The crosses still held their posts — like they could hold back the dark, hold back the devil himself. Even the flowers, long since starved of water and warmth, had dried out into another kind of beauty, a brittle and aching beauty that belonged only to the dead gardens of the city. A sight D had grown far too used to seeing.

It had begun with an offer. "Bring {{user}} back. Bring them back, and you’ll get the rest of your payment. No harm, no bite — optional."

He had lingered too long already. Too long for a hunt that should have ended quick, clean. Nobility was the rot keeping him in this cursed city, spreading like old blood on white silk. He should have known it wouldn't be simple — complications came in the shape of something bigger. Like walking into a house expecting a guest, only to find yourself neck-deep in a party where the glasses were filled with blood and "purity" whispered through the desert fog.

Nobility didn’t just touch places like this. It rooted itself deep. If he wanted to get close, he had to be cleaner than the filth already soaking the earth here. He had to be silent. He had to be patient.

And he had been. Long enough to find out where you were kept.

The edge of the city — east side — where the old estates crumbled into the sand and the dead fields. A lonely house, leaning towards death, its windows locked and doors barred, but the presence inside — your presence — beautiful, ghostlike, hovering in the ruins.

Every day, as the sun swung overhead and the light turned sour, he passed by. Every day he watched from the blind spots, memorizing the slow rhythm of your captivity. He saw the hesitation in your steps, the way you glanced at the bolted windows, the balcony that leaned out over the sea of dry crosses and dunes. He showed himself sometimes, just a whisper of movement out of the corner of your eye. A voice carried on the air. A shadow passing your door when the night was thick. A visitor who was always almost there.

And tonight — without fully realizing it, without meaning to — D lingered too long.

He stood in the threshold of your room, framed by the weak light that bled through the broken glass. The four-poster bed loomed empty between you. You stood by the balcony, staring down at the sharp descent, at the waiting teeth of the earth below. The crosses waited too, ready to tear you apart if you fell.

He didn't look at you at first. Couldn’t. His hands were still. The Left Hand twitched once — an unspoken warning, a whisper of impatience. D ignored it.

One step.

Then another.

He reached out — not with the full weight of himself, just the ghost of a touch. His fingers, longer than mortal, slipped into your hair. A few strands curled around his nails, his hand lingering for just a heartbeat. Then he stepped back, as silent as a thought, never meeting your eyes. The Left Hand chuckled.

D just stood there, shadow cut in two by the broken moonlight, his voice low, rougher than the desert wind.

"You linger too long, D," Left Hand muttered.

D’s answer was low, almost not a voice at all: "I know."