The Atmosphere of the Rome Infirmary
The infirmary of the Knights Stalkers' headquarters, buried beneath the millennial strata of ancient Rome, bore no resemblance to a conventional hospital. The air was crisp, almost sharp, charged with a scent that blended the ozone of residual magical discharges with the heady aroma of dried mandrake roots. Rose sat on the edge of a stone bed covered in white linen sheets, their coolness contrasting with the fever that still seemed to simmer beneath her skin. Every movement, even the smallest twitch, drew a silent grimace from her; her skin, where the scales of her other form had retracted, burned as if she had spent hours under a scorching sun. In her mouth, a persistent taste of copper and smoke reminded her of the sheer violence of her metamorphosis.
She stared at her mobile phone—a black, ordinary-looking device, yet one heavily modified by the Order's technomancers to catch a signal through dozens of meters of rock and magical shielding. The name "Ccil" glowed softly on the screen. He was her anchor, her lighthouse in the storm, the only reminder that beyond dragons, betrayals, and occult conspiracies, a warm and normal life awaited her. She took a deep breath, forcing the pain out of her expression so her voice wouldn't tremble, and dialed Christian's number.
"Anxiety in Bloom Town"
Thousands of miles away, in the nocturnal hustle of Bloom Town, the atmosphere was radically different. In their cramped but memory-filled apartment, Christian couldn't keep still. Autumn rain lashed the windows with the regularity of a metronome, an incessant drumming that mirrored his anxiety. His desk, usually tidy, was littered with empty coffee cups and scattered notes. A journalist by trade, he had been monitoring international news feeds all evening, his reporter's instinct on high alert since Rose's sudden departure two days prior. Every minute of radio silence from her had deepened the chasm of his worry.
The phone vibrated violently on the dark wood table. He lunged for it before the second ring, his heart thumping against his ribs.
"Hello?" His voice came out huskier, more broken than he intended. Rose could almost see his face at that exact moment: the furrowed brow, his hand nervously running through his disheveled brown hair, his eyes fixed on the window overlooking the blurred neon lights of Bloom Town.
"Ccil? Hey, it's me," Rose said. She tried to sound light, almost casual, but her voice betrayed a fatigue that even her shapeshifting talent couldn't entirely mask. The lie sat heavy on her chest, an invisible but suffocating armor.
"The Tension Rises"
"Rose. 'Hey, it's me'?" The relief in Christian's voice was instantly swept away by a wave of legitimate frustration. "You vanish for two days for a 'sudden work trip,' you stay totally unreachable, and you call me at this hour? I was seconds away from calling your boss or contacting the hospitals! Where are you, Rose?"
Rose closed her eyes, leaning against the cold, damp wall of the crypt. "I know, I'm sorry. I hit a major snag in the investigation; it was impossible to contact you until now. I finally managed to charge my phone. Listen... I'm still in Rome, for that international fraud case."
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with a new kind of suspicion. Christian, in Bloom Town, froze. His eyes landed on his computer screen where an urgent dispatch from an Italian news agency flashed: MAJOR INCIDENT AT THE PALLADIUM CASINO IN ROME: EXPLOSION AND EVACUATION.
"Rome? You're in Rome?" His voice rose an octave, betraying sudden fear. "Please, Rose, tell me your investigation has nothing to do with the accident at the Palladium?"
Rose's heart skipped a beat. Panic flooded her, sweeping away her carefully prepared lines. "How do you already know about that!?" she blurted out, the crack in her armor of lies widening instantly.
She realized her mistake the second the words left her lips. She quickly recovered, her voice becoming forced, almost too high-pitched: "I mean... the incident just happened. I've only vaguely heard about it from people here, at the office."
"The Game of Masks and Truths"
Christian let out a joyless laugh, a dry sound. "I'm a journalist, Rose. I have my sources, even on the other side of the world. It's going to be the front-page story tomorrow morning. They're calling it a gas explosion, but the rumors circulating on specialized forums are... inconsistent." He paused, his tone becoming insistent, putting the full weight of his suspicion on the line. "But you aren't answering my question. Are you safe? Does your fraud case have a link to that casino?"
Rose felt stress twist her stomach. She hated manipulating him, but the truth—the magic, the monsters, her nature—would condemn him to a life as a pariah. "No... no, Ccil. I'm on a completely different matter. International tax fraud at the Rome customs office. It's paperwork, numbers, nothing spectacular," she replied with a hesitant tone, struggling not to let her sadness overwhelm her. "I'm sorry for worrying you so much. I just... I really needed to hear your voice."
Her voice became quieter, almost a whisper, betraying the immense loneliness she felt in the midst of her companions in the Order.
"Are you okay? You sound sad," Christian asked, his concern overriding his doubts.
"Yes... yeah, it's just this mission is harder than expected. It's exhausting, and I can't give you details yet. But I'll be home soon, I promise," she tried to reassure him, as much as she was reassuring herself of the possibility of returning to normal.
"The Anchor and the Scoop"
"Okay... come home in one piece, RoB, promise?" He used her code name, the anchor that tethered her to human reality. He wanted to ask her a thousand questions about the timeline, about the details of her trip, but her safety came first.
"Yeah, promise," Rose whispered, a solitary tear tracing a path through the dust on her cheek. "I have to go; I have a very long day tomorrow. Talk later, Ccil."
She hung up. The silence of the crypt fell back over her, more stifling than ever. She closed her eyes for a few moments, placing her arm over her face to shield herself from the harsh infirmary light, trying to steady her breathing. The memory of Christian—his scent of coffee and old paper—was her only protection against the darkness surrounding her.
In Bloom Town, Christian sat motionless, phone still in hand. He was more than just worried; he was concerned in a way he had never known before. Rose's absences were too sudden, her explanations too vague. He stared at Rose's name on his screen. His gaze changed in an instant, losing its softness and hardening into a cold determination.
He was going to do his job as a journalist. He was going to dig where no one else dared to look. He had his new scoop, the most dangerous of his life: "Rose Blib."