"I'm offering you two choices," Rollo said, his tone calm but cold.
Cirino sat rigid in the chair, hands clasped on the desk. Though he tried to keep his expression steady, sweat rolled down the back of his neck. Usually, when the Choir offered choices, it wasn't really a choice at all—it was comply or die.
Who knows, maybe this time would be different.
"You can either agree to be monitored by our agents and submit to further testing," Rollo continued, "or we can terminate you."
Never mind.
Cirino blinked, his mouth twitching into a dry, humorless smile. "Is that supposed to be a choice?"
Rollo sighed, eyes narrowing slightly as if disappointed by the question.
Hey, buddy, I don't think you have the right to be disappointed here. Cirino internally hissed.
Alyssa, standing just beside Rollo, crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly—that faint, half-amused smile returning to her face.
"It's more of a courtesy, really," she said. "Most people don't get even that much."
Cirino slumped in his chair, exhaling through his nose. His pulse pounded behind his temples, but he forced himself to meet her eyes. "So what you're saying is: either I let your people poke and prod me, or I end up as a footnote in one of your reports."
Rollo didn't answer, only pushed a folder forward across the desk.
"Sign this," he said. "It authorizes your compliance and confirms you won't attempt to flee. In exchange, you'll be placed under observation rather than… disposal."
Cirino stared at the folder. His mind raced through every possible escape route, but there were none. Even if he somehow managed to slip away, the Choir would find him. They always did.
"Tell me," Cirino said quietly, "what happens if your tests say I'm not clean after all?"
Alyssa's smile vanished. "Then we'll make sure Dunsleight stays safe."
A chill crawled down his spine.
He reached for the pen, twirling it once between his fingers before signing the paper with a resigned flourish.
"Guess I'll take the generous option," he muttered.
Rollo took the folder back without another word, stamping it with a heavy seal. Alyssa watched him for a moment longer, then said, "Welcome to the watchlist, Mr. Cirino. Try not to do anything interesting."
Rollo adjusted his glasses before speaking again, his tone measured and official.
"For the time being, since you currently lack means for proper food, shelter, and water—we will permit you to stay within the Choir's compound until we've fully determined your state. A notice has already been sent to your captain and the Imperial Army. Rest assured, this will not hinder your military career once you are cleared."
Gee, thanks for announcing my potential corruption to the whole chain of command, Cirino thought dryly.
Still… it wasn't a terrible deal. Free food, clean water, and a roof over his head—and inside one of the most secure facilities in the city? He couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. So this must be what the nobles felt like, living on taxpayer coin and calling it duty.
Maybe this isn't so bad after all.
"Wait—what if I want to leave the compound? Wander the city a bit?" Cirino asked, half-hopeful.
"You'll be accompanied by a Choir agent at all times," Rollo replied without hesitation. "Forgive us, Mr. Cirino, but we'd rather not risk another incident like Mr. Wycliffe."
"And the gem?" Cirino pressed.
Alyssa crossed her arms. "It's being transferred to our central headquarters for study. You won't be seeing that gem again—of that, I can promise you."
For some reason, part of him felt a strange pang of sadness at parting with the gem. The more rational side of his mind knew this was likely a lingering effect of the Malethic corruption within—it had touched him, however subtly. He kept that thought buried deep. Mentioning it aloud would only raise alarms.
What the hell is happening to me?
He hoped that whatever influence remained would fade with distance, but experience told him otherwise. Malethis didn't just disappear—it clung to its victims, festering and mutating until nothing human was left. He finally understood why the Choir was so merciless in its methods. They had to be.
So why was he different?
What made him 'immune?'
Cirino shook the thought away. He could obsess over it later—preferably when he wasn't in a room with people authorized to execute him for "anomalous behavior." His blue eyes flicked from Rollo to Alyssa, then landed on the violet-eyed girl sitting nearby, watching them all with an almost comical intensity.
"So uh... what about her?" Cirino asked, gesturing toward Agnes. "Did you really hire a twelve-year-old?"
Alyssa smirked faintly, folding her arms. "We requested a Justiciar Scion, but the Justiciar's Order sent us a Scion-in-training instead. That's on us—we said it was urgent. Still, I can't complain. Agnes handled herself well enough."
Agnes straightened in her chair, puffing her chest with pride. "Of course I did! Justice does not discriminate by age!"
Cirino could practically see the disillusionment waiting for the girl years down the line—when all that righteous fervor met the gray murk of reality. He gave a small, wry smile, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"So… what now?" he asked, voice edged with weary resignation.
"Now?" Alyssa tilted her head, that ever-present glint of amusement returning to her eyes. "You should take some time to familiarize yourself with your new accommodations—and then visit Ms. Rita for that punctured lung of yours."
