The blade never came out.
It hovered a breath away from Wols, humming softly, eager—then froze in midair.
"Stop, Veron."
The voice cut through the room like a verdict.
Deep. Steady. Absolute.
Even the blood seemed to pause.
Veron's eyes narrowed. The sword trembled once… then lowered.
From behind Wols, a man stepped forward.
He did not rush. He did not threaten. He simply arrived—and the room bent around his presence. Tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a long dark coat lined with subtle silver threads, his boots made no sound on the inn's ruined floorboards. His hair was dark, streaked faintly with gray at the temples. His eyes were sharp, ancient, carrying the weight of decisions that had buried cities.
Authority clung to him like a second skin.
Wols exhaled shakily, relief flooding his face.
"Uncle—"
The man did not look at him.
Veron clicked his tongue softly, disappointed. He stepped forward, touching Wols by the sword sheath one last time—just enough to make the threat unmistakable—then slid the sword away. With his free hand, he calmly reached out, plucked the pistol from Wols' trembling grip, and tossed it across the room. It skidded, spinning uselessly into a corner.
Only then did Veron turn his back on Wols.
He walked to the table at the center of the room, pulled out a chair, and sat as if this were a planned meeting rather than a massacre. He leaned back, legs crossed, fingers resting loosely on the table's edge.
Behind him, Dren stood like a wall of muscle and silence, blood speckling his forearms, eyes half-lidded once more—as if the violence had already grown boring.
Marin—no, Mira—was trapped between them.
Her back brushed Dren's chest when she shifted. Veron's shadow stretched toward her from the candlelight. Her breath came shallow, quick, her body still trembling from adrenaline and terror. The room smelled of gunpowder, spilled blood, and old alcohol soaked deep into the wood. Somewhere, glass cracked under a settling footstep.
The tension thickened. Heavy. Suffocating.
The man stepped forward.
He grabbed Wols by the collar and shoved him into the room with brutal ease. Wols stumbled, barely keeping his footing before the man kicked the door shut behind them. The sound echoed like a coffin lid sealing.
The man dragged a chair, placed it opposite Veron, and sat.
Their gazes met.
Two predators measuring distance.
And Lucen, in the midst of what had happened, was still asleep on the ground and did not wake up due to the severity of his intoxication.
Wols swallowed hard. "U–Uncle… what are you doing here?"
The man replied calmly, still not looking at him, "I don't want to hear your voice right now."
Wols fell silent instantly.
His shoulders shook.
Veron smiled faintly, amused. "So," he said lightly, as if discussing the weather, "what do we do about this mess?"
The man reached into his coat and produced a pistol.
Silver-inlaid. Elegant. Old craftsmanship. He placed it on the table between them, rotated it slowly until the barrel pointed away from Veron—
—and pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening.
Wols screamed as the bullet tore into his abdomen, punching through flesh and sending him crashing to the floor. Blood spread fast, dark and thick, pooling beneath him as he writhed, clutching his stomach, gasping like a fish dragged from water.
The man returned the gun to his coat, looking down at him with cold detachment.
"Now," he said flatly, "we're even."
Veron chuckled.
Not loudly. Not cruelly.
The kind of smile that made sane people take a step back.
The man lifted his gaze to Mira.
"And her?" he asked. "What will you do about the girl?"
Mira's heart slammed against her ribs.
Before she could think, her body moved.
She bolted for the window.
Fingers brushed the sill—
—and stopped.
Dren caught her arm gently. Too gently. Like restraining a child.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, voice low.
She struggled once. Twice.
It was useless.
He pulled her back against him, one massive hand still wrapped around her wrist, firm but not painful.
"Easy," he said, almost kindly. "Don't be scared."
That somehow made it worse.
Veron glanced over his shoulder. "I'll need her," he said. "She's part of the plan."
The man studied him for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
"Fine. Don't forget our agreement."
He stood, bent down, hoisted Wols onto his shoulder as if lifting a sack of grain. Wols groaned weakly, blood dripping down the man's coat, staining the floor in a slow trail.
Before leaving, the man paused.
"Clean this place."
The door burst open.
Masked men flooded in—some through the door, others slipping in through shattered window with terrifying coordination. Black uniforms. Controlled movements. They had been surrounding the inn the entire time.
Mira's knees nearly gave out.
"W–Who is that?" she whispered. "And them…?"
Veron didn't bother turning.
"One of the city's three heads," he replied casually. "The strongest."
Mira stared, horrified. "And… what's your connection to him?"
Veron smiled sideways.
"How do you think I got that million Rizo?"
Groaning.
A voice from the floor.
"Why is everything so loud…?" Lucen muttered, pressing a hand to his head. "Didn't the party end…?"
He opened his eyes.
Saw the blood.
The bodies.
The masked men.
And screamed.
Veron and Dren burst out laughing.
Lucen scrambled backward, pale as death, pointing wildly.
"What—what—what the hell is going on?!"
Veron wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, then turned back to Mira.
"What's your real name?"
She swallowed. "…Mira."
The masked men worked efficiently, dragging bodies away, wiping blood, sealing broken windows. The chaos faded into controlled silence.
A trembling inn employee stepped inside, face drained of color.
"S–Sir Veron… I heard gunshots and—"
"Go back to sleep," Veron said without looking.
"Should I—should I call the police?"
Veron flicked his gaze toward one of the masked men.
The man pulled out a black badge, silver snake engraved at its center.
SECRET SPECIAL FORCES.
The employee's throat bobbed.
"I–I'm sorry for disturbing you, sir."
She fled.
Veron turned to Mira.
"So, Mira," he said calmly. "You'll help me leave this city. After that—you're free."
Her eyes brightened for a heartbeat.
"But," he continued, voice dropping, "if you try to run… my friends will find you before you reach the gate of the city."
Her hope shattered.
"C–Can I at least speak to my sister?" she pleaded.
Veron didn't answer.
He stood and walked into the corridor, leaving them in the room. He stopped at the adjacent door. His hand closed around the handle—
—and crushed it.
The door flew open.
Inside stood a girl.
Frozen. Pale.
Mira's sister.
She was there from the beginning.
Their eyes met.