Chiaki burst out of the alley and vaulted over a cart of fish, the old vendor screaming in dismay as scales went flying. She landed hard, barely keeping her footing, and bolted across a narrow bridge connecting two rooftops—only to skid to a halt as Morvain was somehow already standing at the other end, hunched over, hands in his pockets, a dead-eyed stare greeting her like a slap to the face.
"Oh. Wow," he said flatly. "You again. I was really hoping you'd take the other rooftop. Y'know, the one without me."
Chiaki's eyes widened. "How the hell—?!"
"Don't ask," Morvain interrupted, waving one hand limply. "I barely know how I got here myself. I was following the sound of something tragic—probably my motivation dying."
She turned hard and leapt off the side, bouncing between windowsills like a thief in a high-budget stage play. She tucked into a roll as she hit the ground, barely missing a flower stand, then sprinted through a narrow street and—
"Didn't even get five minutes to rest." Morvain claimed from in front of her again, somehow leaning against a streetlamp.
"Are you teleporting?!"
"No," he muttered, eyes half-lidded. "I'm just so tired my soul's skipping cutscenes."
Chiaki swerved left down an alley, ducked under hanging laundry, side-flipped off a barrel, and launched herself into a stairwell leading up—
—where Morvain stood mid-chew, eating a meat skewer he'd clearly stolen off someone's plate.
"Yo," he said, mouth full. "Wanna share? Or do you just wanna get caught already?"
Chiaki growled, "You're the laziest nightmare I've ever seen."
"Thanks. I work hard at it," he said, tossing the stick aside. "But really, if you could slow down, that'd be great. My ankles are sending resignation letters."
She spun, running again—around corners, through busy walkways, diving through a curtain shop, past shouting civilians. She swung up to a roof once more—
And there was Morvain, lying on the roof tiles, arms behind his head.
"Honestly?" he sighed. "I don't even know if I'm trying to stop you anymore. I think I'm just here out of guilt."
Chiaki's eyes twitched.
"I hate you."
Morvain gave a lazy thumbs-up. "So does my reflection."
Chiaki vaulted off the edge of a slanted terracotta rooftop, her boots clacking against the sun-worn tiles as she rolled with precision and bolted forward. Her breath came quick, chest tight beneath the short jean jacket clinging to her shoulders. A faint pain burned in her waist, but she didn't slow. She couldn't. Marble pillars and stone domes passed in streaks beside her—noble buildings steeped in old grandeur, now turned into stepping stones in her frantic escape.
Below her, the city stirred. Soldiers shouted from the cobbled avenues, scattering through side alleys, bumping into pushcarts and knocking over ceramic amphorae. One slipped trying to hurdle a fountain's basin, landing headfirst in the shallow water with a muted splash. Another got tangled in a fruit vendor's awning, knocking oranges everywhere like a hailstorm of citrus.
Above, a few guards tried to pursue across the rooftops—but the clay tiles betrayed them.
One lunged for a ledge and caught it with his face instead of his hands.
Another stumbled on a sloped surface, arms windmilling as he disappeared behind a balcony rail with a pained yelp.
The third made it two rooftops before collapsing dramatically and screaming about a twisted ankle that likely didn't exist.
Chiaki ignored them.
Her body twisted mid-run, clearing a jutting statue's wing before ducking under a hanging line of linen sheets that cracked in the breeze. The city's golden light, filtered through white stone arches and shadowed courtyards, turned the chase into a blur of ancient elegance and brutal urgency.
She rounded a chimney and—
"…Again?" came the flat, miserable voice.
Chiaki skidded to a stop, chest rising and falling. "What—? No way."
Morvain stood hunched beside an old water spout shaped like a lion's mouth. His sash was crooked. His eyes drooped as if every blink took strength. His posture practically slouched off the roof itself.
"Ugh," he groaned, rubbing the back of his neck like it ached just from standing. "Do you know how many stairs I imagined walking just now? And then didn't?"
Chiaki's heel twisted and she leapt the other way—but there he was again, standing at the edge of a tiled dome, holding a half-eaten olive loaf.
He chewed slowly. "You're quick, I'll give you that. Still not quicker than my existential dread."
Another sharp turn. She flipped off a beam, landed on a crumbling arch—only to see Morvain already there, perched like a depressed gargoyle on a broken statue of a senator.
"Don't mind me," he mumbled. "I'm just a disappointment with knees."
The entire rooftop chase had become a chaotic ballet of ancient rooftops, wind-snapped banners, laundry lines, and crumbling ledges. She maneuvered over domes and under hanging vines, ducking past tower bells and the occasional startled pigeon.
And somehow—somehow—Morvain kept appearing. Leaning on sundials. Sitting in empty balconies. Once lying down on a wooden beam like it was a cot.
"I'm honestly not trying," he muttered as she shot past him again. "I'd catch you, but that sounds like a promotion."
Chiaki glared mid-run. "You're unbelievable!"
Morvain lazily shrugged. "And somehow still employed. Tragic, right?"
Chiaki grit her teeth and pushed off a sloped ledge, the fire in her legs returning despite the ache pulsing beneath her ribs. She spun in midair and launched her foot toward Morvain's face in a clean, sweeping arc—her body twisting with practiced force. But the man didn't flinch.
