulder, you speak calmly, “Routine checkup. Some things are not obvious the first time… only incremental inspections can help us find something less obvious.” You could press him further, corner him with deeper questions, but it’s too early for that. To accuse him outright would be to provoke a man with means enough to vanish, and a mind too brittle to endure pressure without additional fracture. He lost weight and went even grayer.

“Well… I don't think there’s anything interesting left…” he argues defensively.

You’ll decide that for yourself. It's hard to believe a man at the brink of losing his sanity anyway. “Is there something you believe could be missing?” you press on further.

“No.. I don’t think so,” he shakes his head fervently.

You sigh. Then an idea strikes you. “Did your daughter possess a diary of kind?” Many women do. And Milena, burdened by expectations, strikes you as one who especially would confide in ink. She was smart enough to hide it, from her father capable of trespassing.

Perhaps Drogomir did that, judging by the sudden panic arising in his eyes. “A diary?” he stutters. “I mean… she probably did like any young lady, but I wouldn’t know where she kept it… she was a clever girl…”

“Please don’t lie to me,” you say bluntly, watching his breath hitch in response.

Drogomir gulps and shakes his head again, rebuking any accusations. He wipes his sweaty hands. “N-no, I assure you, I don’t know its location. Please try to find it in her room, maybe she hid somewhere, how would you even not know if I had taken it?! You’re the detective here, not me!”

You decide to play his ally for now, taking on a decile intonation. “Mr. Tojadski, I’m not accusing you of anything. The diary might shed some light on your daughter and Sir Flins’s relationship. I already know your own relationship with her was… strained, but I understand you didn’t want to lose her.”

Your words visibly relax Drogomir, his shoulder sagging. “Right! This Flins… he’s up to no good. He is no good at all! Are you saying you suspect he might have killed her?” He’s happy to shift the narrative and make him the perpetuator again.

You smile. “We’re destined to see the truth. So, you say you don't have that diary?”

He exhales deeply, eyes darting in hesitance to tell you. “No… but! I’m really not a bad man! The truth is, I did want to keep some sake after her to myself. A memento. I wanted to take it for myself. But I couldn’t find it. I don’t wish to make your investigation any more difficult. So I’m telling you the truth. I swear, I don’t know where it is,’ he trips over his own words.

You nod sympathies. “Of course. I understand. That’s what any loving father would do—preserve something of his daughter,” you agree, all sycophantic.

He clings to that, nodding and nodding until his head might fall, slowly forgetting your implications.

You resume your search therefore, lifting digging underneath Milena’s mattress. Her room could belong to the one of princess—floor to ceiling pink curtains, a spacious bed with canopy, heavy wardrobe, and silk rugs muffling every step.

“She misunderstood,” he says, panting above your shoulder. You pause. “Misunderstood what?” you ask, a little bit squeamish from his closeness. “She misunderstood…” he rambles to himself. Barely anchored in presence with you. And then, he collapses.

The man suddenly sinks down to his knees, clutching to your legs with broken sobs, more terror than grief. “I mean it! She must have hidden it, I really didn’t hide anything! I didn’t hurt her! I’m not dastardly!”

Look at him. A wrack of the man, saturated with grief, looking for the last source of comfort and hope. Yet there is nothing left to grip, and so he must succumb. If he is the murderer, the guilt must have set him insane. The dichotomy of guilt and brutality, in which affection meant to be warm, would be a catalyst to relinquish object of possession with mercilessness. A blade and hand can easily end life in an instant, so does possessiveness, only so so slowly, drip by drip drilling tracks in a stone. One may commit atrocity and weep over it in same breath, as terrifying it is.

In the end, you end up calling his maid for help. Drogomir is becoming delirious, the more the killer taunts with days. You wouldn’t blame any father for grieving this awful level, setting you back with your suspicions.

He could have killed her all right, that much remains true. But the precision, the ritual, the almost reverent disassembly—it does not belong to trembling hands such as his. Not alone, at the very least. What if Milena’s murder was not the work of a single individual? There’s so many discrepancies in the entire affair. That makes you realize you must be missing a crucial point. With Milena’s diary as a possible source of truth, you hope to discover it soon. It may speak where the dead cannot.

On your way to the Voynich Guild’s archives, you stop by the morgue where Milena's body rests. Nothing has changed. Not a shade, not a slackening of tissue. Her idiopathic condition has been keeping you awake at night, haunting you with her ghost—or the rare naps you manage to catch, as you barely sleep.

You’ve asked around about the theoretical drug organ traffickers use. What little you unearthed was nebulous at best. A broker named Valethi spoke in half-truths, mere rumors, hinting at a compound whispered among those affiliated with The Fatui. Except, there’s no proof or evidence. And if you were to dig yourself, you suspect there would be no one to save you. So you turn to what, for now, is achievable—the archives.

It is just now that you find time to browse through the Voynich Guild’s archives. It does not encourage comfort. You sneeze more than you read, irritation prickling at your eyes as you sit into one of the sparse chairs. Metal shelves stretch endlessly, swallowing the place whole. No windows, no warmth, only paper blurring at the edges, storing past.

Digging into the past, it seems Nod-Krai had its fair share of serial killers—who wouldn’t take their sweet chance, in an autonomous land like this? Men and women alike, who carved their names into history. Brutal. Scared. Stupid. Genius. But nothing matching the paradigm of Milena’s murder—removed organs, or purposely slowed decomposition, meticulous work… all these articles talk about rather a messy work in comparison—sadistic and panicked especially. Nothing to earn this person a title of serial.

“You are causing quite a sensation in Nod Krai, detective.”

People really like scaring you these days. And you are growing rusty, for you jump in your seat and scrape the floor in result. “Illuga,” you exhale with surprise and annoyance, seeing the Ratnik you were supposed to find yet had no time for.

“I thought I might find you here,” he says, stepping closer, “Old pops told me you were looking for me. Something about Mr. Flins. But you’ve been difficult to catch.” With no spare chair, he perches on the edge of your table, glancing over the scattered documents with curiosity.

“Oh, right,” you mutter, rubbing your forehead. “I meant to find you. Got… distracted along the journey.”

Illuga’s expression turns more disapproving that judging, as he’s a bit worried about your sorry state. “You look like you haven’t slept,” he remarks, crossing his arms. “That’s not going to help you see things clearer.”

“I see enough,” yu wave him off, though the edge in your voice lacks its usual bite. “Anyway. Since you’re here, it saves me the trouble.”

He nods once. “Go on, then. What do you need?”

“Well, my questions were mainly about you helping Flins. He said you visit him regularly,” you look back at the papers, deciding to multitask.

“I do,” Illuga confirms, “Mostly delivering supplies. Food. Sometimes food.” He rubs his face too, and you wonder just how often Flins troubles him. “I still don’t understand how he manages out there on his own.

“Does he even eat?” you joke dryly.

“He does. Just not too much.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth.

Flins and his quirks. Then there’s that lantern… Lightkeepers are expected to carry one, yet his is like no other.

“How does he maintain his weight then,” you mutter. “He’s not exactly frail.”

“I dunno. All that wine probably,” Illuga laughs quietly.

You huff. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Two weeks ago. I usually drop enough to last for a month,” he says, swinging his legs.

“Hm, and during that visit, did he behave in any odd way?”

Illuga tilts his head, considering. “Nothing beyond what you’d already call usual foor him.” Which is to say—everything and nothing.

Seeing no promising results, you push the archives aside, shifting your chair to look at Illuga properly. “What do you think of him?”

“He’s strange,” he admits plainly. “Likes to push people. Observe their facial contortions,” he pauses, smiling modestly, “But he’s also pulled me out of trouble more than once. Others too. There is many who owe him for saving their lives.” He brushes his pants, as if fondling a precious memory. “He’s no evil,” he adds, more firmly. “I know that’s the part you’re clinging to.”

You wonder if Flins really is such, or he paints himself to be. You decide to be blunt with Illuga. “I cannot help but think that Flins of yours is pulling wool over my eyes.”

He adjusts his position, suddenly heaving a very big sigh through his nose. Not irritated… more accustomed to such accusations. “People’s feelings about him tend to be ambivalent,” he starts carefully, “And never does he help them think otherwise. But… he’s not a bad man. I think he’s just…”

“Yeah?”

He glances at you, almost amused in his purple gaze. “I think he likes your attention.”

You blink rapidly, trying to take in his assumption. “Um. Why would he.” You play with your hands, shifting a pen in them.

“He likes things that are not mundane. Especially those with latent potential…” Illuga doesn't want to defend his friend about that part—you can tell—yet he doesn't want to lie to you either.

“So he’s waiting for some sort of spectacle?” you snicker cynically.

“Are you that much better?”

You stiffen. “Excuse me?”

“You're curious about him too. You came all the way here. Dug through all this, even his files.” He gestures vaguely at the papers in front of you. “You chase things other people would rather leave alone.”

“That’s my job!” you say stubbornly.

“Is it?” there’s annoying insistence in his voice. “Or is that just what you tell yourself so it makes sense?”

You frown, your blood boiling. “I’m curious for the sake of investigation.”

Illuga nods as if accepting your words, but not quite believing in them. “And not curious about him as a person? Be honest, how often do you meet enigmatic people like him?”

You don’t answer immediately. He doesn’t press—not that he needs to. The silence does all the work for him.

You click your tongue, breaking it. “So you don’t think he killed Milena?”

“Never.” His hand moves to rest on his chest, as an oath. “Flins might unsettle people, come off as peculiar. But he wouldn’t do something like that.”

You search for cracks in his conviction and find none. “How do you know you’re not biased?” you ask almost desperately. How can you trust Flins to be innocent, seeing all the clues leading to him?

