The smell of blood mingled with the acrid sting of disinfectant, cold and sharp in the still air.
Elias stood frozen, staring at the glass filled with fresh, dark blood. Shock and fury tangled in his eyes—he had never imagined Marcellus would actually go this far. The cut had been too swift, too deliberate, as if he had decided long before this moment what he would do.
"Marcellus—have you lost your mind?!" Elias's voice came out as a low growl, his worry burning into anger. "This is Jim we're talking about! You don't even know what he's going to do with your blood!"
Alia was equally stunned, her breath catching in her throat. She had seen Marcellus make ruthless choices before, had witnessed his calm in chaos countless times—but seeing him now, blood streaming from his palm, his expression steady and unwavering… her heart clenched painfully tight.
Marcellus only smiled faintly. His gaze was calm, almost serene.
"You can't catch a wolf without sacrificing the lamb," he said slowly, his voice low but steady. "We've come too far to hesitate now. Let him do what he wants. As long as we reach the final goal—anything is acceptable."
His tone carried no tremor of doubt, no hesitation. It wasn't heroic or tragic; it was simply resolute, almost terrifying in its certainty.
Alia's throat tightened. She wanted to speak—something, anything—but no words came.
And in that moment, she understood why she could never quite keep up with him.
That unflinching resolve—the willingness to stake everything, even himself—was what she both admired and feared.
Her voice trembled, a whisper more like a sigh than speech.
"So this… is the real you, Marcellus."
The light in her eyes shimmered between grief and reverence. This was the man she loved—not gentle, not flawless, but someone who would keep walking forward even when every step sank him deeper into the mire.
Marcellus began to wrap his wounded hand with clean bandages, each motion measured and unhurried, as if he were binding a trivial scratch rather than a bleeding gash. The blood had already soaked through the first layer, but he didn't even flinch.
When he lifted his head, his gaze moved from Elias to Alia—firm, unwavering, unyielding.
"But—" he began, his tone shifting, deepening like the rumble of thunder before a storm.
"It ends here. Only I can take the risk. Neither of you—must get hurt."
"Marcellus—" Elias started, his voice raw with protest, but Marcellus cut him off sharply.
"That's an order."
The words were crisp, cold—but beneath that command lay something achingly human, a fragile warmth buried under steel.
"If either of you gets caught, everything falls apart. Someone has to make it to the end—at least one of us has to see how it all ends."
The room fell into a suffocating silence.
Alia's hands trembled. She bit her lip hard, fighting the desperate urge to stop him—to do something—but reality held her in place like chains. She looked at him, her gaze steadying, solidifying into quiet determination.
"Then promise us this," she said softly. "You'll live to see the end, too."
Elias took a slow breath, the fury in his expression ebbing into resolve. When he finally looked at Marcellus again, the anger was still there, but now it burned alongside something else—respect.
"Then we hold our ground," he said quietly. "No matter what happens, none of us retreat."
Marcellus inclined his head, a faint smile curving at the corner of his lips.
Outside, the wind whispered against the glass, stirring the curtains.
The motion rippled through the room, brushing past the bedside table, grazing that glass of blood—its dark surface trembling, glinting faintly under the yellow light.
It looked almost alive, that deep crimson—
like a vow silently sealed,
one that could never be undone.