Chapter LI: The Cosplayer Detection, Part 2
The city wakes to a pale sun crawling over wet rooftops, the morning air humming with the dull rhythm of tires on cobblestones and the chatter of pedestrians. London breathes again, calm yet restless — as if beneath its skin, something trembles, waiting to move.
Inside Luna's Cup Café, the scent of roasted beans coils through the air, blending with the low murmur of music and conversation. Nathaniel Cross sits by the window, fingers wrapped loosely around a steaming cup of Americano. Theo, Kingsley, and Edison occupy the seats around him, each half-awake, half-alive, faces lit by the faint glow of their phone screens.
Theo yawns. "Feels like my soul's still somewhere in Liverpool."
Edison stirs his cappuccino with the precision of a surgeon. "Your soul never left the hotel buffet."
Kingsley grins over his cup. "You mean the one where you ate five croissants and declared yourself immortal?"
"Don't remind me," Edison mutters. "I'm still tasting regret."
Nathaniel chuckles faintly, his eyes reflecting the soft gray outside. Yesterday's warmth still lingers in his chest — the laughter, the noise, the brief illusion of peace. Yet something gnaws beneath it. A subtle unease, like static before a storm.
Theo scrolls lazily through Facebook, eyes narrowing. "Uh... guys."
Edison doesn't look up. "If it's another meme, I swear—"
"No. You'll want to see this."
The others lean closer. On Theo's screen glows a live news report, grainy and trembling — recorded from CCTV footage. The headline crawls across the bottom in bold red letters:
TRAGIC INCIDENT OUTSIDE LIVERPOOL CONVENTION — COSPLAYER MURDERED
The café's chatter fades. Only the clinking of cups and the soft whir of the espresso machine remain.
Theo taps the video. A shaky camera captures a narrow alley beside the convention hall, half-lit by a flickering streetlamp. A person in costume walks into frame — long white hair, elaborate gown, a parasol hanging from their hand. Their every movement glides with eerie grace.
A figure follows.
Dark coat. Mask. Slow, deliberate steps.
The video cuts. A scream echoes, abruptly silenced.
Then only the alley, and a pool of red spreading beneath moonlight.
Edison leans back, horrified. "Bloody hell."
Kingsley's voice drops low. "They said it was a cosplayer who did it?"
Theo nods. "That's what the report says. Police are still identifying the victim, but witnesses said the attacker wore some kind of anime costume. They think it's... Shalltear? Or something?"
Nathaniel freezes.
Shalltear Bloodfallen.
Overlord.
Vampire.
He knows that silhouette — the frilled umbrella, the crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light. Even through the blurred footage, the resemblance is unmistakable.
Theo notices his stare. "You recognize it?"
"Yeah," Nathaniel murmurs. "It's Shalltear. I used to watch Overlord. Before—" He stops himself. "Before Eris."
Kingsley frowns. "Coincidence?"
"Maybe." Nathaniel's tone sharpens. "Or maybe not."
Edison scrolls through comment threads. "People are calling it the 'Cosplay Killing.' They're saying the suspect disappeared before anyone arrived — like she just vanished."
Theo leans in, intrigued. "You think it's supernatural?"
Edison scoffs. "Don't start."
But Nathaniel doesn't dismiss it. He knows better than to mock the unseen. His fingertips press against the table, feeling the faint thrum of energy beneath his skin — the same pulse that used to hum whenever Eris was near. Except now, it's different. Quieter. Colder.
"Play it again," he says.
Theo does. The group huddles over the phone. This time, Nathaniel studies every frame — the gait, the posture, the unnatural smoothness of motion. Too fluid for a normal human. The way the figure's shadow lags behind, bending unnaturally against the wall.
There's something off. Something deliberate.
When the scream echoes once more, Nathaniel's gaze hardens. "That's not a human killing."
Edison stares at him. "You mean—?"
"I mean something's wearing a human skin."
Silence grips the table. Outside, the light shifts as clouds drift over the sun, casting the café into a pale twilight. For a moment, even the chatter dims, as if the city itself listens.
