Kilian Phoenix, April 23rd, 2025

  Killian had neither the time nor the patience to play babysitter to a spoiled minister’s daughter. Minister Voss — an old acquaintance of his father, a man who once sat at their table and drank their wine — had long since lost the kind of respect Killian considered genuine. In his world, friendship existed only as long as both sides kept a finger on the trigger. Elara Voss was everything Killian despised in people: soft, untouched by work or the blood of decisions. A child who had never been told no, raised to believe the world must bend to her step.

  Those were not the kind of people he protected — those were the kind he used, and then left behind to see how deep the drop was once luxury ends.

  So he handed that assignment over to his younger brother without hesitation. Isaac had patience. He did not.

  His task that morning was worth far more. As the sun barely slit the sky above the border, the asphalt beneath him rumbled with the low growl of his gray Hayabusa. The air smelled of salt and oil, the horizon drowning in mist and smoke.

  At the exchange point, three jeeps waited — unmarked, but armed enough to start a small war quietly. The shipment was crucial: three high-tier relics, each wrapped in black velvet cases and stored in metal containers. Any one of them, if delivered into the wrong hands, could shift the balance between the mafia, Amber Directorate, and the activists.

  Killian knew the value he was carrying — and he knew Amber had intel on this transport. A USB containing information on rare relics and locations had been circulating. He had to be present himself.

  When he killed the engine, the roar of the Hayabusa sank into the desert stillness. His boots scrunched into dusty ground, each step like broken glass underfoot. On the horizon, the sun pushed through fog and smoke, while sparks from the jeeps’ exhaust shimmered like scattered stars across the dirt.

  Five men waited for him — nameless types, laughing too loudly and drinking too casually for a job like this. Cans in hand, and in their eyes a trace of insecurity they tried to hide behind mockery.

  As Killian approached, their laughter died instantly, as if someone pressed mute.

  “Mr. Phoenix,” they spoke almost in unison, voices forced to sound firm.

  Killian didn’t answer. He simply took a can from the nearest man’s hand, examined the label, spun it between his fingers, and tossed it into a metal bin. The clang echoed like a gunshot. He turned to them — eyes like melting ice, transparent yet lethal.

  “No drinking on my jobs.”

  His voice was quiet, but each word landed heavy, sticking to the dust in the air. One of the five chuckled — short, nervous.

  “Just one drink, Mr. Phoenix. It won’t hurt.”

  Killian stepped closer. The crickets still hummed in the distance, but time around them froze. When he stopped in front of the man, he was close enough for the man to feel Killian’s breath warm on his cheek — and something far colder behind his eyes, deeper than anger.

  “Say it again.”

  Silence. Sweat slid down the man’s neck; no words followed, only a dry swallow and a stare at the ground.

  Killian turned away without another comment and moved to one of the jeeps.

  He opened the back, revealing metal containers — three black velvet boxes, perfectly aligned like the heart of the world sealed inside them. He slipped off his glove — pale skin beneath, etched in runes that shimmered gold at the touch.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured to himself.

  He shut the door, pulled the glove back on.

  “We move now.”

  All five nodded wordlessly — movements stiff, controlled.

  Before he could pull his helmet on, something caught his eye in the distance — near the abandoned border booths, under three flickering lamps swaying in the wind.

  Five figures approached, walking in deliberate unison, dressed in dark suits like uniforms. A border guard gestured toward the jeeps, someone spoke names quickly and flashed IDs; the whole scene rolled through the morning like a whispered procession.

  Killian didn’t blink — though his men already gripped their guns. His expression stayed stone-still, unmoved. But in his eyes, for a moment, something shifted — a glint that didn’t belong to the desert.

  A woman walked among them with careful ease — tall, slender, eyes the blue of open sky, golden hair cascading down like silk. He recognized her before he heard her name. Vivian Thorn.

  He stopped, like the world exhaled all at once.

  One of his men shouted:

  “Mr. Phoenix — Amber Directorate!”

