LOCATION — METROPOLITAN POLICE STATION OF WESTRY
Rain lashed against the soot-stained windows of the city's oldest precinct, a building that seemed to lean into the storm like a man waiting for a fight. Somewhere deep inside, beneath the flickering gas lamps and the creak of iron stairwells, a scream was muffled behind a heavy oak door.
"Telegram for Senior Inspector Etskald!"
The messenger boy burst through the door, clutching the rain-speckled envelope in his shaking hands. But he faltered mid-step.
Inside, the room stank of brine and blood.
A man sat strapped to a splintered chair—his head lolled, a waterfall of red dripping from a dozen ragged wounds. Blood pooled at his feet, mixing with saltwater that soaked his boots and cuffs. His face was unrecognizable, beaten into something grotesque and pitiful.
Standing before him was a woman in command of the room and all the silence it held.
Her blonde hair tied in a bun, blue eyes looming over the various tools of torture laid before her.
She turned toward the boy, unfazed.
Her white gloves were no longer white—slick with crimson and dark beneath the fingernails. Her high-collared shirt bore the iron-threaded badge of the Metropolitan Police, sewn with reverence over her heart. Charcoal-wool trousers were tucked into polished leather boots, the straps at her shins still glinting with droplets of blood.
"For Anthony?"
she asked, voice calm and cold.
The boy's mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes darted from the broken man in the chair to the woman with the voice of velvet and steel.
He managed a nod.
"Yes, Inspector Annabelle…"
Her lips curved—not in cruelty, but in something far more dangerous: satisfaction.
"Thank you," she said, plucking the parchment from his trembling fingers.
She turned away, leaving the moaning man behind her, and strode through the dim corridor to a quiet room at the end of the hall. Upon the door, painted in peeling white letters:
PRAYER ROOM.
Inside, the scent changed. No longer copper and salt, but candle wax and old wood.
A man sat on a pew—tall, lean, motionless, composed like a statue carved from patience and wrath.
Black hair damp from the rain, blue eyes closed. His hands were clasped tightly in prayer, knuckles pale, lips moving in a whisper only God would hear.
His coat—silver-gray, long and immaculate—clung to his back like a shroud. Reinforced leather armored his shoulders, scuffed from years of pursuit.
A steel baton hung on one hip, still folded. On the other, a Colt 1851 Navy Revolver glinted softly in the candlelight.
Annabelle stepped inside.
"Anthony…"
He opened his eyes. Calm. Heavy with something unspoken.
She ran to him and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. Her breath hitched; his warmth grounded her in a way the world outside never could.
He did not flinch. He simply laid one hand atop hers.
"What is it?"
She handed him the parchment, unable to find the words.
He read it.
Only four words were written—spare and devastating.
MOTHER HAS LEFT US.
Anthony Etskald closed his eyes again.
But this time, he did not pray.
He clenched the parchment in his hand as if to crush the news inside it. His jaw set. Beneath his ribs, something shifted—grief, sharp and iron-hot, turning quietly into purpose.
He said nothing.
No words left his mouth. No cry. No sob. Only silence — a silence so heavy it made the candle flames tremble.
Anthony rose from the pew like a monument awakened. The slow, deliberate motion of a man no longer praying to God but confronting Him.
His shadow loomed across the wall like a stormcloud.
He turned to Annabelle, his voice low, steady — a lie barely holding together a flood.
"Just a moment."
He handed her the crumpled parchment.
Then—
WHAM!
His fist smashed into the backrest of the pew.
Once.
Twice.
CRACK.
The third blow shattered it in half — wood split like brittle bone, fragments skittering across the tiled floor.
"Anthony!"
Annabelle cried out, her eyes wide with alarm.
But he wasn't done.
He turned, his chest heaving, and drove his bleeding knuckles into the stone wall.
WHAM!
"YOU GODDAMN USELESS GOD!"
His voice boomed through the chapel like thunder ripping apart the sky.
WHAM!
"WHY HER?! WHY? JUST WHY, YOU SON OF A BEACH!"
WHAM!
Stone split at the impact. Blood sprayed across the sacred walls. Flesh peeled back, knuckles raw, bones grinding beneath.