“How do you know you’re not biased yourself? He’s a perfect suspect,” he backtracks bluntly.

You wince. Maybe you are biased somewhat. But there’s just too many coincidences.

“My approach is still multifaceted,” you say defensively. “I consider everyone. Even her father. Maybe it was neither Flins or he and I still don't have a killer. All the evidence I have left is her diary… which I shouldn’t have said but whatever,” you groan and slap the table with frustration.

“Is it lost?” Illuga asks more kindly, understanding your fatigue, knowing well your case isn’t for faint-hearted.

“Something like that.” You stand up and move to gather papers. The conversation already begins to slip from your grasps ass your mind returns to the case “All right. Thank you for your time.”

Illuga slides of the table, stretching his limbs.

You hesitate, then add begrudgingly—“I’ll try to give that Flins a benefit of doubt—but just for you, Illuga.”

His expression softens, not really triumphant. “Don’t do it for my sake,” he says politely. “Do it so you don’t miss something important.” He steps aside, giving you space to pass. “And get some rest, detective,” he adds. “Even the best lantern burns out if you don’t tend the blame.”

You scoff, as if you think you’re no child—but you allow his words to follow you nonetheless.

You had sought only a momentary reprieve before you would move forthwith into the investigation again, as an impulse brought you back to The Flagship, the very locus where it all had begun. To sit here, to breathe the same air the killer might had, to let the atmosphere steep into your senses—as if to reconstruct some events. You attempt to inhabit the moment of death, imagine what others were doing and not doing at the deadly hour in the morning, to approximate its texture, its immediacy, until you can almost taste the fear that must have permeated it. Not that it’s any pleasant here. The stench of vomit and alcohol, the heated air, loud voices, gossip about nothing and everything—

“Detective.” A familiar sound withdraws you from your constant battle within your mind. Unbelievable. That insufferable Ratnik is here, in the same tavern.

You stare at him, already moving in your seat with an intention to block the bench across from you before he could impose himself— Too late. He is already seated.

“Mr. Flins.” Is he seriously not worried, to roam around freely? You can hear people’s whispers and see them pointing fingers. “What are you doing here?”

“Please, Flins will suffice,” he says, all kind, as though this were a simple social call. “I hope it is not intrusion if I join you. I was having a drink myself, until I noticed you on my leave… You appeared… rather lost in thought. I wonder whether I might offer some measure of comfort.”

“Comfort?” you bat your lashes at him with an incredulous perception. “Do I look despondent to you?”

“I am certain even a renowned detective such as yourself is not exempt from moments of frailty. I find myself concerned by your… lassitude.”

Before you can reject that implication and be offended by it, he adds, “Needless to say, such a state would not render you weak. You are merely fatigued. I have been contemplating whether you might benefit from an outside perspective… or perhaps from additional information regarding Miss Milena.”

Like he is any erudite. What can he even know, other than how to stir chaos? You wonder what is it for him, approaching you, then being generous like he's your sidekick. If he is the murderer, this could be reconnaissance—an attempt to gauge progression of your investigation. Yet he does not strike you as careless enough to expose himself so brazenly… unless he considers himself beyond consequence. Or maybe he’s here for pure amusement, prodding at you already so worn out.

The question of the diary burns at the forefront of your mind—but to ask it directly would be to cede ground. “I’m as right as rain,” you deflect, taking a sip of mulled wine. At this point, the heat and alcohol do their best to anchor you, and keep you from slipping into the disarray gnawing at the edged of your head. From these floating cloves in your drink that form into thorns about to pull you down and drown you. “You, however, should not be roaming freely. You are yet to be cleared.”

“And what, pray tell, would I gain from killing my friend?” Flins taps the table lightly; the sound reverberates too loudly in your exhausted ears. It’s not him trying to outsmart or prove you wrong; it’s a rhetoric question.

“She’s your friend,” you counter, voice turning coarse. “A friend I do not see you mourning. Do you even care?” You're not afraid to get uncouth with him at this point. He must think of you as a joke anyway. Just enjoying himself at your expense.

“Of course I do,” Flins reassures with a hand on his chest. “Alas, we weren't that close. I permitted her closeness because she seemed… in need of it. To reject her outright would have been unnecessarily cruel.” He pauses, peering at you with curiosity. “May I ask you something in return.

“What is it?” you scowl.

“Why is it that you believe I murdered Milena?” he asks quietly.

The question hits you deeper than it should. If he were to be the killer, you’d be giving him extra joy, answering this question. Why. Why. Why. Everything is why and nothing is definite. You could construct the answer easily. His composure. His physical strength. His presence at the scene. The precision require. Mental fortitude. He’d never be a butcher, but an arranger.

Maybe the kill was messy because he doesn’t care about killing, wants to get over it, but anticipates the part that comes after. Or maybe he enjoys watching the victim’s reaction, them unable to stop the holy fact they will never take a breath and perceive again. Maybe he’s throwing you off on purpose. Maybe you will never solve your case, damning your entire career. But why make himself known only now and never before? It wouldn’t be his first kill, judging by the killer’s experience.

“I don’t believe you did it,” you answer at last, irritated. “You are a suspect. Nothing more.”

“Is that so?” he raises his brow, smiling knowingly.

“Yes.”

“And yet,” he leans in, lowering his voice to exist only for the two of you, “if you were to imagine me as the perpetrator… what would compel such the other conclusion?”

You shouldn’t entertain this. You really shouldn’t. But words fall freely when you are irked by him, and your defenses are lowered by exhaustion. Or perhaps you’re just another freak like him. “I doubt a murder of this… particular nature is about accomplishment,” you begin, leaning forward despite the short distance from his nose, your eye contact grasping his. Flins’s eyes hood with a tinge of desire. “But if it were you… I imagine it would be to provoke.”

He’s not offended, as his interest is piqued. “Whose?” he asks softly. “The world’s? Nod-Krai’s? Or is it yours?”

“You tell me.”

His hand moves across the table, suddenly grabbing yours. No gloves, pure skin on skin. You freeze.

“I would not wish to inflict unnecessary headaches like that,” he chuckles. “You are already overburdened. It seems you lose yourself rather easily when something… unsettles you.”

He unsettles you. “I'm used to headaches.” You attempt to withdraw as if burned by his touch, but his grip does not relent—it’s not forceful, yet still resolute.

“I still would not take your wellbeing so cavalierly,” he says, as if affectionately, “for you have no one to compel to rest you when you ought to.”

“You don't know me well enough to care about me,” you reply, disgusted by something enamored with you. Some creature, not a human, as he possesses everything you do, everything you say, feel—everywhere you go. This makes him enough evil in your eyes.

“Is kindness towards strangers a bad virtue?” “It is rarely bestowed without motive.”

“My kindness,” he says, thumb idly tracing the faint line of your vine, “is merely a byproduct of clarity. Once you perceive the world as it is, cruelty feels… embarrassingly primitive. Childish, even.”

His words perk you up, giving food for thought. Those are rather surprising words—him speaking against cruelty, rather than being passive as always.

“What does that mean?” you stop struggling for a moment.

“When you truly understand people—truly understand them—there is little impetus to inflict harm. Cruelty reveals itself as a form of ignorance. Kindness becomes the more intelligent response.”

So he thinks of himself as kind?

“And what if cruelty is not not primitive or immature,” you question, calmer now, “but deliberate? A choice made in full awareness?”

“That too,” he concedes lightly, “is part off being human.”

You press further. “Do you believe humans are inherently evil? That they must claw their way out of some intrinsic descent into their own depravity?”

“Who can say?”

You narrow your eyes. Suddenly, no answer? “You said you know me, right?”

“I know of you,” he corrects gently. “Why do you ask?”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “You just seem to like me a lot,” you say with sarcasm, though your gaze betrays a flicker of something less certain as it drops to where your hands remain joined. Speaking heart to heart. His hand is a bit cold yet still warm. Blood rushes underneath, alive like you are. It’s an important reminder that Flins is still another person.

“I am,” he says without hesitation, his grip tightening just slightly. “Immensely curious. The way you pursue truth, the manner in which you dissect the human condition that’s somehow as complicated as alchemy… It is, if I may say, rather exquisite,” he praises genuinely. “Albeit, I must admit—the timing of such fascination may be considered in poor taste.”

“It is,” you say dryly, “By most conventional standards, I think.” You breathe in deeply. “Although, curiosity is common. People theorize to soothe themselves, when fear demands explanation. But yours…” You shake your head. “Yours isn’t like that.”

He inclines his head, accepting the critique with grace. “I suspected as much. You have not been particularly subtle in your distaste.”

“And yet you persist.” Then after a second, you decide to shame him. “You know, Flins,” you say as if he’s your old friend. “I don’t like fearmongering, everyone around running like headless chickens. But there’s positivity in it. Occasionally, even a broken clock is right. People have interesting theories, giving you new perspective, less biased from what you already saw. You, on the other hand… you add little with your curiosity.”

Flins shakes his head, more so amused with the delineation so accurate, as well respect for you. “I cannot help it. There is always more to learn about humanity. As they say… nothing that is human is alien to me.”

“You omitted I am human from the beginning of this line.”

You swear you see something sharpen in the depth of his empty eyes. It gives you chills your mind telling you to stop dwelling.

“I am pleased you recognized it,” he smiles wryly. “It seems you live by it.”

It’s insane you’re still entertaining this conversation. You lean back slightly, uncomfortable enough to keep distance, and you study him as if he’s an entirely new person. “How much do you know about me anyway?”

