Shwick.
Shwick.
Shwick.
The sound rang in the small, dim room, sharp and metallic, cutting through the silence as if welcoming the promise of pain. Julius' hands moved with the patience of someone who had done this a thousand times, yet the precision was almost cruel.
Each stroke of the blade against the whetstone vibrating through his fingers and into his bones. He pressed the edge against his palm.
Blood seeped out like nectar. He watched it blead while skin refusing to surrender against injury. The wound mended. He waited. The sensation was nothing and everything all at once.
Shwick.
Shwick.
Shwick.
He pressed again, harder. The heat of the blood and the cold of the steel collided in his nerves. He flexed his fingers. Warmth. Wet and sharp.
He moved to welcome the pain once more but a distant sound halted his steps. He looked beyond the wall, past the fence. As if he could see what was coming.
He rose from the floor, and the sound of his boots on stone echoed in the empty cellar. He picked his things, few, but needed.
His sword, cold and heavy in his hand. A pack of cigarettes, crumpled at the edges. An empty metallic lighter, scratched, worn. His overcoat, earthen and musky.
The cellar door groaned as he opened it. Dust and faint mold rose, curling in the dim light. Julius inhaled.
He slid the sword into the leather strap at his side, flicked the lighter. Nothing sparked. He slid it inside his coat's pocket.
From the window, he saw an old car turn and crawl uphill, tires grinding before stopping at the iron-fenced gate.
Two people stepped out, a young man from the driver's seat, a middle-aged woman from the passenger side.
"Don't talk. Don't stutter. Don't even breathe…" the woman murmured.
The boy's shoulders sagged. She smirked. "Good boy."
A whisper the boy didn't hear, but Julius did.
Julius was already at the gate, standing still, eyes fixed on the duo. First, the boy, then the woman, then the boy again.
The woman stepped forward. She raised her fist over her heart and bowed her head — the salute of The Woe, a symbol of submission.
Her voice was careful. "Woe is mercy."
The motto that demanded an answer.
Julius did not answer. He did not pause. He walked past her as though she were nothing and slid into the seat behind them.
The young man gulped, casting a sidelong glance at his superior. She said nothing. Her gaze met his.
He straightened his back, swallowed whatever fear remained, and returned to his seat.
The car that had climbed the hill eased backward now, retracing its path, fading from sight with the same quiet certainty that had marked its arrival.
***
Emanuel reached his house, dazed, yet a sharp clarity burned in his chest.
He wanted to wash the stench from his clothes dirt, blood, gore, but sleep pressed down too heavy.
He collapsed onto his bed, flat, waiting for darkness to swallow him.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Five minutes slipped past.
Sleep did not come.
He turned onto his side. His shirt felt tight. He yanked it off in a flash, then pulled off his shoes, which he'd forgotten.
Finding the cold side of the pillow brought a small comfort. He lay down again.
But it was no different.
He tried again, and his eyes finally gave in. Only to be awakened abruptly.
He was standing in the middle of the room. Something stung.
His hands were burning. He looked at them and froze. Clawed marks raked his skin, carved by his own nails. They were packed with dried blood.
Not his.
He stared at them for a long time.
Each mark was etched with a single number: 3, running up to his elbows, overlapping one upon another.
Then the itch spread to his back, crawling along his spine. He bolted to the mirror in the corner of the room.
He turned, staring at his reflection. The same scene had unfolded, his entire back etched with 3, overlapping, endless.
He ran outside. He didn't know why, but he ran. Barefoot.
Soon he reached the streets. He hoped he might find peace here, that the weight pressing on him would stay behind in the room.
But the streets offered no relief.
The sky was empty. No sun. No moon. No stars. Not even a sky. Only void.
The presence was overwhelming, darkness pressing down, its weight unbearable.
Then a calm voice whispered right beside his ear:
"Rejoice, child. He is coming."
The burden lifted. His soul felt unbound, unchained, light as air, like wool carried away on a spring wind.
His wound healed, the red marks of suffering shone in the golden light.
And he awoke. It had been a dream. His clothes were where they belonged, his boots still on his feet. The pain was gone.
But it was all real. He felt every ounce of that pain, every fragment of that burden…
And even that fleeting benevolence.
He rose and went to the mirror. Everything was as he had known.
But it was the first time he looked himself straight in the eye and did not feel lost. Not even when Father Elias had been alive had he felt this… grounded.
"Father…" The ache in his chest hardened into will. "I must discover what happened to him."
It was time for the shower. It was time for a change.
***
Officer Smith remained lost in the enigma of the symbol, its strangeness anchoring him in a daze. Words drifted past, muffled, as if submerged underwater.