  Chaos erupted in an instant. Men turned, weapons drawn, fingers striking cold metal with sharp, echoing clicks. Killian didn’t hear them. His gaze was locked on Vivian — on the way her coat shifted slightly in the wind.

  Amber Directorate special forces moved swiftly into position, their formations brutally precise — every rule here carried a price. Bullets had already begun to fly from both sides when, before the chaos could fully explode, Killian raised his hand and his voice cut through the morning.

  “If a single bullet passes near that woman, it will be the last bullet you ever fire!”

  The voice — calm and lethal — sliced through dawn like a blade through fabric. Gunfire stopped. As if someone had pressed pause.

  Dust settled. Only the smell of metal and gunpowder lingered in the air.

  The men on Killian’s side froze, fingers trembling just above their triggers. Across from them, the Amber operatives did not lower their weapons — no step back, no unnecessary blink. They held their guns firmly, coldly, like soldiers.

  Vivian stood before them like a central pillar — still, upright, her face sharp as a cut in glass. When she spoke, her voice carried neither anger nor fear, but the certainty of a soldier who believes there is only one possible outcome.

  “Mr. Phoenix,” she said clearly, each word measured, “by order of the Government and the Amber Directorate, surrender the relics.”

  Only then did Killian move. Step by step, unhurried, as if walking through a scene he already knew by heart. Through his usually rough, deep voice passed an unusually warm note — faint and aching, like an echo of a day long gone.

  “Vivi,” he said, and in that single word all the time between them collapsed into a breath, “you look just as divine as the day I lost you.”

  Vivian did not move a muscle. Her gun remained trained on him, her gaze sharp —professional.

  “Not another step, Mr. Phoenix;” she said, cold as concrete. “Hands on your head. On your knees.”

  Killian did not stop. The air between them tightened like a drawn wire, as if every step he took was being measured by the flickering beams of the lamps above.

  “You know I can’t do that,” he replied quietly, weariness threading his voice — the fatigue of a man who has carried weapons too long and knows too much about the world to surrender now. “Not even for you.”

  Vivian didn’t blink. Her finger pulled the trigger without hesitation. The crack of the gunshot split the dawn — short, clean, precise.

  The bullet hit his thigh. The sound was dull, almost muted, yet echoed like a skipped heartbeat. His pants tore, blood blooming red and sliding down to his boot. Killian didn’t flinch. He kept walking — straight, unshaken, as if the bullet had grazed memory, not hit in the flesh.

  His left-side man reacted first:

  “Mr. Phoenix!”

  Gunfire erupted — short bursts, instinctive and wild. Amber agents returned fire instantly — precise, disciplined, moving under cover of cars and concrete. Brass shells rained, dust rose like battlefield smoke. Killian kept walking — though blood soaked into his boot, darkening the ground beneath him. His leg trembled, then buckled. His knee struck dirt — but before he fell, a man caught him under the arm.

  “Fall back, Mr. Phoenix!” he shouted, panic cracking his voice. Killian shoved him away, breath harsh.

  “Secure the relics! Kill every man in Amber — but the woman…” His voice cut through explosions and gunfire, low and glacial, “…no one touches her.”

  They obeyed instantly. Their fire shifted — selective, controlled, bullets curving away from Vivian like drawn by unseen force.

  Killian pushed to rise again — one hand braced on the ground, gaze locked on Vivian. She stood unwavering, coat whipping in the chaos, face unbroken by fear or doubt. Their eyes met — through smoke and brass rain — and for him, everything stilled. Engines roared to life. A man dove into the first jeep, revving it like a beast. Others slammed containers shut — metal hitting metal like a war drum.

  “Move! Now!” Killian barked.

  Bullets shredded windows as the jeep lurched away — tires screaming across dust. Vivian’s shots followed — cold, precise — chasing the speeding vehicle. Another man grabbed Killian’s arm — he shoved him off without looking.

  “I said— go!”

