--- MARCEL ---
It felt like a nightmare… Like a false movie… Like a lie…
Only moments ago, Marcel had been sitting in a meeting when the janitor—who managed his private social housing—called him and told him that his ex-wife had fallen from the roof.
Now he was racing through the city streets, ignoring every traffic regulation, driven by the single need to arrive as quickly as possible where he was expected.
Yes, the meeting had been important. It had been hard for him to abandon it. But this was about more than just his ex-wife.
He was far more worried about Kubato.
Gertrude would never simply take her own life. If she had been capable of that, she would have done it long ago—back then, when that deranged beastman had raped her. She had clung to life.
Marcel took another sharp turn and finally turned left into the inner courtyard of the apartment blocks.
Rain hammered against the windshield as he parked the car and shut off the engine.
He stepped out. His expensive suit—reserved only for important meetings—was soaked within seconds. From the parking lot he hurried toward the building where his ex-wife and his father had lived.
From a distance he spotted the janitor, standing alone in the rain beneath an open umbrella.
Marcel hurried toward him—and stopped halfway, frozen in shock.
He saw her.
His ex-wife lay in a wide pool of blood, already blurred and washed away by the rain.
"It must have been twenty minutes," the janitor said, still struggling to comprehend what had happened. "You came quickly, Mr. Bernheim. I followed your instructions as you ordered. Shall I call the city guard now?"
The forty-one-year-old stepped closer.
Gertrude's body was broken in several places, torn apart by the impact. Her lifeless eyes stared up at the sky, and it felt as if the heavens themselves were weeping with Marcel over this misery.
"I'm sorry about your wife," the janitor said softly, searching the merchant's face.
"Thank you…" Marcel replied absentmindedly.
Gertrude…
How had all of this happened? Marcel knew deep down that things could never have gone well forever. Something would have broken eventually—but never this. Gertrude would never have killed herself. If she had wanted to die, she would have done so back then, shortly after their wedding, when she had been raped by a beastman—a wolfman. She had carried the child to term, hoping it was his, but…
"Call the city guard," Marcel said. "I'm going inside to check on things."
"Very well."
Marcel was about to enter the building when something caught his eye.
A knife lay in the bushes.
Or rather—it had landed there.
Panic seized him.
Kubato.
Marcel stormed up the stairs to the third floor. The door to his father's apartment stood open. He ran inside.
"Kubato! Father! Where are you?!"
When he entered the bedroom, shock struck him like a blow.
His father lay on the bed—motionless, lifeless. His face was marked by unrest and worry, the concern he had always carried for his granddaughter Kubato, whom he had loved so dearly.
"Father…" Marcel's voice broke. Tears streamed down his face as he threw himself beside him, weeping, kissing his beloved father. He had always been his role model—so different from everyone else in this country.
"Father… rest in peace."
Then Marcel looked around.
Why was he alone?
Kubato…?
Wait.
If his father was dead…
If his ex-wife lay dead outside…
If there was a knife nearby…
Then that meant—
"KUBATO!"
"Kubato!" Marcel screamed through the apartment. "Kubato!"
Please show yourself. Please be alive.
Fearing that Gertrude had hunted her, he searched every room. Every hiding place he knew she might use.
She was nowhere.
Fear tightened around his heart.
Don't be dead. Don't be dead. Don't be dead.
"Kubato…" he sobbed. "Please don't be dead."
He rushed into the stairwell. Blood stained the steps upward. He ran.
He could feel what had happened. The dark tension between Kubato and her own mother now hung thick in the air.
The door to the rooftop stood open.
He sprinted outside.
Shock and relief crashed into him at once.
There—slumped near the edge—lay the little girl. His little girl.
"Kubato!" he cried out, rushing to her. He wrapped her in his arms, frantically checking her body.
She was drenched, cold, unconscious—but alive.
When he realized it, he wept with relief, clutching her tightly.
"You're aliiive!" his chest trembled as he buried his tear-streaked face against hers.
"It's over. Daddy's here. Daddy's here."
He lifted the unconscious child into his arms. He no longer ran, but he knew they had to leave before the city guard arrived—before more trouble followed.
He grabbed a blanket from the bedroom, undressed Kubato, wrapped her tightly, and hurried out of the building.
"Mr. Bernheim…" the janitor stammered at the sight of him.
"Call the city guard," Marcel ordered sharply. "And an ambulance. And a hearse. Take care of it until I return."
Kubato's stepfather rushed to the car, laid the unconscious girl across the back seat, jumped behind the wheel, and drove off as fast as he could.
The entire way, he cried.
That he hadn't been able to properly say goodbye to his father made him sob uncontrollably. But he knew Gustav would have wanted him to keep caring for Kubato.
"What happened here…" he whispered brokenly. "I'm so sorry, Kubato. Gertrude… Father…"
Marcel avoided the city center, taking mostly rural roads toward his estate.
Hidden behind trees stood a large white villa. The pool was covered for autumn, and the vast garden felt abandoned while the gardeners were away.
He parked in front of the garage.
The front door opened.
A beautiful woman with black hair looked down at him in alarm.
Marcel usually came home late. But today was different. Worse.
His wife always knew when something was wrong.
In the pouring rain, Marcel stepped out, opened the back door, and lifted Kubato out.
"Margarita, prepare a hot bath—quickly!" he shouted, following her inside.
Her voice echoed through the house as she ran toward the bathroom.
Marcel followed, ignoring the dirt from his shoes. Order didn't matter now.
The bathtub was already filling with hot water. Marcel laid Kubato down, unwrapped her from the blanket, and lowered the girl into the bath.
Margarita stared in shock. "What happened?"
Tears filled Marcel's eyes as he looked at his wife. Now that she was here, the pressure finally broke. Now he could breathe.
"Father… is dead," he said. "And Gertrude must have found out and… chased Kubato onto the roof. She must have fallen afterward."
Margarita embraced him, tears rising as well. She held his soaked body, unconcerned for her dress.
Her slave—a beastwoman, a cat-girl dressed as a maid—hurried in carrying bandages and supplies.
"Thank God," Marcel sobbed. "Thank God Kubato survived. Thank God."
He wept again—joy and grief entwined—holding his beloved wife.
The cat-girl slipped past them and began tending to Kubato's bleeding arm.
Eventually Marcel steadied himself. "I need to change. I have to go back before the city guard notices something and comes looking."
"Go," Margarita said softly. "We'll take care of Kubato."
Marcel left the bathroom, changed quickly, skipped the shower—there was no time. His father and ex-wife were dead. The city guard would already be at the scene.
"Please don't let them follow Kubato…" he whispered as he hurried back to the car and drove away.