“Everything that is readily available,” he says simply, even if his tone suggests nothing is simple, his thumb still moving absentmindedly over your pulse rising.

You decide to test his claim. “Oh, so you must have heard about that one time I caught a money laundering operation?”

“I have.”

Your mind raises alarms at his admissions. That was never public, nor did you ever hear about any leak. Does he actually know the case, or is he saying so to play with you? If he knows, how? You could chalk up everything he does to provocation. .

“Can I call you my fan then?” you ask with a forced smile.

“I would be honored” Flins replies warmly.

“Still…” you muse. “Most admirers attempt contact.”

“I dislike divided attention,” he says honestly, “I was hopeful for… an intimate encounter.”

And fate, it seems, obliged him. What if… he killed Milena for you? No. Too much wine. Too little sleep. Who’d that for an unassuming detective like you.

“Detective?” his hand brushes yours again, more openly, and you jolt. “Are you well?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” you answer quickly. “Just tired, that’s all. A-and, whatever floats your boat. You are lucky to receive three of them in a short amount of time.”

“Four,” he corrects, rising from his seat. He leaves a mora coin on the table—despite you not needing any money. “And do rest. You are no longer operating at the full capacity. It would be… inefficient to continue.”

But your mind only zeroes in on the number. “Four?” You don’t remember more than three. Each meeting with him was memorable enough to know the exact count. “Flins, what are you talking about?”

He’s gone.

“Four…” you suppose he plans to meet you again. Unease brews in your chest. Which shouldn't be the case, considering there’s still a lot to go through. “Like I’ll be there with bells on…” you scoff to yourself. But then you realize. Right. A fourth organ is still missing—Milena’s heart.

Milena seemed to favor leaving the city behind whenever she could. From what you gathered, after bothering her so-called friends once more, outside of loitering near Flins’s cemetery, she often wandered into the grounds of Barrowmoss Barrens. A perilous idea, given the Wild Hunt’s frequent activity in these lands; yet is struck you as less reckless and more defiant. Or a deliberate seclusion, seeking a place vast enough to contain what she cannot name.

The territory itself carries a certain malignancy—not solely because of its dangers, but because of the pattern coming to your mind. The killer has been returning Milena to the places she once loved—their own cartography. If they knew her well enough to chart her habits, there’s a chance of you coming across them.

You step onto the muddy grass, petrichor in the air, a tremor passing through you growing cold. Hours passed in your futile wandering, of not finding any place with a diary, yet you barely felt the passage. The sky now dimmed, and clouds thickened into an ominous ceiling, reducing the world below to shades of gray. Just as you will to abandon the search and return to the city, something finally emerges through the fog. An abandoned watchtower, standing crooked at the northern edge of the plateau. Once, Lightkeepers must have climbed it to patrol the land, before abyssal influence it obsolete. Now it lingers with a wood turned ashen roof overtaken by moss, its structure trembling with each passing gust of wind.

Standing at its feet, you think it is exactly the kind of place someone like Milena would choose: distant, forgotten, removed from the suffocating expectations of life. You try to imagine her here. Alone with her thoughts, the wind threading through her hair, her mind expelling questions you now form: What does one do when love begins to resemble a cage? When duty becomes indistinguishable from a submission? When your future feels like a script written by someone else’s hand?

Your hand rests on your revolver as you approach, the other gripping your lantern. Every sound is amplified with hollow vastness around you. Finding nothing at the bottom, you test the ladder with your foot before climbing. Each step protests under your weight, but thankfully holds.

Inside, to your frustration, the space is empty. Dust, splintered wood, the faint scent of rot. You hang your lantern, spreading light across the walls, and begin to search. Milena would not leave something important in plain sight. She was not careless, you know, even if you don’t know her.

Then, a sound breaks through. A percussion with no clear direction. You freeze. Maybe it’s qualia—hopefully. “Wind,” you murmur under your breath, though you feel alarmed even with the explanation. The silence that follows is heavier than ever.

Then comes another noise, drawn-out and almost like a yawp. Not quite human, not quite like anything you have heard before. Maybe it’s the wood expanding. Hopefully…

You continue palpating the walls of the house, looking for any loose board. Any hidden compartment--. You swear that, when the tower shakes more rapidly, it’s not the wind that suddenly howls with more sharpness. Your breath catches as you glance downward and spot no animal or monster that would have rationalized the movement.

Something’s coming. “Little detective, little detective! Always prying where you're not welcome!” It’s a female voice. Jagged, distorted with some glitch, full of bitter mockery for you. Your stomach drops.

Oh, how much you despise that nickname. They all teamed up against you to taunt you with your past. “Milena?” you ask tentatively. “Is that you?” You don't know why it would be her and not a vertigo caused by your exhaustion, yet she sounds too real. Maybe she’s shackled here, her only safe spot.

You receive no answer, only impact. Your head slams against the wall with brutal force, your vision bursting into white. You collapse onto the floor, your world tilting violently. A weight forms against the back of your skull, and while there’s no hands on it, it’s undeniable. You hear a laugh right in your ear.

Wait. It’s not solely Milena’s this time. It’s another voice too, far more crueler, etched into your mind with surgical precision, taking turns with her. “She wanted you. She wanted to hurt you.“

Your breath is ruined. No, no, not here and now!

“And you let her, thinking she’s a good woman! But she wasn’t!”

Her laugh. Her smile. Her guiding hand that caused so much hurt. Her voice.

“Shut up!” you scream, clutching your head as if you could physically tear the sound out. There is no figure to see, no ghost, only you being violated by some echo, leaving you helpless when there’s nothing to grip and strangle so it could go away.

“Did she bleed out much!” she screams back.

Her words split something open inside you. You cannot understand how Milena, if it’s truly her, could reach into this part of you and drag it out so effortlessly. Flins, that little boy, now Milena and another ghost of your past—it all weighs heavily on you, forcing you to acknowledge feelings you tried to bury deep inside.

“Yes,” you choke, your hand striking the floor. “She bled, she bled so much. I killed her. I did.” You had to— you had no choice!

“But she hurt you!” Milena insists relentlessly. “She would have hurt others too!”

You remember it all too clearly. Admiration turning into horror. Your mentor chased brilliance and entertainment like a starving carnivore, and manufactured someone’s tragedy just to solve it. A grotesque parody of desire. And you were so foolish, not knowing the truth for a long time, always revering her. When you understood, it was you who had to stop her, and when she threw herself at you—you ended her life, terrified. Of the same woman that used to call you fondly a little detective as if you were her own child…

You are terrified till this day—what if one day, in the absence of challenge, you might follow the same path. That the hunger for thrill might corrupt itself into something indistinguishable from cruelty.

“Say it!” the voice shrieks. “Say her name!”

“M-Milena, what do you want from me…” you beg her to stop, as the tower groans and shakes.

“You’ve been snooping around! It’s none of your business!”

“I’m helping you!” you yell with desperation.

“Why must you always get in my way! Say it! Say her name!”

“No!”

“Say it or I’ll bring this whole place down!”

“A-agata… she was… Agata… are you happy now…” you whimper, the name tasting like vile.

Silence falls, but only as a shift. The pressure lessens, just slightly, as if you momentarily appeased her.

You force yourself upright, swaying on your feet. “Enough. Enough about me,” you rasp, anger cutting through the lingering terror. Where is that diary of yours… before I’ll have you die again!” You’re so sick of all of this nonsense. This investigation has been on for what? Four days? And you’re already down on your knees, thinking you might die here.

“It’s mine! He’s mine!” Milena rambles.

“W-who? Flins?” you ask dizzily, your vision swimming.

“My future is mine! Not my father’s!”

She’s not making any sense, caught between memory and emotion, incapable of linear thought. You have to work with what you’re given.

“Four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, three in the evening… I died at just two!” she cries out hysterically into the air.

“I know. I’m trying to help you. I want to help you,” you say fiercely. “Please, tell me- was it your father who killed you? Or was it Flins? someone else?!”

“My papa! That scoundrel!” She doesn't deny anything the same way she doesn't confirm. “And that beautiful man… he broke my heart…” she wails. It’s all a ghost’s lament, nothing logical. You have to read between the lines.

“Milena…” you say more carefully, softening yourself despite the pounding in your skull. “Your diary. Your pages.”

“Pages! Pages of life so short!”

“Diary pages.”

“My diary!” she murmurs, almost tenderly. “My only real friend!”

“Yes… friend. And your father wants it.”

She gasps, even if she has no lungs to draw air with. “My papa wants them?!” she sounds indignant. “That naughty man!”

“Yes… I’ll… protect them for you…”

“Protect… yes… you need to protect them…” she says desperately. “He was too intrusive…”

“Yes,” you say tiredly. “So where is it?”

“On the bottom.” That’s the only warning she gives you before you plummet hard. You fall down, with a scream. The impact steals breath from your lungs as you hit the ground, pain radiating through your body in waves. For a moment, you can do nothing but li there, stunned, the sky curtains spinning above you and twisting into nightmarish shapes. But that’s also when you see it—beneath the structure, tucked where only invasive searching would reveal it, is a small bundle, tied carefully against the underside. Milena’s diary.

You drag yourself forward with a strangled noise, fingers trembling as you reach for it. But the moment you clutch it to your chest, the wind rises violently around you. “No! Give it back! It’s mine!” she howls and sends wind at you.

“Please, Milena!” you shout back, breaking. “I know it’s yours, but I need it to help you!”

“Can’t help the dead!” she laughs miserably.

“What do you want then!” you’re so tired of her nonsense.

“Leave.”

“I can’t leave,” you try to sit up but she pushes you down again, “I’ll give you anything. Let me help you.”