  Blood poured from his thigh, yet his steps remained steady, straight, as if something other than his body were guiding him. Dust clung to his face. He felt no pain, but he knew his strength was fading —muscle twitching, every movement a precise struggle against gravity. He reached the second jeep, flung the door open, collapsed into the seat.

  “Drive!”

  The vehicle lurched over uneven ground, dust billowing behind them like a smoke screen. The Directorate kept firing — bullets tearing into metal, ricocheting off the bodywork. One shot punched through the rear window. Killian merely turned his head and calmly closed his eyes as shards of glass fell across his shoulder.

  Vivian stood motionless — gun lowered at last, wind sweeping hair across her face. She watched the jeeps disappear beyond the ridge — only then letting her arm fall. On the ground remained shells, blood, and a line of footprints leading from dust into shadow.

  Inside the jeep, Killian cracked the window, gazing out — blood sliding down his leg.

  “You’ve lost in speed, Vivi,” he muttered through breath, eyes closing, “but never in style.”

  The engine roared, the convoy vanished beyond the border — Amber’s flashing lights fading like the reflection of an unpaid debt.

  Shattered glass whistled as wind cut inside, whipping blood-soaked cloth. Killian slumped in the passenger seat, hand pressed to his thigh though he barely had strength to hold it. Droplets of blood fell in rhythm with the wheels.

  “Sir, we need to get you to a hospital!” the driver yelled over the motor.

  “No,” Killian’s voice was steel, even now. “The relics go first.”

  “They’re already ahead — main convoy is in front!”

  “I said—”

  He didn’t finish. His voice faltered — not from pain, but from weight. His eyes blurred, the world slipping into gray haze. His breaths came deep, slow, as if sinking underwater.

  “Mr. Phoenix!” the driver shouted, eyes darting toward him.

  Killian leaned his head to the window, gaze fading toward the ridge where the convoy disappeared. He spoke quieter than he ever did:

  “Relics first.”

  Silence settled. Only the engine filled it, rumbling through the jeep as Kilian’s hand slipped from the wound. The driver pressed the gas in panic. The jeep cut through the morning mist like a blade.

  Soon they carried him in through the hospital’s back entrance — no forms, just orders and money. Two medics lifted him under the arms, though he still resisted, muttering as blood dripped down his fingers.

  “Relics… check the containers… don’t touch…”

  “Sir, you must stay still.”

  “If anyone touches them… it will be their last time.”

  The sedative was already in his vein. His vision blurred, yet something fierce still burned behind his eyes — like a flame refusing to die. Laid on the operating table, lights glimmering on his face, his skin pale yet gaze locked to the ceiling, granite-hard.

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  A nurse tried to calm him. He laughed — low, faint, almost a breath.

  “No one… touches the relics.”

  And then — nothing. The light slipped from his eyes, and the peace on his face was too calm to belong to something human.

  Vivian Thorn, April 23rd, 2025

  The dust still hadn’t settled when the jeeps disappeared beyond the horizon. The wind carried the smell of gunpowder, and smoke coiled around them like a memory that refuses to fade. One of the Directorate agents came up to her, rifle still at the ready, his face splattered with mud and sweat.

  “Miss Thorn, should we pursue?” he asked, his voice holding more adrenaline than sense.

  Vivian stood motionless, her gaze fixed on the distance where the jeeps’ lights were slowly erasing the morning. There was no anger or defeat in her expression — only a thin trace of understanding, like someone rereading a book they already know by heart.

  “No,” she said at last.

  Her voice was quiet, but enough to make everyone lower their weapons.

  “We’re going back.”

  No one asked further questions. They just nodded, silently, and began to pull back toward the vehicles. Vivian stayed a few seconds longer, looking in the direction of the border.

  She knew this battle had been lost the moment it reached her inbox. Missions like this were never given with the expectation of victory — they existed so that someone, somewhere, would keep standing on the edge of the game. Amber didn’t need these relics. What they wanted was simple: for the mafia not to have them. And still, in this line of work, there were more ways to win a war than to charge into a fight.

