Saint remained silent for a long while. Most people found her silence uncomfortable, awkwardly trying to fill it with meaningless conversations, but the detective seemed calm and at ease… as if he was deeply familiar with her taciturn nature.
She contemplated him somberly.
Was she in danger?
More importantly, how had she missed the signs of a looming mental breakdown?
Saint pursed her lips slightly. She had failed her patient… and so, her pride was wounded. It was an unpleasant feeling, and that feeling was only made irksome by her failure to pinpoint the origin of her mistake.
She looked at the unstable man sitting across from her.
Wrinkled clothes, unkempt hair, a pale face, a manic glint in his dark eyes…
The detective looked back at her and smiled faintly, but his smile never reached the cold depths of his eerie gaze.
'The Sovereign of Death, was it?'
Eventually, Saint tapped her pen against her notebook twice.
"Let me share a few thoughts, Detective."
