Kazou's eyes lingered on the faded address again, tracing the words slowly, as if trying to pull the place from the shadows of the past.
"It says here… Danzig," he murmured, the name feeling foreign and distant on his tongue.
Rose frowned, brow furrowing in confusion. "Where the hell is Danzig?"
Kazou shook his head slightly, lips pressed together. The woman who had led them there raised an eyebrow, sensing the hesitation.
"Gdańsk," she said softly, her voice carrying a note of historical weight. "It's called Gdańsk now. During World War II, it was under German control and known as Danzig. But now, it's part of Poland again."
Rose's eyes darted between Kazou and the woman, intrigued but cautious.
The worker glanced at both of them, curiosity sparking behind her calm exterior. "Anyway," she added, "why are you so interested in this Polish history? It's not a common topic around here."
Kazou met her gaze and offered a small, somewhat weary smile.
"A team of scientists cloned a Polish soldier by the same name—and his mother—years ago," he said quietly. "It was to continue one of their father's projects. I've been trying to learn more about who that soldier was."
The woman nodded slowly, her eyes thoughtful. "That explains a lot. It's rare for people to come looking for the forgotten ones."
Kazou folded the journal gently,
Rose's expression softened just a fraction as she watched him, the coldness melting into something more complex—a mixture of curiosity, frustration, and a lingering hope.
The worker stood and gestured toward the shadows around them. "If you want to keep digging, there's more to see down here."
Kazou nodded.
Sometimes the past doesn't just whisper, it demands to be heard.
"Who could Sasha be…?" Rose asked softly, flipping open the journal on Kazou's lap and thumbing through the fragile pages. Her brows furrowed. "She shares the same last name. She has to be a sister. Or maybe a cousin? An aunt?"
Kazou's gaze didn't leave the floor. "What if Sasha Bielska was Casimir's mother?"
Rose turned to him sharply. "No—do you hear how insane that sounds, Kazou? Sasha can't be Experiment Nine. You told me her name years ago. Back in college. You said your father left her name in the genetic records—along with the DNA."
Kazou blinked slowly, as if trying to clear fog from his memory. "Right… her name... what was it...?"
He suddenly stiffened.
The image hit him like a jolt—an old, yellowing document on his father's former desk, the names written neatly in fading ink. Casimir Bielska. And beside it, a second name: Maja Kowalska.
He whispered it aloud. "Her name was Maja Kowalska."
Rose's lips parted slightly, the sound of the name chilling her. "Maja Kowalska…"
Kazou's mind raced. Bielska… Kowalska. Two different names. Was she divorced? Widowed?
He muttered, almost to himself, "Her son had a different last name. So… who was his father? Was Sasha Bielska the father's sister? Cousin? Neice? Daughter?"
He shot up suddenly, a wild glint in his eyes. "Are any of Maja Kowalska's or Casimir Bielska's descendants still alive?!"
He turned toward the museum employee with urgency, the journal clutched to his chest like a lifeline.
The woman raised an eyebrow at his sudden outburst, then chuckled dryly. "I'm a museum organizer, not a time traveler."
Kazou's shoulders dropped, embarrassed by his own intensity.
But Rose was still staring at the journal in Kazou's hands, her expression unreadable. Something about the name Maja lingered in the space between them—like a ghost they'd just begun to recognize.
Kazou stared down at the journal in his hands, the name Sasha Bielska echoing in his mind. He ran a thumb over the page, as if the texture of the ink might give him more answers. Slowly, deliberately, he closed the book and stood.
"I think we need to go to Gdańsk," he said, his voice calm but resolute.
Rose blinked. "Wait. What?"
"There might be more there. This address—Sasha Bielska—it's the only lead we've ever had that connects to the original. If anyone ever knew who Casimir really was, it might've been her. Maybe a descendant lives there now... Or perhaps someone totally unrelated but they might know the history!"
Rose stepped back, brows furrowing in disbelief. "Kazou, you're going too far. We came here for research to prove to the police, not—whatever this is. You're talking about flying to another country based on some... half-decayed letter in a dead man's journal. We have no proof! We can't get the police to take it seriously either way! It's straight bull crap!"
"I'm going to Poland," Kazou replied simply. "You don't have to come. Stay here. Tell the rest of the lab what we found."
Rose stared at him like he'd slapped her. "That's it? You're just going to run off alone again? Haven't you done enough disappearing for a lifetime?"
Kazou's voice remained quiet. "This isn't about disappearing. A month ago, someone was killed—murdered by Casimir. I saw it with my own eyes. And the police…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "They think I'm losing it. They chalked it up to stress, delusions. They won't help. I have to prove it to them. I have to show them he's real."
