Blinking, Benedict opened his eyes. A pale light lay over the room, just bright enough to make out outlines. He was exhausted, yet surprisingly it didn't feel as bad as he had feared. The pain was dull, ever-present—not a sharp burning anymore, but a stubborn, heavy soreness that spread through his entire body, as if he had been shattered from within.
Strange—he could still remember quite clearly how that Noctis had worked him over badly with his knife. Maybe he was already dead, rotting in hell.
But then why did hell look like this windowless, tiled room where Noctis had tortured him earlier?
A bitter smile flickered across his lips.
So he was still alive.
What a cynical kind of luck.
He let his head fall slightly to the side, feeling the pull in his neck. His thoughts began to race, as if they had been waiting for him to regain consciousness.
Not only had he killed Isaac—no, he had also condemned Dan to death, been kidnapped, and was now completely at the mercy of Isaac's lover. No matter how he looked at these events, he had failed across the board. Though, viewed optimistically, one could say he had done his job, and Moonshadow had killed the master thief of Magnolia.
A success.
A flawless, professional success.
His fingers curled slightly. He bit his lower lip.
But at what cost?
His breath hitched briefly as the question forced its way back into his mind.
Why had it been Isaac?
He had ruled him out. More than once. Isaac hadn't fit the profile. It hadn't made sense. How could he have been so deceived? Why hadn't he trusted his instincts? Something had felt wrong—a vague, intangible unease he had ignored because the facts had pointed elsewhere.
Why Isaac… why?
"Hah… hahaha…"
A rough, broken laugh escaped him. It sounded wrong, almost crazy even to his own ears—too loud for this room, too hollow to be anything that should have been joy.
He could tell himself how insane it sounded. But how else was he supposed to react in this situation?
Benedict had failed across the board—and to top it off, he had let himself get captured. Even now, he still didn't really understand how Noctis had managed to show him Dan. It had felt so real that he could still remember the smell of blood. His fiancé's skin had been just as soft as on the day they had met.
A sharp pain tore through his chest, and for a moment he nearly lost control. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he blinked them away with determination.
Get a grip, Benedict. Crying won't get you anywhere.
He forced himself to breathe more evenly.
Slowly, he let his gaze wander through the room again—this time more deliberately, analytically.
The room was tiled and, aside from his own blood, kept clean. The lights were dim now; when Noctis had tortured him, they had been brighter. There was only a single door leading into the room, and an air-conditioning unit. Apart from the metallic smell of blood, he couldn't detect any other scent that might reveal where he was.
Beside him stood a small table—almost certainly where Noctis displayed his instruments whenever he hurt someone.
Benedict swallowed hard.
Then he fixed his gaze forward again.
He had to get out of here.
No matter how.
He let his eyes drop down over himself. His clothes were stiff with dried blood, dark stains spreading across fabric and skin as if they had settled there permanently. His hands were bound in front of him, tightly secured by leather restraints. The material was worn, the leather cracked at the edges, darker in places—old, frequently used.
It didn't take Benedict long to realize.
He wasn't the first one to have been sitting here.
The chair beneath him was made of cold metal, bolted firmly to the floor. Even if he had gathered all his strength, he wouldn't have been able to move it an inch. The construction was simple, but effective—designed to minimize movement and maximize control.
He carefully tested the range of motion his restraints allowed.
Barely any.
His shoulders tensed slightly, but he immediately forced himself to relax again. Any unnecessary movement would only exhaust him faster. Of course, they had taken his weapons. And even if they hadn't—in this condition, he wouldn't have been able to reach them, let alone use them.
His options were limited.
Very limited.
He could try to manipulate Noctis. Get him to untie him—perhaps under the pretense of needing to use the bathroom.
Or…
His gaze hardened.
…he would leave this room in a body bag.
The memory of the spider card flickered before his inner eye. A wave of nausea hit him. Perhaps soon he would find himself wishing to be killed as quickly as possible.
Noctis was not an ordinary killer. Not just another perpetrator. He was the murderer behind the cases Benedict had been investigating for weeks—the one who had systematically tortured and killed members of various clans.
Criminals, like Noctis himself.
The mere thought of the crime scenes left a bitter, bile-like taste in his mouth. The images were too clear. Too detailed. He had seen what Noctis did to his victims.
Face it, Ben. You're never getting out of here. Noctis is clearly insane—and you killed his lover. You're not walking out of this.
"Fuck…"
The word was barely more than a breath.
If he was honest, he had to admit that, in Noctis's place, he probably wouldn't act any differently.
Benedict let his head fall back slightly and exhaled a quiet sigh.
That meant he could forget about finding Dan's killer as well. He wasn't getting out of here.