Cirino blinked.
…Oh, right.
The pain came rushing back the moment she mentioned it, a dull ache flaring beneath his ribs like a reminder that he was still, regrettably, mortal.
"Yeah," he muttered, already dreading the impending medical lecture. "Guess I'll… do that."
Alyssa's lips quirked upward. "Good man. Try not to faint in the hallway."
Will try, boss.
He could call her that, right?
[...]
The medical wing was quieter than Cirino expected—eerily so. His eyes wandered across rows of unoccupied beds, curtains half-drawn like idle sentinels. The few medics present drifted between stations, their hushed conversations and the clinking of glass vials echoing faintly off the tiled walls.
Each of them wore pristine white coats embroidered with the insignia of a twin-headed crow with green eyes.
I've seen that before… he thought, the image tugging faintly at the edge of memory.
For now, though, Cirino simply lay there, propped slightly upright on the bed. The stabbing pain in his side dulled to a muted throb—an uncomfortable reminder that he was, at least, still alive. After the last few days, that alone felt like a small victory.
Of course, there was still the matter of proving he wasn't slowly mutating into some Malethic aberration. But that was a problem for later. Small steps.
"Sorry for the wait!"
The voice pulled him from his thoughts. The familiar form of the medic stumbled into view—a violet-eyed girl with brown hair tied loosely behind her head. Rita, if he remembered correctly.
She wore the same coat as the rest, and necklace with the icon of a moon. Her brown hair was covered in a veil, not dissimilar from a few religious orders he had seen.
She pushed a small cart laden with supplies: herbs bound with twine, surgical tools glinting under the lamps, and a few glass bottles filled with something that gave off a faint, unsettling shimmer.
Cirino's eye twitched.
Please don't tell me I have to ingest that.
"Cirino, right?" She catched her breath for a moment, sitting next to him. Cirino felt the bed shift. "You don't mind if I sit next here, I-I need a little break."
"It's fine." Cirino replied, though the close contact with such a cute girl made him somewhat flush.
Damnable teenage hormones.
With a huff, she took off her veil and wiped the sweat that formed on her brow. Showing off a distinctive headband with a floral pattern. Cirino took a moment to glance at it, noticing its expensive-looking make.
Noticing his look, Rita blinked. "Uhm—is something the matter?"
"Huh? Oh..." Cirino cleared his throat. "Your headband, it's... nice."
She blinked, "Oh! Yeah, it is. My parents gifted it to me for my sixteenth birthday last year."
Rita took it off, showing the expensive gleam of what he could only assume are diamonds. She was rich? Did that make her some kind of noble? It seemed rude to ask, so he kept quiet.
"They're rarely ever home, or close..." her voice dimmed. "B-but! They give me expensive things, so that's nice... right?"
She eyed him as if she was worried she had said something wrong. Is this girl alright? She seemed too nervous to be someone from the Choir.
"Yeah…" Cirino murmured. He didn't really have a point of reference for that.
He'd never had parents to celebrate his birthday with. The most he ever got was a casual greeting from his caretakers—or, on rare occasions, a small cake Sister Marietta managed to scrounge together.
It mattered even less in the army. There, a "happy birthday" usually came in the form of a crumpled letter reminding you how miraculous it was that you were still alive.
Really tells you how much they care…
Noticing his awkward silence, Rita gave a small, apologetic sigh and slipped the headband back on. "Sorry, I'm just… new to this. I only joined the Choir as a medic this year."
I can tell, Cirino thought—but wisely kept that to himself.
"Let me treat you now," she said, standing and pulling her veil back into place. Her tone regained some confidence as she gently guided him to lie down. "This will be a delicate process, but I should be able to replace your organs with new ones."
Cirino blinked. Replace them with what? His eyes flicked to the cart—herbs, scalpels, tinctures, a few ominous-looking syringes—but no spare lungs in sight.
Noticing his confusion, Rita smiled reassuringly. "I've studied advanced Biothurgy. I'll use your remaining tissue to cultivate new organs from your own cells. The damaged ones will dissolve into nutrients. Don't worry, Mr. Cirino—I've done this before! Mr. Sio lost an arm once during a mission, and I grew him a new one!"
Cirino blinked again. She can just do that?
His old army medic could barely stitch a wound without reopening it. Meanwhile this girl could apparently regrow limbs.
Miss Rita, I wish I'd met you sooner…
He wasn't sure, but he might've actually had stars in his eyes.
"Before that!" Rita suddenly announced, reaching into her cart.
Cirino blinked in confusion—then froze as she produced a syringe filled with a faintly glowing liquid.