Rose's face darkened, her anger flaring. "It was twelve years ago! The experiments, the cloning, everything—buried. Dead. You're chasing ghosts! You don't even know if that soldier and Casimir are the same person. It could all be a coincidence!"
Kazou turned to her fully now, eyes steady. "But I do know. I know what I saw... Casimir Bielska was that forgotten polish soldier. Ten is Casimir Bielska... And If no one else will stop him… then I will. I'll end Casimir myself."
Rose snapped her head toward him, eyes wide. "You don't mean that."
He didn't blink. "I do."
"Goddammit, Kazou…" she muttered, a bitter edge in her voice. She looked at him like she was staring at a man she used to know, now changed into something colder, heavier.
Kazou turned without another word, walking toward the stairwell after plopping the journal back into Rose's hand.
He paused at the threshold. "If you change your mind," he said without looking back, "you know where to find me."
Rose stood frozen in place. She didn't follow. She didn't call him back.
The stairwell creaked as Kazou's footsteps faded, swallowed by the weight of resolve. Behind him, Rose stood motionless, the silence crackling in the still air. Then—
"You really care about him," the museum worker said softly, almost as if afraid to disturb the fragile moment.
Rose didn't answer at first. Her eyes stayed fixed on the darkened stairwell, jaw locked tight.
The woman approached slowly, her heels tapping faintly against the stone floor. "Even if you hate him right now," she added, "you wouldn't have chased after him if you didn't."
Rose turned her head slightly, her voice dry. "Don't pretend you know me."
"I don't," the woman said, hands folded in front of her. "But I've seen that look before. In this basement, in the archives, in the faded letters of people who never got to say goodbye."
Rose exhaled, slow and sharp, like she was trying to empty herself of something too heavy. "He thinks he can solve it all alone. Carry it all alone."
The woman gave a faint smile. "That's the curse of the good ones, isn't it?"
Rose scoffed. "You think he's good?"
"I think," the woman said, tilting her head, "he's not ready to let go of the dead until the living are safe."
Rose's eyes softened for the briefest moment before she pulled herself back into her icy shell. "He's going to Poland. Chasing ghosts."
"And you're afraid of what he'll find," the woman said gently.
Rose didn't respond. She stood for a long moment, the journal pressed tightly to her chest like a fragile relic—or a wound. Then she blinked and turned to the worker, her features composed but still simmering beneath the surface.
"…Thank you," she said quietly, handing the journal back.
The worker's expression didn't shift, but her eyes seemed to warm. "Good luck," she replied. "I hope things work out for you."
Rose gave a stiff nod, then glanced down at her shoes. "I need a drink," she muttered, almost to herself, before turning briskly toward the stairwell.
"Fair," the woman said with a small smile, raising a hand in farewell.
Rose didn't look back.
Her footsteps echoed as she climbed the narrow stairs, moving faster with each step. The musty air of the basement gave way to the filtered sunlight spilling into the upper galleries. She emerged from the lower corridor and strode through the polished exhibit halls without a second glance at the faded uniforms or glass cases.
Her heart was still pounding. She didn't know if it was from the weight of the past or from the looming shadow of Kazou's decision. Either way, the need to breathe—to numb it, if only for a second—pulled her toward the lobby.
She spotted the museum's small snack bar tucked to one side, almost quaint in the wide lobby's modern design. Her boots clicked sharply as she approached.
"I need a whiskey. Neat," she told the startled bartender.
The drink arrived. Rose downed half of it in one long swallow.
Her eyes flicked toward the entrance, where a sliver of Tokyo sunlight cut across the polished tile floor.
Kazou would be gone soon. Headed to Poland. Headed into the dark.
Rose finished the rest of her drink, slammed the empty glass down, and cursed under her breath.
"Goddammit, Kazou," she muttered again.
***
Outside, the day was painfully bright—sunlight pouring across the museum steps in cruel contrast to the shadows Rose carried with her. She pushed open the glass doors, her boots thudding softly against the marble threshold.
As she stepped outside, a man in thick winter clothing approached from the opposite direction. He wore a heavy black coat, gloves, a woolen hat pulled low, and mirrored sunglasses that completely hid his eyes. The Tokyo heat made his outfit feel oddly out of place, like something transposed from another climate—or another time.
The man grabbed the door before it could shut, holding it open for her.
"Thanks," Rose muttered, glancing up at him.
For just a second, their faces passed within inches.
Their eyes met—or at least, her eyes met the opaque black lenses hiding his. Rose caught the faintest scent—cold, sterile, like leather and gun oil. Beneath it, something subtler: iron.
As the door closed behind her, Rose hesitated. Her heart gave a strange, uneasy flutter.
She turned.
He was gone—already swallowed by the museum's lobby.