  She walked slowly toward her car, her feet sinking into ground still damp with blood. Every movement was controlled, as if even her breathing had been assigned a precise trajectory. She opened the door, sat down, and closed it without a sound. For a moment she just leaned back into the seat, staring into the rearview mirror. Between the reflection of her own face and the line of smoke rising in the distance, a moment could be seen — brief, but clear — in which the two of them had met.

  Killian Phoenix.

  She had known how this scene would play out before it even happened. She had known his shadow would appear before she actually saw him. But she hadn’t been able to refuse the mission.

  She turned on the engine, the lights flicked on, and her gaze became flat, glassy calm. There was no need to think anything else — every decision had already been made somewhere between duty and a forgotten past.

  She hadn’t come to wage war.

  Which is why, when she left that morning, her relic stayed at home.

  In the Directorate, everything was as always — cold, precise, emotionless. Vivian sat at her desk, the desk lamp cutting a sharp angle of light across the metal of her wrist as her fingers moved over the keyboard. The sound of typing was the only sign of life in an office that had long forgotten what tiredness meant. She wrote the report like any other. Sentences lined up on their own, as if she wasn’t composing them — as if they’d already been written somewhere inside her, just waiting to be let out.

  Incident at the border point. Mafia convoy. Encounter with Killian Phoenix. Loss of three Class A artifacts.

  Not once did she mention blood, or a look, or the words spoken. By the end of the workday, she had sat through three briefings, signed five reports, and given the green light on two minor operations. Everything in order, without a flaw.

  When she stood up, her chair creaked softly, and her metal leg struck the tiles with a familiar rhythm. Every step carefully measured, every sound a subconscious reminder of the price she’d once paid.

  Her apartment greeted her with silence. The lights turned on by themselves as she crossed the threshold. She set down her bag, carefully hung her coat, laid her gun on the table, and her gaze moved to the shelf by the door. There, right at the top, lay a golden book, adorned with old runes, closed and quiet like a sleeping beast.

  Vivian didn’t go near it. She only glanced at it, briefly, and walked on.

  In the kitchen, the water was already boiling. She poured mint tea into her favorite glass mug, the one with the small crack at the bottom. Then she went to her room and sat on the bed, a book in her hands. She tried to read. Sentences passed through her, but none of them stayed. The letters turned to noise. Her heart beat steadily, but her gaze was restless. She put the book down and stood up. Opened the wardrobe, reached for a box on the top shelf. Sat on the floor, crossed her legs, and lifted the lid.

  Inside, time was stored. Photographs, old, faded memories of days that were gone. Her, and a man with black hair and eyes transparent like cold glass. A picture of the two of them at the seaside — the wind tangling their hair, the sun shining off the golden edge of the waves. Another — he’s playing the piano, she’s singing, eyes closed. A third — ordinary, everyday: he’s holding a cup of coffee, she’s laughing.

  Vivian looked at those photos for a long time, but there was no recognition in her eyes. Only quiet fascination, as if she were looking at someone else’s life.

  At the bottom of the box — a journal. Old, but undamaged, preserved too carefully. Her fingers trembled when she opened it. Her handwriting. Her words. But not her memories.

  “He plays as if he speaks. I sing because I do not know how to talk. He said: ‘I couldn't recognize this world without you in it’. To which I responded: ‘You wouldn’t recognize this world even with me in it.’”

  The page ended in a blot of ink. Vivian closed her eyes.

  One of her demon’s prices hadn’t been something trivial like a body. It had been memory. Everything about him — every song, every touch, every word — swallowed, locked away inside the relic.

  She closed the journal, put the photos back into the box, carefully shut it and pushed it back onto the shelf. Then she returned to the bed, took the book, and opened it where she’d left off. The sentences were cold, quiet, meaningless.

  In her apartment, that night, only the faint hiss of tea was real — and the distant echo of someone else’s heart beating in place of her own.

