Her face crumbled, and tears fell.
He didn't stop her.
He didn't try to comfort her with hollow words.
He just held space.
Because he knew what it meant to carry too much.
To be a cracked vessel.
And he wouldn't let another one shatter.
"There, there," he murmured.
"Grandpa's here for you, brat."
—
Sumei's sobs had faded into soft hiccups, the tears soaking through the fabric of his coat. Her fists—once clenched tight against her temples like she could squeeze out the pain—had gone limp. The crying wasn't violent anymore. It was hollow. Exhausted.
Evan didn't speak. Just knelt beside her in silence.
Then slowly, gently—like lifting something sacred—he shifted her. One arm slid beneath her knees, the other behind her back. She didn't flinch. Didn't resist. Her head slumped onto his shoulder, a thread of breath escaping her lips.
He thought to himself,
"Why am I being like this to a stranger...? Guess I really am acting like a grandpa, huh?"
With a quiet sigh, he held her close in one arm, picked up her shopping bags with the other, and started walking down the neon-lit street where the night was painted in color.
—
Elsewhere in the same market...
Morrin and Iris walked through the glowing streets, the lights casting illusions of safety and warmth. But they both knew what really lurked underneath the shine.
"Y'know, Iris, you should smile more. Or were you born with that face?" Morrin quipped, hands tucked into her coat pockets as she walked.
Iris walked beside her, gaze steady.
"I'm not here to smile at a criminal."
"But we're partners~"
"Temporarily."
"Still~ Stop being so mean to me~"
Iris ignored her.
Just as Morrin was about to poke again—
She froze.
A man. Pale. Bald. Deep eye bags. But something about him felt... off.
"By the way, how far is that secret base of yours—"
She turned mid-sentence.
But Morrin was gone.
Iris blinked, sighed, and clenched her jaw.
"That sly fox…"
She stalked between steam vents and shadowed alleyways beneath monolithic ad towers. Alone. Silent. Annoyed.
Then she turned a corner—and collided chest-first into someone.
A bag jostled. An arm caught her mid-fall.
Evan looked down at her.
They both paused.
Iris's instincts lit up.
"I didn't sense him... another threat? Should I ki—"
Her thoughts halted.
"Hey, sorry... you alright there, miss?" Evan asked. His voice carried calmness, concern—and something else she couldn't place.
Iris blinked.
Then, flatly:
"Have you seen a whore-looking slut with tattoos on the left side of her body?"
Awkward silence.
Evan blinked.
"…Are you describing your best friend, or your life's final boss?"
"Pretty much both," Iris replied.
"Best friend then."
"You see where she went?"
"Why do you think I know?"
"You look good. She probably left a trail for you."
"…Was that a compliment? Or are you saying I look like someone who hangs out with prostitutes all day?"
Iris narrowed her eyes. She wasn't in the mood.
But Evan didn't flinch. Same tired gaze, same calm voice.
"Most people don't look me in the eye unless they've got a death wish."
"It'd be rude to look away from a lady talking to me. Especially one who wears a mask to hide. I get it... easier to look pissed than to actually feel."
Iris paused.
She couldn't tell if he was fearless—or just polite.
But her eyes dropped to the unconscious girl in his arms. Her edge softened, just a fraction.
They passed each other.
He didn't look back.
But she did.
"…Weirdo," she muttered.
—
Derelict Street – Low Light Strip
Iris found her again.
Morrin stood beneath a flickering glow-lamp, backlit like a witch from noir. A man slumped in front of her, twitching—then still. From a distance, it looked wrong. Intimate. Disturbing.
"There you are. Morrin, what the hell? Why this guy now?" Iris snapped, her bracelet pulsing faintly.
"Relax, Vale." Morrin stepped back, voice lazy, but her eyes fixed on the corpse. "Didn't screw him. Just fried his brain a little."
"Why?"
She crouched and rolled the man's neck with two fingers. An X mark showed—slashed through with three lines.
"See this? Same as mine. Modified, sure—but it means he was one of them. The ones who summon spirits. Not harness them like me. These bastards implant them. Turn people into walking bombs."
"There are more like you?"
Morrin stood, face unreadable.
"Not exactly but there are worse."
"Then how'd you beat him so easily?"
"I didn't," Morrin smiled. "Just paused him. You showed up before the chorus."
The man twitched.
Then cracked.
His form shifted—skin blistered, bones snapped, horns erupted through flesh, and smoke-like ghostlight bled from his limbs.
Iris didn't flinch.
Her bracelet clicked.
Scythe. Black, silver, spiral-edged like a predator's grace.
"So you're tagging this on me? Fine," she muttered.
The creature lunged. She danced.
One wide slice tore through its spine. It gurgled, laughed—and reformed.
Morrin shouted from behind, "You can't kill it with brute force! It's merged with a spirit core!"
Iris attacked again.
Once.
Twice.
Faster.
No effect. Her frustration simmered—then flared.
"Was he right? That I'm hiding under this mask? Am I afraid to show anything real—"
The creature struck.
She dodged at the last second and rolled beside Morrin.
"Told you. Physical attacks won't work," Morrin said. "You have to hit the spirit itself."
"How?"
Morrin's tattoos lit—snakes glowing, slithering from her stomach to her arm. She touched the scythe with two fingers. Runes burned along its edge.
"If you want to hunt something untouchable—use what made it."
Iris's grip tightened.
"But," Morrin added, "you only get one shot. One slice. You willing to gamble for the perfect hit?"
"Gamble?" Iris stepped forward. "Morrin Nyviel, you really think I miss?"
And then—
Lightning.
She wasn't reacting. She was leading.
Each cut: precise. Controlled. Choreographed destruction.
Every strike built into one seamless motion. The scythe glowed as Morrin's arcane trace flowed through it—fuel for Iris's skill.
The creature never stood a chance.
Its bond to the spirit shattered. It collapsed in a heap of smoldering remnants.
Morrin blinked.
"...That wasn't a combo. That was one slice… looped like a flawless equation. With a scythe? Damn. She really is Layer Eight's masterpiece."
Morrin stepped forward, chuckling.
"No wonder they call you—"
She stopped just in front of her, arms crossed, her aura dimming.
"—The Butterfly of Causality."
Iris ignored her as the scythe dematerialized.
"Are we heading back or not?"
"Geez, fine—"
Morrin turned, then stopped again. Her nose twitched.
Not perfume. Something else. Sweat. Smoke. Male scent.
She leaned in toward Iris, who tensed slightly.
"What are you doing?" Iris asked, voice calm but guarded.
"You… smell like someone. Rough scent. Little sweat, testosterone…" Morrin's grin widened. "Who's the poor guy you ran into?"
Iris blinked.
"I don't smell like anything. And that's none of your concern."
"Except him, right~~~?"
"…What do you mean?"
"C'mon. You bumped into someone. It's all over you. You're flustered, even trying to hide it—"
"I'm not flustered. You're insane."
"Call it what you want," Morrin shrugged. "But I've got a nose for this stuff. That scent? Doesn't belong to anyone from here. You've got a thing for him, don't you?"
"You're delusional," Iris muttered, turning away.
Morrin laughed, watching her walk off with a knowing smile.
Inside, her thoughts turned sharper.
"So. It's him. Subject Zero. I didn't expect him to move this openly... I'll have to speed things up."
"Still... I didn't think even he could get under Iris's mask so quickly."
"Subject Zero… Let's see what else you're capable off~"