“Anything?” she suddenly calms down, excited by your offer.

“Yes.”

“I want to leave,” she whispers. “I can’t take this torment anymore!”

Your grip tightens on the diary. “You will. I’ll bury you properly. I promise. It all will be over soon.”

Another tremor in the air, as if her grief.

“But I can’t let him win!”

“Did Flins—”

“Do not speak his name! That traitor!” she shrieks.

She must be heartbroken about his non-reciprocated feelings too, but what if there’s more to her rage?

“How did he betray you? Tell me!” you press, finally sitting up despite the protests of your bruised body.

“He stole my heart!”

Words too ambiguous, you still make a promise. “I’ll grab it back for you,” you swear with all your chest. “No one will touch you again.”

A pause. Hopeful. “You promise?”

“Yes.”

“... I’ll be waiting for you, little detective.” And she is gone.

You force yourself to stand, hissing at your muscles constraining, so you can climb back towards the lantern’s light. There is no time to rest—not anymore. You open Milena’s diary with shaky hands. And so, her words spill out. Hopeful, in love of her future, wanting to make change in the world. Painfully human as she writes of Flins too, not with fear Drogomir stated, but something far more softer. He brought her comfort when no one else did. A refuge even, just by letting her stay here. Then comes the entries about Drogomir himself—layered with guilt, obligation, and quiet dread. She writes of wanting to leave, of fearing what would mean for him, of the invisible leash that kept her bound.

And then there’s the favorite places. Every location the killer has used, described fondly yet with a tinge of loneliness in this big world. Among these lines, you derive one as utmost crucial. The Final Night Cemetery. You never were informed just how much she enjoyed the place, as otherwise, it would have been obvious from the start. Flins Drogomir claimed her to saw sporadically. With three organs dropped elsewhere and none here, there’s a big chance the final piece of her heart is waiting here. And dawn is already beginning to break.

You are in a wretched state by the time you arrive at the cemetery. Whether the encounter with Milena’s ghost was real or merely the effect of a mind overextended, you cannot tell. Your thoughts put you into amok, that even with your body protesting every step, something far more visceral propels you forward.

You didn’t report anything to the Guild, and ask for an assistance. Inconsiderate of recklessness of what you are about to do, you simply have no time for anything else. With dawn already threatening the horizon, and the certainty that another organ and its message will be placed, you challenge yourself to confront Flins directly. You are aware this is foolish, you walking into this alone, armed with little more than a revolver and your dwindling clarity, borders on suicidal. However, what can a Vision do against a good old bullet?

Yet it’s not an attack of Vision that stops you in tracks. He’s here—he’s been waiting for you, hoping you manage to find out everything in time, and now he has a bloody gift in his hand. As if the entire world has been arranged for this moment. Under the pallid wash of moonlight’s reminiscence, Flins stands beside a grave, full of composure that tells you death is just a result to him. In his hand rests something that does not belong to him: Milena’s heart, dulled and with its color wrong. And yet, it fits. This grotesquely intimate image makes him almost resplendent. You don’t justify this, but it completes him like a missing puzzle you strained from solving, for the final answer might scare you. The image is abhorrent, yet… befitting.

The heart is the cruelest organ to take, all the more when Milena’s heart was never entirely hers to begin with. It was divided long before it was even removed, split between yearning for more and obedience for her father. Then Flins stole her heart too; beyond the incision, as he hurt her feelings too. The heart that was a symbol of what was never allowed to fully form. Heart governs what reason cannot. The heart full of love, the heart full of pain, hoping and wanting and bonding—her ability to feel was taken away from her. Never to plump blood again, pulsing with essence of life.

The killer stole her entire life. The image of someone holding her heart so intimately, intrusive dominion, pains you. It says: what made you live no longer belongs in your chest, what made you live never truly belonged to you at all.

Those jaundiced eyes lift to meet yours. “Are you perhaps looking for this?

Your throat tightens, and all of the theories thus far collapse into one question—did he do it? Did he truly reduce Milena to this—scatter her parts like some perverse offering, desecrate her body with such coldness? He must have know you would eventually come here. He led you here, dropping clues like bread crumbs, down to this rabbit hole. Betrayal at its finest.

“Kyryll!” his name tears from you with a yell, raw from shock. You stand just a few meters from him yet you feel his influence over here too.

In return, he takes in your goggle-eyed form, ignoring your accusation for a moment. Bruised and slovenly, you barely standing on your feet, as if you came here straight from hell. “What happened to you?” he asks with worry misplaced for the situation.

You don’t accept it. “You’ll be coming with me, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.” Your voice hardens as you point your weapon at him, forcing steadiness into your shaking grip. If you're going to pass out, it’ll happen only after you arrested him.

“On what grounds?” he asks calmly. “Have you perhaps made a miscalculation? You do seem… tired.” He frowns.

You don’t need his condescending comments at the moment. Your jaw tightens. “On suspicion of desecration of a corpse and involvement in Milena Tojadska’s murder,” you reply sharply. “And you will comply. Hands on the stone.”

“So I’m to assume,” he continues, as though not taking you seriously, “that the true killer will be allowed to walk free?”

He turns away from you—not in dismissal, but to place the organ into a porcelain box resting nearby. Slow, in a way that seems reverent. Then he removes his gloves, revealing bare hands—clean—as if preparing for something else.

“The real killer,” you snap, “might very well be standing in front of me. You’ve staged enough in your sick theater. Whatever you were trying to prove, whatever sick amusement you derived from Milena’s death—it all ends now.”

“And you were the most interesting participant of it; however, “ he replies, turning back to you, “such brutality could not have come from my hands.”

You scoff, impatient. “What are you talking about?”

“My greed is of a different nature than that of humans,” Flins say softly, meeting your gaze fully with hands behind his back. “I think we both know who the real culprit is.”

You wave your weapon with a childish irritation. “Enough of the riddles!”

“For someone so valiant, you rely on impulse more often than you would admit,” he observes thoughtfully.

The remark hits you deeper than it should. You almost drop your weapon, yet your anger flares again. “And you think you’d be speaking for me, for some reason?”

“Was the killer not hiding in the plain sight all along?” he smiles faintly. “Though I suppose I should express my gratitude. Without his actions… we would have not come this close to one another.”

“You mean yourself?” you retort.

“Don’t tell me that your thoughts are not already occupied by that man.”

Drogomir. You have considered it—of course you have. Him motivated by Milena’s insistence to be independent. His possessiveness. This aligns well. It’s just the image of a grieving father, so visceral, that did not align with the precision and coldness of the crime. But perhaps that was your error—you are still a fresh fish when it comes to cases as such. But there's still Flins’s interference, him playing chess with you. And now, it’s as though he's claiming it’s Drogomir who killed her, and Flins “simply” played with her organs after, for whatever reason. You’ll have to figure out everything once both sides are locked somewhere.

“We don't have time to talk. Come with me,” you say sternly.

“I'm afraid we will be staying here.”

“We?” you taunt.

“There is much to discuss.” He clasps his hands together, looking at you with eagerness, finally pure and unfiltered.

Brevity was never his strong suit. Now especially.

You exhale slowly, adrenaline the only thing keeping you up. This is no longer a negotiation.

You don’t like doing this, but it’s the only way to keep yourself safe. No Vision means you are vulnerable against a season warrior like Flins. But your revolver isn’t. A bullet aimed well enough to wound but not kill. You have pulled a trigger before. You can do it again.

You aim at him properly—his outer thigh to avoid hitting femoral artery. “Flins. You will come with me,” you don’t do any wheedling. “You’ve played enough sick games.”

“I cannot,” he replies calmly. “That would require admitting to a crime I did not commit.” Then he taunts you, fox-like, “But tell me—can you truly do it?”

Your voice is steady, even if your pulse is not and your own heart beats mad. “I’m counting down from ten.”

Your thumb draws the hammer back with an audible click into the fog around you, the revolver suddenly feeling heavier in your hand, as if the mechanism itself understands there will be no second warning—despite him zeroing in on your rapidness with only appetite in response. You can’t be safe here on your own. The fact he’s unperturbed in front of the weapon only adds to his danger.

“Ten… nine… eight…”

He doesn’t move, penetrating you with his gaze—delighted by your intensity.

Your palm sweats. “Seven… six… five…”

“You won't do it,” he says surely.

You have to adjust your grip. “I'm not kidding! Four… three… two…”

He raises his eyebrows and laughs.

“One.”

You pull the trigger with no hesitation. Your entire life freezes in this moment, each nanosecond passed by with your heart going up by one tempo note. There’s a rare taste of fear—real, raw—and you only feast on it, ecstatic by something human in you staining you, as well repulsed by the inferiority of it. If Flins somehow dies from your bad aim, you perhaps will thank him for making you important for a moment.

The trajectory of bullet allows it to land in his knee, and you expect a lot of shock pushing the man back onto his grave—with the inscription Chudomir Aarnivalkea. Instead, there is nothing. No recoil of flesh, no blood. Flins stands exactly where he was, unmoved, but his expression speaks of something ecstatic born by your choice. And then he lifts his hand, where the bullet rests in his palm—caught by him in blink of an eye, a flicker you missed. Caught. Not harming him and making him spill the blood all over the purple.

“Who—or what—the hell are you?” you ask with astonishment.

He peers at you with his own surprise, but it is no fear; he did not anticipate you trying to shoot him instantly. He's now excited. You are so so brave. “It takes much more than this to kill me,” he informs shortly.

“Kill who? Are you even human? No wonder you were giving me creeps…” while you rot in your dumbfounded state, scratching head with the tip of revolver, he approaches you.

