The sky over London was a slate gray that evening, heavy like a breath held too long.
The streets in the outskirts were slick with last night's rain, puddles reflecting the dull glint of flickering gas lamps. Charles moved quietly through rows of worn shops and narrow alleys, his long, dark-gray coat brushing the ground. The collar rose high, hiding his fragile neck from the chill. His face was calm, almost serene—but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed a storm beneath.
Every glance was deliberate. Every step, calculated.
In front of a nearly empty fruit stall, he stopped.
There, an old man sat hunched forward, his hands covering his face. His shoulders trembled—just enough to betray something deeper than cold.
Charles stepped closer.
"You seem troubled, sir."
The man looked up.
His skin was pale, and cold sweat clung to his temples. His eyes were hollow.
"I'm just… tired," he muttered, barely audible.
Charles crouched down before him.
"It's not just exhaustion," he said softly. "That's fear."
The man's lip quivered.
Then, as if the dam inside him broke, he spoke in a voice that cracked with shame.
"Lord Desmond... he forces me to deliver fruit to his estate every single day. If I fail... he threatens to touch my wife. He already has. He dragged her off, in front of me. And I... I begged. I begged like a dog."
He clenched his fists—weathered hands shaking from more than age.
Charles said nothing for a long moment.
Then a faint smile curved his lips. Not cruel. Not kind.
A smile made of fire.
"A man's pride isn't measured by how far he bows... but by how far he rises after being crushed."
He stood.
His voice, calm as ever, came like a whisper edged with steel.
"Let's take your pride back."
---
Their plan unfolded like a perfectly played string.
The next day, the fruit seller arrived at Lord Desmond's manor, his face etched with fear that needed no rehearsing. He reported that the orchards outside the city had rotted in the storm—the fruits would not come.
Desmond, as expected, raged.
"No fruit?" he snapped. "Then send your wife instead!"
He laughed—deep and lecherous.
"Her body'll make me forget the taste of spoiled pears!"
And so, that night, a carriage arrived.
Inside was a woman—gentle in manner, her face half-shrouded beneath a pale veil. Her steps were delicate. Her hands folded with grace.
But she was no fruit seller's wife.
She was Vespera.
The demon, now clad in flesh—smiling behind a mask of beauty.
---
Lord Desmond's bedchamber reeked of rose-scented wax and stale wine. Thick crimson curtains framed the tall windows, casting the room in a lurid, suffocating glow.
Desmond raised his wineglass and stared at the woman near the bed.
"Come here, darling. No need to be shy..."
Vespera, cloaked in her disguise, stepped slowly toward him with a shy, downcast gaze. She climbed onto the bed. Desmond reached to caress her face.
And that—was when it began.
Her face began to ripple, like a reflection disturbed on water.
Her skin paled.
Her eyes blackened.
Her lips split open unnaturally wide, revealing a grin that didn't belong to anything human. Flesh decayed in slow, agonizing strips, peeling away until dry, mummified skin clung to bone. The room filled with the stench of rot, of something long dead and hidden beneath floorboards.
Desmond froze. His eyes bulged. His skin turned corpse-white.
"W-WHAT IS THIS?! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!"
Vespera's mouth opened too wide. Her tongue slid out—long, thin, snakelike—and coiled around his neck just once before retreating.
Her voice came layered—two tones speaking in harmony, like a whisper from the grave.
"Don't stop now, Lord Desmond... Weren't you going to touch me?"
He screamed.
He leapt from the bed, nearly falling over his own feet, and bolted for the door.
"GEORGE! EDWIN! THERE'S AN INTRUDER! HELP ME!!"
Silence.
No footsteps.
No reply.
Only the creak of floorboards and the whisper of blood.
Desmond stumbled down the stairs—panting, sweating—only to stop dead at the foot of the grand entrance.
There, waiting in the doorway...
Was the fruit seller.
His hands gripped a butcher's knife, its edge soaked in red. His rags were stained with splatters of gore. Around him lay the bodies of Desmond's servants—still, lifeless, faces frozen in final horror.
Desmond screamed.
He spun, tried to flee back up the staircase.
His foot slipped.
He didn't see the blood.
His body twisted, slammed down the marble steps with sickening crunches—bones snapping like dry twigs.
"ARRGH!!"
He howled, clutching his arm, bent unnaturally. His breaths came ragged. His face, a mixture of blood and tears and sweat.
The fruit seller approached.
Step by step.
"Y-you can't!" Desmond sobbed. "I'm a nobleman! D-Don't you know who I am?!"
The man said nothing at first.
Then, with eyes that had seen too much, he replied coldly.
"To death... there's no nobility. No beggars. Only judgment."
He pressed the blade gently to Desmond's lips.
And slowly, slowly, slid it into his mouth.
Desmond thrashed.
He kicked, clawed, punched.
But his limbs were too broken.
His will too shattered.
The blade met resistance.
Blood gurgled.
Desmond's screams died into wet, choking gasps as blood poured down his throat.
Then—
silence.
His body fell limp.
His neck half-severed.
Eyes wide in disbelief.
---
Outside the estate, Charles stood beneath the shadow of an old tree.
The wind stirred his coat.
Vespera returned to his side, now once more in the guise of a black-clad maid. Her posture was perfect. Her eyes unreadable.
"It's done, young master," she said softly.
Charles didn't speak.
He simply raised his head toward the night sky, where no stars shone.
Then he exhaled.
Long. Heavy.
"Let's hope... his wife sleeps peacefully tonight."
And together, they walked away.
Leaving the house behind—
and the scent of blood that would never wash away.
---