"Shermans is dead."
The Plague Doctor walked briskly into the room, delivering the latest news, while the person sitting by the window seemed not to have heard any of it. He hung his head low, facing the torrential rain outside. Countless candles quietly burned at the edge of the chair, with flowing wax outlining intricate symbols on the floor.
Lawrence had been like this lately. After acquiring a youthful body, Lawrence became increasingly inscrutable. Sometimes, even the Plague Doctor himself was unsure what Lawrence was thinking. He was like a cold, treacherous snake, lurking in the shadows, ready to strike lethally with poisonous fangs.
The Plague Doctor cautiously approached. On the table was the ink mixed with Secret Blood, and a finished letter lay to the side, just waiting to be mailed.
Lawrence seemed to have fallen asleep, but the Plague Doctor knew very well that he was traversing the [Gap]. No one knew where Lawrence's consciousness was at that moment.
