Inside the building where he had been told to meet, a short young lady with long blonde hair stood waiting. She was familiar—the lady who had proffered the enigmatic potion.
He stood above her, his gaze piercing, as if beholding an insignificant insect, before shaking his head.
"Fierce whimsy, begone," he muttered to himself.
Don't think nonsense, he told himself.
The young lady's voice cut through his thoughts.
"I'm Ema," she said plainly.
"Um… oh—yes. You're Ema. Sorry…" Orin's voice shook slightly before he corrected himself. "I am Percy… Percy Thornfield."
Ema looked at him briefly. "That's a strange combination of names. But don't worry—the commander isn't here. I'll be the one giving you your badge and your firearm."
Orin frowned slightly. "What do you mean… badge and firearm?"
"Oh—I see. No one told you." She paused, then continued. "As of now, you are officially part of the Black Crow officers… as a part-timer."
His gaze shifted. His posture straightened slightly.
This was what he wanted—closer access, a path to restoring his spirituality.
Yet somehow… it felt like he was stepping into the unfinished dream of Percy's fallen friend.
Without another word, he followed Ema as she led him into another room.
Inside stood an old man—Grandpa Jack—taking measurements.
"So you're the kid who lost a friend," the old man said gently. "My sincere condolences."
Orin looked at him. The man seemed even older than the commander, yet carried a quiet strength.
Orin forced a faint smile, brushing it aside.
Grandpa Jack continued, his voice calm, filled with experience.
"Do not worry too much about life. As long as we live, we remain tied together… by karma."
He finished measuring Percy, then stepped back.
"It is done," he said. "Come back tomorrow… or later today."
Ema then led Orin further into the office, handing him a revolver—dark silver with faint gold lining.
"I've been seeing this color a lot lately…" Orin said lightly, trying to draw a reaction.
Ema gave none.
She handed him some coins as well—payment, or perhaps support.
They walked through the long corridor until she stopped before a room.
"This is where you'll be staying for now," she said, her tone serious, though her fatigue showed.
Before Orin could respond, she simply lay down on the stone floor—her eyes closing almost instantly.
She was asleep in seconds.
Orin paused, then stepped inside. He placed the money and gun on the bed, took a blanket, and covered her. Using a pillow, he gently raised her head.
"For someone so serious… you sleep a lot," he muttered quietly.
He turned away and closed the door behind him.
His goal was clear—return to his old apartment and retrieve what he needed.
Walking through the corridor, he noticed a door slightly open.
Something about it drew his attention.
Slowly, he pushed it open just a little.
Inside, he saw her—
The same young lady from the coffee shop. Pale skin, silver hair, seated in her wheelchair.
She moved quietly, applying ointment to her arm, her movements gentle, almost distant—like someone lost in her own world.
Orin froze for a moment.
There was nothing improper—yet something about the vulnerability of the scene made him uneasy. Like he had stepped into something private… something he was never meant to see.
He swallowed, his gaze lingering for a second too long.
Then he caught himself.
Shaking his head, he stepped back and lightly slapped his own cheek.
"Bad boy, Percy… bad boy," he whispered under his breath.
Without another glance, he turned and walked away.
Outside, he walked farther and farther away from the Black Crows' quarters of operation.
His tension was mounting, a quiet unrest coiling within him. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he moved through the long, narrow stretch of the tight street, his footsteps echoing along the cobblestones.
Soon, he emerged into the open—
the second street, clearer, wider, filled with passing figures.
People drifted by without pause.
Carriages rolled along the edges of the road.
Children ran past, their laughter faint and distant.
Yet his mind remained fixed straight ahead.
He did not look at anyone.
At the corner of the opposite street, a man sat beneath an umbrella. A wooden table rested before him, a single cup of coffee untouched.
There was something about him—
something heavy.
His presence alone was enough to unsettle the air.
Orin noticed it then—
The man's eyes.
They shifted.
Swift. Precise.
Following him.
Orin turned his head slightly, his gaze cutting across the street—
But the moment Orin shifted his gaze, the man stood and slipped past the corner.
The movement was too quick. Too deliberate.
Sensing something off, Orin crossed to the other side of the street and followed. He turned the same corner the man had taken, tracing his path through the narrow ways.
The chase stretched longer than it should have—twisting turns, unnecessary detours, relentless movement.
Then—
He emerged into a small, enclosed corner of the iron-gate city.
Four tight buildings boxed the space in, sealing it from the outside world.
There was no clear path forward.
Only a single door stood before him.
Orin's gaze shifted slowly around the space, studying the walls, the windows, the silence pressing in.
Something wasn't right.
Yet without hesitation—without even forming a proper thought—
He stepped forward, walking straight toward the door.
As his hand moved toward the handle of the door—
A sharp flint cut through the air.
The sound came after—
a gunshot, echoing.
The bullet brushed past his fingers, striking the handle with a violent clang.
Orin reacted instantly. He pulled his hand back and leapt away.
A voice followed, slicing through his surprise—
"Going somewhere?"
It was the man who had been sitting under the umbrella.
Orin glanced at him, forcing a faint smile. He scratched his hand lightly.
"I'd ask you the same," he said. "You've been looking at me for a while now. Why?"
The man exhaled smoke, unimpressed.
"So… you noticed." He let out a quiet laugh. "How pathetic. Were you so afraid you couldn't approach me first?"
Orin's gaze shifted briefly, scanning the surroundings—empty, sealed.
Then he looked back.
"What would I be afraid of?" he said calmly. Then his tone dropped, sharper. "If I were afraid… I wouldn't have followed you into a trap."
The man chuckled, the sound low and unnecessary.
"So you knew it was a trap… and still came."
He tilted his head slightly, studying Orin.
"I've been observing you for quite some time," he continued. "Ever since the incident at the church."
Orin's expression flickered.
Then he stepped back, closer to the door—
Because he had realized something worse.
That same presence…
The same spirituality that clung to the red-haired lady—
It was on this man.
Clinging to him. Breathing with him.
Orin steadied himself, forcing composure.
"Ah… I see," he said slowly. "So you were there… at the church."
The man gave a slight bow of his head.
"I am Lucien Harrow," he said smoothly. "The Clown's Gambit."
He smiled faintly, twisting his expression into mockery.
"No need for introductions. I already know your name… Percy Thornfield."
He paused, amused.
"What a ridiculous combination."
Orin regained his balance, his gaze sharpening as he met Lucien's eyes.
"I've been questioning that myself," he replied, his tone dipping into something colder.
A brief pause.
Then—
"But let's set that aside."
His voice steadied, carrying a quiet weight.
"Tell me instead… why you've been following me."
Lucien Harrow laughed out loud, then tossed a silver card. He said,
"Pick a card… oops, I showed it to you."
Orin caught the card, then stared at it, his eyes locked on the metallic sheen.
The pressure from Lucien shifted closer, and Orin felt it deep in his chest. He looked at the man, closer now than before, and something about him made the air itself feel heavier.