She shook it off. Just a foreigner. Probably Eastern European, from the accentless nod. She shook her head and moved toward the street, fishing out her lipstick from her pocket.
***
Inside, the man moved briskly toward the counter. His boots made no unnecessary sound against the floor. The mirrored sunglasses remained fixed in place, reflecting distorted fragments of the world: glass cases, unsuspecting visitors, security cameras angled too high to catch anything useful.
He approached the front counter.
"Excuse me," he said. His voice was smooth, lightly accented. Vaguely European. "I'm looking for the Polish section."
The receptionist blinked at him. "Over there. Unfortunately, there isn't much there at the moment... But there's a storage archive—some researchers use it for private study. It's back there." She pointed lazily down the dim hallway. "Let a staff member escort you."
The man's smile was thin and colorless.
"Thank you," he said.
He turned. Walked. The museum's atmosphere changed—cooler, quieter. Every step down the exhibit felt like peeling away layers of reality. As if the modern world stopped at the threshold, and something else—older, forgotten—waited beyond.
He saw the door ajar right in front of him. The stairs are descending.
But then—
"Hey!"
A voice barked from behind—sharp, trained.
Security.
The man didn't stop.
His pace slowed imperceptibly, just enough to let the weight of his silence register. The footsteps behind him quickened—no longer casual.
"You can't be back here," the guard warned, his tone sharpening as he reached for the radio clipped to his shoulder. "This is a restricted staff—"
The man turned.
Effortless. Calculated.
The coat parted like a curtain, and from its shadow emerged the cold gleam of a suppressed pistol—matte black, intimate in its deadliness.
He raised it in a single, fluid motion, not a flicker of hesitation in his movements.
The muzzle pressed against the guard's forehead, tilting slightly, a quiet intimacy in the gesture—like a whisper shared between strangers. The guard's breath caught. His hand froze on the radio. His eyes widened, flicking from the gun to the man's blank, unreadable face.
"Wait—"
Pfft!
The sound barely existed—less a shot than a soft exhale.
The guard's knees buckled, his head snapping back as he dropped. No scream. No struggle.
Just silence. A dark pool spread like a shadow beneath the corpse.
The man stepped around the body, brushing a crimson fleck from his coat sleeve. His face remained blank—like a mask, uninterested in the noise it left behind.
He descended the stairs.
Each step descending the narrow staircase felt like sinking deeper into something ancient and hidden. The walls closed in, and with them came the scent of mildew, dust, and ink-stained secrets. The man did not glance back.
Upstairs, screams were starting. Distant, muffled. The museum's tranquility had shattered.
But below?
Below, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
A humming tension swam through the stone.
As the man reached the bottom of the staircase and vanished into the shadows, a subtle flicker of motion passed in the hallway above—just for a second.
A pale face.
The woman in the basement jolted upright as his boots touched the stone floor—two quiet, deliberate steps that sounded louder than gunfire in the dead stillness. She didn't recognize his face. But she recognized a presence. A pressure. As if the air itself had turned inward, watching her.
He didn't speak. The pistol dangled from his gloved hand, casual, like it had grown there.
She took a step back.
"Please," she said, her voice fraying. "I—I don't know who you are—"
He tilted his head, just slightly. His voice was quiet, the kind used to hush children before bed."You do." A pause stretched between them like drawn wire. "Everything related to Casimir Bielska,"
The woman hesitated—then moved. She stumbled through a row of crates, her hands clumsy and shaking. From the shadows, she gathered what she knew: a leather folder, brittle journals, a few faded photographs annotated with dates and scribbles in Polish and German. She held them out like offerings to something ancient. He took them carefully. Tender, almost reverent.
"That's all I have," she whispered.
He nodded. Turned. Took one step toward the stairs. Another. And then—he stopped.
The woman froze. He didn't look at her right away. Just lingered, his back to her. Then, slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, one eye visible behind dark lenses. The smile he wore wasn't joy. It was a wound stitched into the shape of a grin.
"You know," he said, voice still soft. "Casimir promised me something."
She didn't speak. She couldn't. He turned fully now, gaze steady.
"He promised me a perfect ending. I want him to show me. He promised me that when the curtain falls, i'll be in the front row."
Pow.
The silenced shot barely echoed. The worker's body dropped, chair legs screeching against stone as she collapsed in a slow, graceless heap. Blood pooled silently beneath her jaw, threading across the concrete like spilled ink. Her eyes, open wide, stared at nothing—only the journals remained in his hands.
The man stood in the hush that followed. There was no fear in his posture. No urgency. Just waiting. Listening. A single droplet from a leaking pipe fell with a soft plink, like a clock marking a forgotten hour. He turned and walked up the stairs, disappearing into the shadow.
The room behind him remained motionless, as though time itself refused to move until he was gone.