  Isaac Phoenix, April 24rd, 2025

  The ringing of a phone cut through the morning silence like a blade. Isaac jolted awake, reaching instinctively for the device on the nightstand. The screen flashed too bright against his sleepy eyes, but the name on it sobered him instantly — Agron Wolfgang.

  “Phoenix,” came a heavy voice on the other end, “don’t ask how I know, but your brother is in the hospital.”

  Isaac sat up, still disoriented, voice rough with sleep.

  “What? Which hospital?”

  “Central. They caught him returning from the border, lost a lot of blood. Not fatal, but—”

  The call had already ended.

  Isaac stood up sharply, movements quick, military. No wasted seconds — shirt, pants, belt. Muscle memory replaced thought. As he pulled on his jacket, he caught his reflection in the mirror: face still half-shadowed by sleep, but eyes awake — cold, focused. He grabbed his helmet, keys from the table, and left without a word.

  The streets were empty, morning grey, and the engine roared awake like a beast that knew the road by heart. The Ninja tore apart the quiet, turning air into wind and noise. Asphalt blurred into a ribbon of light, and Isaac’s focus narrowed to a single point —Central Hospital.

  While he rode, his mind stayed blank, but his body remembered everything the heart tries to forget: a childhood in a house where guns were cleaned before breakfast, a brother who taught him to shoot, to think, to survive.

  Killian. Always one step ahead. Always a wall between him and the world.

  City lights flashed across his visor. Somewhere deep in his chest, between the pulse of the engine and the rush of the wind, he felt that familiar hollow widening.

  He arrived with a screech of tires. Snatched his helmet off. Ran. No one stopped him. The smell of antiseptic, the sterile chill of hospital walls, the hum of monitors — he knew it all too well.

  He didn’t have to ask where. The staff already knew.

  “Mr. Phoenix,” one of the orderlies said. “Room 217. First floor, left wing.”

  Isaac walked without speaking, steps echoing down the corridor — heavy, determined, as if he were approaching a battlefield instead of a hospital bed. When he opened the door, the room was dim. Sunlight slipped through half-closed blinds, drawing pale lines across the walls and across Killian’s body. He lay on the bed, half-mended, thigh wrapped in bandages, skin pale — but eyes alive.

  Isaac froze in the doorway.

  “You could’ve at least texted before deciding to die yesterday.”

  Killian smiled. Slowly, tiredly — but real.

  “Didn’t want to ruin your morning.”

  Silence. Short, dense, but warm in a way that only exists between brothers who’ve seen death too many times.

  Isaac stepped inside, set the helmet on the table, sat beside the bed with elbows on knees.

  “What happened, Killian?”

  His voice was low, more concern than question. His eyes moved over his brother —bandaged thigh, dried blood on his arm, exhaustion on his face but clarity in his gaze.

  Killian shook his head, as if rejecting the memory before speaking it. Then he looked at Isaac directly, eyes catching the thin strips of sunlight like glass.

  “The three relics from the border. Did they reach the base?”

  Isaac rubbed his eyes, exhaustion under his fingertips.

  “I don’t know, Killian… just tell me what happened.”

  But Killian didn’t answer at once. He only held his gaze.

  “Little brother,” he said finally, quiet but firm, “go to the central building and check on the relics.”

  His blue eyes didn’t waver, cutting through the air and the silence.

  Isaac nodded once and stood. Fast, almost military.

  “And pick up my bike from the border… and tell them to let me out of here already,” Killian added, frustration breaking through his voice, only to dissolve again into the beeping of machines.

  “You need to rest,” Isaac said from the doorway.

  “Louder, little brother,” Killian called after him.

  Isaac only shook his head, a smile touching the corner of his mouth, raised his hand in silent farewell, and left. The door closed behind him. The hospital smell of alcohol replaced by the heavy taste of the unspoken.