Instead, his spine bent backward with unnatural ease, his body arching low as her extended legs sailed over him, brushing the air where his head had been. Her heel cut through nothing but space.
She landed hard, barely missing a beat, and broke into another sprint down the clay-tiled path—but something changed. A shift in weight. A subtle whisper of presence behind her.
Before she could react, a hand clamped tightly around her wrist—another slid around her mouth, silencing her breath in an instant.
Her body lurched as she was pulled backward.
Her eyes widened.
Behind her, Morvain's expression was no longer sluggish or mocking. There was no hint of laziness now—only shadowed resolve and sharp silence. His grip was firm, grounded in strength that belied every impression he'd given until now.
Chiaki struggled briefly, but he held her close, one hand covering her mouth, the other anchoring her in place. She could feel his breath near her ear, steady and unshaken.
And that's what struck her most.
Not the sudden strength.
Not the trap.
But the clarity in his presence.
He had been slow. Lazy. Dismissive. But not anymore.
And in that chilling silence—she realized just how much he had been holding back.
Chiaki's foot launched forward in a fierce arc, aimed straight at Morvain's head. Her body twisted with momentum, muscles strained, the sharp sound of wind cutting past her as her leg swung with precision. But the man simply leaned back—slow, fluid, almost lazy in his movement—as her kick flew harmlessly above his face, her legs stretching wide over his head before she landed behind him, stumbling slightly.
She didn't wait. The instant her boots hit the roof, she bolted, adrenaline lighting her limbs as she broke into another sprint across the tiles—her breaths short and sharp, heart hammering from the chase.
But just as she made the leap toward the next rooftop, a firm grip clamped around her wrist mid-air. Her eyes widened.
Morvain.
Somehow, impossibly, he stood behind her again—one hand latched around her arm, the other moving swiftly to cover her mouth.
She gasped behind his palm, body tensing in disbelief. She hadn't even heard him approach.
"Are we done now? No more games," he muttered, voice low, dry, almost melancholic.
His grip was firm, yet not cruel. But the weight in his tone—lifeless, exhausted—told her she'd reached the end of this run.
Morvain exhaled a long, pitiful sigh, as though the mere act of catching her had cost him the last of his willpower. His shoulders slumped, head tilted just enough for her to catch a glimpse of his dreary eyes—half-lidded, heavy with bags beneath them, like sleep had long abandoned him.
"I swear… if I had a coin for every time someone made me do this much walking, I might finally be able to retire," he muttered, almost more to himself than to her. "But no. Instead, I'm chasing reckless girls across rooftops with ribs full of bruises and a job I didn't even ask for."
He finally moved his hand from her mouth, letting her breathe freely, but kept his grip on her wrist. His expression never changed—still sunken, still tired.
"You know, I really hoped you'd just... I don't know. Hide in a cellar. Give up. Cry in a corner. Something simple. Instead, here I am with a dislocated shoulder and a foot that's probably broken because one of my men tripped and knocked me off a goddamn crate. And for what?"
His eyes glanced sideways at her—dull, but sharp in their honesty.
"You're bleeding. You're exhausted. And you think you can just keep running until your legs give out." He paused, breathing through his nose. "I don't even know if I'm supposed to kill you or bring you in alive. The orders are always so vague."
Then, with another sigh, he loosened his grip slightly—not letting go, but no longer restraining.
"I'm not the villain here. I just wanted a desk job. But the world decided I had to chase down a girl with too much fire in her chest and no idea how much pain she's walking into."
His voice dropped to a mumble.
"…So now what?" He looked down at her. "You gonna run again, or you gonna stop pretending you're fine?"
The wind passed softly between them—carrying dust, heat, and the weight of her next choice.
Chiaki didn't answer.
Her legs buckled.
The strength she had so fiercely clung to gave out all at once, and her knees collapsed beneath her. Morvain barely had time to catch her before she slumped forward against him, her breathing staggered and shallow.
"Ah—what the hell...?"
His voice trailed as his eyes caught the dark, spreading stain across the side of her shirt. Her bandages—already layered tight from before—were soaked through. Deep crimson leaked down beneath her jacket, pooling and trailing along her side, dripping faintly to the ground.
"…Shit."
It wasn't loud, but it was all he could say.
Morvain's usual slouch straightened slightly, panic flashing behind the exhaustion in his face. He knelt carefully, easing her down to keep her from hitting the stone. Her face was pale—too pale—and sweat clung to her forehead in a cold sheen.
"Why the hell didn't you say anything?" he muttered, checking the wrappings with surprisingly gentle fingers. "No, of course you didn't. Of course not. Strong, stubborn, bleeding halfway to death and still trying to kick me in the face."
He looked at her unconscious form, frowning with something almost like pity—but more like tired concern.
"Yeah, well… congrats. You win. You're worse at taking care of yourself than I am. And that's saying something."
Morvain shifted her weight carefully over his shoulder and rose, albeit with a slow, reluctant grunt.
"Great. Now I've gotta carry you." He glanced at the rooftops, at the scattered guards catching their breath after the chaotic chase.
"You better not die on me. Because if I have to explain this to the Empress, I'm definitely getting demoted. Again."
And with that, he started walking—feet dragging a little heavier than usual—but step by step, he carried her away from the edge of battle.
To be continued...