Morning came with a sky the color of ash, a thin layer of mist cloaking the treetops and towering buildings. As usual, Lyra went to work. Her footsteps echoed steadily along the sterile white corridor of the private research facility—an institution known to only a select few. She wore her white lab coat, a folder of documents in hand, just like any other morning. No one could have guessed that in a few minutes, blood would seep through that coat.
Her lab was located on the top floor — a wide, pristine space bathed in light. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to the world outside, allowing the morning sun to spill in as always. But today, the sunlight wasn't warm enough.
Lyra had just stepped into the lab, not yet removed her mask, when—
"Crack!"
The sharp sound of shattering glass tore through the silence. A bullet ripped through the reinforced window, fired from the rooftop of a building across the street. It grazed her shoulder, leaving a slash of blood — thin, but sharp as a blade.
Shards of glass fell like rain, catching the light in fractured flashes, reflecting secrets long buried. The scent of gunpowder lingered faintly in the air, quickly swallowed by the sterile tang of disinfectant — but to Lyra, the smell of blood was already unmistakable.
She didn't scream. Didn't panic. She simply raised her hand to the wound — crimson blood welled up and bloomed across the white fabric of her coat. A small cut… but enough to awaken things best left untouched.
A normal person might have collapsed from shock. But Lyra was not normal. And this was not a failed assassination — it was a declaration of war.
She walked slowly to the shattered window, her eyes turning to the rooftop across the street — sharp and cold as blades of ice. No one could tell what she was looking at, but in her gaze, there was something… inhuman.
Her lips curved into a faint smile — delicate, and as cutting as a knife gliding across skin.
— "The game has begun, Jimson Snake…"
Her voice was soft as the wind, but cold enough to freeze every molecule of air in the room. No one heard it, yet somehow, the underworld trembled in those brief, silent seconds.
Outside, the wind surged, tossing loose papers into the air. One draft caught the gust and floated across Lyra's face before landing in a corner of the room — near a small reaction chamber still quietly humming.
On the manuscript were half-written chemical equations, handwritten notes, and a name slashed out in red ink: "Aconitum" — the scientific name of the Aconite plant.
Lyra didn't glance at the page. She already knew what it said. She didn't need to look back to confirm where the shot had come from.
This…
She had been waiting for it for a very long time.
———————————————————
In one of the most luxurious shopping malls in the heart of the city—where every item behind the glass counters carried a price tag that could make ordinary people dizzy—Lucian walked in with Aaron, two contrasting figures amid a world soaked in material glamour.
Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, expensive perfumes lingered in the air, and the clack of designer heels echoed among the soft ambient music drifting from hidden ceiling speakers. Yet all of that faded into the background when all eyes turned to them — a man of cold, blade-like beauty, and a young man with a purity as untouched as morning dew.
Lucian strolled with Aaron at his side, his large hand tightly clasping the younger's — a silent shield of protection. No words were needed. Even from a distance, an imposing aura radiated from him. Surrounding them were bodyguards in dark suits, scattered among the crowd — not flashy, not overt, but undeniably present. They weren't there to flaunt power. They were there to protect. Because where Lucian walked, danger always lurked like a viper in tall grass.
Lucian knew that. And he also knew that if he had chosen to bring Aaron outside today, then the boy's safety was non-negotiable. There was no room for mistakes. No such thing as "an unfortunate accident."
As long as Lucian breathed, no one would be allowed to lay a finger on Aaron.
They stopped in front of a display case of antique watches when a shadow flickered behind them. A figure in full black — long sleeves, a baseball cap, a face mask concealing almost every feature. Slung across their back was a long black bag, shaped exactly like a guitar case. But the coarse fabric, the worn edges of the strap — they all whispered that what lay inside was not an instrument.
The figure moved swiftly and silently, like a ghost — gone several meters in seconds. But what made Aaron freeze wasn't the presence itself. It was the silhouette.
Thin frame. Slightly hunched shoulders. A gait too familiar to ignore. And without meaning to, Aaron found himself saying the name that had haunted his mind for weeks.
— "Jim…son?"
He didn't finish. A low voice cut him off.
— "That's not Jimson."
Lucian spoke, his eyes still fixed on the display case, his expression unchanged — not a flicker of emotion.
Aaron turned to him, startled.
— "But… that build—it looked just like—"
— "It's not him." Lucian's tone was calm, unraised, yet carried a force that snuffed out every doubt.
Aaron's gaze returned to the shadow, but the figure had vanished. No trace. No lingering presence. A chill ran down his spine — that speed, that stealth… it wasn't normal.
What unsettled him more was this: Lucian had never once turned around.
From beginning to end, Lucian didn't so much as glance at the figure Aaron had mistaken for Jimson. And yet, he had spoken with absolute certainty.
