042

A few months ago...

Footsteps echoed in the narrow alleyway, each step steady, sharp, precise.

The sun had already dipped below the skyline, leaving the world in twilight’s cold embrace.

This alley, wedged between old concrete buildings and rusting fire escapes, was a ghost road.

No one came here unless they wanted to disappear.

A perfect place to move unseen.

And yet—

Swish.

From thin air, reality shivered.

A figure slipped into existence like a seam in the world had been unzipped.

The air warped for a brief second, then settled, ripples fading into silence.

The man didn’t flinch.

He stood in the center of the path, posture relaxed, shoulders straight, gloved hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his coat.

His silhouette was sharp in the dim light, impossibly elegant, like a painting half-finished, left in cold tones.

His eyes, pale and inhuman, shifted without emotion to the space now occupied by the intruder.

You.

You appeared not with grand theatrics or loud declarations, but simply were.

Like you had always been there, and the world had only just noticed.

“Evening,” you greeted.

Your voice was light, almost amused. A pleased, lazy smile tugged at your lips. Too pleased, as if you were still basking in the afterglow of something particularly delightful.

The man didn’t return the greeting.

His gaze flickered over you with surgical disinterest. Not out of rudeness, but pragmatism.

He had seen many monsters. You were simply another one.

But dangerous.

He knew that much.

“I’m curious,” you said, stepping forward. “About something I don’t think anyone else could answer.”

He remained still. Impossibly still. Like a statue carved from patience and discipline.

You didn’t expect him to respond.

That was fine. You only needed him to listen.

“Chuuya Nakahara,” you continued, tone curling with amusement. “You know him?”

The name lingered in the air, sharp and cold.

Something flickered behind Verlaine’s gaze. Barely. A twitch of the eye. A pause between breaths.

You caught it.

“Oh,” you murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. “So you do.”

Verlaine remained expressionless. “I don’t engage in idle conversation.”

“No,” you said. “You don’t. That’s what makes this so fun.”

You paced slightly, idly admiring the chipped bricks of the alley wall like you were discussing weather.

“His ability,” you mused aloud.

“Gravity based. Doesn’t seem to take much strain. Stylish, loud, emotional.”

You turned your gaze back to Verlaine, something predatory hidden in your smile. “Like yours, no?”

Nothing.

But silence was its own answer.

“And your fashion sense,” you went on. “Hat, gloves, the whole vampire of the night look. You could be his cousin. Or older brother. Someone related to him, if I squint hard enough.”

Still nothing.

That was fine. You never expected him to speak.

“I wonder,” you added with a tilt of your head.

“If he knew of you.”

Verlaine’s gaze sharpened. Not with surprise, but with warning.

You raised your hands in mock surrender, still smiling. “Alright, alright. I’m not here to expose your secrets. I just enjoy the puzzle.”

A beat passed.

You moved to step away, but paused, your head turning just slightly.

“Oh— almost forgot.”

And then, with a flick of your fingers, a scarf shimmered into existence.

Silken. Pale. Worn at the edges.

The scarf gently landed atop Verlaine’s wide brimmed hat like a feather on snow.

His eyes widened.

Just barely.

But it was enough.

You saw it. That flicker. Not of recognition, but of something colder. Darker. Like a switch had been pulled inside him.

He didn’t ask where you got it.

He didn’t need to.

Because he knew.

You grinned, victorious.

“Bingo.”

Verlaine’s fingers twitched.

He could kill you. Right here. Right now.

And perhaps, for a brief moment, he considered it.

But you were already gone.

Swish.

Vanished into the air like mist in the morning.

The scarf remained, laying delicately across his hat.

He stared at it in silence.

Rimbaud.

A name long buried.

A memory pushed into the coldest corners of his mind.

The scarf should’ve been destroyed with the rest of that life.

But here it was.

Which meant—

You knew. Not just rumors. Not hearsay. You knew.

More than you should.

More than you were supposed to.

Verlaine’s fingers reached up slowly. He took the scarf from his hat, eyes narrowing as he studied the fabric.

It was real.

The texture. The scent. The wear along the edges. It wasn’t a replica.

No one should’ve known.

No one could have known. At least, not you.

And yet— you did.

He stared into the dark where you’d vanished. His expression unreadable. But his grip tightened.

You weren’t close enough to Rimbaud to have had this.

Not by a long shot.

And yet here it was, in your hands. As if you had read history’s secrets and decided to play god with them.

He folded the scarf carefully, almost reverently, and slipped it inside his coat.

Then he turned, disappearing into the alley once more, leaving only silence in his wake.

Verlaine knew... If you had truly chosen to dig, you could have found much more.

But you didn’t.

And that made you even more dangerous.

