Chapitre 6
"I still can't imagine it," Vionne muttered, her eyes fixed on the steady hands of Kirika as she stitched Chloe's wound. "You're good at fighting... and now you're doing surgery on that kid. But somehow, you still can't remember who you are."
Kirika didn't answer. Her focus stayed unbroken as she cleaned the gash, a faint crease of concentration on her brow. Beside them, a basin of cloudy solution shimmered under the dim light—the bullet lying at the bottom like a small, cursed relic.
"She lost a lot of blood," Vionne whispered, glancing at Chloe's pale, unconscious body on the bed. "Can't believe she's still alive after that."
"What I can't understand," Kirika said quietly, her tone cool and even, "is why you're saving someone who's tried to kill you—more than once."
Vionne looked down. For a long moment, silence filled the room except for the rhythmic clink of metal tools.
"She's just a kid," Vionne finally said, her voice soft but firm.
Kirika finished tying off the last stitch, then reached for Vionne without warning.
"Give me your arm."
"Wait, what—"
Before she could protest, Kirika seized her wrist and examined the cut across her forearm.
"Ow—putain! Careful, it hurts!" Vionne hissed, trying to pull back.
Kirika pressed a gauze pad against the wound harder.
"Argh… merde, merde, merde!" Vionne tried to swing her free hand, but Kirika caught it midair and twisted. In an instant, Vionne lost her balance, falling backward as Kirika's weight pinned her to the floor.
Kirika's legs straddled her hips, both hands gripping her wrists firmly.
Vionne winced, glaring up at her captor.
"Get off me," she growled—her voice low, sharp, and shaking with both pain and anger.
Kirika didn't move. She just stared back at Vionne with those same dead, unreadable eyes—cold as glass and twice as unyielding.
And in a snap, Vionne saw it—something flicker in Kirika's eyes. Not coldness. Not indifference. Something… almost human.
But before she could name it, Kirika stood and offered her a hand.
"Come on. Let's stitch that wound."
Vionne hesitated, her pride catching in her throat. Still, she took the hand.
Kirika led her to the kitchen table, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. With methodical precision, she cleaned the cut and began stitching—her movements fluid, efficient, and almost graceful.
Vionne watched, half-expecting more pain, but Kirika's touch was steady. Gentle, even. The same hands that had disarmed her minutes ago now moved with the care of a surgeon.
For the first time, Vionne felt something unfamiliar toward her captor—something dangerously close to gratitude.
Not that she'd ever say it aloud.
Kirika glanced up, sensing her thoughts.
"Stop killing me in your head," she said flatly, knotting the last stitch. "That time will come—when our deal leads us there."
The kettle began to whistle, breaking the tension. Kirika rose, poured the boiling water into two cups, and stirred the tea in silence.
She stood by the window, the dim city lights painting her silhouette in gold and shadow.
Vionne sat behind her, watching the steam rise—and wondering just who Kirika was before the world turned her into this.
"Tell me."
Vionne's voice cut through the quiet, soft but edged with demand.
Kirika didn't turn. "Hm."
"What kind of game are we playing?"
Vionne's tone hardened. She waited, but Kirika only took a slow sip of her tea before glancing over her shoulder.
"What do you mean?" Kirika asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"The kid told me something," Vionne continued, frowning as fragments of memory resurfaced. "She said I was chosen... and that it was part of some game." She paused, her gaze distant, chasing pieces of the past she couldn't quite hold. "Then there was that guy in the mansion. He called you Top. Said he was proud it was you."
Her eyes sharpened.
"Tell me—what were we really after in that ambush? And what was that piece of paper for?"
The air thickened between them. Kirika sipped her tea again, silent for a moment.
Finally, with a sigh, she set the cup down and met Vionne's eyes.
"If I knew," she said calmly, "we wouldn't be here—waiting for that kid to wake up and give us the answers."
The clock ticked softly in the background. Outside, the city lights blinked like watchful eyes.
And for the first time, Vionne realized: Kirika wasn't as in control as she looked.
Elsewhere...
Meanwhile, in an abandoned church deep within the French countryside, a woman knelt before a flickering candle, her black nun's habit blending into the shadows that danced across the crumbling stone walls.
"Altena," a man's voice echoed softly from behind her.
Only the dim light of candles revealed his presence—a tall figure in a black suit, his face hidden behind a white Joker mask.
The nun did not turn. She finished her prayer, then whispered, "You may speak."
"They survived the first challenge," the man reported.
Altena rose slowly. For several seconds, she said nothing—only bowed before the altar, where a statue of Justice stood blindfolded, a serpent coiling around her arm. Behind it, two carved women knelt on opposite sides, swords driven into the ground between them.
When Altena finally spoke, her tone was calm and deliberate.
"By saying they... Who exactly are they? "
"The three candidates," the masked man replied. "Chloe—the sanctioned and the wild card."
Altena smiled faintly. "The wild card?"
"Yes. The daughter of the Order," he said.
"I am surprised Raven's daughter was able to participate," Altena murmured, almost to herself. "And survive stage one."
"She is... a force to be reckoned with," the man agreed, his eyes glinting behind the mask. "But it was Top who helped them—she saved the group from the South Order's strike team."
Altena turned to him, intrigued. "Oh? So Top has taken a side now? Resigned from being a soloist?"
The masked man tilted his head. "Not exactly. She's suffering from memory loss. The situation may change once the sanctioned girl regains her consciousness."
"Memory loss…" Altena repeated, her expression shifting into a thoughtful smile. "Could it be because of her sanction? They corrupted her memory, didn't they? Is this Sussana's doing?"
The masked man gave a single, silent nod.
Altena's smirk deepened. "Naughty, as always—the heir of the Yamaguchi branch. I wonder…" Her eyes glinted in the candlelight. "What will Top do to her sister once she remembers?"
"It was punishment," the masked man said simply. "For breaking the law."
Altena raised an eyebrow. "What law?"
"The Law of the Order of the Crimson Moon."
Her voice softened to a whisper. "You mean…"
The man interrupted, his tone as cold as the marble beneath their feet.
"She refused to ascend as the next Top. During the ceremony—before the entire board—she slit her father's throat in front of them all. The Japan branch of the Order witnessed the blood of their leader spill at her hands."
Silence fell again. The candles flickered.
And Altena smiled—slowly, knowingly.
"Ah," she breathed. "Then the balance truly has begun to shift."
"It is indeed the dawn of a new era," the man in the mask said, his voice low and certain. "An age where balance will return to the underworld."
Altena's smile lingered as she stepped toward the cracked window. A soft breeze drifted in, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the fields beyond the ruins. She closed her eyes, letting the cold air brush against her skin.
"Then let it begin," she whispered.
The candlelight flickered behind her—then one by one, each flame went out, leaving the church swallowed in darkness.