The news anchor's voice blared from the giant LED screen like a siren announcing the end of the world.
"Over 120 confirmed dead. A rural church in the Mexican highlands reduced to ash. Witnesses report masked men and inhuman firepower. The priest is missing."
The footage rolled—a smoking crater, charred debris, corpses blurred out by lazy censorship.
Zeref didn't blink. His eyes, sharp and red like smoldering coals, stayed fixed on the screen. One gloved hand clenched around the armrest of his chair. The other tapped restlessly against his leg. His jaw was locked. Breath, shallow.
Behind him, the door clicked open.
Crunch.
A slow, deliberate bite of an apple.
"You're early," Zeref muttered, not turning around.
Lord Four strolled in casually, dragging a long black bag behind him like a sack of laundry. His coat still smelled of fire.
"You said 'alive,' right? Well... he's breathing."