“Stay back!” you command, fear overriding bravery. Because what do you do now? He can’t be killed with a simple bullet, and you have no vision.

With your haphazard step back, his swift legs make three—your vision blurs, and you believe even his movements turned inhumanly fast. You brace for impact, yet it never comes. He stops in front of you, close enough for the tip of his shoes to collide with yours. He must be breathing, as you feel the mist on your face, but it’s so cold, colder than the current weather would cause, that you wonder just how long you have missed something so important about him.

Before you can react, his hand closes around your wrist—firm, but not enough to hurt. Your revolver is gone in the next instant, wretched from your grasp and thrown aside—it thumps on the grass in the way your heart does. Everything happens so rapidly, you don’t even have any time to insult him; it’s right before he pulls you into his arms.

“What—” your voices is stuck in your throat, and your muscles spreads tension everywhere. “Flins, what are you doing?”

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair.

“Kyryll… n-no, Flins, seriously, what are you doing?” You’ve calculated many possible outcomes; none came even close to what’s currently happening. “What are you even thanking me for?”

“You might say,” he begins, his voice soft, “that when you chose to cast me as your primary suspect, you stepped precisely where I had hoped you would.”

You really don't understand. Flins barely knows you—at least, not personally, and yet he holds you as if this moment had been rehearsed in his mind long before fate even consented. There is nothing hesitant in the way he holds you, nor anything accidental in the patience in which he waits for your breathing to settle against his chest. It is not the first time you have stood close to him, and now, there is something altogether different in his manner: no more teasing, no theatrical courtesy, but the strange pleasure of someone receiving what he had quietly expected for too long. He has no business liking you, in your opinion.

“Do you know me from the past or something? And you still haven't answered my question! And let me go, would you?” the words leave your mouth in one breath, tangled with irritation as you trash against him, though your limbs are too heavy and your head still rings from everything that came before.

“Please,” he says indulgently, his hand brushing slowly over your shoulder as calming some startled animal, “allow me to hold you a little longer. In return, I shall answer whatever you wish. Sounds equitable?”

Equitable. As if this is a romantic exchange and not an absurdity, being held by the man who may yet prove deadly, who stood moments ago with a human organ in his hand, who cannot be felled by a bullet, whose body receives your fear without the slightest offense.

You grow ever tenser, unused to being held; you’ve been married to your work only. Still, there are words possibilities than his arms if the alternative is provoking whatever power he has withheld thus far—so you force yourself into compliance in his arms. “Alright…” you mutter. “Starting with the first question, what are you? I guess you not being a human is a given.”

You think it’s a perfect inquiry to be made first; judging who he is, you could gauge how much danger are you in. It's just being held like a lover that's not so satisfactory to you. You remember all these tiny affectionate gestures towards you.

“You are correct,” he says, almost satisfied at your curiosity. I am not human. I belong to the fae kind.”

“A fae?” you squirm your body enough to look at him properly. “As in… the Snowland fae? Those from old Sneznaya?” You remember the old stories you’ve read as a child—one that caused your mind a lot of phantasmagoria, childish wonder—except they were supposed to stay a legend. “I thought your kind no longer exists.”

“Many things persist after some people decided they not ought to,” he replies, charmed by your effort to place him historically. “And yes, those very same ones. I lived long before you.”

A long-lived species, then. You grimace when his fingers move to your nape, unable not to think that those same hands held Milena’s severed heart. “So you are older than Tsaritsa’s reign.”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful,” you mutter. “That explains why bullets are apparently beneath your dignity. A noble.”

A soft laugh escapes him.

You suddenly feel vulnerable. Small in front of a creature like him even. “Then what could an insignificant human like me possibly offer a fae like you?”

At this, his hold on you shifts—tighter, more selfish. “Humans,” he starts quietly, “are considerably more interesting than gods and mortals alike pretend they are. Some, at least. You among them.”

You should suppose Illuga was right. He likes your attention. “How long were you stalking me for?” This is obvious to you now; his strange familiarity, the details he should not know, a certain fascination with you that takes time to brew, as well the confidence with which he names different theories about you.

“Months,” comes out the honest answer; worse, with no shame. If anything, it’s twisted with excitement, perversion, now that he may finally confess openly. “You might strike me for that if you find it necessary.”

You do. Your first lands between is shoulder with more indignation. It earns nothing but laughter.

“You watched me for months like some depraved voyeur?”

“Is that worse than you taking a life? You must be still shaken,” he asks brazenly, and the suddenness of the comparison stills you more effectively than his hold.

He knows even that. It’s not fair. You did that in self defense. He must be testing your expressions again.

“That’s apples and oranges” you say with dry throat. “I was forced to.”

“I know.” For the first time, his tone loses amusement entirely. He loosens his hold just enough to look at you directly, his face close enough that his cold breath touches your lips like a kiss. “I do not accuse you. I know well enough you would have never done so had there remained another path. Nor was that woman innocent.”

He’s so sure about you. It’s scary. It’s—

“Then why bring it up?” You frown.

“Because it changed you,” he says simply. “And I watched that change before I understood its source.” His eyes carry no typical sympathy, and yet, yet—they find a soulmate in you. Understanding transcending any human emotion. It makes you hot all over your body, and for once, you can’t tell excitement and fear apart.

“Are you getting off to it?” you ask coarsely.

“No,” his fingers brush your cheek, tracing the tremor that appears underneath them. “Only am interested. You are a person perpetually resisting what fate appears to expect of you. There is beauty in that.”

“You promised answers,” you remind him, your voice now lower.

“I am giving them.” He draws you back against him. “Yes, I observed you for months. Your cases. Quietly. I wished to see whether the pattern would hold.”

People call you crazy sometimes. Flins must be the crazy one.

“What pattern?”

“That a person may hold a fracture and still remain functional without surrendering.”

“Why me?” leaves your lips hesitantly.

The moment your heartbeats sync together, his hand brushing your back, you are eager to find out what could be there to you. From one to another. The value perhaps you or others have missed in you that he didn’t. Because if there’s something that makes you more human that the ability to steal life, it’s the ability to live on. You don’t know who you are supposed to be, if the gods created you—you were reshaped by your circumstances, perhaps far from their original ideal. And maybe you are no one in the eyes of gods.

“Because,” he speaks fondly, “it is uncommon to witness someone so willing to inhabit the less flattering compartments of human nature without disguising them. Most people hide their contradictions poorly. You do not even attempt concealment once absorbed in thought. Your mind is eclectic, undisciplined in the way I find remarkably coherent.”

You almost recoil at the assessment. “What would you know about me?” his psychoanalyzing is rubbing you wrong. And yet… it makes you feel understood, as invasive as it is.

“Enough to see that you believe yourself subtle while remaining astonishingly forthright.” You don’t need to see his face to know Flins is smirking.

You should have guessed that… you’ve allowed more than one opening—feeding him to his pleasure. “That’s… just your influence. In any case, I deserve no accolades.”

“You deserve all of my attention,” he says into your ears, enjoying your squirms as his breath ghosts them.

Your heart skips a beat. What is he doing?

“And still,” you say, refusing to let the fluster in your voice dictate tone, “for all this devotion, you remained hidden.”

“I wanted our first true meeting to be special,” he answers. “Something memorable and earned. I waited—patiently, I assure you—for circumstance to offer me a proper threshold through which I might enter your life without anyone’s interference. Then Milena died. He pauses, tickling your ear until you squirm in his arms so delightfully again. “Or rather… Milena died and arrived before me with purpose. Her tragedy became… my silver lining. An opening.”

Your stomach turns. You can’t believe he used Milena for something so selfish.

“You used her.”

“I accepted what she proposed,” he corrects mildly.

His words greatly confuse you. Something is missing too, so you withtrack to another issue.

“How did you know about…” you grimace, “little detective”?”

“From Milena herself.”

You blink rapidly. “What? How would she even know that?”

“She asked questions where questions ought not to have asked. She was diligent when curiosity possessed her. I had a chance to tell her a bit about you.”

The answer is infuriatingly incomplete, but you guess what he’s saying, it’s Milena who dug around your past, using her father’s connections—for still unknown to you reason. But he interrupts you.

“Do not linger too long on one question. Your mind has too many others queued behind it.”

You slap him in response, unable to handle your anger at all of this mess. He merely inclines hid head, scoffing with weird joy—and no pain. “This one too was deserved.”

As you ponder over your next question, worried he’ll finish the discussion too soon, everything around ceases to exist. It is only you and Flins, removed from the rest of the world. A trap, or, a gold mine.

Nonetheless, you calculate any possible weak points in his body, wondering if you can make exit soon.

“Did you kill her?” you ask the most important question again.

“I didn't.”

“Then who did?”

“He was drunk,” Flins says, and something colder enters his voice now. “And already wounded by the thought of losing possession over what he believed belonged to him.”

He knew the truth the entire time and yet he held it from you. Made you run around for the sake of indulging himself. “Her father, you mean.” “Yes.”

“Were you there?” “No.”

“Then how do you know that? Are you lying to me again?” “Because Milena came to me.”

Milena told me—again. “That doesn't make sense! She’s dead. Unless she knew she’ll be killed but then you—”

“Oh, dead can speak just alright. With me, at least,” he chuckles, soothing you with touch between your shoulder blades.

“As a specter?” you ask incredulously. Still, you did see her a few hours ago.

He nods. “She came already aware she was dead. More lucid than, as I suspect, when she troubled you. Grief fragments people further when they understand no breath remains to give them another chance.”

Your eyes drift to the porcelain box, yet to be transported to the morgue. “Then… why did you disrespect her body? That much you can’t deny…”

His expression changes into solemn, not guilty. “I did not desecrate her. I preserved what she asked preserved.”

