The engines rumbled on the scorching asphalt. Mirages shimmered above the pale tarmac, lazy heat snakes. Each passing car left behind a thin veil of warm dust, quickly swallowed by the heavy air.
Leaning against the chipped wall of a long-dead shop, two figures seemed fused with the stillness of the sidewalk. Their gazes slid across the horizon without really settling, lost somewhere between weariness and emptiness.
The taller man had that characteristic pallor of those who shun the daylight. Medium-length dark brown hair, tied back in a tired ponytail from which stray strands escaped. His eyes, a dark violet almost unreal, clashed with his waxen complexion. Long black coat with a sharp cut, dark turtleneck rising to his stubbled chin, worn beige pants, old gray sneakers. The worn-out thirties, the kind that already carries the discreet weight of too many defeats.
Beside him, the boy – seventeen, maybe eighteen – radiated a solar warmth. Golden-brown skin that captured the light, very short afro hair with bluish highlights in the sun, gray eyes almost metallic. Dark oversized sweatshirt, rolled-up jeans over thin ankles, brown-beige low-top sneakers. On his left wrist, a simple braided bracelet, the only detail hinting that he still cared about something.
They both stared at the sky passing by, indifferent.
Yero ran a hand over the back of his neck, a weary gesture.
"Master… We're completely broke, here. You do realize that, right?"
His voice cracked, dry, almost wounded.
Oswald slowly raised his hands toward the sky, as if to grab an invisible answer.
"I know, Yero. I know."
The boy pivoted toward him, jaw clenched.
"So? What do we do? We can't go on like this, the funds are empty…"
A low growl rose from his stomach, deep, almost tribal. Beads of sweat appeared at his temples.
"I'm hungry."
A few passersby slowed down, threw sidelong glances: a bum and his kid, probably.
"Master Oswald…" Yero insisted, his voice raspy. "Hasn't anything come in? A mission, something?"
Oswald shook his head. A few strands escaped, streaking his pale face.
"Nothing."
"We could swing by the local exorcism center, right? See what's floating around…"
"I'm banned from all centers. You're not certified. We'd get kicked out before we even got through the door."
Yero let out a bitter laugh.
"Why the hell did I end up with such a… messy master? What did you even do?"
The story was well-known. Oswald: undeniable genius, walking disaster. Capable of clearing a mission board in a week – the work of several exorcists over months. But incapable of finishing things properly. Cases left hanging, administrative complications, corpses poorly disposed of. Too talented to be ignored, too unmanageable to be tolerated. Expelled from the centers. Relegated to the scraps of the main district. A living thorn in the institution's side.
Their argument escalated, fueled by hunger and the furnace heat, when a cool shadow fell upon them.
"Who the hell is it now?" Oswald grumbled without looking up. "Can't you see we're busy?"
He looked up. His face went pale instantly.
"Well, well… look who's here! The great Oswald Wirth! What a pleasure, darling!"
Sweat instantly beaded on his forehead. He averted his gaze, anywhere but towards her.
The passersby had frozen, captivated.
She stood there, sculpted in light. Flaming brown hair cascading freely, a very short red dress bordering on forbidden, sheer black tights, heels adorned with a single black pearl. Dark red leather jacket, gleaming. Carmine lips, flawless makeup. A face made to monopolize all attention.
"Gwyn…" Oswald articulated, throat dry. "Delighted… really."
His smile rang false from miles away.
Yero observed his master, perplexed.
"Who's that? One of your exes?"
Gwyn burst into loud, genuine laughter that doubled her over. She grabbed Yero's shoulder to keep from falling, tears in her eyes.
"Me? With him?" she giggled. "Oh no, sweetie… sorry, but that's not likely to happen."
Yero piled on, bonded in hardship:
"I get it. He's a champion slacker."
"And quite the boozer."
"Not to mention the mess he leaves everywhere."
Each line made Oswald slump a little more against the wall, pale-faced.
Gwyn finally straightened up, smoothed a strand of hair, then extended her hand to Yero with a professional smile.
"Okay, let's start over. I'm Gwyn Rinalds. Actress, model… and B-Class exorcist. Nice to meet you."
Yero shook her hand and immediately felt that magnetic pull everyone perceived around her.
"Yero. Disciple of the… homeless guy sprawled over there."
Gwyn blinked, astonished.
"Since when do you take disciples, Oswald? That's so unlike you!"
He straightened up, trying to save face, hand on his cheek.
"Times change. Circumstances too."
Gwyn gave Yero a compassionate look.
"You got the worst possible teacher."
"I know," the boy replied in unison with her.
Oswald sighed, annoyed.
"Alright, Gwyn. What do you actually want?"
She swept aside a strand of hair, the predatory smile of a modern Mona Lisa.
"I need your help. And you'll be well paid."
Stomachs growled in stereo. Yero and Oswald's eyes lit up instantly – stars, banknotes, steaming plates.
"WE'LL TAKE IT!" they shouted together.
Gwyn stared at them, these two starving creatures with pupils shaped like cash.
"I haven't even explained the job…"
"Doesn't matter! If you're asking, it's gotta be big! We're in!"
She shook her head, amused and a little sorry. Oswald hadn't changed. He'd just gotten worse. And this kid… this kid was going to suffer.
But for now, they were already following her, stomachs screaming, ready to do anything for a real hot meal.
The sun, meanwhile, continued to bake the asphalt, perfectly indifferent to their small human tragedies.