The air filled with the metallic scent of fresh blood mixing with the alley's earlier stench of garbage, while faint steam rose from the warm remains in the cool shade.
[Come in; this is Kurt.] [Kurt]
[Agent Kurt, what is the situation?]
[The small time gang members have nothing to do with the Monster cult. They probably used their emblem and terms for fun.] [Kurt]
[Roger that… And about their state of being?]
[Naturally, I killed them.] [Kurt]
[Good. Report back to base then.]
The mental call ended with a faint, almost imperceptible click in Kurt's mind, leaving behind a sudden, heavy silence in the narrow alley.
He stood motionless for a long moment among the scattered, cleanly severed remains, the metallic tang of fresh blood thick in the cool, shadowed air.
Broken glass from distant storefronts and the faint hum of traffic on the main road beyond the brick walls felt distant and irrelevant now.
Kurt released a slow, tired sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire afternoon, his shoulders dropping slightly as the tension from the chase and the swift execution finally eased from his frame.
He began to stew in his thoughts, his dark eyes narrowing as he stared at nothing in particular, the gruesome scene at his feet barely registering anymore.
Who were those two women?
The question turned over and over in his head like a persistent shadow he couldn't quite shake.
The dark-haired one had eyes like a red starry night — cosmic and completely unexplainable, glowing with depths that no normal human should possess.
He doubted anyone ordinary could even perceive those strange stellar patterns swirling within them.
She had moved and spoken as if she were only newly arrived in their world, her reactions to everyday threats and customs carrying an innocent cluelessness that felt almost alien.
Everything about her suggested she didn't fully belong here yet, as though she had stepped through some unseen veil only recently.
Then there was the purple-haired woman.
She had shown no real fear of the weapons pointed at her, not even when gunfire cracked through the mall.
That lack of panic meant she might possibly not die from being shot at all — a thought that sent a quiet chill down his spine even now.
She had been terrifying in her casual confidence, those violet eyes flashing with something far colder and more dangerous than simple heroism.
They held a depth that spoke of power held barely in check, the kind that could unravel a person with a single glare or a whispered threat.
She resembled the character that criminal author Chris wrote about in his novels — the one with the same striking violet hair and that unmistakable blend of playful energy mixed with sudden, icy menace.
But she had denied it so calmly, claiming she didn't know who Dragon Lord Ryu was or anything about the story.
Kurt suspected she was lying.
Her mannerisms, the way she carried herself, even the exact shade and bounce of that ponytail — everything matched the description of Chi-chi in the story too perfectly to be coincidence.
If he hadn't stepped in at that critical moment and deactivated her spell, he wondered what she had truly wanted to do.
It certainly wasn't anything as merciful as simply skinning someone alive.
The intent behind her raised hand and darkening gaze had felt far more final, far more destructive.
Like something that could have painted the entire mall in blood without a second thought.
Nonetheless, the case continued.
Kiyoshi Rin remained the least suspicious person in their group, which was why the organization currently kept fewer eyes on him compared to the others.
But personally, Kurt believed the entire Kiyoshi family — even the parents living quietly in Nara — were all deeply anomalous and deserved the highest level of surveillance watch.
Every one of them carried secrets that didn't sit right with the normal order of things, secrets that could unravel carefully maintained balances if left unchecked.
He sighed heavily, for he wanted nothing more than to take a nap right now.
The exhaustion from the day's events pressed down on him like a physical weight, making the cool, blood-scented alley feel even more oppressive as he stood there alone with his thoughts and the silent evidence of his work.