Your mouth falls open from the shock.

“Why would she?” Everything he says sounds insane, yet it somehow has a logical explanation right after.

“To punish her father,” Flins says seriously. “She understood at once that simple accusation would not satisfy what had already happened. She wanted him frightened, unmoored from any sense of safety. Forced to watch certainty abandon him piece by piece.”

“That’s… why would you go this route… Sure, there’s not much a dead woman can do, but…” you trail off. “Madness. Just madness!” you exclaim.

“It was her grief,” he justifies, “and perhaps some measure of justice twisted into a show of all Nod-Krai.”

You do not know whether to be horrified of Milena or him.

"The lesson had to impactful. It was impactful, I hope.”

“He’s losing his mind,” you admit.

Flins holds you tighter, as if to shield you from the bad man.

“Enough to deny the reality and doubt his own memory.”

You now need his honesty more than ever. “Why agree to such a plan?

His eyes scan the horizon, in search for your answer. For once, words don’t come easily to him; but he knows what he wants well. There is nothing to regret, not when he finally has you. His eyes return fully to you, the most precious element. “Because I thought of you.” No false pretense of a smile. “I thought of the possibility of speaking with you, uninterrupted. And maybe because I found her desperation difficult do dismiss. I’m not a heartless man, believe it or not.”

Just peculiar, you wish to end the thought for him. You suppose you never had someone… who would do so much in their power to reach you, even if you were never outside of their reach. You feel disrespect, yet this is no disrespect—only Flins’s worship of you, your mind, and you as a human, seasoned with selfishness to have you all for himself. He did more than anyone else, and you cannot tell whether you should be scared or grateful.

“So you placed yourself at the crime scene,” you deduce tiredly, resting your head against his shoulder, as you linger in that pushy hug slowly becoming less offensive. Having you question yourself. “Let the suspicion gather until it points to you. Let me chase you.” You laugh dryly.

“Yes,” he laughs too, listening to your heartbeat—it tells him all he needs to know, and the result is better than expected.

“Do you hear yourself?”

“I do.”

The sincerity is unbearable. You now understand why some people stay oblivious on purpose, while you search for truth like a mad dog. You gulp. “Then… how did you preserve the body?”

He nods at the lantern resting at the grave, a dancing blue flame that never stops. “You would be surprised by the flexibility of this lantern.”

“It’s…” you push your head up, observing the source with nearly fascination. “It’s not a normal lantern, is it? You being a fae…” As if powered by some type of magic.

A certain legend of a blue flame Lightkeepers pay respects to…

“The flame can arrest decay, if used correctly,” he watches your expression eagerly. That is—sacrificing some of his living years, but that part… he omits for the sake of you not losing your mind any further.

“And your Vision?”

“It’s not a real Vision.”

“What then? A dummy?”

“One secret at a time,” he teases gently before continuing. “She died over a week ago, you see.” Some rare flicker of anger flashes in his eyes—not really scaring you, but drawing you in. “The morning she intended not to depart for a journey as she told everyone, but to leave her home entirely. Her father learned it, and with wine of sorrow already softening his restrain… anger completed the rest.”

“A-a week ago? She’s been dead for that long?”

“Yes.”

“He kept her body?”

“For two days. Unable to reconcile what he had done with what stood before him. By the time she came to me—as a ghost—he had already begun teaching himself disbelief. Alcohol only made things easier to forget.”

You do remember the bruises on her neck well. Everything slots together with almost elegance.

“And you stole her body from his house...?”

You wrench yourself free from his hold at last after he nods. This time, he allows it, although reluctantly. “Why go so far with all of this…?” your head hurts. Maybe you are dreaming, or hallucinating, your imagination coming up with something as delusional as Drogomir’s mind, as means to comfort yourself. “You are insane,” you say angrily, stepping back. “Entirely insane. You and Milena both. You could have reported him. Instead you staged a grotesque liturgy and used me as your witness.”

“I thought it prudent,” he says sharply, following only half a pace, “that he should taste consequence law would not fully allow.”

He tries to place his hands on your shoulders. You shake him off.

“How do I know you’re still not a murderer yourself? How were you able to detach her organs with such precision?!” Even if with a big chance Flins was honest and open, everything is too much to take.

“I had never opened a human body before, if that is what troubles you,” he sigh wearily, looking down at his bare hands. “I would not flatter myself by calling it mastery. Merely… familiarity with what remains when life retreats. Bones have accompanied me for many years; perhaps you have heard that I fashion little figurines from those I find abandoned in the wild,” he chuckles as if for once acknowledging how quirky he must appear to others. “Birds, foxes, deer when fortune permits—whatever death leaves behind without protest. Such things teach one experience in body care, if nothing else—even if they’re no human body. Besides, I’m used to… staining my hands. Until they no longer trembled.” His eyes lift to yours, faintly luminous beneath the pale light. “And, as you have already witnessed.”

“That I did…” you remark with difficulty.

There is no boast in his other words, merely facts. “The dead are, in a certain sense, cooperative. They do not recoil. They do not plead. The first incision demanded thought more than courage; afterward, the body became a matter of structure—of following what was already arranged beneath the skin. Human anatomy is not so unknowable a scripture when one has spent enough centuries observing how life is assembled.” His voice lowers there, quieter, almost reflective “I moved slowly because she wished precision. Every organ carried meaning she insisted upon. I merely followed the symbolism she entrusted to me.” Then, after the briefest pause: “Cruelty lies not always in opening a body, detective. Oftentimes it begins much earlier—while the heart is still beating.”

His words do something unexplainable to you. After death… there is nothing to fix, not if you don’t exist anymore. Only present can still save you.

You sit down onto on of the stones, and at least, you admit to yourself, “Then perhaps there is no evil at all. Only greed wearing different garments.”

He smiles widely, accepting this version.

“You can say hunger awaits under every name. Her father’s possessiveness. Your exhilaration before a puzzle. My… interruption of death.”

You scoff despite the fatigue threatening your eyes to give in to sleep. “I’m not… excited. And…. gods play with the menagerie of humans all the time,”

“They do. But they pale in comparison to you,” Flins says earnestly, offering you a warm look.

You feel your cheeks flush. “Don’t utter blasphemy like that!”

“If you must punish me for it, then I will endure it.”

“Do not think this absolves you,” you mutter, adjusting your jacket. “I still have to decide what to do with you.

“Are you heading off already?” he frowns.

“Yes. I have to arrest Drogomir, this merchant—that is, if what you’re saying is true. It’s only little time before he figures out I suspect him and attempts to flee Nod-Krai.”

“I beseech you to stay here and catch some respite. You’re barely standing on your feet,” his request sounds serious.

“I took worse. I can’t lose my rhythm. Since her father is a seller, and his murder disrupted everything, it goes against the rules of the Guild enough to warrant an arrest.”

But suddenly, blue flashes in front of your eyes. So that’s another thing his lantern can do… You fall straight into his arms.

“Flins… I change my mind…” you and your voice feel heavy, “I will kill you…” you glare at him, only making him smile.

“No,” he says lightly, gathering you upwards, “not tonight.”

“Why are you doing this…”

“Because,” he murmurs, carrying you towards the lighthouse as if the answer was obvious, “you have hit the wall and insist on pretending you are still fine.”

“Cimelium,” he then mentions, as if to himself, “is a rare treasure; oftentimes the most valuable one. Can you be my cimelium?”

Darkness arrives before you can see how greedy you’ve made him.

You wake up to the sensation of something slow and careful brushing across your hair, a touch so gentle it takes you good time to swim back into consciousness. The room around you would be comforting too, were it not for how oppressively small it is, a narrow chamber fitted into the upper body of the lighthouse, low ceiling slanting overhead, walls of aged timber carrying the faint smell of salt, resin, and lantern oil. The bed beneath you is absurdly soft compared to the rest of Flins’s austere surroundings, layered with fur blankets, a concession perhaps for a guest he had no intention of allowing to leave soon.

Above you, inevitably, is Flins himself, his back resting against the metal headboard, your head pillowed upon his lap.

“Flins?” your voice finally emerges, drowsy from sleep and the headache lingering. You blink rapidly, trying to regain your bearings. “What…”

“I am sorry for what I did,” he says, quietly for your sake, fingers moving over your temple and cheeks. “You left me no better alternative.”

The memory sudden returns in vivid fragments: blue light especially, his confession, you using your weapon…

“I can’t…” you gasp, trying to sit up as urgency overtakes you. “I have to go. I still have to tie every loose end!”

His hand presses lightly against your shoulder and guides you back before you are fully upright. “Do not get up yet.”

“What’s up with that cursed lantern of yours!” the panic takes its hold. “That man will escape.” You have come too far to let him get away now.

“He will not,” Flins replies, with so much conviction that it immediately worsens your suspicion. “I have already seen to that.”

That jolts you upright anyway. “You what?

“I brought him here,” he repeats, as if discussing a dinner rather that a man under accusation of murder. “Quietly.”

“Why would you do that?” Your eyes widen so far they hurt. “What if someone had seen you carrying him through half of Nod-Krai?”

“They did not,” he says, amused by your horror rather than troubled by it. “And as for why… his daughter wishes to see him.”

Your shock continues. “Milena? She's here?”

“She is. Her ghost, that is.” Flins pats your shoulder. “She’s been rather resolute.”

“So this is about closure?” you ask hesitantly, yawning.

“In a way.”

“More like seeing whether her lesson has landed enough?”

At that, he exhales something near laughter. “Yes. That too. Although, regardless of how well-known she proved herself, she does not deserve to linger in pain longer than necessary.”

