The night was deep and heavy, the cold wind carrying shreds of mist and the fractured glow of streetlights.
Alia stopped at the edge of the abandoned warehouse, her breath forming a faint wisp in the frigid air.
This was the place—the one Jim had chosen.
The scent of rust and damp concrete filled her lungs, sharp and metallic, like the aftertaste of blood. Every step she took toward that door made her pulse tighten. The faint creak of the old hinges echoed in the darkness as she pushed the half-open iron door.
Inside, the light was dim and unsteady. A few yellowed bulbs flickered overhead, casting long, trembling shadows across the floor.
At the far end, near a cracked window, Jim sat slouched at a metal table. His fingers tapped lazily against the surface—a slow, deliberate rhythm.
When he heard her footsteps, he lifted his head. A faint smirk curved across his lips, casual yet cutting.
"You came. So—how did it go?"
His voice carried that familiar tone of mockery, careless and self-assured, as if he already knew every answer she could possibly give.
Alia didn't flinch. Her expression was calm, eyes steady and sharp as glass.
"Of course I succeeded," she said coolly. "If I hadn't, I wouldn't be standing here."
There was no tremor in her tone—no hesitation, no fear. Just a clean, precise chill, like a blade drawn under moonlight.
Jim chuckled, three low bursts of laughter that echoed off the metal walls.
"Brilliant. Truly brilliant. I didn't think you'd actually manage it."
He leaned back in his chair, the faint screech of the old metal legs cutting through the air. Pointing toward the empty glass on the table, he raised it slightly, as though in a mock toast.
"I'm genuinely curious, though. Marcellus—of all people—so cautious, so impossible to fool. How on earth did you get his blood? And that much of it? He's always suspected there's some link between his blood and the Grail, hasn't he? Unless…"
He tilted his head, a glint of amusement flashing in his eyes.
"Unless this was your plan all along."
Alia said nothing. She simply looked down at the test tube in her hand.
The liquid inside shimmered under the faint yellow light—a dark, luminous red, rich and alive, glinting with something dangerous.
When she spoke again, her tone was quiet, measured, but every word carried a deliberate edge.
"You're overthinking, Jim. It was never that complicated. You just like to make things difficult for yourself. The truth is, you've always been too focused on your elaborate schemes to notice the simplest answer sitting right in front of you."
Jim's eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest spark of intrigue igniting there.
"Oh?" he murmured. "And what's that, then?"
Alia met his gaze without flinching. Her voice was calm—almost casual.
"You forgot where Marcellus is right now, didn't you? That place—you arranged it yourself."
For a heartbeat, Jim looked puzzled. Then, realization flickered across his face, followed by a short, humorless laugh.
"Ah… the hospital. Right. I almost forgot."
He slapped his palm lightly against his forehead, the smile fading into something sharper—half annoyance, half self-mockery.
"If I'd known then what I know now, I would've taken a few samples myself. Such a waste. I had no idea his blood was connected to the Grail at the time."
At that sentence—taken a few samples—something inside Alia's chest twisted violently.
The image hit her unbidden: Marcellus, pale and trembling on the hospital bed, blood seeping between his fingers. She could almost hear the monitors beeping, the shallow rhythm of his breath.
Jim's laugh scraped through her thoughts like metal against bone.
She forced her expression to remain still. Only her fingertips trembled—just once—before she hid the movement, slipping the test tube carefully into the pocket of her coat.
"Yes," she said softly. "A shame indeed. But at least we've corrected that mistake now, haven't we?"
Jim didn't notice the storm behind her calm. His gaze lingered on her, studying her like a player assessing his most unpredictable piece on the board. His smirk deepened, voice dropping into something low and intimate.
"You're far more interesting than I thought, Alia."
Alia didn't respond. She turned away, her face slipping back into shadow. Only her eyes betrayed her—those dark eyes shimmering with something fragile, something aching beneath the surface.
She couldn't afford to let him see it.
This was her role to play—dangerous, precise, and merciless.
Every word she spoke was a step deeper into the fire.
Every breath she took, a test of how long she could keep her heart from breaking.