Annabelle gazed at the paper's contents, then rushed forward and threw her arms around him, pulling his heaving body back before he destroyed himself.
"Stop! Anthony—stop!"
But he didn't fight her. He didn't thrash.
He collapsed into her arms like a dying wave returning to shore.
His face buried into her shoulder, trembling as the tears finally broke free — not hot and sudden, but slow. Heavy. Decades in the making.
"Mother…"
It was barely a whisper. A child's broken prayer.
Annabelle's grip tightened. One hand cradled his bloodied knuckles, the other stroked his back in slow, soothing circles.
"It's okay," she murmured, voice tender as dusk. "Calm down, Anthony. Please. Don't do this to yourself."
She pulled back just enough to meet his tear-streaked face, brushing the wetness from his cheeks with gloved fingers now stained with his blood and grief.
"Your mother wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want to see you hurting like this…"
He didn't speak.
He just leaned forward and let himself fall into her again, arms coiling around her like she was the only thing anchoring him to earth.
"Let's visit her tomorrow. Properly. Say goodbye… together."
Anthony nodded, the motion weak but certain.
"Thank you, Anna," he murmured, his voice cracking like wet paper.
"Thank you…"
The candles swayed gently, casting their soft, flickering light upon the wreckage of prayer, fury, and love.
LOCATION- IMMIGRATION OFFICE OF WESTRY
A door creaked open into the dim, dust-streaked office. Rain tapped softly against the windowpanes. Four figures sat around a battered oak table, half-lost in a sea of folders, steam rising from chipped mugs of bitter coffee.
A woman in a beige waistcoat and skirt stepped inside.
"Telegram for Mr. Varkis."
She extended the envelope toward the middle-aged man nearest to the door — spectacles low on his nose, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
"Thank you," he replied, voice measured.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, silence shattered.
All four agents leaned in like cats to a bowl of cream.
"A telegram for Varkis!"
The younger man grinned, elbows on the table. "Did that guy finally get a lover?"
"About time," one of the women smirked, twirling a pencil. "That shy boy — I knew he had it in him."
"Do you think he told her what we are?"
The soft-spoken girl beside them raised a brow.
The boy glanced at her, then back at the parchment clutched in the older man's hand.
"Pfft, no way. He barely talks to us. You think he'd spill secrets to some stranger?"
"…"
"…Right?"
A bead of sweat rolled down the boy's temple.
"He… he wouldn't, would he?"
The middle-aged man scratched his beard,
"I mean, isn't it cool to be a secret spy working for the government?"
"…"
Before anyone could reply, a shadow loomed over them.
A quiet voice, like smoke after flame:
"Is it mine?"
They turned to see him — Varkis Etskald. Disheveled blonde hair fell over piercing green eyes. His expression unreadable. Tired. Guarded. Fragile.
"V-Varkis?!"
The younger man nearly jumped from his seat, nervously scratching the back of his neck.
"Yeah, uh… this came for you…"
With a reluctant hand, he passed the telegram.
Varkis took it without a word. The rustle of unfolding parchment echoed louder than it should've.
He read the words once.
Then again.
And again.
His knees gave way — he crashed backward into a pile of loose documents, sending folders and ink-stained paper flying into the air.
"What?"
He rubbed at his eyes, blinking rapidly. His breath caught in his throat.
-------
MOTHER HAS LEFT US.
-------
"Mother…"
The word barely escaped his lips.
Tears streamed, silent and uninvited.
"Did he… get rejected?"
The quiet girl peered over, uncertain.
But then Varkis clutched his hair, falling forward on his knees amidst the chaos of papers.
"Mother… why?"
Steve — older, kind-eyed — stepped forward and rested a firm hand on his shoulder.
"What happened, boy?"
Varkis looked up. His face was drenched in grief, not rain.
"My mother… is gone."
He stood abruptly. The parchment crushed in his trembling hand, he shoved past the others and burst out of the room without a backward glance.
The four agents were frozen in place, the air thick with the weight of what had just happened.
None of them spoke.
None of them followed.
Maybe they couldn't.
Maybe it was better to let him be.
The office's rooftop.