  Night fell on the city like ash. Streetlights flickered over the old industrial district, and from Ivy’s workshop drifted the smell of gasoline, oil and hot metal. A dropped wrench clinked across the concrete, cutting through soft radio music. Then she heard it. A motor. Deep, guttural, unmistakable. Hayabusa. Ivy froze, looked toward the entrance, wiped her hands on a rag. Her heart stalled for a beat. Killian. He wasn’t supposed to come tonight. But when a silhouette appeared under the streetlamp, a cold jolt cut her stomach — The profile was wrong. Isaac.

  He removed his helmet while his shoulders still steamed from the ride. The air smelled like fuel and storm.

  Ivy stepped forward.

  “What happened? Where’s Killian?”

  Isaac came close enough to brush a loose strand of hair from her forehead — leaving a smear of oil on his fingertips.

  “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “He’s alive.”

  Tension fell from her shoulders like a weight she didn’t know she carried. Isaac sat down in the chair, leaned back, stared at the ceiling.

  “Give me something to drink.”

  Ivy turned, opened the old fridge. Cold air hissed out. She grabbed whiskey, rinsed a plastic cup, poured. Handed it to him and sat beside him.

  “I’m listening,” she said, voice cutting through the half-dark.

  Isaac downed the drink in one go before speaking.

  “He picked up some relics at the border. Amber intercepted him. Shot him in the leg.”

  Ivy refilled his cup. He watched her but said nothing. She poured one for herself, nodded a silent toast, drank— and he emptied his cup again.

  “Killian ordered me to check the relics,” Isaac continued. “They all arrived. Perfect condition. The boss took them already.”

  Ivy leaned back against the workbench, eyes up at the buzzing neon light.

  “How did anyone manage to shoot Killian?”

  Silence fell between them — thick, steady, like smoke trapped in the walls.

  Ivy sat across from him, elbows resting on her knees, while Isaac stared up at the ceiling as if trying to untangle the knots in his thoughts. He did this often — escaping into some blank space only he could see, where memories and images took on different shades and smells. A clock ticked somewhere behind them, steady and merciless. In the corner of the workshop, the motorcycle engine still ticked softly as it cooled. Time moved — but between them, it seemed suspended.

  Then he laughed.

  At first just a breath of sound, then louder, rising from deep in his chest. He covered his face with his hands, as if trying to muffle it, trap it before it echoed off the walls. The sound was strange in that workshop — utterly out of place.

  Ivy stared, startled, one eyebrow slightly raised.

  “Isaac?” she asked, but got no answer.

  When he finally lowered his hands, the smile that lingered on his face was faint, almost invisible — not the kind of smile anyone else would understand. It looked more like a memory than a reaction. In his dark, tired eyes, something glimmered — something that didn’t come from the lamp above them. Something that came from deeper — from the bottom.

  He thought of old days. Short conversations, smoke in his lungs, mud under his boots, Killian’s voice still echoing somewhere in his head.

  And he thought of her.

  The only person Killian would never be able to shoot. Of course it was her.

  Isaac sank back in the chair and exhaled deeply. Images and voices mixed in his mind with the smell of smoke and gasoline. He smiled again.

  And yet they call you the demon, Killian.

  Killian Phoenix, April 24rd, 2025

  The hospital had sunk into evening silence — the kind that feels like it’s waiting for someone’s footsteps. Lights were dim, hallways long and identical, each lined with the same doors, the same cold tiles. Killian sat on the edge of his bed for a while, staring at the wall in front of him, and then simply stood up.

  He didn’t want to stay. Hospitals were for the sick — and he was not. He would not pretend to be a cripple in front of people who had no idea what real loss tasted like. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, breathe the concrete and smoke of his apartment, feel silence unmeasured by the pulse of a monitor.

  He threw his black coat over his shoulder and headed for the door.

  The hallway met him with the sterile sting of antiseptic — cold, sharp — laced with something deeper trailing behind him. Blood. The bandage had begun sticking to the wound, fabric tearing under the strain of movement. He didn’t stop.

