Clouds clustered above the chimneys and rooftops, hanging low over the city like a suffocating veil. There was no moon, and no starlight broke through the pallid curtain. Only the gas lamps remained—flickering orange embers in a world drained of warmth.

The streets in the outskirts still shimmered with the memory of last night’s rain. Water gathered in shallow puddles between cobblestones, reflecting the faint glow of lamplight like dim, broken mirrors. A foul wind slithered through the alleys, dragging the scent of wet smoke and rotting vegetables behind it.

Charles moved through it all like a wraith.

His long, dark-gray coat swept across the ground with each silent step. The collar was raised high, brushing against his jaw, sheltering the hollow of his neck from the cold. Beneath the coat, his figure was lean—graceful and sharp like a dagger sheathed in silk. His hands were gloved. His pace, unhurried.

But his eyes—

They saw everything.

Each flicker of movement. Each tremor of breath. Every shadow cast too long, every glance that lingered too short. There was nothing passive in the way he walked. It was as if he were slicing through the city itself, peeling back its mask with every step.

In front of a nearly empty fruit stall, he stopped.

The wooden cart sagged under the weight of its own decay. Most of the baskets were empty. A few scattered apples, bruised and shrunken, sat among drying leaves. Flies buzzed lazily over a rotting pear.

Behind the stall sat an old man, hunched low on a wooden crate. His coat was patched, his shoulders rounded not only by age, but by something heavier. His hands covered his face—not in exhaustion, but in despair. They trembled just enough to betray something deeper than cold.

Charles stepped closer.

He said nothing at first.

The man did not look up.

“You seem troubled, sir,” Charles finally murmured, his voice a low thread of warmth in the evening chill.

The old man raised his head.

His face was sunken. His eyes—dull, bloodshot—widened slightly at the sight of the stranger, but didn’t hold the energy for fear. Cold sweat clung to his temples like dew on dying leaves.

"I'm just… tired," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. It cracked midway, like a weak branch snapping under weight.

Charles crouched before him.

He didn't speak immediately. He watched. Studied.

Then he said, quietly, “It's not just exhaustion.”

His voice was calm, gentle, but edged with certainty.

"That's fear."

The old man flinched.

His lip trembled, and he looked down again—as if ashamed to meet any gaze, even a kind one.

Then, as if a dam gave way inside his chest, the words spilled out.

“Lord Desmond,” he choked, “he forces me to deliver fruit to his estate every day. Even when I have nothing left, I must go. If I fail…”

He swallowed hard.

“He threatens to touch my wife.”

His voice faltered.

“He already has.”

The words sat between them like a corpse, rotting slowly.

“He dragged her away,” the old man continued, the memory twisting his face in grief and horror. “In front of me. And I—I begged. I got down on my knees. I begged like a dog.”

His fists clenched—weathered hands shaking not from age, but from helplessness. His eyes glistened, but no tears fell. They had already been shed, long ago, until there were none left.

Charles remained still for a moment. The wind tugged at his coat. Behind his composed expression, something deep stirred.

Then a faint smile touched his lips. Not cruel. Not gentle.

A smile made of fire.

"A man's pride," Charles said softly, "isn't measured by how far he bows…”

He rose to his feet, gaze unshaken.

“…but by how far he rises after being crushed."

The old man looked up at him—something flickering in his eyes, too faint to name.

Charles turned his head slightly, eyes focused on the night beyond the alley.

His voice dropped to a whisper, edged with steel.

"Let's take your pride back."

---

Their plan unfolded like a stringed symphony—each note carefully written, each instrument perfectly in tune.

The next morning, the fruit seller returned to Lord Desmond’s manor. His hands trembled. His voice quivered with real fear. No acting was required.

He reported that the orchards outside the city had suffered from rot due to the storm. The fruits had been lost. There would be no delivery today.

As expected, Desmond raged.

“No fruit?” he spat, his face red with drunken entitlement. “Then send your wife instead!”

He chuckled—a laugh drenched in filth and wine.

“Her body’ll make me forget the taste of spoiled pears!”

And so, that night, a carriage arrived.

Inside sat a woman. Her veil was pale and delicate, barely obscuring the gentle curve of her lips. She stepped out with quiet grace, her hands folded like a modest bride.

She was soft-spoken. Her steps light. Her demeanor shy.

She was not the fruit seller’s wife.

She was Vespera.

The demon. The wolf in silk.

Disguised in borrowed flesh.

Smiling behind the mask of beauty.

---

Lord Desmond’s bedchamber reeked of rose-scented wax and the musk of stale wine. The windows were sealed by thick crimson curtains, casting the room in a heavy, suffocating glow. Candles flickered along the carved oak walls, their light sickly and flickering.

Desmond leaned back against the silk-covered pillows of his bed, half-naked and reeking of sweat.

He raised his wineglass, eyes fixed on the woman across the room.

“Come here, darling,” he drawled. “No need to be shy…”

Vespera approached slowly. Her chin lowered. Her expression demure.

She climbed onto the bed, her steps poised.

Desmond reached out—his hand, fat and ringed, brushing her cheek.

That was when it began.

Her face rippled.

As if the skin was a reflection on water—disturbed, breaking.

Her complexion turned deathly pale. Her eyes hollowed into endless black. Her lips split wider than nature allowed, peeling into a grotesque grin. The skin along her jaw cracked, peeling in dry strips to reveal the texture of rot beneath.

The room filled with the stench of decay. A stink like forgotten corpses beneath floorboards.

Desmond froze.

“W-WHAT IS THIS?! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!”

Vespera’s mouth opened too wide—unnaturally, impossibly.

A thin, snakelike tongue slithered from within. It coiled once around his throat—tightening, tasting—before retreating.

Then came her voice.

Layered. Inhuman. Like two beings speaking from one corpse.

“Don’t stop now, Lord Desmond… Weren’t you going to touch me?”

He screamed.

Desmond leapt from the bed, scrambling toward the door, nearly slipping on the satin sheets.

“GEORGE! EDWIN! HELP! THERE’S A MONSTER!!”

No footsteps.

No shouts in return.

Only silence.

And the sound of dripping blood.

---

He stumbled down the staircase, breath ragged, until he reached the front hall.

And there—standing in the doorway—was the fruit seller.

His face was wet with sweat and rage. In his hands, he held a butcher’s knife slick with red. Around him, scattered like broken dolls, lay the bodies of Desmond’s guards. Throats slashed. Eyes staring.

Desmond turned to flee. His foot slipped on a puddle of blood.

His body crashed down the marble stairs with a sickening series of cracks.

He screamed—his arm bent the wrong way, ribs broken, face twisted in agony.

The fruit seller stepped closer.

“I—I’m a noble!” Desmond cried, crawling back. “D-Don’t you know who I am?!”

The old man stared.

“To death,” he said coldly, “there’s no nobility. No beggars. Only judgment.”

He knelt beside the sobbing lord.

And gently pressed the blade to Desmond’s lips.

Then pushed.

Slowly.

Firmly.

Desmond thrashed. Screamed. Gurgled.

The knife slid in—tearing silence into his throat.

And then…

Silence.

---

Outside the estate, beneath the shadow of a withered tree, Charles stood alone.

The wind tugged gently at his coat.

Vespera returned to him, now once again clad in the guise of a black-clad maid.

Her hands folded. Her eyes cold as ever.

“It’s done, young master,” she said.

Charles didn’t reply right away.

His gaze lifted toward the sky—still gray. Still empty.

Then he let out a breath. Long. Deep.

“Let’s hope… his wife sleeps peacefully tonight.”

And together, they walked away into the dark.

Leaving behind a house where blood would never wash away.

---