You rub your face, still half in this disbelief. “You dragged this on for too long.”

“Only by a few days.”

“That is still too long when one is dead,” you grumble.

He offers no defense to that, and finally allows you to stand up.

By then the small table beside the bed has already been laid with breakfast you did not notice before: bliny folded in neat stacks, a dish of smetana, dark jam, and tea steaming faintly. The domesticity of it feels almost offensive after everything.

…

“She was jealous of you, you know,” he says over the breakfast. He’s not eating himself—has told you he finds human food dull and that he absorbs nutrients with his lantern he’s physically connected to.

“Me? But I had never even met her,” you say with confusion. “Well, when she was still alive.”

“No, but she heard about you from me.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “What exactly did you tell her?”

“She once demanded to know why I could not return her affections.” His expression turns pensive. “When I admitted my heart was occupied with someone else, she insisted upon detailed. I obliged, telling her what a wonderful person you are, though not so carelessly as to give your name.”

You soak in his implication. That’s why she was so mad with you. She once found someone she thinks can love her differently than her father does, separated from her world. Love her unconditionally. But Flins was in love with you. Everyone was connected the entire time.

“You… you have feelings for me?” you ask awkwardly. It… was perhaps shown by him many times, but at the time, you’ve taken it as a game.

“I believe so…” he shakes his head before he corrects himself. “No, I am quite certain I do.”

“That’s…” he barely knows you. Or he knows you too well, having learned everything from distance. About your past too, like some creep. “Disgusting.”

“Possibly,” he chuckles. “I am still adapting to mortal etiquette. My kind are less disciplined where intensity is concerned.”

“Well, thanks to your affection for me, she rocked my bones. She was furious. At the time, I didn't know why.”

“Now you do.” He leans closer, his voice turning nearly scary, “Although, I will have to reprimand her for hurting you.”

The fact he accepts rejection without hurt unsettles you more than protest would have. He simply continues feeding you, something about it making him happy—your enjoyment is his. After you have replenished some fuel, before you could think of leaving, he lifts one toward you who’s still in fact hungry.

“For a weirdo,” you mutter between bites, “you make rather good food.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” he smiles widely, “I worried my skill was insufficient.”

“It’s digestible. And I could eat a horse at this point.”

“Digestible… perhaps I should work on my cooking skills for you.”

“For me?” But he simply watches you, nearly like a puppy. Does he imply he wishes to see you more often? Cook for you like some lover. You disperse the thought. “Whatever. Can I see her now?”

“Should you not rest another hour? Your body still objects—”

“Flins,” you almost snap, “I can demonstrate how little patience fatigue leaves me with.”

He smiles, as if enamored with your passion. “As you wish.” After standing up, he quickly tides up things. He then offers you his hand. Begrudgingly, you take it. His fingers close around yours with a familiarity that still feels illicit, and he leads you down the narrow staircase, out into the afternoon still pale in the cemetery.

There she is. Her eidolon stands among the graves, belonging here naturally. Except, she’s now whole, not fragmented by distortion or fury, dressed exactly as she must have been before death interrupted her body but not her will—in a lilac dress that matches her eyes.

“Detective,” she greets pleasantly, much nicer than the last time you’ve seen her—smiling.

“Milena… you look… well.” The normalcy of it unnerves you more than her screaming had.

“Thank you,” she says, almost teasing. “You have seen better days yourself, but I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.”

Your mouth falls agape at her teasing, or rather, condescending words. But you force yourself back to what matters. “Do you… confirm what Flins said?”

“And what precisely did he tell you?” she hums, tiptoeing around.

“That your father killed you when you tried to leave your home. That you sought Flins after death. That all of this—” you gesture vaguely around, breath somehow being stolen from you again, “—was arranged because you wanted him to believe madness had found him before justice did. That… there’s a second killer even, and he’s an innocent victim being punished for no reason.”

“Yes,” she says simply. “That is true.”

“And… are you satisfied with the result?”

She ponders wistfully. “More or less… however… I regret I had to give up on Mr. Flins for you.”

“Um…” you’re flustered, staring at her with confusion, all the more when you feel Flins’s burning gaze on you. “Me and him are not…”

“Not. Not yet.”

She comes closer and whispers into your ear, as if a friend sharing secret, “You and he fit better than you wish to admit.”

“I beg you pardon?” you squeak out.

Before you can protest, a violent thud interrupts—heavy, somewhere behind the lighthouse wall.

“That would be him,” Flins says.

You nod your head rapidly, your heart pounding as you’re about to face Drogomir again, now with an exception of your knowledge about him.

Flins disappears briefly and returns dragging Drogomir by his arm, the older man bound at wrists, stumbling so hard his shoes scrape dirt. The instant he lifts his head and sees Milena, all pale as if he’s a ghost himself, whatever denial he had starts evaporating.

“M-Milena?” his voice shreds itself over her name. “Is that you, dear child?”

“Papa.” The warmth vanishes from her at once. Her entire figure sharpens with grief made blade-like.” I can’t believe what you’ve done to me!” Milena immediately throws her laments at him, no tears spilling but her face moving as if she cries.

Drogomir is terrified, confused, and shakes as if she struck him. “D-did what? N-no! The real killer stands behind you! He has deceived you even now!”

“Just how much more do you plan to delude yourself, hiding for comfort in your own lies!” Her voice raises, carrying not distortion, but clarity full of agony. “You killed me, for you were unwilling to let me go!”

“You’re playing tricks with me! That useless man has fed you so many preposterous ideas even after your death!”

“Do you not remember how I struggled beneath you? The way your hand closed around at my throat?” she points at her throat still wielding bruises, undeniable, “The pulse you crushed because your life mattered more than mine?”

“No… no…” he says with horror, rolling on the grass with refusal—all these memories befall, lifting the vail off his brain, “I would have never hurt my precious child… I loved you!”

“And yet you killed me! You selfish swine!” Her words are harsher than any judge’s would be.

“Oh god… I did that… I… my own daughter…?” “Yes! How could you do that!”

“I was devastated, I remember—” “You were possessive.”

“I did not mean—”

“It happened regardless! It is no one else’s fault!” Her voice is so loud it could knock you down too.

His knees weaken, and he collapses with tears to feed the soil of dead, wriggling under his bindings, “I couldn’t… how could I ever let my precious bird fly out of our nest…”

“That bird is dead anyway. You lost me anyway!”

None of you say anything for a moment. Drogomir thinks of more excuses, Milena dares him to, Flins watches it all with something condemning for the man… and you barely stop your tears.

“You feared distance as if you think I was willing to abandon you,” she says with a tremble. “But you didn't understand. I only wished to breathe, not disappear. I would have visited. I would have written. I only one wanted one room in the world where I belonged to myself. Distance was supposed to help us.”

Drogomir begins sobbing before she finishes.

“I worried over you more than myself,” she continues, grief gathering force for him him again. “I comforted you, excused you, stayed when I wished to run because every guilt became mine to bear. I was your daughter, and yet, I lived as I was merely an answer for your loneliness.”

“I am so sorry,” he chokes out. “I am—”

“No. You are sorry you are finally forced to remember.”

When he lunges suddenly, not towards her, but blindly standing up and charging towards who happens to be you, your hand moves before thought does. You catch him, twist him hard, and press the gun to his chest. “You still wish to argue?” you ask coldly.

His breath transmits into terrified sobbing. “S-stop, this is cruel!”

“Look at her,” you force, gripping his jaw and turning his face toward Milena. “Look at your daughter properly.” He cries harder while you manhandle his cheeks. “You are cruel.”

He does look, yelping.

“I loved you dearly, father. I worried about you. All I wanted was to be loved.” She weeps. “It hurts so much. We had no one but each other and you have taken it for granted.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t want you to leave me! But I know everything now!”

“No,” she says bitterly, looking down at him as if he’s a bug, “you know only now because I stand dead before you.”

He falls onto the ground again, as he grips the air behind his back with hand, wishing he could get closer to her. He will never hug his daughter again.

“I’m so sorry… I’ll repent… I’ll do anything…”

“Yes,” she says resolutely, becoming her own judge. “You will. You will walk yourself to the Guild. You will surrender. You will confess every fraud, every hidden scheme, every crime as a merchant you thought is small enough to survive.”

He nods frantically.

“You will also tell Nasha Town what you did to me.”

He hesitates, not out of refusal, but fear “B-but… what if they kill me?”

“Our detective will stop them before they can. Not because I pity you. But because you deserve to live, knowing what you did for the rest of your life. Anything else the detective says, you will obey too. ”

He bows until his forehead touches to the ground. “Go, my child… go and rest… I won’t make excuses anymore…”

Then, at last, Milena’s outline begins to thin. The anger leaves first, then grief. It’s tiredness that remains. She looks towards Flins, hopeful for a moment, then you.

“Thank you,” she says, and this no time, there is no bitterness. “Both of you.” She smiles, telling you she will be alright. The air shifts, as if some invisible portal opens after centuries of suffering. And so her figure loosens into pale light, candle flame disappearing, then most, then… nothing.

For a moment, you and Flins don’t speak. You tear up. His hand settles at your shoulder, carefully asking you if you are well. You jolt, but less than before.

“No,” you say honestly. “Not really…” you look at the true murderer you will soon walk towards his final sentence. “But I will be.”

You already know what report you will fabricate and which truths must remain altered if the affair is to close without opening question Nod-Krai is unequipped to answer. Yes, Drogomir murdered Milena, his own daughter… but for the disrespect behind her body is one of mercenaries he hired to shift any suspicion, a category typically harder to catch. In your opinion, Flins deserves punishment too; in practice, the dead have chosen their own justice, more than the law of Nod-Krai can guarantee. It is no Fontaine.