Because you weren’t aiming to destroy anything.

You were waiting.

Watching.

Just like him.

And the next time you crossed paths, he had the unsettling feeling—

You’d already know how it would end.

The basement smelled of stone, steel, and stillness.

Deep beneath the Port Mafia’s old infrastructure, where even rats hesitated to tread, Verlaine had taken up residence.

Voluntarily.

No orders had come down. No cell door locked behind him. He simply walked down one day and didn’t return.

There were whispers, of course.

Elise seemed unbothered when his name came up. But Mori—Mori never said a word about it, which in itself spoke volumes.

But you had heard enough.

You knew the aftermath of a soul buckling under too much memory.

And you, being what you were—couldn’t resist the scent of something broken and buried.

So, naturally, you came.

You stepped into the corridor, boots echoing softly against the uneven floor, the dim lights overhead flickering like faulty nerves.

The air grew colder the deeper you went, until it bit at your fingertips like frost.

At the end of the passage, a door.

Iron. Bolted. But unlocked.

Of course it was.

You didn’t knock.

You simply opened it and stepped inside.

The room was empty.

Not in the literal sense—there was a chair, a desk, a cot—but empty in a way that screamed absence.

Like someone had scrubbed out every piece of human presence and left only the shell of a space behind.

And in the middle of it all—Verlaine.

He sat on the edge of the cot, coat unbuttoned, hat resting on the desk beside him.

Pale light from a single hanging bulb caught on the curve of his cheekbone, the hollow of his throat.

His gloves lay discarded near the floor. He didn’t look up.

Not even when you said, lightly:

“You know, if you’re trying to disappear, this is a bit too poetic for subtlety.”

His eyes lifted slowly, like the weight of vision was heavier than it used to be.

Gray. Cold. Focused.

“You.”

A single word. Dull, flat. Almost disinterested.

“Me,” you confirmed with a smile. “I heard you’ve been down here for days. Weeks, even. Thought I’d check in. Professional courtesy, let’s say.”

“This isn’t your concern.”

“Of course not,” you said, stepping closer. “That’s why I’m here.”

You tilted your head, watching him with the same expression a child might wear when poking at a sleeping serpent.

“Tell me, Verlaine-san. What does it feel like to remember something you spent years pretending never existed?”

There was no movement.

Only silence.

But silence was an answer.

“Ah,” you sighed, walking to the desk. You picked up his hat and casually spun it on your finger. “So it was about Rimbaud.”

That name lingered. Like blood in water.

Verlaine’s jaw flexed.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced. “You know, I used to wonder if you were like me. If you tore things apart to see what’s inside, or just to prove you could. But now...”

You crouched in front of him, one elbow on your knee, chin in hand.

“Now I think you’re something even rarer.”

“And what’s that?”

“A man who regrets.”

His eyes sharpened.

“Regret is for the living.”

“Isn’t it?” you murmured, delighted by his choice of words. “And yet you’re still breathing.”

You leaned closer, voice dipping low.

“Tell me. When you look at the scarf—does it burn?”

That got a reaction.

Just a flicker in his eyes. But it was enough.

“You think this is a game,” Verlaine said quietly, voice taut. “You come here, playing riddles, poking where you shouldn’t. You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Maybe,” you said. “But I know what you are.”

You stood, the shift of movement smooth and measured.

“You and I—we’re not that different. Both cursed to remember things no one should. Both walking reminders of the worst kind of love.”

You turned your back to him, letting the weight of your words hang in the air.

“You buried him, didn’t you? Not just physically. Mentally. Emotionally. You had to.”

Verlaine’s voice followed.

“I had no choice.”

“We never do,” you said over your shoulder. “That’s the fun part.”

Just as the silence thickened into something heavy, the door creaked open behind you.

A figure slipped inside, panting slightly. Young. Anxious.

“S-Sir—apologies for the intrusion—”

You turned, mildly amused.

“You’re interrupting a very sentimental moment.”

“I-I’m sorry—boss sent me—said it was urgent. He asked for your presence immediately.”

You blinked. Then sighed, melodramatic.

“And just when it was getting interesting.”

You glanced back to Verlaine.

“Another time, then?”

No answer.

But his eyes lingered on you. Watching. Waiting. Measuring.

You offered a light smile.

“Don’t die down here. That would be terribly unoriginal.”

And with that, you turned and followed your subordinate out the door, coat fluttering behind you like the last whisper of a ghost.

Behind you, Verlaine sat in silence.

His hand reached into his coat and pulled out the folded scarf once more.

He didn’t press it to his face.

He didn’t cry.

He only stared at it.

And for the first time in years, he wondered—

How much longer he could stay buried.

Before someone like you unearthed him completely.