Meanwhile, in the dead of night, Aran was running.

Fast. Too fast. His own shadow stretched unnaturally beneath the dim streetlights, twisting as if mocking his panic, pulling him deeper into the alleys of Fraid City.

He could hear his own ragged breathing, the sharp thud of his footsteps against cracked pavement. He could hear the alley cats shrieking, fleeing before him—before something else.

Something unseen.

Something that had come for him.

A metallic clang echoed as a stack of rusted cans collapsed nearby, making Aran jerk violently, eyes wild, breath choking in his throat.

He wasn’t alone.

Then—the portal.

Orange. Wavy. Unnatural.

It rippled open at the far end of the alley, distorting the air, twisting reality itself as something stepped through.

Tall. Thin. Unnatural in every way.

At first glance, the Hollow Watcher might have seemed human, if not for his grotesque skeletal proportions, his face fixed in a false, eerie smile—the kind that looked far too normal to belong to something so wrong.

Ruined, tattered, bloodstained rags clung to his body, hanging loosely, as if they’d been stitched together from remnants of past victims.

He did not speak immediately.

He only watched.

And Aran stood frozen beneath his gaze, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to process the nightmare he had just stumbled into.

Then—Squilly finally spoke.

"You did it, didn't you?"

His voice was strange, layered, like multiple voices whispering at once, shifting between mockery and madness.

Aran swallowed hard, his body trembling.

Squilly stepped forward.

Slow. Methodical. Like he was savoring the moment.

"Did your job. Did your job well. Yes, yes."

The creature cocked his head, his grin widening—his teeth too white, too sharp, lurking just behind the normal smile.

"Perfect. So perfect. Yes, yes."

Aran stepped back—too quickly, too clumsily—his heel catching on a loose brick, nearly sending him sprawling.

"W-what—" he gasped.

Squilly did not blink.

Did not move with haste.

He simply tilted his head, watching Aran stumble, watching his fear thicken, watching him realize what was happening was real.

"But."

Squilly exhaled.

The single word hung in the air, dragging out the silence, making it heavy, suffocating.

"Brought more of these filthy humans into it, didn't you? Yes, yes."

Aran’s pulse hammered inside his head.

He didn’t dare respond.

Would it even matter?

Squilly’s grin stretched wider, almost impossibly so.

"Not that it matters." He hummed lightly, tapping his fingers together, his movement oddly delicate, as if he were entertaining some meaningless thought. "Wouldn't have saved you either way."

Aran’s body locked up.

Every part of him screamed to run, but his limbs refused to obey.

Squilly’s hands twitched, flexing, like a creature starving but patient.

"You humans believe anything."

He stepped closer.

"The Entity gives you an offer. Makes your dreams come true."

His voice was sing-song, almost mocking, each word dragging out too slowly.

"You believe it. You kill. When someone offers you something better—you do."

Aran's throat tightened, his breath coming in fast, shallow gasps.

And then—Squilly sighed, contently.

"But no, no. Now your use is at its end."

The air grew colder.

Squilly’s form twisted, his shoulders hunching, his jaw shifting, stretching—his mouth growing wider than humanly possible.

Aran stumbled back.

"Please—"

Squilly stepped forward.

"Now I, Squilly, get to eat you."

His teeth sharpened.

"Yes, yes."

Aran tried to run.

Too late.

Squilly reached, his fingers curling around Aran’s shoulders, lifting him too easily, pulling him up, up, up—until Aran dangled helplessly, his legs kicking against empty air.

Aran screamed.

"No—no—NO! Oh god—please—no—!"

Squilly’s jaw unhinged—too wide, too deep, teeth gleaming, breath reeking of death and decay.

And then—he bit down.

The crunch was sickening, wet, final.

Aran’s body burst apart, flesh and bone spraying across the alley walls, his existence reduced to a meaningless mess of viscera, his scream cut off as if it had never been uttered at all.

Squilly exhaled slowly, his grin curling back into something normal—as if he had merely enjoyed a meal, as if he had just completed a simple, expected task.

Then—he backed away, returning through the portal, his body vanishing into the shifting orange light, leaving nothing behind.

Nothing but blood, bones, and a city too blind to realize what had just happened. 

5

The precinct was nearly empty now.

Arthur stretched, yawning loudly, dropping himself onto the nearest chair like a man who had survived far too many long nights.

"Gavern, you still digging through that database?"

Frank didn’t answer immediately—his fingers were moving quickly over the keyboard, cross-checking names, scrolling through records, dismissing irrelevant cases and narrowing the search.

