"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze into an abyss, the abyss will gaze also into you."

  - Friedrich Nietzsche

  “Today is the day,” Kazou told the dark, because the dark wanted language. “Today is the day I kill you.”

  He did not move yet. He only held the rifle, a clumsy, human talisman, and waited for the rest of the world to arrive, chairs folding upright, lights sputtering on, as the small, ordinary procession of people made the hall come alive. In the dark, his breath a slow, measured drum, Kazou found himself asking a question he could not answer:

  If he carried out the act, and the world kept turning, what would that mean for the promise he had made to the child who trusted him not to become a bad guy?

  ***

  “All lives are equal,” he said to the damp leaves. “No one gets to decide who lives or dies.”

  ***

  “You are!” she shouted, pushing her face into his arm. “Even if the man is evil, you can’t kill him! You told me—” she hiccuped mid-sentence, her shoulders shaking—“you told me ‘Daijoubu. Mou kowakunai. You said it means ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid anymore, remember? You said it!” Her little fingers gripped his sleeve tighter, desperate, pleading. “If that’s true, then why… why are you making me afraid now?”

  ***

  The sound of footsteps echoed down the pathway, measured, polite, and rehearsed. Ivanova led the line of students toward the grand presentation hall, clipboard in hand, her heels clicking against the polished marble. The chatter of the students filled the air, a nervous energy filling, all laughter and whispers masking the tension simmering beneath.

  Casimir walked a few paces behind her. His posture was perfect, too perfect. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, his white sleeves pressed, his collar aligned with mathematical precision. The faintest of smiles touched his glossy lips, delicate, polite, the kind that never reached the eyes.

  The lights above flickered once, briefly, as the doors opened into the darkened presentation hall.

  “Everyone, please find your seats,” Ivanova instructed, her voice firm yet kind.

  The students dispersed into rows, their voices tapering off as the room’s darkness pressed down upon them. The stage loomed ahead—a silhouette of polished wood and velvet curtains, half-lit by the faint spill of light from the outside.

  Casimir paused at the threshold, eyes adjusting to the dark. His reflection flickered faintly in the glossy floor, a shadow stretching longer than it should have. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening to something no one else could hear.

  He smiled again—small, knowing.

  Ivanova didn’t notice. No one ever noticed.

  He looked out toward the sea of empty seats in the dimness. Somewhere in that darkness, a pair of eyes watched him. Somewhere, someone’s breath trembled against the metal of a rifle.

  Casimir’s gaze shifted, infinitesimally, toward where Kazou was hidden—then back to the stage. The faint glint of amusement crossed his face, like a secret only he understood.

  Then, softly, under his breath, so quiet that even Ivanova didn’t hear, he whispered, smiling:

  “Today is the day, isn’t it, Dr Kuroda? You will try to shoot me today.”

  And with that, he stepped into the light.

  ***

  Polished wood gleamed. Velvet curtains rippled faintly. The faint scent of cologne and wine drifted through the air as guests began to file in, their voices low, practiced, formal. The auditorium, moments ago hollow and expectant, became alive with the quiet shuffle of coats, the brushing of chair legs, the murmured greetings of men and women who had long learned to smile without warmth.

  Casimir stood near the edge of the stage, head slightly lowered, his expression calm, almost serene. Students passed him, whispering in admiration or fear, though they themselves could not tell which it was.

  A guest brushed past him—a man in a dark wool coat with brown hair. The faintest pause, imperceptible to anyone not watching. The man stopped beside Casimir, feigning a glance at his notes. Casimir’s hand slid into the inner pocket of his blazer, emerging with a small silver canister—unmarked, cold metal that caught the light for only an instant before being concealed again.

  It was passed from one hand to another with a motion too smooth to draw attention.

  “Anders,” Casimir murmured under his breath, without looking at him.

  Anders’s lips curled into a half-smile, one that meant understanding. He gave a soft chuckle, deep and dry, like gravel grinding beneath boots.

  “I see. Still the same poetry, Casimir.”

  He tucked the canister into his coat, nodding once before drifting away, vanishing behind the rear rows where the shadows gathered thickest. No one saw him leave the view.

  Ivanova stood in the front row, her clipboard pressed against her chest, watching the guests settle. Her posture was proper, but her eyes betrayed the faintest tremor of unease. The university’s school of Philosophy chairman and his associates arrived shortly after—a small procession of polished shoes and pressed suits. They exchanged soft pleasantries before one of them gestured toward the side table, where crystal glasses and an open bottle of Bordeaux awaited.