How did he know?
Aaron's hand unconsciously clenched tighter. Questions surged through his mind. If that wasn't Jimson — then who was it? And if Lucian knew who it was… why didn't he stop them? Or was it because… they didn't need to be stopped?
But Aaron didn't ask. He didn't dare.
He understood — in Lucian's world, some things were better left unspoken. Sometimes, silence was the last protective charm keeping him outside the spiral of blood and shadow. Because once you stepped in…
There was no turning back.
Lucian reached for Aaron's hand again, gently pulling him forward.
— "Let's go."
Just two words. But his voice was ice. And the chill still lingered at the back of Aaron's neck.
— "…Okay."
He nodded softly, pretending to brush off what had just happened like a meaningless breeze.
But even as he tried to forget, the sensation of eyes on the back of his neck lingered.
That shadow…
That "guitar" case…
And Lucian's gaze — cold, detached, yet carrying the weight of someone who had seen it all long before it happened.
———————————————————
Dusk draped the city like an amber silk ribbon winding over distant rooftops. The sky, once pale orange, deepened gradually into a dusky violet — a quiet whisper of the night to come.
Lyra had just finished her work — another long day, another performance flawlessly executed at the office, like every other. But today, she didn't go home.
Her face was pale, void of emotion, her eyes distant — as if lost between two worlds. She walked with quiet but firm steps, her low heels tapping against the pavement. Not a word, not a pause. She moved as if she already knew her destination, as if she had waited a long time for this moment… to meet someone.
At the outskirts of the city, in a desolate area where darkness could swallow all traces of life, stood a crumbling house surrounded by dry, wind-blown grass. The walls were cracked and worn, the windows barren of glass, allowing the wind to rush in, carrying the scent of mildew from the broken bricks.
Jimson Snake stood in a shadowed corner, leaning against the rotting wall.
His black clothing hugged his slender frame. The sharp, cold lines of his features were mostly hidden beneath the low brim of a cap that cast a shadow over half his face. But that concealment only made him more magnetic — like an unfinished painting that led the imagination astray.
A thin mask covered the lower half of his face, but the lazy, narrow eyes above it held a calculating gleam. Even the faint light seeping in through the broken window couldn't erase the silent danger in his gaze.
Atropa entered.
— "Boss, the mission is complete."
His tone was respectful, not loud nor soft, but firm.
Jimson gave a slight nod. Nothing more. Praise from him was rare, and that nod alone told Atropa everything he needed to know: the boss was satisfied.
Yet, even after the mission's end, Jimson didn't move. He remained still, arms crossed, gaze distant, lost in thoughts only he knew. Wind slipped through the crooked metal sheets above, sending a swirl of dried leaves across the floor.
Atropa knew… something was coming. He spoke cautiously:
— "Boss, shall we—"
Jimson cut him off, his tone low and indifferent:
— "We don't need to do anything. Just wait. I'm tired."
It sounded careless. But with Jimson Snake, tired was simply another way of saying everything was already under control.
A faint smile tugged beneath his mask — sharp and knowing.
And just then—
Footsteps.
Not fast, but deliberate. Each step crushed dust and air alike.
Both Atropa and Jimson turned slightly toward the sound, though only Jimson's expression remained unchanged.
A few seconds passed… and a woman's voice rang out — cold, choked with hatred.
— "Don't move."
A gun was pointed straight at Jimson.
— "Jimson Snake… we meet again."
Stepping through the shattered doorway was a young woman. Her hair tied back, a dark windbreaker wrapped around her, and her eyes — bright, sharp as twin blades — glinted in the dying light.
It was Lyra.
She held the gun with both hands, the metal glinting under the last trace of sunset. Her hands trembled slightly, but her grip held firm.
Jimson turned his head — slowly, without urgency or fear.
A lazy glance, his half-lidded eyes narrowing beneath the cap. Only one side of his nose and eye could be seen, yet that was enough — enough to make it impossible to guess what he was thinking. Even when facing down a gun, his face remained unreadable, never truly exposed to anyone.
A faint, mocking smile played at the edge of his lips. Jimson spoke, voice slow and almost amused:
— "Oh… little girl."
He tilted slightly to one side, not the least bit threatened.
— "You really shouldn't use guns. They ruin your gentleness… makes you look far less adorable."
His words, half-teasing, half-mocking. But his eyes… they weren't laughing.
Lyra clenched her teeth.
The gun stayed locked on his chest. Yet he didn't move — only looked at her, as if the barrel didn't exist.
Silence.
For a moment…
There was only the soft whistle of wind through the broken window, Lyra's tense breathing, and the frigid indifference radiating from Jimson. On one side stood a fury not yet revealed, and on the other — a man who saw everything as a joke.
EndofChapter23