His lips didn't part, his eyes didn't flinch. He simply stood there, unmoving, like a statue etched from grief and confusion. The question Atama asked lingered in the air like thick smoke—unanswered, and growing heavier with each passing second.
Kiyomi didn't interrupt. She kept her eyes on Seko, studying him. Maybe she was wondering the same thing. Or maybe she already knew the answer and was waiting to see if he'd say it aloud.
Atama? He just stared. He didn't look impatient, or particularly interested, really. Just... bored. He leaned on one leg, hands in his pockets, his lazy posture drawing stark contrast with the rising murmur of the crowd.
Whispers spread like fire.
The rich civilians murmured with disdainful intrigue:"Is he really a vampire?"
"Why isn't he saying anything?"
"I bet this is some Coalition publicity stunt."
Meanwhile, even the slum-dwellers stirred:"He looks like one of us."
"Maybe he's not like the others."
"Is he dangerous or just broken?"
Atama finally let out a long, exaggerated sigh.
"Ughhh... I hate dramatic silences," he mumbled, then motioned toward the back door. "You two. Come on. Private chat. Before I pass out from boredom or—god forbid—care too much."
He turned and began walking toward a side hallway, waving them to follow without looking back.
"Let's—yawn—sort this out with fewer... witnesses..."
Seko blinked. "What?"
Atama had spoken mid-yawn. Again.
Kiyomi rolled her eyes. "He said: follow him."
Atama waved one hand over his shoulder without turning. "She's got better ears than you, blood boy."
Seko exhaled softly and followed. He didn't know what kind of conversation this was going to be. But after what he'd just seen—his temple, his master, the message in blood—he knew he had no other path forward.
As Seko and Kiyomi turned to follow, the spot where Atama had been just moments ago was now empty.
Gone.
Not a sound. Not a step. Just... vanished.
Seko's eyes widened slightly. "He was just—"
Kiyomi didn't even blink. "He does that."
That answer offered no clarity, only more questions. But Seko let it go. His wrists remained cuffed, cold steel biting faintly against his skin with every movement. A reminder—he wasn't free. Not yet.
As they began walking, silence trailed them again, but it wasn't the kind that screamed. It was the kind that listened.
The Coalition building loomed ahead—towering glass, polished chrome, bright lights on every floor. A monument to control. To wealth. To power. But as Seko passed through the open plaza, he couldn't help but glance back.
Past the walls. Past the glass. Past the guards.
To the slums.
Cracked concrete. Rusted rooftops. Children with dirt on their cheeks and hunger in their eyes.
And then—he saw him.
A small boy. Maybe ten. Clothes torn, eyes hollow. Sitting on the edge of the street like a ghost no one remembered. But he looked up at Seko, unblinking.
There was no fear in that gaze. No awe. Just... understanding. Like he'd seen monsters before. Maybe even lived among them. And somehow, Seko didn't feel judged. He felt recognized.
The boy gave a slow, cautious nod.
Seko blinked—and something quiet shifted in his chest.
He looked forward again, shoulders squared just a little more. Hands still bound. Fate still uncertain. But now, with one more reason not to fall.
The private chamber was surprisingly minimalistic. No banners. No elaborate design. Just polished stone walls, a tall chair in the center like some kind of modern throne, and a long table with empty mugs and unfinished paperwork scattered around.
Atama sat lazily in the oversized chair, slouched so far back it was a wonder he hadn't slid off completely. His feet were kicked up on the armrest, one hand behind his head, the other spinning a pen between his fingers.
Seko's eyes narrowed. So this is him.Again.
The man in the throne. It had to be Atama.
But just as Seko opened his mouth to speak, a voice echoed—behind them.
"Oops! The guy with the god complex got scared!"
Seko flinched and turned sharply. Atama stood there, yawning, his expression blank as always.
"Wha—" Seko blinked, then glanced back toward the throne.
Empty.
He looked between the two positions. "You were just—"He stopped. Kiyomi didn't even raise a brow.
Atama gave a lopsided shrug. "Holograms, clones, illusions, shadows, astral projection—I forget which one I used this time." He stepped past Seko and flicked the back of his own chair. "Also… don't sit in this thing. Makes your ego inflate. Learned that the hard way."
Still rubbing the back of his neck, he flopped into a different chair, arms wide and posture slumped like gravity hated him personally.
Seko, a little more grounded now, furrowed his brows. "A person with… god complex?"
Atama smirked, resting his chin on one fist. "Yeah. You. You walk like you've been carrying the weight of humanity on your back. Talk like you're some cursed martyr who never asked for power. It's cute. Almost religious."
Seko said nothing. The silence was heavy again—but this time, Kiyomi broke it.
"He watched his family slaughtered by vampires. He's the only reason we even know something's off. So maybe hold the sarcasm."
Atama yawned and waved a lazy hand. "I am holding it. This is me being respectful."
He turned back to Seko, eyes suddenly sharp despite the slackness of his body. "You said they were your family. The ones who did that massacre." He tilted his head. "You sure you're not the bait in a trap?"
Seko's jaw tightened.
Atama leaned forward now, elbows on the table. "We're not here to play hero and victim. You've got five minutes to tell me why I shouldn't toss you into the sun. Impress me, god complex."
Seko stays silent for most of the time, unable to explain something which a simple happy minded man could not comprehend, But Atama-... He is much different.