  “Professor Ivanova,” one of the men said with a courteous incline of his head, “you must join us.”

  She smiled politely and shook her head.

  “I’ll pass. I prefer to keep my thoughts clear.”

  The men chuckled softly, as though she had made a clever joke. They poured for themselves but did not yet drink—each simply held their glass with a measured grace, as though part of the ritual was in the waiting.

  The room quieted.

  The first group of students ascended the stage, papers trembling slightly in their hands. The microphone crackled once before steadying. A young woman began to speak, her voice rehearsed and cautious:

  “Our project concerns the nature of consciousness—whether it exists as an emergent property of matter, or as the fundamental truth from which all matter arises...”

  Her words drifted through the air, weaving a soft current of intellectual tension. The audience nodded, composed, attentive. But beneath the smooth cadence of academic discourse, something else pulsed—a silent rhythm, a heartbeat in the walls.

  Casimir stood in the back corner of the stage, his gaze lowered, listening without listening. Every syllable seemed to flow around him rather than reach him. His hands were folded once again behind his back, thumb pressing idly against his wrist, feeling his pulse.

  The lights above buzzed faintly.

  From a distance, a single breath wavered.

  Kazou’s.

  He was there—hidden, rifle resting against the edge of the railing, eyes scanning through the crosshairs. Sweat rolled down his temple. He watched the scene below—the poised professors, the fragile students, and Casimir, standing perfectly still.

  And in the trembling silence between words, the room itself seemed to hold its breath.

  The philosophy of consciousness echoed through the speakers.

  And under the academic civility of the gathering, death was quietly taking its seat.

  "Casimir Bielska! It is your turn to speak on Anna Smirnov's behalf. Rest in peace." Ivanova declared. "Everybody, a moment of silence while he speaks, honoring the young woman's life."

  The air trembled with the solemn quiet of ceremony—then with the first, thin fracture of dread.

  Casimir stood at the podium, framed in light, his posture immaculate. The students had gone still. Even the murmuring of chairs and shoes had subsided into reverence. He adjusted the microphone delicately, like a man coaxing breath into a dying flame. His voice came low, smooth, warm as amber.

  “Anna… was a friend, a mind, and a mirror,” he began, eyes half-lidded, the faintest curve of a smile shadowing his lips. “To remember her is to remember that truth must bleed if it is to live.”

  Kazou’s heart pounded so violently he thought the scope would shake apart. Sweat slicked his palms. His finger brushed the trigger, barely a breath between motion and damnation.

  You're lying, Casimir... You never cared about her... She wasn't your friend... You killed her...

  “To you,” he whispered under his breath, “the one I brought into this world…”

  His eye steadied in the glass. The crosshair hovered perfectly over Casimir’s head.

  For a single, absolute second, he believed it. That this could end everything. That if he pulled now, he could silence the voice that had haunted every corner of his life since Sendai. That the world would exhale, finally, in peace.

  But then—movement.

  A flicker in the far aisle. Anders. Calm, precise, a man with purpose carved into his bones. He moved like someone who belonged, blending in with the crowd. Casimir did not turn, not fully, but Kazou knew he was aware. There was something in the angle of his chin, the rhythm of his breathing. And when Anders reached the back of the hall, Kazou’s blood ran cold.

  The faint metallic clink. A silver canister.

  Lighter fluid.

  Kazou’s grip tightened. He didn’t notice the tremor in his hand until his finger brushed the trigger again, shaking. His jaw clenched.

  Igore Anders... End this before anything bad happens... Just pull it!

  “Now,” he whispered to himself. “Now—”

  And then—

  A cough.

  Followed by a sound like a chair scraping too hard against wood.

  Thump!

  One of the chairmen, the tall man with the dark glasses of wine, had slumped sideways, his face draining of color. The glass of wine tumbled from his fingers and shattered against the floor. Then another chairman blinked, eyes rolling back, and collapsed with a thud, another glass shattering.

  Poison. That wine was poison.

  Ivanova stood in shock, her hand halfway to her lips. The third man spasmed, knocking the table aside. Red wine streaked the white tablecloth like blood.

  And in that instant, the entire room froze.

  "T-T-The w-wine???" Ivanova stuttered in fear. "S-Somebody! Help! Call the ambulance!"

  Kazou’s breath hitched.

  The rifle wavered.

  Casimir turned his head—just slightly. Just enough.

  Their eyes met.

  It couldn’t be real. Kazou was hidden, buried in shadow, but the feeling hit him like a fist to the chest. Casimir saw him. Through glass and distance, he saw him.

