Fiona's head jerked up, her eyes wide and she whispered back, her voice cracking. "What does that mean? What did you feel?" her gaze back to Damon, her brow knitting together as she rubbed her temples. "How come you could see the source of the scream, while I could only hear the scream alone?"
Damon waved his hand slightly, dismissing the technicalities. "Do not bother too much about the process for now," he whispered. Then, his eyes narrowed as he looked back toward the tavern door. "But aside from hearing those metal sounds from Ryan, it seems those two girls from the bar are somehow linked to your vision."
"We should approach them," Fiona suggested.
Before they could formulate a plan, the heavy timber door of the bar swung open, and to their surprise, the very same two girls walked out into the alleyway. The moment they spotted Damon standing under the faint light, their eyes lit up. His tailored, historic style was striking.
"Excuse me," the tall girl said, stepping forward with a wide smile. "We couldn't help but notice your outfit inside. Your dressing is just like that of old-time nobles! Could we possibly take a picture with you?"
Damon offered a charming, effortless smile, stepping forward to oblige. The tall girl quickly passed her phone over to Ryan. "Could you take a picture for us, please?"
Ryan took the phone without a word, stepping back to frame the shot. The two girls flanked Damon, posing with bright giggles, followed by the shorter one handing over her own phone for a second picture. Once the flashes faded and the phones were returned, the girls bid them goodbye, turning their attention briefly to Fiona.
"Good luck at love, honey," the shorter one said with a knowing wink, assuming the dramatic scene inside had been a lover's quarrel.
Fiona stood frozen, completely embarrassed and speechless as the girls waved and disappeared around the corner toward the main street. Once they were completely out of sight, Fiona let out a long breath and looked at the two men. "Well... it seems fate has made things easy for us."
Meanwhile, across the county lines in the secluded hills of Columbus, a very different kind of craftsmanship was underway.
Down in the suffocating dampness of the limestone basement, Bill was hard at work. The unconscious lady remained chained flush against the concrete wall, her lard-white skin stark under the harsh halogen bulb. With a heavy, specialized blade, Bill was busy tearing away the first layer of skin from the upper thigh of her right leg. He worked with a unusual focus and precision, carving out a substantial piece before carefully placing the harvested tissue into a wide ceramic bowl.
The bowl was already filled with a clear, volatile chemical. As the skin submerged, the solution reacted, breaking down the cellular structure until the liquid began to take on a thick, gelatinous form.
Bill stirred it methodically, mixing in a handful of coarse wool and warm water. Finally, he added a measure of fine, gray powder from a jar on his shelf. The powder dissolved instantly, converting the entire mixture into a smooth, heavy gel.
Picking up a wide painting brush, Bill dipped it deep into the gel. He turned to the unfinished midnight-blue velvet coat hanging from a wooden rack and, with slow, rhythmic strokes, began to paint the inner aspect of the fabric.
He applied the prepared glaze evenly. As soon as the inner surface gave a perfectly smooth, seamless look, he stepped back, hanging the garment on a heavy wooden hanger not far from his workbench.
A grim smile crept across his weathered face. He picked up a basin of remaining warm water, walked over to the well, and poured it directly onto the raw, torn flesh of the lady's thigh.
The sudden heat pulled the woman instantly into consciousness. Her head thrashed, her eyes flying open in absolute panic as a searing, unrestrained burning sensation flared across her leg. She looked down at the missing skin, and a scream of unadulterated horror ripped from her throat.
As if he had predicted the exact timing of her awakening, Bill reached out without looking and turned the dial on his antique radio, increasing the volume of the orchestra music. The booming symphonic horns and heavy strings swelled through the cavernous space, completely swallowing her wails.
"You won't be alone anymore," Bill said softly to the weeping woman, his voice a flat, delighted murmur. He turned his back on the pit, picking up his linen cloth as he walked away into the dark corridors of the basement, thoroughly satisfied with the evening's work.
The change of the season was felt not in the temperature, but in the sharp, dry smell of old paper and dust that settled over the university blocks. Days passed in a tight, shrinking rhythm, the casual atmosphere of the early semester contracting as the first-year examinations drew closer. The lecture halls, once noisy with the scattered chatter of students who still believed they had time to waste, grew quiet, filled instead with the rhythmic, frantic scratching of pens and the low hum of anxiety that always preceded the winter curfews.
It was the weekend, but the campus did not sleep. It merely held its breath.
Since that rainy evening outside the "Library Relief", the relation of the quad had subtly altered. Fiona no longer sat alone in the third row of the history seminars, nor retreated to the safety of her dormitory floor as soon as the bells dismissed the classes.
She was always there, a slight, presence hovering within the heavy Ryan's back and Damon's antique elegance.
To the casual observer, they looked like an improbable trio—their eyes filled with grievance, the wealthy student with the cast of an noble class, and the frantic biomedical student whose sleeve was occasionally stained with dry ink or salt.
This constant proximity had not gone unnoticed. In the crowded dining halls and the narrow corridors of the science annex, a few of the sophomore girls watched Fiona's inclusion with a bitter, silent jealousy, their whispers dying down into sharp glares whenever the three of them crossed the limestone plaza.
But it was Caleb who found their sight to be a truly bitter thing.
Standing by the heavy stone pillars of the student union, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, Caleb would watch them pass with a dark, twisted scowl that he didn't bother to hide.
To him, they were no different from a fraud, the wealthy foreigner was an intruder, and Fiona... Fiona was something that didn't belong in their ledger anymore. Every time he heard the faint, distant scrape of their chairs or saw the way Damon elegantly held the door for her, the muscle in Caleb's jaw tightened.