Rain lashed the city. Smokestacks exhaled in silence. Gaslamps flickered like mourning candles across rooftops soaked in dusk.
Varkis stood at the edge.
Alone, as he had always feared.
The wind tugged at his coat, his breath coming in shallow clouds. Behind him, life bustled on. But inside him — nothing moved. Only pain.
A sob cracked from his throat. Then another.
His tears fell freely now, hidden beneath the rain.
Memories rose — unbidden, unwelcome, unstoppable.
Althaea reaching for him when he flinched away.
Althaea defending him when his cousins mocked him.
Althaea calling his name when the others left him behind.
Althaea — always taking the first step.
Always.
Even when he built walls, she found the doors.
"She never stopped…"
His voice broke into the dark.
"Even when I shut her out… she never stopped…"
He looked up, rain running down his cheeks like veins of glass.
The moon stared down, pale and unmoved.
And Varkis wept. Not like a spy. Not like a soldier.
Like a son.
LOCATION: OBISIDIAN CORPS — CITADEL 9 SNIPER BARRACKS
Rain clawed against the iron-rimmed windows of the highest tower in Citadel 9. Inside, the walls were silent — black stone lined with rifles, cloaks, and maps dotted with red pins. A single oil lantern flickered in the gloom, casting shadows over the figure sprawled on a cot.
Levi Etskald lay asleep, or so it seemed.
An open book rested on his chest, half-finished. One leg dangled off the side of the bed, twitching once every few seconds. His black hair curled messily around his face, and a silver rifle — Whitworth precision rifle — lay within arm's reach.
Though his breathing was slow, measured, every inch of his body was coiled in the readiness of a predator pretending to be at peace.
Knock-knock.
Nothing.
"Sir Levi, message for you,"
a voice called from outside the door.
The knock came again. Harder this time.
"…Go away…" Levi muttered from beneath the crook of his arm, voice thick with sleep.
The door creaked open.
A girl stepped in — fourteen, maybe fifteen. A junior spotter with oversized goggles and a coat several sizes too big.
"Sir, it's a telegram. It's from some Ragnar Etskald…"
At the mention of that name, Levi's eyes opened — mismatched and sharp, one green, one gold. The air changed.
He sat up slowly. The book slid off his chest with a thud. Rainlight danced across the clean metal of his rifle.
The girl handed him the envelope with a slight tremble in her fingers.
"Thanks,"
He said, voice hoarse.
The girl didn't leave. She waited at the door, watching him.
Levi ripped open the telegram, eyes skimming the message.
His hands stilled.
-------
MOTHER HAS LEFT US.
-------
Time didn't stop. But something inside him did.
For a moment, his fingers tightened on the paper. Then he folded it — precisely once — and tucked it under the strap of his rifle. He reached for the flask at his belt, took a sip, then lay back down on the bed.
The girl blinked.
"Sir…?"
Levi shut his eyes.
"She's gone,"
he said flatly.
"Your mother?"
He didn't answer. Just sighed — long, quiet, and exhausted.
"Should I alert the commander? Or—"
"No," Levi interrupted.
"Don't tell anyone."
Silence filled the room again. The rain kept tapping at the windows, unbothered.
"Would you… like someone to talk to?"
the girl asked, hesitant.
Levi opened one eye, peering at her with a stare too calm for a man who'd just lost the only woman who ever truly understood him.
"No," he said.
"But thanks."
He reached behind his pillow, pulling out a torn piece of an old photograph — five boys and a woman in a garden, faded with time. He looked at it for a long while, eyes fixed on the woman in the middle.
"I should've visited," he muttered.
"She always said I was too far away."
The girl remained rooted at the door.
"You loved her a lot, didn't you?"
Levi exhaled through his nose.
"She never made me feel like a weapon."
Another silence.
Then he stood up — not in a hurry, but with purpose.
He grabbed his coat, his rifle, and the old photograph. When he slung the Whitworth over his shoulder, it felt heavier than usual. Or maybe he was just tired.
"Tell the Commander I'm taking leave."
"Where will you go?"
Levi paused at the door, the telegram still tucked under his rifle strap.
"Somewhere far," he said.
Then, quieter:
"To her."