*HHHMMMMMM*
The overhead lights buzzed—casting a sterile glow across the room.
The Enforcer station seemed louder than the plaza.
Not in the same way—no laughter, no music—but filled with sharp voices, clattering boots, and the constant shuffle of urgency. Lantern light burned harsher here, stripped of warmth.
Archie shifted awkwardly beside them, glancing toward the Enforcers moving in and out. "I'm gonna go make the report, be right back."
Eliot clung tightly to Suzune's sleeve.
"I don't want to stay here," he whispered.
Kirsty rested a hand on his head. "We'll come back. Promise."
Eliot sniffled. "O-okay…"
An Enforcer approached, crouching slightly. "This is the kid, right? We'll take it from here."
Suzune hesitated—but only for a moment—before gently guiding Eliot forward.
His hand slipped from hers.
Reluctantly.
The Enforcer led him toward a side room, already asking questions—where he last saw her, what she looked like, anything he could remember.
The door shut behind them.
The three of them stood there for a second longer than necessary.
Kirsty exhaled quietly. "Honestly… with how little we know, I don't even know how they're supposed to find her."
Archie returned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Report's done."
Then, after a beat—
"So… we're just trusting him?"
Kirsty crossed her arms. "He didn't even explain anything. Just ran off."
Suzune's gaze lingered on the closed door. "He heard something."
Archie frowned slightly. "He always hears something."
A pause settled between them.
Kirsty sighed, softer this time. "I just hope he doesn't get himself into trouble."
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A figure moved across the rooftops.
Fast.
Enark's foot struck the edge of a tiled roof—tap—then he launched forward, clearing the gap with effortless precision. The wind rushed past him, tugging at his clothes as the city stretched out below in fractured lines of lantern light and shadow.
Every step he took sent subtle vibrations through the rooftops beneath him. The echoes spread outward—through wood, tile, stone—mapping the space around him in fragments of distance and form.
Enark adjusted mid-stride.
He pivoted, foot scraping just enough to redirect his momentum, and leapt—clearing a wider gap this time.
He landed low—silent—attuned to everything around him.
Below him, the streets twisted in narrow veins. Voices bled upward in fragments—laughter, arguments, distant footsteps—but none of it held meaning.
The signal was memory, the fragrance of Eliot's mother.
He recalled it from the bag that was left behind.
His breathing steadied as his focus narrowed, the city's noise peeling away layer by layer. The vibrations dulled, fading into the background as he reached for something deeper—something less precise, but far more telling.
It was soft. Fleeting. Yet undeniable.
His head tilted.
The world stilled around him.
And then—he inhaled.
Slow and measured.
Almost lost beneath the dust and smoke of the city, but unmistakable.
A strangely familiar yet fragile fragrance.
Dissolving into the night as quickly as it had appeared.
Easy to lose.
But real.
Just then, a strong breeze curled past him once more—
And this time—
He caught it.
A Fragrance on the Wind.
...
He exhaled, tightening the knot of his blindfold.
"…Found you."