"Boo."
Vane twisted at the last possible moment, her body folding sideways just as Monisa's boot crashed down where her head had been a heartbeat earlier. The impact punched a crater into the dirt, gravel and dust blasting outward in a violent spray. Vane rolled across the ground, once, twice, boots scraping desperately for balance, then shoved herself upright and leapt back several steps. Her staff dragged behind her, carving a shallow line through the earth while splinters continued to fall from the cracked wood.
She shot a glance to the side.
Hermit was slowly pushing himself up from the dirt. One gloved hand clutched his throat tightly, fingers pale against skin already darkening with bruises. A rough cough tore out of him before he straightened bit by bit, coat ripped at the shoulder.
Monisa turned toward him, her grin stretching wider.
"You're pretty tough for your age, old man."
Hermit met her eyes without hesitation. His voice rasped but never wavered.
"Not only am I old, but I'm a better heyuman than criminals like you."
The words struck hard. Monisa's expression collapsed instantly, fury igniting across her face. She screamed, her voice raw enough to tear.
"Not that crap again! What do you think you people are, huh? Just because you all are wealthy doesn't mean you get to live happily!"
Hermit and Vane exchanged a brief glance, confusion passing silently between them.
Then Monisa laughed. The sound came out sharp and uneven, completely empty of humor. Her nails dragged down her own cheeks, carving thin strips of skin away. Blood surfaced immediately, bright and wet.
"It's always you people—you god damn rich people—who are blessed. And poor people like us? Always searching for your blessings."
Vane shifted sideways, slow and cautious, tightening her grip on the fractured staff.
'She's losing control. The overdose is eating her senses.'
Monisa spread her arms wide, chest rising and falling hard.
"You all and this world are the same. Can't there be a world without this crappy infection, no bugs, no gods, none of this poor-and-rich unfair bullshit?"
Her gaze snapped back to Hermit. The whites of her eyes were nearly gone now, flooded with red veins bursting beneath the surface. The pousuns were tearing through her body. Her nails dug deeper into her face. Flesh split open across her cheeks, exposing raw muscle beneath. Blood streamed down her neck, soaking into the straps of her top.
"Tell me—in this world, only heyumans can get infected from the Mother of All's blood. But why are only rich people allowed to live? Lower people get killed right after they get infected. Is this fair? Are their lives just toys for you all!"
Hermit watched her quietly, unmoving.
"Young lady," he said, calm as ever, "you are wrong on two things."
He raised one finger.
"First. People don't kill lower-ranked folk because they are poor. They do it to free them from the suffering that follows infection."
Monisa's lip curled, disbelief and fury tangling together.
"What! Don't fuck with me—you're the ones causing that suffering! Nailing kids down, stabbing them with poison! How is that freeing them!"
Hermit lifted a second finger.
"So elegy bugs can't fuse with them. And even if they do, they won't be able to move."
Her scream tore through the ravine, sharp enough to echo.
"But they are kids! You bastard! Try that with your own children—why make others suffer!"
The words lingered in the air. For a brief moment, something inside her cracked.
Her eyes lost focus. The rage faltered. A memory surged forward without warning.
She was small again, knees pressed into wet dirt, fingers gripping the edge of a rough stone grave marker. Rain poured down endlessly, soaking her thin dress, hair clinging to her face. At first no sound came from her—only shaking shoulders and a silent open mouth. Then the sobs broke free, deep and painful, each one tearing through her chest.
The grave was fresh. The soil dark and loose. No name carved yet. Only a child's small handprint pressed into the mud beside it, already dissolving beneath the rain.
The memory vanished as suddenly as it appeared.
Monisa blinked hard. Blood-mixed tears streaked down her ruined cheeks. Her arms fell to her sides, trembling uncontrollably. The smile had disappeared completely.
What remained looked empty.
Hermit didn't flinch. His expression stayed steady, voice calm, as if he were pointing out something ordinary.
"Second thing. A person infected in a wealthy family doesn't survive either."
Monisa's head snapped toward him, her blood-smeared face twisting with disbelief.
"Stop lying—"
Hermit lifted one hand, a small, quiet gesture that silenced her mid-sentence.
"They only get a chance if they manage to survive it or not. In my sixty-eight years, I've seen only one person barely make it through. Out of tens of thousands. And you know what?"
He let the silence stretch.