“This… this cannot be our last meeting…” Flins says, sudden sadness crashing his voice like a tide.

You glance sideways at him. “I suspect it won’t be, now that you’ve abandoned subtlety entirely.”

A relieved smile touches his mouth, unmistakably pleased. “Then, next week, please come visit. I should like to know what shape your thoughts take once this affair is over.”

You ought to refuse. Every prudent instinct suggests so. Yet prudence has already lost too many times where he is concerned, and your oldest vice of curiosity has never been weaker than when confronted by something incomprehensible that looks as if understanding you were a vocation. “We shall see.”

“She was a baby.”

“I beg you pardon?”

The basement you two are in echoes every of your thought. As you sit perched on the table with papers scattered, Flins ensures to stay standing between your legs, obstructing your vision just so he doesn’t miss any expression enlightened by the candle nearby.

“She was an adult woman, yes—but she was also once only that; a child hidden beneath her mother’s ribs, carried before she even knew langue, before fear, before disappointment. Someone waited for her first cry. Someone wrapped cloth around her when she first entered cold air. She learned life gradually, then voices, then names. At some pointed she must have laughed for no reason at all, simply because the world had not yet taught her pain. And later she became what everyone called accomplished, educated, promising…” Your voice falters. You’ve been crying a lot lately. Some mechanism inside you is still left loose. You lower your gaze, yet it changes nothing; tears gather regardless.

Flins reaches for your face before you can wipe your tears yourself, thumb brushing beneath one of your eyes with a tenderness almost too precious to bear. His gaze softens in a way that still startles you, for there remains something faintly improbable in being looked at by him as if vulnerability was not inconvenience but revelation.

“I am certain she’s eternally grateful,” he says quietly.

“I hope so,” you sigh shakily. “You know… Sometimes, I think we suffer from what may not be cruelty itself, but is still a gradual atrophy of empathy. And yet, empathy is what should be inherent to us. How can this be? We can be conditioned, but… there is plenty who understand suffering… yet inflict suffering.”

“You tend to make yourself indifferent,” he instigates you on purpose, eager to see if the thought deepens—maybe even lifts your spirits.

“Indifferent but never ignorant,” you say passionately, staring at him. “Indifferent but never do I want to stay passive to someone’s pain. I make distance because if I did not, every case would devour me whole. I protect myself so I can protect others. But I still refuse to become one someone who sees suffering and merely catalogues it.”

Flins watches you with that particular brightens that comes over him whenever conviction overtakes your voice—as if every principle you utter confirms something he already wished to believe… and consume. “We do not wish for people to keep killing one another,” he murmurs.”

“They will always kill.” Your answer comes with tired certainty, not cynicism. “Some deaths will always be dressed as justice, other excused as necessity, others forgotten because no one in But whatever language is built around it, I will still go after the one who crossed that line. I will always chase the one who chose wrong. If there is evil, then I will continue chasing it and the justice… even when the pursuit changes nothing except proving that someone looked.”

That visibly animates him; the strange stillness in his eyes gives way to life entering them almost greedily. “That is exactly what I mean,” he says, smiling in full. Before you can ask, he leans forward and buries his face into your neck, the warmth of his breath startling your sensitive skin.

You tense, though less that you would have weeks ago. “I cannot exactly announce to the Guild that I am seeing one of my former suspects.”

Because as for Nod-Krai… people still talk about Milena. Come to visit her grave, so do you. The Guild accepted your explanations, happy the trouble is resolved before Snezhnaya—or Nefer—could interfere, right in time. Although, the latter occasionally sends you a letter and asks you to work for her. Life continues, just with something missing, that you suspect soon will be forgotten anyway.

But Drogomir will not forget anything, losing his mind after the loss of his daughter and public punishment. He no longer trades with anyone. Word spread too quickly, and even merchants accustomed to dirt wanted no hand near a man who had strangled his own daughter. It was said he still lives inside that half-empty house, though now with shutters drawn and no visitors but silence, lonely and slowly losing his money.

And as for you… There remains wariness in you, but your feet keep returning to him regardless, and it is no longer accidental. Flins unsettles you, stimulates you, sharpers your mind than dulling it. Perhaps it’s about danger too. Flins knows what to say to make your head spin and heart sing.

“Hm,” he says near your collarbone, “Them let them remain uninformed. I should rather prefer what concerns us to remain intimate anyway.”

You give him a look half suspicious, half amused. “And how am I to know this is not merely one of your passing fascinations? Men such as you strike ma as volatile in infatuation,” you mock.

He suddenly withdraws from you, and before you guess his next step, he lowers himself to one knee before you. So old-fashioned. “I promise you,” he says, looking up with an earnestness made strange by how intense it is, “this so no brief affection. My regard for you increases with each day.”

For a moment, you can see the old Kyryll. His hand lightly poised near yours, his spine elegant… It forces your imagination. For one instant, you can almost see him not as lighthouse keeper nor Ratnik, but as whatever he must have been centuries ago: moving beneath chandeliers, silk cuffs, polished floors, smiling in rooms where music governed hierarchy and every gesture possessed inherited meanings. The nobleman he once mentioned reveals himself.

“O-okay, enough,” you stutter, suddenly embarrassed. “Just stand up. You're being absurdly cheesy!”

He obeys at once, though his amusement flickers openly as ever. “Very well. However…” he extends his hand again, this time with invitation. “Dance with me.” You accept.

The gramophone near the wall has already been turning softly, its worn melody filling the small room with antique music. Outside, the lighthouse remains wrapped in everlasting darkness and chatter of ghosts; inside, the world narrows down to his hand in yours. He leads with effortless confidence, one hand settling at your waist, the other enclosing yours with delicacy. It’s an old discipline, and his hips or feet never collide with yours.

You, on the other hand… “I know, I know. Hardly is there any chance to practice waltz in Nod-Krai,” you say with sarcasm.

“There is no judging,” he says warmly near yours ear. “I will be delighted to be your teacher. His hips guide rhythm without forcing you, correcting you when needed or keeping you away from the wall to bump; your body begins adapting and awkwardness thins into something nearly digestible. There is even comfort in being held by him, as well his never ending patience.

“I don’t think I will forgive that case anytime soon…” you chuckle into his shoulder. A bit tense, but entertaining him, to see what else is there to him. Maybe Flins will be the next person you’ll chase, trying to fight for justice. Or maybe… he’ll steal your heart too, if he hasn't done so already.

He laughs too, quiet enough to not disturb. “I suppose it left a monumental impression upon everyone,” he eyes your lips. “You, most of all, on me. I have no intention of looking away now.”

“But you’re not a human,” you say with torment. “I still don’t know what exactly you seek from me. A game? Possession? Something else than curiosity?”

“I seek only to continue witnessing you shine with that enchanting intensity.”

“I won’t shine forever.”

“No,” he says with something akin to regret, facing you directly, “Utterly disappointing. Have you ever…”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever wondered what it’s like to live forever?”

“Who didn't.”

“If offered the chance—would you accept it?” You’re given that look again—when Flins tries to split you open, digging for some undiscovered part of you.

His mysterious words give you a startle, enough for your steps to falter. “Is there such opportunity or are you only theorizing?”

‘Who knows…” he jests, maddeningly to you.

“Well, I need to leave some space for a detective successor.”

He smiles against your temple before pressing a light kiss here. “I doubt any successor could hold a candle to you.”

“I am no prodigy. Just a layman. This wasn’t my magnum opus or anything.”

“Are you?”

“Don't get any weird ideas, Kyryll.”

“I would not dare,” he murmurs, eyes closed as he allows his head to rest on your shoulder, “to desire anything except your continued happiness.” And your presence.

When the music ends, he leads you the final half-turn before ushering you to the room upstairs. You end up on the edge of his bed, him next to you. “Do you want Ben sleep?”

“I do sleep. It’s quite pleasant.”

“So it’s not merely decorative,” you him.

“I’m not that indestructible. Although, I confess I have often preferred resting inside my lantern.”

He grabs your hand again, absentmindedly turning your palm upward as if reading lines here. “I once slumbered for centuries,” he admits wistfully. Probably awaiting for you, he thinks.

You study him for a moment, curious what troubles a man like him? Does he fear like you do, yearns like you do, misses like you do? “I still do not fully know what you want from me,” you bring up again, but this time… you lace your fingers with his.

Kyryll lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckle. “Would be greedy to say that I want you?”

“Greedy, yes. Abnormal, no.”

That answer pleases him, as he kisses it again. “Then I shall endeavor everything necessary to deserve the permission of your heart.”

Silence follows. Not so strained as usual, only oddly soft. He draws you gently to his side, and you let him. Somewhere in the back of your mind remains the stubborn though that you and Flins belong to different orders of beings, different durations, different… natures. Yet beside him, with evening bringing in yet another opportunity to open yourself and the gramophone winding down as the sign of him still being here with you, you wonder if this place has become a kind of home. A home unusual, unpredictable, a home… nonetheless. How does a fae love? You wonder. Hungry, devoted, tender, an ancient curse?

“She will be all right,” you say eventually, voice warm, “Wherever she is now. In the wind, listening to us maybe.”

“She will,” he answers surely.

Flins’s face tilts towards you, slow enough to give you a chance for refusal. You don’t move away.

“She will never see the daylight again,” you murmur as your breaths tangle together, “but I will. For her, and for anyone else like her.” Milena might be in everyone, you think.

As you kiss, the world finally feels still, almost enough to be merciful.