The dorm room ceiling greeted me as I opened my eyes. The lights were still set to their usual brightness—not the dim setting from last night, and certainly not the one I was supposedly meant to use from now on whenever I slept.
Then my memories came rushing back. Fiona's visit. The ambush by Weinstein's lackeys. And finally… that dream.
I bolted toward the door, flung it open, and—
The slightly overcast dawn sunlight greeted me shyly.
The corridor floor was pristine. No signs of struggle. No cracks. No bloodstains. As though nothing had ever happened here at all.
I closed the door again and walked back to my bed, frantically searching for my phone. The moment I found it, I dialed her number without hesitation.
As the connecting tone echoed repeatedly in my ear, every possible worst-case scenario began to spiral through my mind.
Did Fiona defeat them to protect me? Or was she captured instead—enduring something far worse, something that should have happened to me instead?
With each passing second, my heartbeat grew more erratic, and those dark assumptions took firmer hold.
Fiona got hurt. Fiona was injured. Fiona… died.
And was it all my fault?
The ringing stopped, replaced by crackling static. My loose grip tightened instantly. "Fiona?"
No reply. Only that same unsettling static, as if the person on the other end was caught in something frantic and chaotic.
Was that Fiona… or someone else?
"How rude." Fiona's voice finally came through—low, indifferent, exactly as I remembered it.
In an instant, all the tension crushing my chest dissipated. Carefully, I asked again, "What happened?"
Silence followed.
Then, at last, "Nothing happened."
So she was doing it again—using that method she called professional and efficient. One of her so-called S-Class Hunter protocol: concealing everything to prevent panic, whether mine or anyone else's.
"Where are you now?" I asked once more.
Another brief pause.
"Working." Her voice was as cold as ever.
I clenched my teeth, ended the call immediately, deleted her contact, and blocked her number.
This was absurd. Completely ridiculous.
Why was I worrying about someone who saw me as nothing more than a mission? An obligation?
***
This was the third time Bianca Dawson had witnessed someone's death. The first was her father's.
Her father was a drunk and a gambling addict—a jerk who brought nothing but misfortune to everything he touched.
So Bianca's mother disposed of that 'trash'. One stab while he slept, right after another night of abuse, just like always.
The news barely caused a stir. There were police officers and curious onlookers, of course, but the article itself was relegated to a tiny column near the back of the morning paper. Insignificant. Unimportant.
Still, it was a death.
And that death—no matter how horrifying or how deserved it might have seemed—shook Bianca deeply.
Her mother was imprisoned. And Bianca entered another kind of prison: an orphanage.
That was when he appeared.
"What you need to understand," the man said calmly, "is that this is not an adoption. It is a contract. I will provide you with protection, comfort, and peace. In return, you will become a filial child to me."
Evan gave her the surname Dawson to formalize that 'contract'. And for the past ten years, they had lived as a complete, loving family.
At least, on the surface.
Because Evan always emphasized that what he offered was contractual affection. He frequently reminded her that unnecessary empathy only hindered efficiency. He even claimed he wouldn't care if Bianca grew to hate him for it.
That was impossible.
Not after everything the man had done. Not after everything he had given her.
Removing his slightly blood-stained rubber gloves, Evan placed them into a plastic bag before storing it inside the black briefcase he always carried.
"That was Weinstein's doing?" Bianca asked, breaking the silence.
Evan nodded. "His father is the seventh son of the Twelve Main Families. Though merely a branch family, they rose remarkably through real estate maneuvers. It's no surprise they could afford to hire six former Rank-B Hunters at once."
"I'm sorry," Bianca blurted out before she could stop herself.
Evan glanced at her, then turned and took a seat across from her. "This isn't your fault. There's no need to dwell on it."
"But this will cause trouble," she insisted. "And that person… Cain Vernier will—"
"'Cain Vernier'?"
Evan's voice remained neutral. No flinch. No shift in tone. Yet his stoic expression hardened, its lines turning distinctly colder.
Bianca knew immediately.
She had made a mistake.
"S-Sorry," she corrected herself quickly. "'Subject-045'… they won't kill him, right?"
"You worried about him?"
She shook her head violently. "No—no—!"
"Then what is it?"
Bianca swallowed hard. The next words she spoke would determine whether she remained useful—or disposable. "What if he dies, and Project Eclipse fails?"
Evan snorted, then chuckled. His chuckle grew into full laughter, as though Bianca had just told the funniest joke imaginable.