  A small, knowing smile touched the corner of Casimir’s mouth.

  Kazou’s entire body went rigid.

  Casimir silently voiced, "Are you going to pull it?"

  He almost pulled the trigger out of sheer terror. But his muscles locked because in Casimir's gaze, there was no fear. There was recognition. Intimacy. Invitation.

  Then—

  Crackling.

  At first, he thought it was the static inside his ears, the echo of his pulse. Then the air changed. He smelled it, chemical, acrid. Smoke.

  He looked down.

  Near the back of the hall, a single book on a shelf was burning. A whisper of orange light, faint and delicate as breath. Someone laughed nervously, thinking it an accident, until the fire leapt. The flame crawled hungrily along the wall, devouring pages, paper, wood. Another shelf caught, and another. The sound deepened into a roar.

  Gasps. Screams.

  "Everybody! Out of the building!" Ivanova yelped, running onto the stage beside Casimir.

  People surged to their feet, chairs clattering, students shouting for water. Ivanova barked orders, her voice cracking. Someone stumbled against the curtains, another whoosh, and the fire doubled.

  And through it all, Casimir stood still.

  Utterly still beside Ivanova.

  Watching the flames with quiet fascination, his expression unreadable. Like he was witnessing a truth unfold exactly as he’d written it.

  Kazou swallowed. His pulse spiked. The scope blurred with tears and smoke.

  He could still shoot. He could still end it.

  But then—

  Cold steel pressed to the back of his skull.

  His blood froze.

  The weight of the barrel dug into his hairline, firm, deliberate.

  “Don’t even breathe, doctor.” The voice was calm. Cold. Precise.

  Anders. The man who claimed to be Casimir's Disciple.

  Kazou’s body tensed. He tried to turn—

  Crack!

  Pain exploded at the base of his skull. His vision blurred white, his knees buckled. A violent blow. The rifle slipped from his hands as his body crumpled forward onto the floorboards. His vision flickered, disjointed shapes tumbling.

  He wheezed, gasping for air. His mind flickered between instinct and despair. Through the fog, he saw Anders’s silhouette framed by smoke.

  The man’s face was eerily calm, eyes focused, movements deliberate. Almost as if his expression was a mirror of Casimir's, but lacking the attractive charm.

  “You think you can kill the übermensch?” Anders muttered, crouching. The smell of oil and smoke clung to him. “You think you can undo what you built?”

  Kazou spat blood, his vision spinning.

  “What… what are you—”

  Another slam—the rifle butt cracked against his temple. White light.

  The world spun violently, the sound of his pulse drowning the fire’s roar.

  He collapsed sideways, cheek pressed against the wooden floor. Blood from his lip pooled beneath him.

  From below, the chaos swelled—screams, glass shattering, the dull whoomp of fire spreading.

  Anders’s boot pressed against his shoulder.

  “Stay down,” he said softly. “The curtain’s not down yet.”

  Kazou tried to lift his head, groaning, but Anders knelt, gripping the back of his collar.

  “You don’t get to write the ending,” Anders whispered. “You wrote him. You made him. So you’ll die watching your creation burn. You created the true übermensch. But yet, you still believe you have the right to kill the übermensch, just because you played god. Casimir is past that now. He rose against god, all morals, you; he is now higher than you. Higher than the god you tried to be."

  Kazou coughed weakly, the truth dawning in fragments.

  The rifle—his weapon—was gone, kicked across the floor. His hands were slick with blood.

  Through the haze, he turned his head just enough to see the stage.

  Casimir’s voice carried even over the screaming. Calm, unhurried, beautiful.

  “We mourn her,” Casimir said, the microphone still steady in his hand. “But mourning is merely the beginning. Every soul—”

  "Casimir! Come on! We have to go!" Ivanova gasped. "Why are you still talking?!"

  The sound of fire devouring curtains drowned the rest.

  Kazou’s breath came in ragged gasps. The ceiling lights flickered off as the smoke thickened. His vision dimmed at the edges.

  He tried to speak, to warn them all, to get away from Casimir. But the boot pressed harder against his neck.

  Anders leaned closer, voice almost tender:

  “This is the part where the world starts again. Under the rule of the true übermensch."

  The fire roared louder. Someone’s scream rose, then cut off.

  Kazou gritted his teeth, his hand instinctively sliding inside his coat. The weight of the spare pistol. His final chance.

