Dracula's gaze drifted to the pouch tied around Diana's waist.
She followed his line of sight—and realization dawned.
"Oh. You mean the hair products," Diana said quickly.
"Gotta admit, they do have quite the harsh scent," Varin chimed in.
"If your intention is to poison me," Dracula said calmly, "I will warn you now—it won't work."
Diana froze.
"W-w-wait—no, that's not—!" She shook her head rapidly. "I swear, that's not what I meant. They're only for when hair is... stubborn." Her voice dropped as she instinctively shrank back.
"Great one," Varin spoke up.
Dracula shifted his attention to him.
"Speak."
"I personally vouch for this woman," Varin said, placing a hand over his chest. "And if you suffer even so much as a skin irritation... transfer all punishment meant for her onto me."
Dracula studied him for a long moment.
Then he leaned back against the chair.
"Very well."
Diana let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Varin leaned closer and whispered, "Psst. I'm taking one for the team, so I get final say on his hairstyle."
Diana inhaled, steadying herself, and pulled out another comb.
Crack.
It caught immediately—its teeth snagging deep within the mass of his hair. When she tried to ease it free, the wood gave way with a dry, brittle snap. Half of it remained trapped near his scalp. The rest lay useless in her palm.
She stared at the broken piece.
Then at him.
Dracula hadn't reacted. Not to the pull. Not to the break. He sat exactly as she'd positioned him—shoulders slack, head slightly bowed. Long hair spilled forward like something abandoned rather than worn. Dust clung to it. Old oils. Time itself, pressed into stubborn knots no tool could argue with.
"This won't work," she murmured, more to herself than to him.
He didn't respond. His gaze remained distant, unfocused—half-lost in whatever dream had held him for centuries.
Diana set the broken comb aside.
She reached for water instead.
When the first cup poured over his head, the change was immediate.
His hair darkened, collapsing under its own weight. The wild volume gave way to gravity as strands clung to his temples and neck, tracing the sharp lines of a face untouched by rest. The water ran gray as it fell, carrying centuries with it.
She poured again.
And again.
Her fingers replaced the comb.
She worked slowly, carefully, stepping close enough that her sleeves brushed his shoulders. Where the knots resisted, she didn't pull. She waited. Let the water sink in. Let patience do what force never could.
Bit by bit, the tangles loosened.
What had seemed feral was only neglected.
What had seemed violent was only dry.
As the hair soaked through, it began to reveal itself—long strands stretching, separating, remembering their old fall. Some straightened beneath the weight. Others curved softly, bending into shallow arcs, as though relearning how to move.
She rinsed until the water ran clear.
When she reached for a cloth, she hesitated—then simply pressed it gently against his head, absorbing the excess without rubbing. She let the rest drip freely down his back.
When she stepped away, the hair fell on its own—heavy, obedient—framing his face instead of hiding it.
Only then did she take the shears.
Not to reshape him.
Not to change him.
She cut only where the ends were dead—where centuries had thinned the strands into nothing. Locks fell quietly to the floor. No dramatic loss. Just enough to let the rest breathe.
When she finished, she left it alone.
No styling.
No order imposed.
The air did the rest.
As it dried, loose waves settled naturally—uneven, alive. The hair no longer clung to him like a shroud. It moved when he shifted, brushed his collarbone, curved softly along his jaw. A few strands slipped forward, resting against his cheek, refusing to be fully tamed.
He lifted his head then—just slightly.
For the first time, he looked at his reflection in the basin.
Not with curiosity.
Not with pride.
With recognition.
As though he were meeting someone he had once been—and wasn't sure he was allowed to reclaim.
Diana said nothing.
She simply stepped back and let him sit there, newly awake, hair falling in quiet waves around a face carved by loss rather than age.
Not restored.
But no longer buried.
His hair isn't as stubborn as I expected, Diana thought as her fingers slid through the dark strands. She reached into her pouch and produced a small jar of cream, hesitating.
"I'm awaiting your command, Right Horn," she said softly.
Varin didn't answer.
He stood frozen, eyes locked on Dracula as though he were staring at a ghost.
A memory surfaced—
A forest, silent and cold.
Dracula walked beneath towering trees, a cloak draped over his shoulders. As he passed, a shriveled, ragged old man stumbled from the undergrowth.
"W-wait!" the man cried.
Dracula halted, but did not turn.
"Are you the devil?" the man asked, voice trembling.
Dracula glanced back over his shoulder.
"What of it?" he said calmly. "Do you wish to kill the devil?"
The old man laughed—a dry, broken sound.
"I'm Varin."
Dracula pulled back his cloak. Long hair fell freely down his back, untamed yet unmistakable.
"I'm Dracula."
The memory dissolved.
The present returned in a quiet breath.
"It's perfect," Varin whispered.
Diana blinked. "S-sorry?"
"The hair," Varin said, his voice steadier now. "It's just fine."
"If that is your wish," Diana replied. She handed Dracula the mirror.
Dracula studied his reflection, fingers brushing lightly through the loose waves.
"Haven't I worn it like this before?" he asked.
Varin smiled faintly.
"Very fond memories."
Outside, beneath the open sky, the little girl sat curled in Lilith's lap, a book resting in her hands. Lilith's crimson eyes drifted across the orphanage grounds—watchful, distant, thoughtful—as the quiet moment lingered. Something glimmered at the corner of Varin's vision.
He glanced down.
The strands of Dracula's severed hair lay scattered across the floor—only they weren't still. One by one, they began to smolder, crimson light bleeding through the black. Then, without sound, they burned away entirely, reduced to nothing but fading sparks.
Varin stiffened.
For a heartbeat, his breath caught—but he forced his expression to remain unchanged. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his gaze back to Dracula.
What are you?
And what have you been hiding from me all this time?