Arthur watched him work with half-amused skepticism, tapping his fingers against the desk.

"I already know how this goes—you’re gonna comb through arrest records like a damn bloodhound until you miraculously find something that no other detective would’ve bothered checking."

Frank exhaled sharply through his nose.

"I told you before, Arthur. It’s not miraculous."

Arthur smirked.

"Nah. But it sure as hell ain’t normal either."

Frank ignored him. His eyes flicked between mugshots, cross-referencing data, scanning names—until he paused.

A name stood out.

Aran Har-Grace.

Frank clicked the file open.

A mugshot stared back at him—sharp-eyed, gaunt-cheeked, unkempt hair pulled back just enough to reveal something strange beneath the exhaustion.

It was him.

The same Aran who had called them to the crime scene.

Frank read further.

Arrested for possession of methamphetamines and other dangerous substances.

His history unfolded before Frank like a story of squandered potential.

A surgeon prodigy, headhunted for Fraid City’s elite medical institutions, his career fast-tracked to become one of the top specialists in the city.

But then—the cracks.

The pressure. The weight of expectation.

Drugs.

Addiction.

Aran’s life spiraled violently until he was forced out, his future burned to the ground, leaving him homeless and forgotten, living among the ruins of Skyfire’s factory.

Frank exhaled, rubbing his temple.

Arthur glanced over, chewing absently on his toothpick.

"Let me guess—our guy’s got some sob story?"

Frank tapped the file, turning the screen slightly so Arthur could see.

Arthur skimmed the report, muttering under his breath.

"Surgeon? Man, that explains why he could handle a blade." He leaned back, shaking his head. "Shame. Coulda been someone. Now he’s just another addict turned killer."

Frank stared at the mugshot again.

No assassin. No professional hitman.

Just a desperate man who took the Entity’s deal, believing it would save him.

It hadn’t.

And now—someone had found what was left of him.

The phone rang.

The precinct was silent enough that the sound felt louder than it should have, cutting through the dim atmosphere like a knife.

Arthur groaned, motioning toward it lazily.

"Ain't my problem, Gavern. You’re the only sucker still working."

Frank didn’t even look up as he grabbed the receiver.

"Fraid City PD."

A woman’s voice—nervous, breathless, uncertain.

"I—I don’t know who else to call. There’s... there’s so much blood. In the alley—near the factory district. I don’t know if—if it’s human, but—"

Frank was already standing.

"Address."

She stammered, rattling it off quickly.

Arthur looked up, raising a brow.

"You actually leaving for this one?"

Frank didn’t respond. He grabbed his coat.

Arthur sighed heavily.

"Gavern, buddy, whatever mess you’re heading into—it’s gonna be bad."

Frank paused just long enough to meet Arthur’s gaze.

"It already is."

The alley was still alive with movement.

Paramedics. Officers. The blond woman being interviewed, her hands fidgeting nervously, shifting from wringing her fingers to rubbing her forearms, clearly deeply unsettled by whatever she had found.

Frank stepped past the officers, his sharp eyes sweeping the scene, ensuring that nothing had been disturbed, that the blood—if it was human—hadn’t been tampered with yet.

The woman noticed him.

Her eyes flicked up, catching his approach, and she swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably as he stopped before her.

"You were the caller?"

She nodded quickly.

"Y-yes."

Frank's gaze didn’t waver.

"What exactly did you see?"

The woman exhaled, steadying herself, trying to organize her thoughts.

"It was just—so much blood. It—it's everywhere. It doesn’t look normal, it looks..." She hesitated, biting her lip. "I don't know how to explain it. It doesn’t look like an injury—it looks like... like something was torn apart."

Frank’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers curled slightly at his sides.

"You didn’t see a body?"

She shook her head too quickly—almost relieved that she hadn’t.

"No. Just... the mess."

Frank exhaled slowly.

He already had a feeling.

The case was starting to shift, slipping from a standard homicide into something else entirely.

Arthur would call him paranoid.

Frank called it instinct.

His eyes flicked to the scene once more, taking in the blood, the unnatural spray across the walls, the way it pooled strangely, almost deliberately.

This wasn’t normal.

This was deliberate.

The woman shifted again, watching him carefully.

"So, uh... can I go?"

Frank glanced back at her.

For a moment, he considered pressing her for more details—but what more could she give? She wasn’t involved. She had simply been unlucky enough to stumble upon the aftermath.

And right now—he needed to be alone.