  He yanked it free, trying to bring it up—but Anders was faster. A kick snapped Kazou’s wrist wide, the gun clattering across the floorboards into the darkness before Anders grabbed it.

  The fire below roared louder, the first plumes of smoke rising toward the upper floor. Screams echoed through the building, footsteps pounding the stairwells as the students panicked. But here, in the half-lit corridor, there was only Kazou, Anders, and the distant laughter of the flames devouring everything.

  Kazou’s lungs stung. His eyes watered. Still, he forced himself to look up into Anders’s eyes, even with Anders pressing his own gun down on him.

  He had been a scientist. He had created lives. But now, staring down the barrel, he felt closer than ever to becoming the very thing he feared.

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  Anders his face was half-lit by the fire’s glow filtering through the gaps in the gallery’s railing. His expression was flat, dead-eyed, as though violence were just another mundane chore.

  “You thought you could take him?” Anders said, voice low but steady. He pressed Kazou's spare pistol harder against his shoulder. “You think you’re the one who gets to end him?”

  Kazou coughed, trying to shift beneath the weight. Smoke was creeping up toward the second floor now, but Anders didn’t flinch, didn’t even acknowledge the heat or the noise below.

  “You don’t understand,” Kazou rasped. His hand inched toward his coat pocket. “He—he has to be stopped—He'll kill you too!”

  Anders’ boot dug harder into his ribs, cutting him off.

  Anders crouched low now, face inches from Kazou’s. His eyes were utterly void, unreadable.

  “You’re in the way,” Anders whispered. “And I won’t let you interfere with him.”

  Below them, the fire roared higher. The screams grew louder. The entire hall was drowning in smoke and panic. But up here, pressed beneath Anders’ boot, Kazou’s world had narrowed to a single truth: Casimir wasn’t the only demon in the room.

  Anders’s grip was merciless, iron fingers clamped into Kazou’s collar as he dragged him backwards into the thickening smoke. The rifle's perch was swallowed in darkness as shelves and beams collapsed somewhere below with a thunderous crack. Kazou coughed hard, his throat seared by smoke; his chest heaved against the smothering air. He clawed at the floor, boots scraping, trying to find something to anchor himself, but Anders’s weight and brutal strength made resistance meaningless.

  “Stop wriggling, stupid scientist,” Anders hissed low in his ear. The words felt hot, venomous, almost amused.

  Kazou’s mind spun. He could barely see; the world was reduced to flashes of flame, shadows of figures screaming and rushing toward the exits below, the crackle of burning wood, the suffocating veil of gray smoke. His lungs fought to draw breath that was no longer there. He reached again for the pistol he’d lost, but Anders’s boot caught his wrist, twisting hard until Kazou cried out in pain.

  “You thought you could kill him?” Anders spat, leaning close so Kazou could see his blurred silhouette. His teeth gleamed, his eyes dead. “You don’t get to decide when he dies. None of us does.”

  Kazou’s mind throbbed with a desperate thought: Casimir. I had him. I could’ve ended this. But it was already gone. The flames roared louder. His body was dragged further into suffocating darkness.

  Below them, the fire roared. The screams had grown softer. The entire hall was silent. Many guests had escaped. Some had already passed out from the smoke. As much as Kazou wanted to get to them and help, he was trapped.

  The roar of the flames below washed over them, smoke curling in molten ribbons through the air, the world reduced to fire and shadow. The weight of Anders’s body pressed down, heavy, unrelenting. Kazou’s lungs burned, his vision blackening at the edges. But something in him refused to die here. Not like this.

  When Anders shifted his stance to pull him closer, Kazou’s hand groped desperately at the floor and caught something. A broken beam, splintered from the railing. His fingers clenched.

  And in one motion rage and instinct fused into a single violent spark, Kazou twisted his arm and slammed the jagged wood into Anders’s knee.

  Anders grunted, stumbling backward, momentarily loosening his hold. Kazou kicked hard. His heel connected with Anders’s ribs. The man staggered, his gun slipping from his grip and clattering against the floorboards, sliding toward the edge.

  Kazou rolled, his entire body screaming in pain, but adrenaline shoved him forward. He snatched the gun just as Anders lunged again. The weapon felt wrong in his hands, too heavy, too human—but he raised it anyway, arm trembling, smoke stinging his eyes.

  Anders froze. For a moment, the firelight carved his face into something monstrous, half-shadow, half-man. Then he smiled. That same dead smile Casimir wore, empty and calm.

  “Do it,” Anders said softly. “Go ahead, Dr. Kazou Kuroda. Pull the trigger.”