A firm hand on his shoulder jolted him. He turned to see a nurse, her gaze steady. "Sir… are you okay?" she asked, her voice cutting through the fog of his thoughts.
Smith blinked, coming slowly back. "Ah… yes, yes," he muttered.
At that moment, Deputy Lawson appeared. "Sir… the church people are outside," he said, his tone measured. Concern flickered across his face, but he kept it carefully hidden from the others.
Smith nodded to the nurse, excused himself, and stepped outside. The crowd had already gathered. No cameras, no reporters though the news had spread quickly. That alone felt odd.
The people were a mix of ordinary families, anxious and confused, and church members, calm and orderly.
On each churchgoer hung a scarf draped over both shoulders, matching and precise. Perhaps a symbol of their congregation, Smith thought but even so, the uniformity made them feel… off. He couldn't put his finger on what was wrong.
Smith noticed some of the church members talking with the officers. He moved closer. An older gentleman stood out, speaking with measured calm. His scarf was slightly different from the others. As Smith studied it, he saw patterns woven into the fabric, strange shapes he couldn't identify.
"Is there… something I can do for you?" Smith asked, his voice calm, but the steel beneath it made them all pause.
The old man met his gaze without flinching. "Some things are not meant to be solved, officer," he said slowly. "The church… has been cursed."
Smith's lips pressed into a thin line. He knew the man was trying to bullshit him, to provoke a reaction.
"Father Elias was a sinner," the old man said, voice low and sharp. "He was mad. He brought demons here. This church… it must be purged. It's not a matter for the police."
"It's a police matter," Smith said, voice calm but firm. "There's been a suicide, a stampede, multiple people hurt. Don't give me a sermon. Leave your theatrics out of this."
The people behind the old man bristled at Smith's tone. Some started to speak, but he raised a hand, cutting them off, then stepped back. His eyes scanned the scene. Nurses moved swiftly among the injured, lifting them onto stretchers. Many were dazed, eyes hollow, shadows of shock etched across their faces.
Then he noticed a girl. Compared to the others, she looked… stable. More present, more aware. Smith moved toward her and caught the nurse's attention. "Wait a second," he said, gently.
"I'm sorry, miss. I'm Officer Smith, this is Deputy Lawson," he said, voice calm. "May I ask you a few questions?"
The girl on the stretcher nodded faintly.
"And your name, ma'am?" Smith asked.
"Carol," the girl whispered.
"Carol… can you tell me what happened to Father Elias?" Smith asked, his voice soft but steady, careful not to startle her.
Carol's hands trembled against the stretcher. Her eyes darted around, unfocused, as if searching for something that wasn't there. Her lips quivered. "Father Elias… he was a good man," she whispered, her voice barely audible. A shudder ran through her shoulders. "Today… today was supposed to be… such a good day."
She pressed her palms to her face, but the trembling didn't stop. A hiccup of breath escaped her throat. "I… I was going to see my mom… my Sam…" Her voice cracked, trailing off into silence.
Smith leaned closer, gentle but firm. "Miss… can you tell me what happened to Father Elias?"
Carol shook her head slowly, staring at the floor. She swallowed hard, lips pressed tight. "I… I don't know," she whispered, a tremor in her voice, her fingers clutching the stretcher rails as if holding herself together. "He… he went mad… he… he killed himself."
Tears streamed down her face. She buried her head in her hands, small shudders running through her body, sobbing quietly but unrelentingly.
The nurse stepped forward immediately, placing a firm hand on Smith's shoulder. "That's enough for now," she said, briskly. Gently but swiftly, she helped lift the girl onto a stretcher and guided her toward the waiting ambulance.
Smith watched for a moment as the van doors closed, the sobs still faintly audible inside. The chaos around him pressed in again, sharp and unrelenting.
Smith's phone rang. He answered. "Officer Smith."
A voice on the other end said quickly, "The case has been transferred to higher authorities. You are to hand over all evidence to the special agent assigned."
"Understood," Smith said, his tone calm but tight. Then… click. The line went dead.
A car slid silently across the pavement, stopping just short of the yellow tape. The door opened. Julius stepped out. His coat hung perfectly still, untouched by the movement of the crowd or the wind. His face was sharp, defined, framed by his dark hair, unkept and messy.
The church people, still clustered near the tape, shifted uneasily, murmuring among themselves. A single word slipped through the crowd, barely audible:
Liar.
So quietly it seemed swallowed by the air itself. So quietly it sounded like they were speaking to a ghost, or whispering a story too terrible to be heard aloud.
Their gaze lingered on Julius, respectful yet tense, shadowed by an unspoken unease.
Julius, on the other hand, kept his eyes on the church door, calm and still, weighting it in silence.