California, morning.
The air smelled faintly of burning leaves and wet asphalt. Sunlight stretched across the small house, casting long, trembling shadows. In the middle of the room, a figure stood, motionless. The figure from Chapter 4, the one who had fought William, lost her eye, and her right hand now replaced with a synthetic mechanical replica that looked disturbingly human. Her posture was rigid yet fluid, a predator coiled in calm anticipation.
In her right hand, she held a photo: Eve, Angela, and the cannibal, the trio framed in moments of memory she had no right to possess. Above her, the faint hum of the morning city vibrated against the windowpane. On the table, a cup of coffee steamed, untouched. Cigarette smoke curled lazily from her lips, marking the air with thin gray threads.
She whispered, almost to herself:
"To become a God in a chaotic world, you have three options to do so.
First, sacrifice your loved one for the world.
Second, sacrifice the world for your loved one.
Third, sacrifice both for yourself."
Her eyes flicked to the photo. Fingers tightened around it, nails pressing into the glossy surface. She exhaled, the smoke blurring her vision.
"Pranit the sinner… I'm coming for you," she muttered, the words heavy, deliberate, as if the photo itself could hear and respond. Her green eyes burned with a quiet fury.
The morning passed, light shifting slightly, the world moving outside without regard. She sipped her coffee. Quiet. Methodical. The city hummed below, unaware of the storm contained in the small room.
Edinburgh, Scotland, afternoon.
Angela leaned against the cold steel wall of the center canteen, picking at her sandwich. Her brow furrowed as she muttered, almost to herself,
"Tree of Hope? What is that?"
Her gaze shifted, memories stirring uncomfortably. Eve, recharging silently in her room, was safe… yet Angela's mind refused to stay. Doubt gnawed at her. Isn't that figure the one who tried to steal my Synthetic Soul? How can I believe her?
She looked down at her phone. A news alert blinked insistently: "London: Missing Persons Surge Amid Rising Murders".
Angela's lips pressed into a thin line. Her voice was flat, without emotion:
"London… is doomed."
The air shifted as Carmilla entered, her presence smooth, unsettling. She moved with deliberate grace, eyes scanning the room like a predator tasting fear.
"How was the taste?" she asked, voice silky, teasing.
Angela scowled, annoyed. "Shit."
Carmilla's smile deepened, calm and sinister. "Is that so?"
Angela waved a hand sharply. "Can you shut your mouth?"
Carmilla tilted her head, curiosity dancing in her eyes. "Where is Eve?"
"In the recharge room," Angela replied coolly. Carmilla paused, her gaze lingering, before leaning slightly closer.
"So… Angela, can I tell you something?"
Angela's patience thinned, irritation flashing. "What is it?"
Before Carmilla could speak further, the scene shifted back across the ocean.
California, morning.
The figure's cigarette had burned halfway, the ash trembling slightly. She traced a finger across the photo again, whispering,
"No… Pranit the cannibal."
Her voice was low, more curiosity than fear. The smoke curled, tracing the contours of her sharp features. Outside, the world moved, indifferent, unaware of the quiet judgment within the small, sun
London, evening.
At Pranit Kitchen, a guest complained, his voice rising over the hum of other diners. "Hey! There's hair in my food!"
Pranit approached calmly, the edges of his gentle smile precise, practiced. "Oh, I apologize. I did not expect… please, do not ruin our reputation with a low review."
The guest scowled. "I don't care. I want my money back."
Pranit's smile did not falter. "We shall prepare a special dish for you at six o'clock. I will ensure it meets your expectations."
At six, the guest returned. Pranit presented the dish with exacting care. The guest tasted, eyes widening. "Woah… better than before."
Pranit bowed lightly. "I am glad it pleases you, sir. Here… a gift for you."
He handed over a delicate necklace, worn, with subtle engravings. "It belonged to my late wife."
The guest hesitated, eyes clouded with concern. "Oh… I'm truly sorry."
Pranit's tone was soft, almost fatherly. "No worry, sir. I hope the meal improves your evening."
As the guest left, holding the necklace, his gaze lingered. Something about it… it looked like my girlfriend's… Panic prickled. He ran through the streets toward his girlfriend's apartment.
A small apartment, London, evening.
Bursting inside, he found her. "Hey! Are you okay?" he asked, grabbing her lightly.
"I'm fine… hey, hey," she said softly, alarmed but calm.
His attention shifted. "Where's your mom?"
She blinked, calm, matter-of-fact. "She went to her mom's house. You don't need to worry."
The guest's brows furrowed, realization dawning. His heart hammered. Something had been… different. But she was safe.
Pranit Kitchen, later that evening.
Pranit approached a frail old woman lying in the dimly lit room. Her eyes fluttered open. The fingers of her left hand were gone, bloody stubs where nails had been. A small trickle of blood pooled at her throat, muffling a scream that could not escape.
"Good evening, Granny," Pranit said softly, his voice calm, chilling. "I'm hungry. Will you became my some food?"
The woman's eyes widened in horror. She tried to scream, but the slit throat stifled her cry. Her gaze darted between him and the small table where knives gleamed faintly.
Pranit knelt slightly, studying her with a gentle, meticulous gaze. "We shall dine soon," he murmured, serene.
California, morning.
The cigarette burned down to a stub. The figure held the photo of Pranit, Eve, Angela, and the cannibal tightly in her hand. Smoke spiraled around her, curling into the light.
A whisper, low and almost impossible to locate in the quiet room, spoke:
"No… it is Pranit the hollow moon."
She did not flinch. Not a twitch. Her green eyes burned steadily. The photo trembled in her fingers. Her presence alone seemed to command the morning light, folding it into shadows, turning reality into something carefully measured, dangerous, and entirely her own.