  Kazou said nothing. His hands shook violently; the barrel wavered.

  “You can’t kill me. You don’t have the hands of a killer. You have the hands of a creator. A scientist. You make life, you don’t take it. You build things. You built him.” Anders took a step forward, fearless, almost tender.

  Kazou’s finger tightened on the trigger. His breath came fast, shallow, each inhale scraping against the smoke that filled the hall.

  “You don’t even believe in death, do you?” Anders continued, his voice almost pitying now. “You never believed anything should die. That’s why you made them… the clones. You think you can erase death by repeating life. But you can’t kill me, can you? That's why you can't kill Casimir. Because that would mean you’ve accepted what you are—”

  “Shut up,” Kazou hissed.

  Anders tilted his head, the firelight glinting in his eyes. “—a man who kills what he creates.”

  “SHUT UP!” Kazou roared, and the gun went off.

  The sound split the air like a blade.

  Anders screamed—a raw, animal sound—as the bullet tore through his thigh. He fell hard, clutching his leg, blood spreading fast across the scorched floor.

  Kazou’s own scream tore from his throat, a sound of terror and disbelief, the recoil echoing through his bones. The world spun for a second, the scent of cordite and burning wood colliding with the taste of ash in his mouth. His hands shook so violently that he almost dropped the gun.

  Anders writhed, cursing and groaning, his voice cracking between fury and agony.

  “You—damn you, scientist! You think this changes anything?! F-FUCK!”

  But Kazou didn’t stay to hear.

  He staggered to his feet, stumbling over debris, his body shaking, the smoke clawing at his lungs. He tripped once, fell to his knees—his palms slapped against the burning-hot wood—but he forced himself up again, coughing, gasping, eyes wild.

  Kazou ran.

  Every step felt heavier, every breath a knife. The building around him was dying, beams collapsing, flames consuming the walls like paper. But he didn’t stop. He followed the sound of Casimir’s voice—the same voice that had haunted his dreams for years, until it became almost indistinguishable from the crackling of fire.

  If I don’t kill him now… no one ever will.

  The professor, Mrs. Ivanova, stood rooted in place, her shoes pressed into the marble floor as if she’d fused with it, her gaze drawn helplessly to the flames crawling across the walls. The fire licked at the shelves, devouring old bindings, showering embers that drifted like dying stars.

  Casimir did not move. He stood beside her as though they were spectators at a performance, two calm figures framed against a stage of collapsing wood and smoke. His posture was serene, his head tilted slightly, the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.

  “You see it, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice almost swallowed by the roar of burning flames. “How beautiful destruction is. We spend years… decades… stacking knowledge into neat little rows, pretending it gives life order. And in one night, one spark… it all proves how fragile we really are.”

  Professor Ivanova’s throat tightened. She tried to step back; she, in fact, wanted to run, to get away, but her body wouldn’t obey.

  Casimir turned toward her now, his eyes gleaming with that pale, reflective calm, like glass that caught the fire’s glow without letting it in. He lifted a hand with a slow grace and cupped her cheek. She flinched at the touch, but he held her face gently, tenderly, as though he were consoling her.

  Her lips parted, trembling. “Casimir…”

  “Shhh.” His thumb traced just beneath her eye, not unkindly. “You don’t have to say anything. Just look.”

  He guided her head with soft pressure, forcing her eyes to meet his. The smoke swirled between them, yet his face remained unbearably clear, unbearably close.

  “This is what life is,” he whispered. “A room filling with smoke. You breathe, and breathe, and every breath brings you closer to suffocation.”

  Her knees nearly buckled. “Stop…”

  Casimir leaned closer, the fire reflecting in his eyes. His voice softened into something soothing, almost kind, almost loving.

  “You’re afraid because you think death is coming. But the truth is… it was here all along. With Anna.”

  Her breath hitched. The name cut through the smoke like a knife.

  Casimir’s hand tightened on her face, not brutally, but with an awful steadiness. His smile lingered, ghostlike, tender.

  “I killed her.”

  The words fell from his lips with the softness of a lullaby.

  ***

  “Yes,” Ivanova said with a playful smirk. “He claims he studies better up there. Personally, I think it’s his way of hiding from the noise below. But I don’t tell on him. He turns in better work that way, anyway.”

  "Really?! How odd! He always seemed like a goody-two-shoes!" Anna smiled, then lowered her gaze, clutching the book to her chest. She blushed red.

  Ivanova tilted her head, studying her expression. “Anna,” she said gently, “do you like him?”

