Sylence sold the property without hesitation.
The house had already died once. Keeping it felt like preserving a corpse.
The money wasn't much—but it was enough. Enough for distance. Enough for a year.
The apartment was on the seventh floor, facing the sea. White walls. Wide windows. Salt in the air. At night, the lighthouse stood in the distance—thin, patient, watching.
Sylence noticed it immediately.
He smiled.
Not happily.
Recognizingly.
The connection felt mutual, like eye contact held too long.
He booked the flat the same day.
That night, sitting on the floor with Heaven curled beside him, Sylence spoke casually, as if suggesting groceries.
"We should both start working," he said. "And I'll join a college alongside it."
Andrew looked up from the box he was unpacking.
No hesitation.
"Alright," he said.
They found work faster than expected.
Andrew became a manager at a logistics firm near the docks. The job fit him disturbingly well—decisions, coordination, authority without spectacle. His salary alone could sustain the apartment.
Sylence found something closer to instinct.
A detective agency.
The owner barely asked questions. Sylence answered what little was asked with precision that felt rehearsed, though it wasn't. His pay was good. Too good for someone so young.
They furnished the apartment slowly.
The bed came last.
For Heaven.
It was spherical, padded, soft—something between furniture and sanctuary. Heaven accepted it immediately, curling into it as if it had always belonged there.
For a moment, the apartment felt like a life.
They saved.
They searched.
They visited colleges.
Most felt wrong—too loud, too crowded, too alive. Sylence walked through campuses with a sense of distance, like he was studying a species rather than joining one.
Tension followed him quietly.
Not fear.
Timing.
As if something was counting days.
Twelve passed.
The ritual date approached.
That night, Sylence dreamed.
The shadow stood in a place he didn't recognize, whispering into another person's ear. The person's face was blurred—but their hands shook.
A knife appeared.
A heart followed.
Stability maintained.
Sylence woke with his jaw clenched.
The full moon rose three nights later.
And with it, the bloodlust returned.
It wasn't emotion.
It was instruction.
He walked out of the city toward the shoreline, feet moving with purpose his mind did not question. Near the rocks, where waves crushed themselves into obedience, a stray dog approached him—trusting, hungry.
Sylence did not hesitate.
When it was done, he ate the heart while it was still warm.
The sea swallowed the sound.
Afterward, clarity returned.
In the apartment, under scalding water, he scrubbed the blood from his skin until red gave way to pink, and pink to nothing. His hands shook—not from guilt, but from release.
Wrapped in steam, he spoke aloud.
"I need time."
The shadow answered immediately, unfolding from the tile like a reflection that didn't belong to him.
"You may take it," it said. "You are a valuable asset."
Relief—thin but real—passed through him.
"I'll come when needed," the shadow continued. "Do not stray too far."
Then it was gone.
Sylence exhaled.
For the first time in weeks, the pressure eased.
College began.
Sylence attended classes quietly, sitting near the windows, observing more than participating. He spoke to no one.
Until someone spoke to him.
She was short—about 5'3"—with brown hair and blue eyes that mirrored his own uncomfortably well.
She smiled easily.
"Hi," she said, leaning forward. "I'm Lucia."
He nodded.
Her brother Tony stood behind her, taller, louder, already grinning like he belonged everywhere. Sundays became accidental routines—coffee, walking, talking.
One Sunday, Andrew joined them.
They went to a carnival.
Lights spun. Music bled into laughter. Lucia dragged them toward games that promised nothing and delivered less. Tony challenged Andrew to impossible throws. Heaven watched everything with alert amusement.
For a few hours, Sylence forgot to calculate.
They named themselves The 20's—laughing at the coincidence that all of them were twenty when they met.
It felt harmless.
It felt earned.
Then the case arrived.
A missing person.
No signs of struggle. No financial motive. Just absence.
Sylence felt it immediately—the shape of something wrong.
The deeper he dug, the heavier his chest grew. Anxiety followed him home. Depression sat beside him at work. The curse wasn't active—but something else was.
Approaching.
Lucia noticed.
"You're not okay," she said one evening.
They went to a coffee shop near the shore. Rain tapped the windows. Steam rose between them like a barrier.
She spoke
"My parents died in an accident," she said calmly. "Tony and Peter didn't let me feel alone."
She smiled—soft, practiced.
"They became… everything."
Then she leaned forward, eyes searching him.
"What's your past?"
Sylence inhaled.
"I was...."
And stopped.
The sentence didn't end.
It continued...