A quiet laugh escaped him—at first barely audible, then growing louder, until it broke into an open, sharp burst of laughter. It echoed faintly off the tiled walls and sounded just as hollow as it felt.
The situation was hopeless, and there was no way out. Would it be easier to endure the end if he lost his mind first?
"If you can still laugh like that, you must be feeling better."
At the same moment, a quiet click sounded as something was set down on the table beside him.
Benedict's laughter stopped abruptly.
The man's voice was deep and calm. It sent a shiver down Benedict's spine, though he couldn't yet tell whether it was fear.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
The man standing before him was tall—slightly taller than Noctis—and noticeably more muscular. His skin was pale, almost as light as Isaac's, forming a stark contrast to his dark hair, which he wore tied back in a loose, slightly messy bun.
Several piercings lined his ear, and a simple ring rested in his lower lip.
But it was his eyes that made Benedict pause.
Almost black.
Not merely dark, but deep—so deep they seemed like an abyss. A gaze that didn't just see, but held on. As if, once caught in it, there was no finding your way back out.
A broad scar cut across his face, stretching from the left corner of his mouth almost to his ear. It had healed poorly—uneven, warped—and gave him something grotesque.
And yet…
The man did not seem ugly.
On the contrary. There was a quiet, almost aristocratic elegance in his bearing. Every movement appeared controlled, deliberate.
He smelled pleasant, and his clothes were clean and refined.
Strangely, he reminded Benedict of Noctis.
But he seemed less impulsive than Noctis, less unpredictable—and in a disconcerting way… more agreeable.
As Benedict continued to study his face, he noticed the finer details that had previously been hidden in shadow. The man's features were tense—not overtly, but beneath the surface. There was fatigue there, deeper than simple exhaustion could explain. Dark circles marked the skin beneath his eyes, as if he hadn't truly slept in days.
The man raised a brow and crossed his muscular arms over his chest, giving him an amused look.
"You don't seem like the talkative type," he said, his calm, pleasant voice immediately embedding itself in Benedict's mind.
Benedict returned the look without flinching.
"What do you want?" he asked curtly.
"I brought you something to eat," the man replied, tilting his head slightly. "Your body has a lot to process, and you need nutrients so you don't collapse."
He said it as casually as if he were talking about the weather.
Benedict let out a quiet, dry snort.
"He'll be back soon anyway, won't he? If you're going to torture me, just do it. Food is wasted on someone who's as good as dead."
The man regarded him calmly, unmoved by the provocation.
"As good as dead? Who says you're going to die?"
The words sent a cold shiver down Benedict's spine. He felt his composure begin to crack, his expression slipping. How long were they planning to make him pay for Isaac's death?
"Then what am I doing here?!" His voice sharpened. "Go on. Get Noctis. If this is a game, then he should be the one to finish it."
The man chuckled softly.
"Why would I get him when I'm in the middle of feeding you?"
Benedict looked away pointedly.
"Take your food and get out. I'm not eating anything."
At that exact moment, his stomach growled loudly. He closed his eyes briefly and cursed his body for having the audacity to betray him.
The man watched him with a faintly mocking expression. "Are you sure? I'm a pretty good cook, and I made you a balanced meal so you can replenish your strength."
The man's gaze wandered over Benedict's face and body.
"Let's just say I can imagine quite well how hungry you are right now."
Benedict was so hungry he could have devoured an entire bear—and still would have been hungry afterward.
His stubbornness won out. He couldn't be sure this guy wouldn't drug the food. If he had any chance of getting out of here, he needed to keep a clear head.
"Thanks, I don't need anything," he said, tearing his gaze away from the covered plate the man had brought.
Despite his words, he desperately wanted to know what was under the cover. The mere thought of a juicy piece of meat made him waver.
Something scraped across the floor, and a moment later the man was sitting opposite him.
"Do you think I'm trying to poison you?" he asked with a faint smile, making an elegant gesture with his hand. "If I wanted to kill you, there are far more effective methods."
"I don't doubt that," Benedict snorted. He looked straight at the man again, directly into those dark eyes. "Where is he?"
"Who?" the man asked innocently.
Benedict's jaw tightened visibly. "Noctis," he growled.
The man leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. His posture remained relaxed. He radiated a calm that was driving Benedict mad.
What is this bastard playing at?
"Why do you want to see the one who drove you to the brink of death?" he asked with interest. "Is that your thing? Do you like it rough?"
Benedict blinked, confused. "What?"
The man shrugged. "Well, I'm the one who treated your wounds and healed you, while Noctis practically turned your body into minced meat. If I had known you were into pain, I wouldn't have fully healed you."
For a moment, there was silence.
