He stared at the cursed poster. Tilted his head. Even tried squinting.
'I don't look like that. Do I?'
As they walked further, side by side with the others, and leaving behind the most offensive artistic interpretation of himself he'd ever seen—a question nagged at him.
Why make a poster for a dead man? What was the point?
He could think of two reasons.
First—a warning. A message to anyone stupid enough to try what he did. 'This is what happens. This is how it ends.'
Second—a distraction. Plaster the wrong face everywhere. Point everyone in the wrong direction. Draw attention away from the real thing.
But Luca had seen him. Actually seen him.
He turned to Nora. Looked at the poster. Looked at her. Back at the poster.
"Is this really what the guy looked like?"
What he meant was 'please tell me that's not supposed to be me. That thing looks like it crawled out of a swamp and gave up halfway through evolving.'
She looked at the poster. Snorted. Her hand flew to her mouth, but the laugh broke through anyway.
But she understood exactly what he was asking. Like reading his mind—well, more like his concerned face.
"Oh, don't worry." She wiped her eye. "Luca was drunk that night. That's how he remembered it."
'Drunk enough to turn me into that? That fool couldn't have made me at least slightly handsome?'
But that excuse had holes. Big ones. Luca wasn't alone that night. There were others. Guards. Witnesses. People who weren't stumbling around with blurred vision and bad judgment.
And somehow—this was the best sketch they could produce?
The whole thing reeked.
And there was one more detail that wouldn't stop scratching at the back of his brain.
He'd attacked the lower district. The damage was there. The witnesses were there. The people who'd actually seen his face that night—all down there.
So why were the posters up here?
Upper district. Near the main house. Miles away from anyone who could look at that sketch and say 'yeah, that's not him' or 'wait—that is him.'
The posters weren't where they'd be useful. They were where they'd be seen by the wrong people.
'If you wanted to catch me, you'd put these in the lower district. On every corner. Every wall.'
'They're not.'
'Which means someone doesn't want me caught.'
'Or someone already knows exactly where I am —and wants to make sure I'm safe.'
He looked at the three of them. Ana. Darius. Richard.
'Could it be that they—'
His head throbbed. Too many threads. Too many questions tangling into knots he couldn't untie right now.
'Later. Think about it later. Just keep your eyes open.'
They moved through the upper district. And it was a different world.
Compared to the lower district—broken streets, rusted houses, people fighting over scraps—and the middle district—cramped, crowded, stuffed with shops and junk and everything necessary to keep life running so none of it cluttered the upper district—
This place was a different world.
Clean streets. Polished stone, so spotless you could eat right off it. People dressed in clothes that cost more than everything he'd ever owned combined. Not a single one of them looked like they'd ever held a weapon or lost a night's sleep over a monster attack.
Their biggest problem was probably choosing which robe to wear to dinner.
And they loved Richard.
"Captain! Good to see you!"
"Richard! How's the family?"
"Ana, darling, you look wonderful!"
And then there was Nora.
"Nora! You've grown so much! When are you getting your own command?"
"Little Nora! You look just like your mother."
"Such potential. Richard must be so proud."
Every compliment came wrapped in something heavier. Expectation. Comparison. The quiet, constant reminder that she wasn't just Nora here.
She was Richard's daughter. And that came with a weight nobody bothered to ask if she wanted to carry.
And these people—with their polished smiles and pressed robes, they didn't actually care about her. Not really. They cared about what she could become. What she could do for them. Another shield. Another sword. Another body between them and the things that came from the sea.
They don't care about them.
They want protectors.
'Funny how the people who never fight are always the loudest about who should.'
So, she just smiled politely at each one. The practiced kind. The kind that said 'thank you' while her eyes said 'please stop talking to me.'
They smiled. Waves. Handshakes. The whole performance. Like watching royalty walk through their kingdom.
But nobody looked at Shiro. He was basically invisible, which was good.
The streets gave way to a spiral hill that climbed like it had something to prove. Winding. Steep. The kind of path that existed solely to remind you that whatever sat at the top was more important than you.
And at the top—the main house.
From up there, the entire district stretched out below them. Every rooftop. Every street. Every broken building and standing one. Like the hill was a mountain of its own, and the house sat on its throne.
Behind it—the familiar mountain. The real one. Dark and looming against the sky like it had been watching the island long before anyone built on it.
And the closer he got, the colder it became.
It wasn't the wind. Wasn't the weather. This cold came from somewhere else entirely. It crept in through his skin, past his muscles, and settled into his bones like it had always belonged there.
The air grew heavier with every step. And his breath—each exhale drifted from his mouth in thin, pale wisps. Slow. Deliberate. Like even the warmth leaving his body knew something was wrong.
And the closer he got to the top, the harder it became to move. Each step heavier than the last. His muscles fighting him. Resisting.
Until they stopped listening entirely.
Every muscle locked. Seized. Like something buried deep inside him had grabbed the controls and yanked them to a halt.
And then the smell hit him.
Familiar. Too familiar. A scent that crawled into his nose and dragged something ugly out of the dark place he kept locked shut.
His heart slammed against his ribs. Once. Twice. Faster. His blood ran hot—then hotter—then boiling. A rage he hadn't summoned rose from somewhere ancient. Somewhere he didn't have a name for.
His jaw clenched until his teeth screamed. His hands shook. Not from cold. Not from fear.
From hunger.
The kind that wanted to destroy something.
His eyes locked onto the mountain peak. And wouldn't let go.
"Shiro."
Far away. Muffled. Like a voice shouting through walls.
"Shiro!"
"I'll kill that bastard again." The words fell out of him. No thought behind them. Just raw, primal instinct wearing his voice like a costume. "Again and again and again. Until there's nothing left to come back."
His thumb moved toward his chest. Slow. Deliberate.
A hand caught his wrist. Tight.
"Control yourself."
He turned his head. Slowly. Barely registering the people around him. Their faces—blank. Unrecognizable. Like the world had smeared itself and nothing made sense anymore.
"Why?" A grin cut across his face. Wild. Wrong. The kind that didn't belong on a human being.
Then it vanished. Replaced by something darker. Colder.
"And who said you could lay your filthy hands on me?" His voice dropped. Low. Venomous. "You vermin."
He looked at the man holding his wrist. A faceless shape. Nobody. Nothing.
"Darius—do it. Before this idiot ruins everything."
A name that sounded familiar, but before he could process it, a sharp impact hit the back of his neck.
Everything went black.