Rasen had tried to keep his mind busy, desperate to escape the storm of conflicting feelings Aisha stirred in him. Since Clear's death, something inside him had shattered, and though he tried to heal, every interaction with Aisha ripped the wound open again.
He pushed the door open forcefully, seeking answers. But what he saw froze him: Skiller with blood-stained lips, standing beside Aisha's exposed neck. She stood pale, expressionless, while he adjusted her hoodie to cover her shoulders.
Time seemed to stop for Rasen. Rage and confusion surged in his chest like an uncontrollable storm.
—"Get away from her, you bastard!" he shouted, fists clenched.
Skiller stopped him with a calm, indifferent gesture.
—"It is what it looks like, Rasen," he said with a sarcastic smile.
Aisha, eyes dim, murmured:
—"I'm sorry…"
Rasen stepped forward, eyes burning with unspoken questions.
—"You promised!" he cried, his voice cracking under the weight of pain and frustration.
And then, amid the chaos, a memory struck him like lightning:
"Don't let the world harden you, Rasen. Not like it did to me."
It was Clear's voice—soft, melancholic—on a rainy afternoon under the boarding school's awning. She had taken his hand then, as if it were the only warmth left in her gray world.
That image shattered like glass at the sound of Skiller's voice—sharp and cold:
—"Promises are made to be broken, human," he said, closing the door behind him.
Inside, Aisha was wiping her neck with a towel. Her hands trembled, revealing a mix of resignation and guilt.
—"Sanathiel isn't necessarily after me," she whispered. "I'm just a piece of the game… but I have to keep him from finding Rasen."
Outside the door, Rasen could barely breathe. Her words seeped into him like poison.
—"I'll never love him," Aisha said quietly.
Those words didn't just pierce him—they pulverized him.
"Clear… you warned me. You told me not to trust so easily."
He shut his eyes tightly. Clear's smiling, vibrant face overlapped with Aisha's—cold and distant.
A knot closed his throat, and the hatred mixed with a sadness so deep it left him breathless.
—"I hate you, Aisha…" he finally whispered, voice torn. "But I hate myself more… for still needing you."
Skiller could sense his muttering and let out a bitter laugh.
—"Rasen? That human's in love with you, isn't he?" he asked with biting irony. "I've seen it all. Nothing goes unnoticed in my house."
Aisha looked up at him, her expression hollow.
—"Even if I needed him… I couldn't love him," she whispered, as if trying to convince herself.
Behind the door, Rasen heard every word. His hands trembled, the weight of her betrayal digging into his chest like a blade. Jealousy. Despair. Self-disgust. All of it churned in a brutal storm.
"How could I be so blind?" he thought, clenching his fists. "I let her get too close… I let her drag me into this hell."
Skiller, pleased with the tension he'd sown, stood up.
—"Aisha and that human… impossible," he murmured sarcastically before leaving. "Remember who you are, Aisha…"
Rasen could barely process what he had witnessed. Skiller's voice echoed like a funeral drum in his mind, amplifying his pain and rage. At last, he muttered as if spitting venom:
—"Now I see it all… You fooled me and I fell like an idiot… I hate you so much, Aisha."
Meanwhile, inside that office:
Skiller approached her with feline steps, stopping inches from her face. His breath was warm, but his gaze was ice.
—"Tell me, Aisha… Does it hurt doing it for him? Or is this just the role you fake best?"
Aisha didn't respond immediately. She lowered her gaze, as if the floor could hide the fire in her eyes. Then slowly raised her head, her pupils flickering like embers beneath smoke.
—"I'm not faking, Skiller," she whispered, barely audible. "But I'm not stupid enough to confuse desire with truth either."
He smiled, tilting his head like a predator catching the scent of blood in a wound.
—"Then… you want me?"
Aisha stepped back, but not far enough to break the spell.
—"And if I did? Would it matter?"
Her voice was soft, laced with a sweetness that could heal or poison—depending on who heard it.
Skiller studied her. His fingers brushed a strand of her hair, as if they were lovers instead of adversaries.
—"You're good, Aisha… No one masks sacrifice with seduction as well as you."
She swallowed hard. She wanted to say something—to stop him, maybe scream. But instead, she reached out and gently placed her hand on his chest—right where a heart should beat. Hoping to find a trace of humanity that wasn't there.
—"You have no idea how hard this is for me…"
Her voice cracked, as if a real part of her was breaking.
Skiller leaned in and murmured near her ear:
—"And yet you do it."
A tense silence fell between them. Aisha closed her eyes, as if doing so might silence everything—her guilt, her fear, and that thin line between surrender and manipulation she crossed every time she spoke to him.
When she opened them again, her gaze was cold. Or determined.
—"If this keeps me alive… or keeps him safe… then yes, I'll do it."
Skiller didn't reply. He only smiled with a look that might've been approval—or contempt. Then he walked away, leaving something inside her even emptier than before.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the city, Rasen wandered aimlessly. Each step was a desperate attempt to escape the whirlwind of emotions consuming him. But the image of Aisha with Skiller followed him—etched into his flesh like a curse.
He reached an almost deserted train station. The night fog cloaked the platforms, and the flickering lights mirrored his inner instability. There, a man approached him from the shadows. Wrapped in a dark scarf and long black coat, he radiated a silent authority that froze Rasen in place.
—"Get in. There's no time to waste," he ordered firmly, without looking directly at him.
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command disguised as an invitation. And Rasen, still dazed from the betrayal, obeyed.
The man led him to a windowless, underground room. The only light came from a hanging lamp that swayed slightly, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own. Without a word, he tossed the contents of an envelope onto the table. The images slid out like cursed leaves—photos of Clear's accident, some so graphic they made Rasen recoil with a lump in his throat.
—"Why are you showing me this...?" he finally asked, voice cracking.
The man slowly removed his scarf, revealing a hard-featured face, piercing eyes, and a tightly controlled expression.
—"I'm Investigator Evans," he said, as if that explained everything. "And you're Rasen... the boy who survived."
Rasen swallowed hard, unable to look away from the images.
Evans opened his laptop with a dry click. The screen displayed more data—coordinates, maps, classified reports. Everything was connected. Like a web woven with surgical precision.
—"This wasn't an accident," Evans continued in a low voice, as if even the walls might be listening. "It was an execution. The evidence is clear: the Red Moon isn't a myth. It's a protocol. And everything, Rasen—everything—points to Sanathiel… and to the woman who was with you."
Rasen felt his world collapse with a single name—Aisha. No. She saved me.
—"Or manipulated you?" Evans looked over the screen. "The prints found on Clear's body… they match hers. On her neck. On her wrist. Like someone tried to stop her… or hold her down."
The silence that followed weighed tons.
—"She's not who you think she is, Rasen," Evans said neutrally, though his eyes gleamed with something else. "The most dangerous kind of enemy… is the one disguised as salvation."
His words fell on Rasen like blades.
"Clear… you warned me."
Evans shut the laptop and slid another envelope toward Rasen. This one contained official documents, under a false name.
—"I can offer protection. But I need your cooperation. You'll be my witness, Rasen. Not against her… but against what she represents."
Rasen looked at the photos once more. The blood. The marks. Clear's lifeless face.
Everything hurt.
—"Alright," he whispered, feeling like he'd signed more than just a deal. "I'll do whatever it takes."
Evans leaned in, almost like a pleased father. But his final words came as a velvet-wrapped warning:
—"Welcome to the real game, Rasen. Here… no one is innocent."