Benedict stared at him.
"What are you talking about?"
"Nothing extraordinary." The man leaned back slightly, still watching him closely. "Didn't you notice the swelling in your face has gone down? Or that your cuts are already closing?"
He made a small, almost casual gesture in Benedict's direction.
"In your condition, you shouldn't even be able to sit. Right now, you should be feeling nothing more than a really nasty muscle ache."
Benedict said nothing.
It had struck Benedict as strange—but his mind had been occupied with other thoughts than his own physical condition.
He studied the man in front of him. Had he really just said healed?
Then what had that been—what Noctis had done to him? A dream? An illusion?
And Isaac? Could someone really just vanish into thin air?
What about Ink Phantom? Or was Noctis actually both Ink Phantom and Sandman in one?
Once the thoughts started, he couldn't stop them. He tried to make sense of the man's words, but it proved difficult.
Another disbelieving laugh escaped him. This was completely insane. The only way to explain any of it would be magic—and as far as he knew, magic existed only in fantasy stories.
"You're insane," Benedict finally said. "You should get your head checked—or go back to whatever asylum you escaped from."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Should I take you with me? You're well on your way to losing your mind." His expression twisted into a grotesque grin. "Though I can't deny that I find you a little insanely attractive."
Benedict paused. Was this guy seriously flirting with him?
He blinked once, then let out a quiet scoff.
"Thanks. You're not my type."
The man laughed openly now.
"I like your attitude," he said. "My name is Vincent, by the way. Nice to meet you, Benedict Johnson."
Benedict's gaze hardened immediately. So he knew who he was. That, however, didn't surprise him much.
"Why are you telling me your damn name?" Benedict growled. "What are you planning, if you're not going to kill me? More revenge for Isaac?"
For a brief moment, Vincent looked thoughtful. His gaze darkened.
"What you did to Isaac is unforgivable—you're right about that. You're lucky I like you. Otherwise, I wouldn't have wasted my energy on you," Vincent said.
He tilted his head slightly, his expression turning dangerous—and suddenly, Benedict felt cold. This Vincent was dangerous. Probably more dangerous than Noctis. This man enjoyed seeing others suffer.
It felt as though an invisible hand were crushing his heart. Benedict looked away.
In his mind's eye, he saw Isaac lying beneath him again—covered in his own blood, his body growing weaker by the second.
"…if I'd had any luck… I would have never met you…"
His last words still echoed within him.
Benedict pressed his lips together, guilt tightening his chest.
"What do you want from me?"
"You," Vincent said without hesitation.
Benedict let out a quiet laugh, the guilt constricting his throat.
"Why?"
"There's no special reason. I saw your blue eyes, and since then, I've wanted you to be mine."
"You're completely insane. As if I'd ever want you—or let you anywhere near me," Benedict scoffed.
Vincent leaned back, relaxed, as if the answer hadn't surprised him in the slightest.
"I'm aware that you're a cop and I'm a criminal. That's why I want to make you an offer."
Benedict stared at him.
"What kind of offer?"
"I want to have my fun with you," Vincent replied. "Of course, you'll never return to your old life."
Benedict burst out laughing.
"As soon as I get out of here, I'm putting you, Noctis, and everyone involved behind bars!"
Vincent smiled at him calmly.
"I don't think you will."
Benedict narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Why?" he asked, more cautiously than he would have liked.
Vincent radiated a kind of calm that had nothing to do with ease. It was the certainty of a man who had complete control over the situation—who knew every variable was in his favor.
"Because I'll hand over the man who killed your fiancé."
For a moment, the world seemed to stand still.
Suddenly, it felt as though the ground had been ripped out from under Benedict's feet. It took him a moment to truly process what Vincent had just said. He must have imagined it… right? Vincent couldn't seriously have just offered to hand over Dan's killer—when Benedict himself had never found even a trace, let alone discovered who it was.
While Benedict felt himself sinking into chaos, Vincent watched him with quiet satisfaction.
He picked up the plate, removed the cover, and presented Benedict with a steak and several side dishes. The food smelled so good that his mouth immediately watered.
"You don't have to decide right away," Vincent said as he cut off a piece of meat and held it up to Benedict's mouth. "You just shouldn't wait too long. I might lose interest."
Benedict paused for a moment.
His gaze lingered on the piece of meat.
Then he slowly lifted it again.
"I hope you like it rough," he muttered dryly—more defiance than real provocation.
Then he leaned forward slightly and took the bite.
Vincent chuckled softly, satisfied.
"You have no idea."
Benedict shot him an annoyed look and continued eating in silence, while his thoughts churned into a storm inside him.
He would finally get Dan's killer.
And for that, he was willing to do anything.