  Anna’s eyes widened. “W–what? No! I mean…” She laughed, shaking her head. “Okay, maybe a little. He’s… strange, but… kind. You never know what he’s thinking, but when he talks, it feels like he’s really looking at you. Like you matter! He's so empathetic! I love that.”

  Anna paused at the door, looking back.

  Ivanova’s tone softened to a whisper. “You really do remind me of my younger self. Actually. too curious for your own good—but it’s that same curiosity that will save you.”

  Anna smiled—soft, uncertain, but bright.

  “I’ll remember that. Goodbye, Professor Ivanova! See ya tomorrow!"

  ***

  The professor’s eyes widened. A gasp scraped her throat, but no sound escaped. The fire cracked and roared around them, yet the silence between them pressed heavier than the flames.

  Casimir tilted his head, still holding her gaze, still smiling faintly, as though confessing a secret he wanted her alone to share.

  “I killed Anna,” he repeated, slower this time, savoring the syllables, watching her eyes drown in horror. “Her last breath… was mine.”

  Her mouth hung open. No scream, no cry—just air that would not become sound.

  Casimir leaned even closer, so close she could feel his breath, warm and calm despite the heat around them.

  “Now you know,” he whispered. “Now you carry it with you. And you’ll never be able to let it go.”

  Professor Ivanova’s pulse thundered in her ears, yet her body would not move. Her limbs felt strung on wires, her throat too narrow to draw breath. His hand remained against her cheek, cool, steady. In control…

  Casimir’s voice came softly, so low she could mistake it for a memory.

  “You know what the cruelest truth is, Professor? It’s not that life ends. It’s that everything we use to endure it—faith, history, knowledge, even love—is a little wall we build against the dark. Thin paper walls. And in the end, it all means nothing.”

  The fire crackled louder, tearing through the shelves. Pages blackened, curled, and vanished up into the air, carried off as ash. Casimir’s gaze lingered on them as though they were fireflies, a quiet smile resting on his lips.

  “Anna saw it just before she died,” he whispered. “Her last expression… It wasn't fear. It was understanding. She realized nothing was waiting for her. Not heaven. Not forgiveness. Only silence. A silence so vast it erased her name, her pain, her very face. And for a moment, she was no one. Isn’t that beautiful? To become nothing?”

  Ivanova’s stomach twisted violently. Her jaw clenched, but when she tried to turn her face from his hand, he held her there—not with force, but with something gentler, something unbreakable.

  Her voice scraped out of her throat, brittle. “You’re… sick.”

  Casimir tilted his head as if the word puzzled him. His pale eyes never left hers, unblinking, almost mournful.

  “No. I’m only telling you what you’ve always known. Isn’t that why you study history? Philosophy, perhaps? To see how every empire falls, how every name is buried, how every truth is forgotten? You’ve always known that silence is what wins.”

  Her breath caught. She hated him for it—hated how his calmness sank into her like a needle, how her thoughts betrayed her by agreeing. Tears blurred her vision, hot, sudden, unwanted.

  “Don’t look away,” Casimir whispered. His tone was so intimate it chilled her more than shouting ever could. “If you turn from me, you turn from the truth. And truth is the only thing that will stay with you when everything else is gone.”

  The smoke thickened. The beams groaned above them. But she could see nothing except his face, illuminated by the orange glow, serene as if the flames were no more consequential than candlelight.

  “D-Demon.”

  “You call me a demon,” Casimir said quietly, and for a moment, there was the faintest ache in his voice, the shadow of sorrow. “But what am I really? I’m not death. Death at least gives an ending. I won’t end you."

  Her tears broke loose, sliding down her cheeks. A sob clawed at her throat. “You’re the devil.”

  Casimir’s thumb brushed her cheek, gentle as a father soothing a frightened child. His faint smile deepened, almost kind.

  “No. The devil comforts people with eternity. I offer you nothing. That’s why you fear me. Because nothing is all there is.”

  For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still—the collapse of wood, the roar of flame, even her own pulse. When Ivanova’s knees gave way, Casimir caught her effortlessly, lowering her as though she were delicate glass.

  He leaned close, his voice so soft it could have been mistaken for mercy.

  “Every night you’ll think of Anna’s last breath. You’ll hear it when the house is quiet, when you lie awake, staring into the dark. And the silence you feel pressing against you then… it will be the same silence that took her. The same silence that waits for you.”

  Then, as if nothing bound him to her at all, Casimir let her slip from his hands. She collapsed to the marble floor, shaking, unable to breathe. Her nails scraped against the marble.

