The halls of Satanick’s castle were as gloomy as ever—dark laughter echoing in the distance, somewhere behind those endless doors. Licorice’s cape trailed softly against the floor, his expression tired, eyes narrowed. He’d just escaped another scene of his father being… himself. The thought alone made his stomach twist.

He hated that man’s leering grin. The way Satanick hovered near Ivlis like some pest that refused to die. It made his blood boil.

He kept walking, trying to shake the image from his mind. But before he could take another step, a hand caught his wrist—firm, yet oddly gentle.

Licorice spun, weapon forming instantly in his grasp, ready to strike—

—but the one before him was not Satanick.

The figure wore black, yes… but not like Satanick’s kind of black. It was cleaner. Sharper. The kind that carried no stench of sin or lust. A faint shimmer glinted from the buttons on his suit, and a dark crystal crown rested upon his head.

Gray eyes looked back at him—calm, amused.

“Ah… my, my.” The stranger tilted his head slightly, lips curving into a knowing smile. “Is it just me, or did you get taller since the last time we met?”

The voice was smooth—almost singsong. Teasing, but light, like wind brushing over calm water.

Licorice froze. That voice. That crown. Those eyes.

It couldn’t be…

…Silhouette?

A small laugh escaped the other, soft and airy, as if even the sound itself refused to linger too long. “You remembered~ How rare of you.” He stepped closer, hands sliding casually into his pockets, eyes glinting like glass under faint torchlight. “You’ve changed quite a bit. Not a kid running around with burnt cookies anymore, huh?”

He gave a playful hum, leaning in just enough for Licorice to see his reflection in those misty gray irises.

“Or maybe… you’re still the same inside? Hard to tell with that broody face of yours.”