"Relax. He won't die so easily. That cursed creature was born in a filthy, vile hell. One or two half-hearted atrocities won't be enough to destroy him." Evan smiled and gently stroked her head. "Project Eclipse will proceed as planned. 'Subject-045' will be tamed and become the next biological weapon. Just as intended. So continue your role as before."
Bianca returned his smile and bowed her head, savoring his touch as a reward. "Yes, Father."
She knew lying and deception were sins.
But this was for humanity's sake.
For the Syndicate.
For Evan.
***
"How long do you plan on lying there, Lazybones?"
Kicks landed repeatedly against the young man's dusty backside. More irritating than painful.
"Ouch. Just five more minutes."
"Five more minutes, and I'll make sure your head is no longer attached to your body."
The young man clicked his tongue and moved his broken arm away from his eyes. It burned with pain. There was a time when that agony would have made him scream and sob—but those days were long gone.
Standing over him was a man with curly hair graying with age. His deeply lined face suggested he was well past fifty.
"Honestly," the young man muttered, "I'd rather wake up to a beautiful woman. Preferably a blonde with blue eyes in a sexy maid outfit. Is that too much to ask?"
"You killed the last woman who worked with us because she rejected your confession, Senior Fletcher."
Fletcher hissed, grimacing—more from the regeneration spreading through his body than from guilt. "That was an accident. Completely unintentional. And don't call me 'Senior.' Being addressed like that by a fifty-something geezer feels weird, Ebony."
"You caused quite a scene here, Mr. Fletcher."
A strange voice spoke—and with it came an unfamiliar Ether pressure.
Fletcher smiled warily. "And you seem to lack basic manners."
"Ah, my apologies. I was worried you wouldn't take me seriously otherwise." The figure stepped out from behind Ebony Wood and dropped his disguise, revealing a face that made Fletcher burst into laughter until he started coughing.
The guest frowned and glanced at Ebony. "Is he all right?"
Ebony sighed and chose not to answer.
"Well, I'll be damned," Fletcher wheezed. "To think the legendary Salazar Haiss would show up like this. Is today my lucky day—or my unlucky one? You're not here to hunt me, are you?"
Salazar waved dismissively and chuckled. "You have a fine sense of humor, Sir. But no. I am merely a humble servant, granted the honor of serving His Majesty's grand purpose by His Majesty himself."
"I figured as much. So what? You didn't come begging for souls, did you? We're both broke." Fletcher had no intention of becoming anyone's support system—especially in his condition.
"I came to discuss Young Master Cain."
Fletcher went rigid. His regeneration accelerated violently as he sat upright, ignoring the mangled corpses and blood strewn around him. "Cain has chosen his path. He chose humanity. And I believe we should respect that."
It wasn't a question. Not with the Ether pressure Fletcher was releasing.
Salazar knew that. "I respect his choice, but we could—"
"We could protect him, and his goal." Fletcher stood, stretching. His tone was final.
Salazar pressed on. "And what of His Majesty Bael's will?"
In a motion too fast to perceive, Fletcher seized Salazar by the face. His own head peeled apart into cracked, decaying flesh as his voice thundered, "How dare you, lowly worm—ungrateful insect—speak His name so lightly?"
Salazar remained calm. "I merely remind you that though He is gone, His legacy remains. To fulfill it, we must reunite. And your assistance, Lord Mortis, would be invaluable."
For a moment, Fletcher considered tearing him apart.
Then his grip loosened.
Salazar collapsed to the floor as Fletcher returned to his human form. "The kid is stubborn. Do you really think he'll abandon his dream of becoming human?"
"That is not his dream," Salazar replied calmly.
Fletcher frowned.
"That desire belongs to his caretakers—that cursed humans who claim to be his parents." Salazar smiled. "And because of that, I have prepared a plan."
"Oh?"
"We'll deceive all three of them. When their desires align with ours, the Young Master will finally understand his true destiny."
Fletcher snorted. "And that's why you'll always be a worm. Do you really think an S-rank Hunter can be deceived that easily?"
Salazar only smiled and glanced at Ebony.
Fletcher followed his gaze. "… You must be joking."
**
"If I had to say one thing about this video," Fletcher muttered, "it's nostalgic. Is this really the only surviving recording?"
"A collaborator within the Academy's security erased all traces. However, I prepared a backup—just in case you wished to add it to your collection."
"How strange do you think I am, Ebony?"
"You have… unpredictable tastes, Senior. I thought you might find this stimulating."
"Delete it. Now."
"Immediately."
After Ebony left, Fletcher found himself troubled by an unfamiliar sense of pride and joy.
Ah… perhaps I'll have a nephew soon.
A half-human nephew.
But something felt off.
… Or was it a grandson?