  Casimir turned toward the flames, his shadow stretching long and monstrous across the burning wall.

  And as she stayed there on her knees, Ivanova understood with a clarity that froze her to her bones:

  He was not a man.

  He was not a demon.

  He was the devil in disguise.

  “W-wait—” Ivanova choked. Her voice was splintered, trembling, her hand reaching through the smoke, through the heat, through the nightmare.

  Casimir didn’t hurry. His steps were quiet, almost reverent, as if the flames themselves were bowing out of his path. For a heartbeat, he paused and glanced back, just enough for her to glimpse his profile, pale against the flicker of firelight.

  His eyes found hers again. Calm. Empty. Beautiful and merciless.

  No malice. No triumph. Only that faint, unreadable smile, like the trace of something she could never name.

  And then he was gone. His figure melted into the shifting gray until the fire consumed the last shape of him.

  How could beauty be so ugly?

  A sob ripped from her throat, raw and animal. She clawed at the ground as though she could dig her grief out of herself, as though she could tear her heart from her body before it collapsed under the weight.

  “Why?” she cried, her voice breaking into shards. “She was just a child—my student—she had a whole life—”

  Her tears poured unchecked, streaking black through the soot. She buried her face into her hands, shaking with grief so deep it seemed it might kill her. Then, slowly, her sobs changed—grief twisting, hardening, blackening.

  She lifted her head. Her face was streaked and swollen, her throat raw, but her eyes burned in the firelight. Ivanova wrapped her coat around her as a scarf and brought it to her mouth to shield herself from the smoke. She forced herself up, legs trembling.

  Her hand pressed against the wall, desperate for direction. The concrete was hot enough to sear her palm, but she didn’t let go. She stumbled forward, blind, half choking on smoke, her body moving because it refused to die here, not yet, not while Casimir was still free.

  Through the blur, she saw it: a jagged fracture in the wall, a crack where light bled through. Not flame—real light, afternoon air, sun breaking past the smoke.

  Her knees buckled once, twice. She fell, but her hands clawed her forward. Nails tore. Blood mixed with soot. She crawled, teeth clenched, dragging herself forward. Every sob burned her throat raw. Every breath reminded her that her student was gone, that she had failed to protect her.

  She slammed her shoulder against the crack. The wall gave a little. She tried again, and again, until suddenly—air burst through, cool and crisp.

  ***

  Kazou Kuroda stood at the far end, a pistol in his trembling hand. His jacket and shirt were streaked with soot, his face pale but hardened.

  He had finally made it to Casimir.

  His eyes fixed on the lone figure walking calmly toward him through the fire.

  Casimir Bielska.

  The flames painted him in orange, but his composure was ice. Hands folded neatly behind his back, he strolled through the smoke as if the collapsing world were a stage built just for him. His pale hair caught the glow like a halo. His shoes clicked against the cracked tiles—slowly, eerily...

  Then, without breaking stride, Casimir slid one hand from behind his back. Slowly, with deliberate grace, he extended his fingers to the side… lifted them… and shaped them into the form of a pistol.

  Index and middle finger straight, thumb cocked. A child’s imitation of a gun—yet in his hands, it carried more dread than steel.

  He raised the gesture between his eyes. Pressed it against his own head.

  His smile was faint, delicate, almost tender. His blue eyes reflected the firelight with a calm that was unbearable.

  Kazou’s breath hitched. His grip on his pistol tightened until the metal dug into his palm.

  “You…” his voice cracked, half drowned by the roar of burning wood. “You killed that student!!”

  The words tore from him like a verdict, echoing in the dying hall. His hand shook, the barrel locked on where Casimir gestured. Kazou’s whole body screamed to pull the trigger.

  Casimir’s calm footsteps echoed closer. The mock pistol never left his head, as though he were daring Kazou to pull the trigger and make fiction into reality. His eyes glimmered with that unbearable serenity, as if he already knew the outcome.

  Step by step. The building groaned around them.

  Kazou’s finger tightened against the trigger. He felt the click, the brink of the shot.

  And then—

  “KURODA, YOU MUSTN’T SHOOT!”

  Natalie’s voice cut through the fire.

  She burst into the hall, coughing from the smoke, her eyes wide with desperation. She staggered forward, arms out as if she could stop him with nothing but her voice.

  Kazou’s heart lurched. His aim wavered.

  For one moment, the flames roared louder than their words.

  Casimir’s smile never left. He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by Natalie’s intervention—like an actor acknowledging an unexpected entrance.