His fingers twitched.

The blood was calling him.

Not literally.

Not supernaturally.

But instinctively.

Because he knew what he’d see if he touched it.

Finally, he gave her a nod.

"Yeah. You’re done here."

She didn’t hesitate, turning quickly, stepping away, eager to put the entire thing behind her.

Frank took in a breath.

The scene around him felt different now—almost like the city itself had momentarily fallen silent, waiting for his next move.

He stepped forward.

Lowered himself.

And touched the blood.

The moment Frank touched the blood, his mind shattered into visions.

Aran running, fleeing in terror.

The alley cats scattering, their instincts sensing something unnatural, their fear mirroring his own.

Then—the portal.

Then—Squilly’s eerie presence, his voice dripping with twisted satisfaction, mocking Aran’s desperation as he prepared to consume him.

Frank saw everything—every word exchanged, every gut-wrenching scream, every grotesque crunch as Aran’s body burst apart beneath Squilly’s bite.

And just like before, the vision faded, leaving Frank standing once more in the cold reality of the alley.

He exhaled sharply, shaking off the lingering echoes of Aran’s death.

“The Entity.”

The word felt heavy in the air.

Frank’s eyes darkened.

The creature that had manipulated Aran into murder—the agent of the Oblivarge Dimension—had already started poisoning this world. Frank remained in the Alley after everyone else had left for he knew one thing.

The Watching Hollow always returns for another meal.

The portal shimmered behind him.

Squilly reemerged, stepping out of the swirling abyss, his unnaturally long limbs unfolding as he stood tall, his face still locked in that horrific, hollow smile.

"This is where I come in."

Frank did not move. Did not flinch.

Squilly tilted his head, studying him.

"Another human. Another treat. Yes, yes."

His fingers twitched.

"Delicious, delicious. So much energy. So much life. You will taste—"

Frank smirked.

The shift in his expression was subtle—but enough to make Squilly pause.

"You have no idea who you’re dealing with."

Squilly blinked—his grin faltering, just slightly.

"Oh?"

Frank stepped forward, slow, deliberate.

"You think humans don’t know the truth?" His voice was calm, measured. "You think we stumble through existence, blind to the war that rages beyond our perception?"

Squilly said nothing.

Frank’s smirk deepened.

"The Oblivarge Dimension. Seraphel. The HP Threnody. Vitrias."

Squilly twitched—his unnatural form stiffening, his pupils shrinking as the names were spoken aloud.

Frank continued, his words slow, sharp, unforgiving.

"Warriors of chaos. Pretenders of divinity. Architects of corruption."

A golden energy crackled at Frank’s fingertips.

"You think humans are weak."

The charge grew stronger, the alley flickering with unnatural light.

"You think we are blind."

Lightning surged, dancing along his skin.

"But you fail to understand the truth."

Squilly’s grin twitched.

Frank exhaled.

"I was forged by the wars you think we cannot see. Your destruction. Your arrogance. Your endless battles for dominion."

The golden light burst—consuming him, unraveling his disguise, revealing what had been hidden beneath the flesh of the detective.

And Squilly?

He stepped back.

For the first time—he hesitated.

Sorrow stood before him now.

His cape unfurled like molten red flame, his skin encased in smooth, shimmering like blue latex, energy flickering in violent bursts across his form.

The spell books upon his shoulders cracked open, their pages illuminated by raw arcane lightning, casting golden sparks into the dark alley.

The mask settled over his eyes, glowing with cosmic power, the weight of countless war-bound energies pulsing through his very form.

"You were doomed the moment you showed your face."

Squilly snarled, but his voice no longer carried amusement—no longer held mockery.

There was fear.

Sorrow raised his hand, the lightning condensing, swirling, merging into a mighty electronic power ball, golden light pulsing with furious intensity.

Squilly took another uncertain step back.

Then—Sorrow threw it.

The moment it hit, Squilly screamed, his body contorting violently, his limbs thrashing, his entire form warping, twisting, cracking apart as the energy ripped into him.

Frank’s voice was cold.

"Tell the Entity he’s next."

And Squilly?

He didn’t even have time to answer.

His body collapsed into nothing, his existence torn apart, erased, annihilated from reality itself—vanquished in an instant.

And then—the alley was silent.

Sorrow stood amidst the remnants of destruction, his form still crackling with power, his eyes still locked on the fading embers of what had once been a Hollow Watcher.

This was only the beginning.

The war was already here.

And Frank—Sorrow—was ready.