Kingsley exhales slowly. "Alright. Let's assume you're right. What's the plan? You want to call the cops and tell them a demon's on the loose dressed as an anime girl?"
Theo snorts. "Yeah, that'll go well."
Nathaniel shakes his head. "No. We don't interfere directly. We find out what it is first."
Edison raises an eyebrow. "By doing what, exactly? Watching cosplay forums?"
"By tracing the movement." Nathaniel gestures at the screen. "There are other cameras nearby — traffic, security, maybe livestreams. Someone caught more footage."
Theo's eyes glint with mischief. "You're suggesting a digital hunt?"
Nathaniel smirks faintly. "Exactly."
Hours pass.
The café empties as sunlight fades to amber. Their laptops glow like miniature portals, screens flooded with video feeds and forum threads. Edison handles the technical side, patching into local traffic cameras with practiced precision. Theo scours Twitter hashtags. Kingsley filters comments from witnesses.
Nathaniel sits quietly, cross-referencing times and angles, piecing the fragments together.
Edison mutters, "Found one. Street cam, one block east from the convention exit."
He enlarges the feed — a wider angle of the alley, showing the same figure stepping out minutes before the attack. The parasol twitches slightly, and for a fraction of a second, the light from a car passes over their face.
The reflection reveals eyes that gleam faintly red.
Theo leans in. "No way. That's not makeup."
Kingsley murmurs, "What the hell are we looking at?"
Nathaniel whispers, "Something that shouldn't be here."
Edison scrubs forward. After the murder, the footage skips — static flickers, the image distorts, and when it clears, the alley is empty. Not even a shadow remains.
Theo rubs his temples. "So it can mess with electronics. Brilliant."
Kingsley turns to Nathaniel. "Could it be one of them?"
Nathaniel shakes his head slowly. "No. Eris is gone. Whatever this is... it's new."
He glances out the café window, watching the crowd flow by, faces ordinary and unaware. But in the reflection, for an instant, he sees movement — a dark figure standing across the street, watching. When he turns, it's gone.
"Nate?" Theo asks quietly. "You alright?"
"Yeah." His voice is steady, but his pulse betrays him.
By evening, they relocate to the dorms, turning Kingsley's room into a makeshift command center. Pizza boxes pile beside glowing screens. The air hums with caffeine and exhaustion.
Theo's laptop chimes. "Got something. A local fan group posted a selfie with someone dressed exactly like that Shalltear. Timestamp's hours before the murder."
Edison squints. "Same parasol, same costume. But the comments say she didn't talk. Just nodded and walked off."
Kingsley frowns. "Maybe she wasn't part of the con."
Nathaniel zooms in on the photo. The costume is flawless — too flawless. Every lace, every jewel, every detail seems crafted with unnatural precision. The parasol's silver handle gleams faintly, like metal drawn from moonlight.
"She's not human," Nathaniel mutters. "She's feeding."
Theo blinks. "Feeding on what, though?"
"Fear. Confusion. The chaos that follows death."
Edison rubs his face. "Bloody hell, here we go again."
Kingsley sighs. "We swore we'd take a break from this madness."
Nathaniel's eyes remain on the screen. "Madness doesn't take breaks."
For a long moment, no one speaks. The hum of electronics fills the silence. Outside, thunder rumbles distantly over the horizon — low, trembling, as if echoing his thoughts.
Theo finally breaks the quiet. "So what's next? We track her?"
"Yes," Nathaniel answers. "But carefully."
Edison glances up. "You sure you're ready for that?"
Nathaniel's voice steadies. "I have to be. Last night proved I can still fight the darkness without being consumed by it."
Kingsley nods slowly. "Then we do this smart. No reckless heroics."
Theo grins. "Define reckless."
Nathaniel shoots him a look. "Theo."
"Alright, alright," he laughs. "Just saying."
Midnight.