  “Move, Natalie!” Kazou’s voice was hoarse, furious. His pistol wavered past her shoulder, his finger trembling on the trigger. “It’s dangerous! He killed so many! He has to be gone!”

  Natalie’s chest heaved. She was trembling, but she held her ground, her hand tightening around the small revolver at her hip. For the first time, she pulled it free. The barrel glinted dully in the firelight.

  “If you shoot him…” Her voice was low, almost breaking. “If you shoot him now, you’ll never come back from it. You’ll ruin your life, Kuroda!”

  Natalie lifted her gun, aimed at Casimir. Natalie’s gun trembled, its barrel trained on Casimir, though her arms were weakening under the weight of her own resolve.

  Casimir finally lowered his hand from his head. The childish gesture of the finger-gun dissolved, and his smile dimmed into something colder. His steps echoed on the scorched floor as he closed the space between them.

  “Natalie.”

  Her breath hitched at the sound of her name.

  Casimir’s voice softened—gentle, almost caressing. The smoke curled in the golden light around his face, his words sliding in with unbearable precision.

  “Remember what you were. Sa…” He lingered on the sound, savoring her shiver. His lips curved into a whisper. “…Sha…”

  Natalie froze as if struck. The color drained from her face, her pupils dilated, her entire body trembling. She staggered a step back, her revolver lowering as her breath turned into short, panicked gasps.

  Kazou reached out, instinctively, “Natalie—!”

  But Casimir simply walked past him, brushing so close that Kazou felt the faint shift of air, the calm presence of someone utterly untouchable. His eyes never left Kazou’s for more than a blink, the faintest smile tugging at his lips—mockery, farewell, prophecy all at once.

  Natalie’s scream tore through the smoke.

  Her revolver snapped up, shaking violently in her hands, her face contorted in terror and recognition too deep to name.

  “STOP!” she shrieked, voice breaking, “STOP—!”

  The gun went off. The shot cracked through the burning hall.

  The bullet slammed into the wall just beyond Casimir’s shoulder. He didn’t even flinch. He didn’t turn. He just walked, calmly, like the shot had been nothing more than a firecracker in the distance.

  Natalie’s arms collapsed under the weight of the revolver, her knees giving way as she fell hard to the floor. The gun clattered beside her. Her screams bent into raw sobs, her voice cracking as she clawed at her hair, trying to shut out the sound, the memory, the name.

  Kazou dropped to his knees beside her, torn between going after Casimir and holding Natalie together. His hands hovered helplessly over her shoulders.

  “Natalie! Look at me! Natalie!”

  But she was gone inside herself, her cries echoing against the fire as Casimir’s figure disappeared into the haze—his silhouette dissolving, until he was nothing but smoke.

  “Natalie!”

  Kazou caught her wrists before she tore at herself again, forcing her trembling hands down. Her sobs rattled through him, desperate and raw, her shoulders jerking under his grip.

  “Listen to me!” His voice broke, urgent but gentle, shaking as much as hers. “You’re here. You’re safe. Don’t—don’t let him take more from you.”

  Her wide, tear-blurred eyes finally flicked up, finding his. The revolver lay useless on the floor beside them. The smoke thickened overhead, burning their throats. Kazou glanced upward, coughed, then pressed his sleeve over her mouth and nose.

  “We need to go. NOW.”

  He hauled her up, his arm tightening around her shoulders as she staggered on weak knees. She clung to him with both hands, her weight nearly pulling him down, but he refused to let her fall.

  The two of them moved through the smoke-choked hall, every breath a shallow burn. Kazou held up the back of his hand to cover his mouth from the smoke. He then grabbed Natalie’s hand, pressing Natalie’s trembling hand against her own mouth, forcing her to breathe through her jacket’s fabric.

  The fire’s glow painted the walls red and orange, shadows leaping like specters. Every creak of the timbers above made Natalie flinch violently against him.

  “Don’t look back,” Kazou whispered. His tone was firm, steadying—more to anchor her than himself. “Don’t look back, Natalie. He’s gone.”

  Step by step, they pressed toward the flicker of daylight at the far end of the corridor. The air grew hotter, heavier. Natalie stumbled again, coughing hard, but Kazou gripped her tighter, pulling her along with the strength of someone who refused to let go no matter the cost.

  Finally—the exit. A smashed doorway spilling evening light into the haze. The outside air cut sharply into their lungs, and Kazou half-dragged her over the threshold.

  And beyond the smoke, unseen,

  Casimir was gone.