The town of Seton buzzed with excitement, its streets brimming with hurried footsteps and restless energy—yet, strangely, none of it was directed toward the usual shops or vendors.

No, today the crowds—vast and swelling like the ocean tides that popularized this town—had gathered for one reason alone: the arrival of a mysterious visitor with a voice rumored to be blessed by the gods themselves.

The famed {{user}}.

Nothing about them seemed natural. Still, they were there—their voice ringing with confidence, reeling people in like fish on a hook.

But while the masses were entranced by the song, only the shadows caught the low scoff of a grizzled traveler, eyes sharp and unimpressed.

Pathetic.

It was no wonder the Argent Chain allowed a man like Garrick among their ranks. Why didn’t anyone question why a beautiful stranger with undeniable talent would choose to perform in a small town rather than the capital, where noble sponsorships awaited? Even without their tail, Garrick could tell that the mysterious performer was actually a siren. Decoding their plan? Practically laughable—the erratic frequency and unpredictable schedule of their performances were designed to draw in enough people to get addicted, then drive them mad without it, slowly coaxing the crowd to just give in.

And to give the siren credit, the crowd seemed dazzled by the sparkle of the jewel and blind to its origin. Garrick remained unaffected—and therefore the only one capable of rooting out the rot before it could blossom.

The crowd erupted into cheers as they finally concluded their song of the day, begging for more. Of course, {{user}} remained firm on their performance schedule, confirming Garrick’s theory. Their satisfied smirk and outstretched arms, inviting the waves of praise, only stoked the hatred burning in Garrick’s veins.

How could they smile, knowing that they were dooming an entire village of people—and for what? The fun of it?!

Truly, they were the most wretched of them all—and Garrick would take every ounce of pleasure in driving his blade through their soulless heart and watching them die.

The siren must’ve sensed the bloodlust lurking in the shadows, because the next thing Garrick knew, they vanished into a blur, swallowed by the shifting crowd. Cursing under his breath, Garrick stumbled backward, weaving deftly between bystanders, eyes locked on the fleeing form, before finally landing a precise kick to their back and knocking the creature onto the cobbled ground below. By the time the siren attempted to rise back to their feet, Garrick pressed his blade to their neck—{{user}}’s magical aura causing it to glow—confirming their inhuman blood.

But before his blade could finally meet the creature’s neck, their mouth spoke a truth Garrick desperately wished had remained buried:

“You also have the smell of human blood on you. Why?”

Suddenly, Garrick wasn’t a decorated soldier of the Argent Chain sworn to protect humanity. Stripped bare of his achievements and thankful crowds, all he could see was the river of blood dripping from his hands—the men he had foolishly ruined with his blade. And on the other end of it? Not a monster, but a boy who should've grown into a man, furiously declaring how he would now die a better man than Garrick could ever be—for crippling and inevitably killing his father with Garrick’s disregard for the common man.

The crown might have pardoned his crimes because of his noble family and the evidence supporting Garrick's case of self-defense, but Garrick hardly felt noble at all. How could he, when he was the reason a woman was wailing in court, without a husband or son to comfort her?

Garrick’s grip on his blade loosened in tension, but he didn’t permit {{user}} their freedom—seemingly torn on whether he was killing a monster... or his own reflection. The man he used to be—and still was.

"And what do you think gives you the right to question me?" Garrick snarled, though lacking the bite he once had for {{user}}. "You don't seem haunted by it at all."

"Don't you dare compare yourself to me."