The rain returns — fine and whispering. Streetlights gleam on slick asphalt as the four move through narrow roads toward the old district near the convention center. The city sleeps uneasily, its silence fractured by the hiss of tires and the distant murmur of trains.
Edison holds a small camera rig. Kingsley carries a flashlight. Theo, ever the daredevil, hums under his breath, earning a glare from Nathaniel.
They reach the alley.
The same one from the footage.
Yellow tape flutters weakly in the breeze, long abandoned. The scent of rust and rain hangs heavy in the air. The puddles reflect their faces — four weary souls chasing a ghost.
Nathaniel crouches near the stain where the blood once was. The ground still feels colder than the rest, the air thick with residual energy. He presses a hand to the brick wall, closing his eyes.
The world dims.
For a moment, he sees it — a flicker of motion, the echo of the attack. A woman's scream. The flare of red eyes. A whisper sliding across his thoughts like silk.
She's watching you.
Nathaniel gasps softly, pulling his hand away.
Theo catches his look. "You saw something, didn't you?"
He nods. "She's still here. Not physically, but her mark is. Like a scent that never fades."
Edison swings the camera around. "Anything on thermal?"
"Nothing." Kingsley scans the shadows. "But that doesn't mean she's gone."
A faint rustle echoes from deeper in the alley. They all turn.
A shape moves at the edge of light — quick, graceful, almost soundless. A glint of silver. Then gone.
Theo whispers, "Tell me that was a rat."
Nathaniel draws a slow breath. "No. That was her."
The hunt begins.
They split briefly — Edison tracking the signal through nearby cams, Kingsley watching the perimeter, Theo tailing Nathaniel through twisting streets that seem to grow narrower with every turn.
Rain slicks their coats. Neon signs flicker overhead, casting them in ghostly colors. The city feels alive — pulsing, breathing, watching.
Theo whispers, "Mate, if this goes south, I'm blaming you."
Nathaniel smirks faintly. "You always do."
Then they see her.
Standing beneath a flickering lamp, parasol tilted slightly, the Shalltear cosplayer looks almost serene. Her lips curve in a soft, unnatural smile.
Nathaniel freezes. His every instinct screams danger.
Theo mutters, "What the hell is she doing?"
"She's waiting," Nathaniel says quietly.
"For us?"
"For me."
The woman tilts her head, eyes glimmering like twin drops of blood. Her voice drifts through the rain — soft, melodic, far too calm.
"You carry her scent," she says.
Theo stiffens. "Oh, brilliant. Talking corpse bride."
Nathaniel steps forward slowly. "Who are you?"
She smiles wider. "A collector. Of what remains."
Before he can speak again, she moves — impossibly fast. One blink, and she's inches away, parasol slicing through air like a blade. Nathaniel blocks instinctively, the force rattling through his bones.
Theo shouts, "Nate!"
But Nathaniel stands firm. The old reflexes return — the same calm he once used to fight Eris. He sidesteps, twists, drives his elbow into her arm. The parasol clatters to the ground, splintering like glass.
She stumbles back, hissing softly. "Impressive."
Her disguise flickers. For a moment, the mask slips — revealing pale skin marked with runes, eyes black as void, veins glowing faint red. Then the illusion reforms.
Theo gapes. "What the actual—"
"Run!" Nathaniel snaps.
Theo bolts down the street. Nathaniel grabs the parasol and turns to follow, but the woman vanishes in a burst of crimson mist. The sound of whispering laughter trails behind.
Rain drenches him, but he doesn't care. His pulse hammers like thunder.
When he catches up with Theo, Edison and Kingsley are already there, breathless.
Edison pants, "What happened?!"
"She's real," Nathaniel says grimly. "And she's not human."
Kingsley's eyes widen. "You mean—"
Nathaniel nods. "Whatever she is, she's hunting. And this... this was only the beginning."
Thunder splits the sky, casting them in silver light. Around them, the city hums, restless and waiting.
For Nathaniel Cross, the silence within has shifted again — no longer still, but stirring.
Something new has entered the game.
And this time, it bleeds.