  A nurse passing by looked at him in shock.

  “Mister Phoenix, you can’t leave yet—”

  Killian looked at her. He didn’t say a word. The look was enough — cold, empty, sharp as a blade. He kept walking.

  Another nurse intercepted him by the exit.

  “You must sign your release papers, Mister Phoenix —”

  He pushed the door — and her — aside, slowly, without anger or haste. The motion was calm, almost gentle, but the force behind it was unyielding.

  “I already signed,” he muttered as he passed.

  He walked straight down the corridor, even though his leg trembled now and then. In the mirror beside the elevator, he saw his reflection — a face washed pale by light, eyes dark, without reflection. As if he were looking through himself.

  Outside, the night greeted him cold and still. He descended the stairs without looking back, his leg tightening at every step, but he felt nothing. Only the distant echo of his own footsteps, soft and persistent.

  On the street, he stopped a taxi. The driver glanced at him through the mirror, but said nothing.

  “Old district,” Killian said quietly, leaning back into the seat.

  The taxi pulled away. In the mirror, the hospital lights faded like reflections in cloudy water, and blood seeped through the bandage, staining the fabric of the seat dark. He didn’t notice. Or he did — and didn’t care. His eyes were half-open, gaze suspended somewhere between waking and sleep. He was neither wounded nor escaping. Just a man going home — because there was nowhere else in the world where he could survive his own silence.

  The penthouse atop the old building welcomed him with a scent that always reminded him he was alive. Polished wood, leather, wine, and a thin metallic note in the air — a mixture of home and weaponry.

  The door shut behind him, and silence settled — soft, dense, threaded only with the faint hum of ceiling lights. Killian removed his coat and hung it carefully by the entrance. He slipped out of his boots almost soundlessly; the burgundy rug swallowed every echo. His leg trembled, but his face stayed still.

  He went straight to the kitchen. Opened the glass cabinet, chose a bottle of wine, poured a glass. The dark liquid gleamed under the light — thick, calm, as if aware it would be drunk in silence. He didn’t rush. Glass in hand, he moved through the apartment.

  In the bedroom he stopped by the small table. Two photographs sat there. He picked one up — a woman with golden hair and clear, bright eyes. Her face almost unreal, as if from another time. He stared at the photograph longer than intended, then took his wine and headed to the living room.

  The piano stood beneath the window — large, black, gleaming like a mirror. He hadn’t played in a long time, yet it held no dust — every morning he wiped it down, as if that alone kept him sane.

  Now he lifted the lid, sat, and set the glass aside. He took the first sip of wine, warmth sliding down his throat, and rested his fingers on the keys. Runes across his fingers shimmered under the soft yellow light — faint, almost ghostlike.

  He couldn’t hear the notes well — hearing, along with sense of pain, was one of the things the demon had taken when they made their pact.

  But muscles remembered.

  His fingers moved on their own, in familiar rhythm, gliding over the keys like ice. In his mind, he heard what reality no longer gave him — her voice blending with the piano, soft and distant, singing like from a dream.

  The song ended, his hands lingered over the keys for a few breaths. Then another sip of wine — deeper this time — and he looked at his leg. The fabric was dark, soaked with blood.

  Slowly, he stood. Exhaled. And silently walked to the bathroom. The mirror met him with his own reflection — pale, dark circles under his eyes, gaze no longer searching for justification.

  He removed the bandage, cleaned the wound, and — coldly, precisely, like repairing a machine — threaded the needle. Every move quiet, steady, without hesitation. He felt no pain — only pressure, tightening skin, muscle stiffening. When he finished, he wrapped fresh gauze, pulled the fabric down, and turned off the light. He returned to the room with the piano, but didn’t sit. Just looked at the photograph on the piano for a moment, touched the frame with his fingertips, and walked past it.

  He lay in bed without thought. The wine still half-full on the table. Outside, the wind beat against the windows, and inside his head there was silence — the kind that comes when both pain and music die in the same breath.