"After a month, only his body came back."
Monisa let out a broken laugh. It cracked halfway through, frustration tangled with something dangerously close to grief.
"So why! Don't you wish for a better world?"
"I do," Hermit answered.
She staggered a step closer, boots scraping across the dirt, arms thrown wide again like she was demanding judgment from the sky itself.
"Don't you wish everyone could live happily?!"
"I do," he repeated, voice unchanged.
Her chest rose and fell violently. This time she screamed, the sound tearing through the ravine and slamming against the stone walls before echoing back.
"So why are you accepting everything like it's okay!"
The echoes faded slowly. Hermit looked directly at her—past the blood, past the fury, into whatever remained beneath it.
He gave his answer in a single word.
"Acceptance."
Monisa stood motionless, mouth slightly open, no sound leaving her lips. The blood streaking her face had dried in uneven lines, and her eyes stayed fixed on Hermit, struggling to grasp the single word he had placed between them.
Inside the car, Krineka's ears tilted forward. She watched through the windshield, blue eyes sharp with focus.
"Hermit is trying to distract her…"
She turned toward Azrean.
"Young man."
Azrean blinked, snapping his attention to her.
"Can you use a gun?"
His eyes widened. "A gun? No—I've never touched one before."
Krineka nodded once, calm despite the tension pressing in from outside. She slipped a hand beneath the folds of her pink satin skirt, movements quick and practiced. When her hand emerged, it held a flintlock pistol—slender walnut grip carved with delicate floral patterns matching Hermit's, steel lock plate etched with fine scrollwork, the smooth barrel widening slightly at the muzzle. The lace at her cuff brushed the trigger guard as she held it steady.
Azrean stared at it. 'Is she planning to shoot? If that woman turns on us after… that's dangerous.'
He swallowed, forced himself to move, and pushed the car door open.
"Lady Krineka… could you pass me your gun…"
Her brows lifted faintly in surprise, but she placed the pistol into his hand without hesitation.
Azrean stepped out, gravel crunching under his boots. He stayed close to the open door, heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears. The pistol felt heavier than it looked, cold metal slick against his sweating palm.
'I've never fired a gun before… if I miss, I'll expose myself.'
Monisa still hadn't moved. She remained frozen, staring at Hermit, trapped somewhere inside her own thoughts.
Azrean raised the pistol with both hands. The barrel trembled badly. Sweat slid into his eyes; he blinked it away.
'Don't miss… don't miss.'
He pulled the trigger.
The gun roared. Powder smoke burst outward, sharp and bitter. The shot flew true enough—grazing the outer side of Monisa's thigh, tearing fabric and carving a shallow line through flesh. She gasped, sharp and startled, her leg faltering.
Her head snapped toward him. Vane and Hermit turned at the same instant, eyes locking onto Azrean.
"Crap!" Azrean blurted, panic crashing in.
Monisa's expression twisted, shock boiling instantly into fury.
"You bastard!"
She launched forward, boots hammering the dirt, body blurring with violent speed as she closed the distance.
Azrean froze, eyes wide, the pistol lowering slightly in his shaking hands.
Arms suddenly wrapped around him from behind. Krineka pulled him back hard, pressing him against her chest as she dragged him toward the car door.
At the same moment, Vane spun and hurled her cracked staff like a spear. The heavy wood spun through the air and slammed into Monisa's good leg with a dull, solid impact. Her knee buckled. She stumbled, momentum breaking.
Something inside Azrean snapped into place. Shock burned away, replaced by a surge of anger. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. He lifted his leg slowly, deliberately.
Monisa's ruined face collided with the sole of his boot. The impact snapped her head backward with a wet crack. She staggered, balance gone.
Hermit moved in the same breath. He retrieved his fallen flintlock from the dirt in one smooth motion, rising with practiced ease. The white glove steadied the grip, hammer already cocked. He aimed once—center mass—then adjusted higher.
Boom.
The shot pierced straight through Monisa's forehead. A small red hole opened between her eyes. Her body jerked once, strings cut all at once, then collapsed. Knees struck the ground first, followed by her torso, arms falling limp at her sides.
Her eyes, still wide with fading fury, dulled quickly. A final shallow breath rattled from her throat.
Then silence. Monisa lay still in the dirt, blood slowly spreading beneath her head.
Monisa was dead.