"Wait, what are you—"
Too late. Rita jabbed the needle into his arm with alarming precision, withdrew it just as quickly, and before Cirino could even think about complaining, his entire body went slack. From the neck down, he was completely numb.
"What...?" he managed to croak.
"Sorry, Mr. Cirino!" she said brightly, already setting the syringe aside. "I heard that injections hurt less when done swiftly and without warning. You didn't feel that, did you?"
What is with this woman?
One moment she was a saint in a veil, and the next—a menace with a syringe.
"I'd prefer if you warned me next time," Cirino said flatly, his expression deadpan. "I can handle a needle, you know?"
Rita blinked, realizing her mistake. "Right—I… sorry..." she mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck.
Cirino sighed, letting his head sink into the pillow. At least he wasn't in pain anymore. Still, the absence of all feeling from the neck down was unnerving—like being a ghost in his own body. Oddly comforting, yes, but strange all the same.
"Why didn't you just knock me unconscious?" he asked. That's what they usually did in surgery, right?
Rita blinked at him, tilting her head as if the answer were obvious. "Because I like speaking with you, and I want to talk to you more while I do this."
…
How could someone be this sweet and utterly terrifying at the same time? He might've shivered at the paradox if he still had control over his body.
"I—" Cirino hesitated, searching for words. "I'm... glad. I enjoy talking to you too, Ms. Rita."
Her smile was radiant enough to make him forget, briefly, that she was about to rearrange his insides.
"Mr. Cirino," she said, pulling on a pair of gloves, "I would suggest not looking down. I'm confident in my abilities, but... I'm aware the process can look rather unsightly."
He immediately wanted to look down.
"Just focus on my face, please!" she interjected quickly.
Alright. He could do that too.
Then came the heat—a creeping burn in his chest, not quite pain but something deeper. Like his soul was being stoked by unseen flames. He heard the metallic clink of scalpels, the soft snip of scissors, and the quiet rustle of movement. The smell of iron crept into the air.
Cirino's curiosity got the better of him—he began to glance down—
"Face! Mr. Cirino, face please."
Alright. Definitely just the face.
"So…" Cirino began, trying to distract himself from the faint metallic tang in the air. "I'm not sure if you're the right person to ask, but…"
He hesitated, then decided to go for it. "What happened to the army here?"
Rita froze mid-motion, her blood-slicked gloves hovering just above his open chest. Her violet eyes widened slightly, studying him like he'd just asked something forbidden.
"They didn't tell you?" she finally asked.
"No… was I supposed to know?" Cirino replied, brow furrowing.
"Well—" She paused, tapping a finger against her chin in thought. That hesitation alone told him everything he needed to know—whatever it was, it wasn't public knowledge. With a quiet sigh, she relented.
Being a soldier stationed here, he at least deserved to know.
"Alright, Mr. Cirino, I'll tell you. But you have to promise you won't tell anyone I did." She extended her pinky toward him with a serious expression.
Cirino stared flatly at it.
"Oh… right." She lowered her hand, cheeks reddening. "Verbal promise, then."
"I promise," he said dryly. "Besides, I'd probably get executed if people found out I knew."
Rita let out a nervous laugh. "Don't worry. Lady Baudouin's kind enough, and while Captain Averas can be a little strict, he's not that kind of strict."
That didn't exactly fill him with confidence. Still, she seemed to take his promise seriously. She glanced around, ensuring no one was listening in, then leaned closer—her voice dropping to a whisper.
"It started a few months back. From what I heard, things in the garrison were perfectly fine," Rita began, her tone slipping into the practiced rhythm of someone recounting a story told many times before. "It wasn't the rundown, poor excuse of a barracks you saw earlier. Back then, it was clean, disciplined—everything was in order. All under the strict leadership of Captain Lawrence Daniels."
Her gloved hands moved with careful precision over his open chest as she spoke, her voice steady despite the delicate nature of her work. "A stalwart defender of the faith, they called him. The very picture of a proper captain. His record was impeccable—every report, every inspection passed with flying colors."
Cirino heard the faint, wet sound of something tearing, followed by the warmth of blood dripping onto his cheek. He tensed but didn't flinch. Rita, without missing a beat, reached for a cloth and gently wiped his face clean.
"Thanks," he muttered.
She smiled faintly and nodded, as if this were all part of the procedure.
"Where was I—oh, right." She straightened slightly, her voice taking on a storyteller's flair. "That was how it was for years. Until…"
She let the word hang in the air, pausing deliberately for effect. Her expression grew serious—though not serious enough to hide the glint in her eye.
Cirino stared at her blankly.
Rita held the silence a little too long, her lips tightening.
…Is she waiting for me to react?
