Reva and Shura argued for several more minutes about the silver-threaded coat.
Mostly because Reva refused to keep something that expensive behind her counter.
And because Shura kept acting as if it meant nothing at all.
"You can't just leave this here," Reva said for what felt like the fifth time. "Do you even understand how valuable this is?"
Shura glanced toward the folded coat.
"…Not really."
"That's somehow worse."
"It's safer here."
"With me?"
"With someone who actually cares about it."
Reva opened her mouth to argue again—then stopped.
That answer irritated her more than it should have.
In the end, the coat remained exactly where she didn't want it: folded carefully behind the counter beneath the warmer Beacon-light.
Exactly where Shura expected it to stay.
As he stepped toward the door, he paused briefly.
"…Thanks."
Reva crossed her arms immediately, hiding the slight hesitation in her expression.
"For what?"
Shura looked back toward the damaged shop.
The broken shelves. The scattered glass.
The blood that had already begun drying darker against the floorboards.
Then his eyes shifted toward her.
"For standing in front of the Knight earlier."
The words caught her off guard.
She had moved without thinking then.
Instinct before fear.
By the time she found an answer, Shura had already opened the door and stepped outside.
Night-cycle had fully settled over Ossuarium.
The Beacon-light hanging across the streets burned warmer now, stretching molten reflections across damp stone roads and black canal water. Steam drifted endlessly from overhead pipes into the artificial darkness above—a sky without stars, without moonlight, without depth.
Workers traded shifts beneath the amber glow.
Metal shutters rolled down across closing storefronts.
Distant machinery continued humming beneath the city like a second heartbeat.
Shura exhaled quietly.
"…It got late."
As he walked through Ward Five, he occasionally adjusted the sleeve of his new outfit.
Lighter. Looser. Built for movement instead of appearance. The silver-threaded coat had always carried pressure with it.
Expectation. Attention. Weight.
This felt different.
Like clothing meant for someone who belonged nowhere long enough to leave traces behind.
For a while, he simply walked.
Trying to remember the shortest path back toward the inn before he accidentally wandered into another unfamiliar district again.
"…I seriously need to learn these streets."
Several avenues later, movement near the edge of the road caught his attention.
A man stood beside a small food stall beneath one of the hanging Beacon lamps.
At first, nothing looked unusual.
Then the man suddenly grabbed his own head. His shoulders twitched violently once.
Nearby pedestrians glanced toward the trembling man.
One worker slowed slightly.
"…Is he alright?"
Another barely looked over.
"Probably exhausted."
They kept walking.
The street swallowed the incident almost immediately.
He kept walking without slowing further.
The first worker hesitated for only a second longer before following after him.
And just like that, the street continued moving again.
But the stall worker reacted differently.
He froze mid-motion while closing the metal shutters.
Watching. Not surprised. Careful.
The moment the trembling man noticed the attention, he quietly turned and disappeared down a side street without a single word.
Shura slowed slightly.
His attention shifted toward the stall worker instead. The way he stared felt wrong. Not concern.
The stall worker wasn't surprised. He was pretending to be. Recognition pretending not to exist.
"…Why was he watching him like that?"
Fragments connected quietly inside Shura's mind.
The tea stall worker earlier.
The strange grip on his arm.
The forced casualness.
"Want some tea?"
That restrained feeling beneath normal behavior.
As if people were checking for something without saying it aloud.
Shura's pace slowed further.
"…They notice it immediately."
His fingers slipped instinctively into his pocket.
The Vanguard badge rested cold against his palm.
Another thought surfaced soon after.
Something about the entire interaction felt familiar.
Not the trembling man.
The reaction around him.
The silent observation. The refusal to acknowledge what was clearly there.
The same thing happened before he lost control.
A phrase surfaced quietly from somewhere in his memory.
Observer-type.
Shura's steps slowed.
The memory surfaced quietly enough to make his chest tighten.
Shura glanced back once toward the distant crowd disappearing beneath steam and Beacon-light.
"…Is that why I notice these things?" he murmured.
A pause followed.
"Or are people choosing not to?"
By the time Shura finally reached the inn, exhaustion had settled fully into his body.
The rest of the walk passed mostly in silence.
But now he noticed things more often.
Longer stares. Conversations ending when he passed.People instinctively stepping aside after noticing the bruising along his face.
The hallway lights inside the inn looked dimmer than usual.
Or maybe he was simply too tired to focus properly anymore.
The moment he entered his room, he collapsed face-first onto the bed—
Then immediately hissed in pain.
"Ah—"
He rolled onto his back slowly, one hand covering his jaw.
"…Wrong side."
Pain pulsed sharply beneath the swelling.
For several seconds he simply lay there staring upward at the dark ceiling while the room spun faintly around him.
Eventually, Shura forced himself upright and emptied his belongings onto the nearby table one by one.
The Vanguard badge. The remaining coins. The metallic mask. And the Osiris book.
Untouched.
Shura stared at the dark cover for several long seconds.
Then looked away first.
Some questions could survive one more night unanswered.
As he gathered the scattered coins together, one unfamiliar piece caught his attention.
Tin.
Shura blinked once before recognizing it immediately.
"…Reva."
A faint smile appeared despite the exhaustion pulling at his face.
"So she returned the burden too."
For some reason, the thought felt strangely comforting.
His gaze eventually drifted toward the metallic mask resting near the edge of the table.
Dark metal fingers stretched across the empty eye-slits beneath the dim room light.
For a long moment, Shura simply stared at it.
Questions lingered endlessly behind its design.
Fear. Hiding. Existence. But not tonight.
Shura stood slowly and disappeared toward the bathhouse connected to the inn.
The room remained silent behind him.
Only the mask rested motionless beneath the Beacon-light.
Yet for a brief second, the shadows beneath its metallic fingers resembled closed eyes.
Then stillness returned.