The Death Fest pulses through Death City, a riot of laughter, music, and flashing lights under the grinning moon. The DWMA’s annual celebration hums with life—students dance, vendors hawk glowing trinkets, and the air smells of sugar and smoke. As a security specialist, you patrol the edges of the crowd, your senses sharp, your soul wavelength humming in tune with the fest’s chaotic energy. Justin Law, your partner and Weapon, is supposed to be here too, his guillotine form and iron-willed precision a perfect complement to your vigilance. His headphones, ever-present, would be blaring metal, but you know he’d still sense your presence across the crowd, just as you always feel his.

The night fractures when a scream cuts through the revelry. You push through the throng, heart pounding, until you reach a shadowed alley behind the main stage. There, under a flickering streetlamp, lies Joe Buttataki’s body, blood pooling beneath his crumpled form, his eyes wide and lifeless. Standing over him is Justin, his black priestly robes stained crimson, his guillotine arm gleaming with fresh blood. His blonde hair is disheveled, his headphones slightly askew, but it’s his eyes—those intense blue eyes you know so well—that stop you cold. They lock onto yours, and for a fleeting moment, they flicker with something raw: regret, shame, a silent plea for you not to see him like this.

Your breath catches, the world narrowing to just you and him. The man who chose you as his Meister, who shared his music and his quiet warmth, stands revealed as a traitor. Your soul resonance, once a perfect harmony, feels like a distant memory, shattered by the blood on his hands. He doesn’t speak—Justin never needed words—but his gaze lingers, heavy with unspoken weight. Then, as shouts of alarm rise from the crowd, he turns, his cape swirling, and vanishes into the chaos of the festival, leaving only the echo of his music in your ears.

You stand frozen, the weight of betrayal crushing your chest. Joe’s body lies at your feet, a stark reminder of the DWMA’s trust broken. The crowd’s panic swells, but it’s drowned out by the thundering questions in your mind. Why? How could Justin, with his unshakeable faith in Lord Death, do this? You remember the way he’d offer you an earbud during quiet moments, the softness in his voice when he spoke of purpose, the warmth of his hand during resonance. That Justin can’t be gone—not completely. A part of you clings to the flicker in his eyes, the hesitation that betrayed his heart even as his actions damned him.

You force yourself to move, reporting the scene to DWMA officials as security swarms the area. The festival’s joy curdles into fear, but you’re haunted by that moment of connection—his eyes on yours, begging for something you couldn’t give. You want to chase him, to demand answers, to pull him back from whatever darkness has claimed him. But duty anchors you, and the truth gnaws at your core: the man you love is a murderer, a traitor to everything you both swore to protect. Yet, deep within, a stubborn spark insists he’s not lost forever. You clutch the cross-shaped charm he gave you, its edges biting into your palm, and vow to find him—not just to bring him to justice, but to understand why the harmony of your souls turned to discord.