Her face puffed up slightly as she tried to look mysterious and dramatic.
"…Until what?" Cirino finally sighed.
Her eyes lit up, triumphant. "Until it happened."
He resisted the urge to groan.
She paused again, eyes narrowing as if she were building to some grand revelation.
Lady, this isn't how storytelling works.
"Until what happened?" Cirino finally relented, his tone halfway between curiosity and resignation.
"Until he brought a woman with him," Rita declared, pulling a face as though she'd just uttered something unspeakable.
Cirino stared at her.
Oh no, a woman… he thought dryly. The horror.
She fell silent again, clearly waiting for his reaction, lips pursed in dramatic tension that didn't quite land.
She's taking all the suspense out of this by doing this. Does she know that?
"Gee," Cirino said flatly, "I wonder what this woman did…"
Rita gasped, scandalized. "You're not taking this seriously, Mr. Cirino!"
"I would," he said, "if you stopped pausing like a street performer fishing for applause."
Her cheeks puffed up, indignant. "I'm building tension!"
"You're building my confusion."
Rita huffed, but her lips twitched—clearly fighting back a smile.
Cirino found himself smiling too—faintly, but enough to surprise even him. There was something oddly entertaining about this little back-and-forth.
Clearing her throat, Rita straightened and continued her story.
"Anyway… this woman was strange," she began, her tone slipping back into that half-serious, half-dramatic cadence. "Apparently, she was a fortune teller from the Far East. I don't know if she was Tsugiharan, Zhuyan, or maybe I'm just assuming too much—but that's beside the point."
"She went by the name Thalia Viñana," Rita said, tugging a piece of ribcage free with surgical ease. "Her violet eyes spoke of a weary existence, her hair as dark as pitch, and her smile could fell ten men—hundreds more with her voice alone."
For someone dissecting him, she had a flair for poetry.
At the very least, Cirino thought, she's quite skilled in prose.
Cirino couldn't help but chuckle. For someone elbow-deep in his chest cavity, she had quite the flair for dramatic storytelling.
"Are you sure you're not secretly a playwright?" he asked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Rita smiled, clearly pleased by the compliment but pretending otherwise. "I could have been, if I wasn't busy rebuilding people's lungs," she said with mock modesty, placing the rib aside with a soft clink.
Her tone shifted slightly as she went on, that storyteller's lilt returning. "Thalia Viñana wasn't like the others who came to the garrison. She was… polite. Charming. People liked her—especially Captain Daniels."
"Of course they did," Cirino muttered. "You made her sound like the heroine of a tragic ballad."
"Well, you're not far off," Rita said softly, her voice dropping low. "Because that's exactly what it turned into."
Cirino blinked, but before he could ask, she added:
"After she arrived… people started to change."
She spoke those words like an omen, her violet eyes flicking briefly to his face before returning to her work.
"Many outsiders thought she was just a night girl," Rita whispered, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. She turned to Cirino, as if expecting him to react or ask what that meant.
He just stared back, deadpan.
Mistaking his silence for confusion, she pressed on.
"A night girl. A creature of pleasure. A prosti—"
"I know what you're talking about, Rita," Cirino cut in. "Just… keep going."
"R-right, sorry." She cleared her throat, cheeks still pink. "Anyway! The men started to change around her. Once models of discipline, they grew slovenly. And it wasn't just laziness—there was a shift."
Her voice lowered, tone darkening. "As if something had taken hold of them. Their wives said their husbands became distant. Fathers spoke of sons turning wrathful. Children whispered that their fathers had grown violent."
"Captain Daniels stopped coming home," Rita said softly, her tone dimming. "At first, it was just a few days away from his family… then weeks. Eventually, a month passed, and no one saw him."
Her hands slowed as she worked, her gaze distant. "People protested. Reports were filed. So they sent us to investigate."
She hesitated, her voice faltering. "But…"
When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. "When we finally arrived… they were all dead. Thalia was gone. And the scene was—" she stopped herself, lips pressing into a thin line.
Cirino didn't press. He could see it in her eyes—the image of something she would never forget.
Some things didn't need to be spoken aloud.
"Thalia was never found after that," Rita said quietly. "We've been hunting her ever since. But then you showed up—with the gem—and suddenly, there were questions. Too many coincidences."
She looked at him then, her violet eyes softening. "But I don't think you're a bad person, Mr. Cirino. Just… another victim caught in all of this."
Cirino pursed his lips, he could tell how much the image affected her. Truth be told, he felt no real attachment to the unit here. How could he? He hadn't even met them.
But Rita's pain seemed real, her gaze filled with horror. Was this the kind of girl she was? The Choir was lucky to have her.
Thalia Viñana, huh?
Another name to look out for.