Shura didn't move.
Osiris knelt there.
Still alive—
but wrong.
His face, which had always been controlled like a locked mechanism, was breaking apart in pieces Shura couldn't understand.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Something deeper.
Like the body reacting before the mind could explain why.
"…Stabli—"
Osiris tried to speak.
The sentence never completed.
A pause stretched between them.
Too long.
Too unnatural.
Then—
A drop of blood fell from his left eye.
Followed immediately by the right.
Thick. Dark.
Not like injury.
More like something leaking out that should never have been inside in the first place.
Thud.
Osiris's body dropped to one knee.
Shura's breath broke.
"…What happened?"
His voice cracked louder than he intended.
The sound bounced off the narrow walls and came back wrong—too sharp, too alive in the dead room.
"WHAT HAPPENED? RESPOND!"
He moved instantly.
Knees hit stone.
Hands reached out—
then stopped mid-air.
Frozen.
Osiris's words from earlier echoed inside him.
Don't touch me again.
Shura's fingers trembled.
For a second, they didn't know what to do.
"…I don't care," he muttered.
And grabbed him anyway.
"Osiris!"
No response.
The boy's body was still warm.
But the presence inside it felt like it was fading in layers, not all at once.
The room shifted again.
Shura noticed it.
The cracks in the ceiling.
They weren't just cracks anymore.
They looked… longer.
Wider.
Like something was pulling them apart from the other side.
A cold thought formed in his mind without permission.
This isn't normal unconsciousness.
His grip tightened.
"…What do I do now…"
No answer came.
Only the faint sound of Osiris's breathing—
thin, unstable, almost artificial.
Shura looked at him again.
The blood from Osiris's eyes wasn't falling anymore.
It was disappearing.
Just… disappearing upward in thin, dark threads of smoke.
Shura froze completely.
"…What…"
He leaned closer.
The smoke wasn't rising randomly.
It was moving in patterns.
Like it was being pulled somewhere invisible.
His eyes narrowed.
"…This isn't injury," he whispered.
He tore a strip of cloth from the curtain.
Fast. Rough.
Wrapped it around Osiris's eyes.
The moment it covered them—
the smoke slowed.
Not stopped. But reduced. Controlled.
Shura stared at it for a second.
"…it works," he muttered.
He didn't understand it.
But he saw enough to know one thing—
this wasn't medical.
It was something different.
Osiris wasn't just hurt.
Something inside him had been triggered.
Shura placed a hand near his shoulder again—
then stopped himself.
He exhaled sharply.
"…Fine."
Carefully, he lifted Osiris.
Like carrying a body that hadn't decided whether it was alive or not.
Shura adjusted his grip.
"…Don't die," he muttered.
Not like a plea.
Like instruction.
He turned toward the door.
The wood looked thinner now.
Weaker.
Like it knew what was coming.
Shura stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
The room didn't stop him.
But it didn't let him leave easily either.
The air felt denser near the exit.
As if something was resisting the idea of Osiris moving outside.
Shura paused.
"…What is this…"
He tightened his hold again.
And pushed through.
The door opened with a slow creak.
Outside—
the corridor was darker than before.
Not because of light.
Because of perception.
Shura felt it immediately.
The city beyond wasn't just waiting.
It was unaware.
Or pretending to be.
He stepped out.
Cold air hit them both.
Osiris's condition didn't change—but the smoke slowed again, reacting to the environment shift.
Shura noticed.
Only observation.
He moved faster.
The narrow street outside was empty.
Too empty.
Not peaceful—just absent.
Even the usual background noise of the lower district felt muted.
Shura walked.
Then stopped.
His eyes scanned left.
Right.
No guards.
No help.
"…Hospital…" he muttered.
Then corrected himself.
"…Which direction."
Silence answered again.
Osiris's body gave no guidance.
Only weight.
Shura exhaled sharply.
"…Tch."
He adjusted his grip and started forward again.
Faster now.
His steps echoed against stone.
Too loud.
Too exposed.
But he didn't slow.
Because slowing meant thinking.
And thinking meant realizing he didn't understand anything happening in his arms.
Shura kept moving.
Fast now.
The street ahead wasn't empty anymore.
Footsteps.
Not random.
Coordinated.
He slowed slightly.
Three figures stepped out from the side passage.
Then five.
Then more behind them.
Not rushing. Not panicked.
Just… positioned.
Shura stopped.
His grip on Osiris tightened slightly.
"…Not now," he muttered.
No request.
Just acknowledgment.
The lead man stepped forward.
Eyes sharp.
Voice calm.
"Hand him over."
Shura didn't respond immediately.
His eyes scanned them once.
No uniforms.
No clear identity.
But their stance wasn't street-level either.
Organized.
Controlled.
"…Move," Shura said flatly.
The man didn't react.
"Hand him over," he repeated.
A pause.
"Now."
Shura exhaled once.
Slow.
"…I said—"
"Not a negotiation," another voice cut in from the side.
Two more figures stepped into view.
Shura didn't even turn fully.
He already understood.
Surrounded.
Clean formation.
No escape gaps.
But he didn't ask why.
Something in his expression shifted slightly.
Not fear.
Just… decision.
"…Take him," he said.
The lead man blinked once.
For half a second—
he hesitated.
Then he nodded.
Two of them stepped forward immediately.
Careful.
Controlled hands reached for Osiris.
Shura loosened his grip.
Slowly.
Not because he trusted them.
Because resisting didn't matter anymore.
Osiris was lifted from his arms.
Lightly.
Almost too efficiently.
Like they had done it before.
Shura stepped back half a step.
Still watching.
Still calculating.
"…If something happens to him," Shura said quietly,
"…I'll remember your faces."
No threat in tone.
Just fact.
The lead man didn't respond.
He adjusted Osiris's position slightly.
Then turned.
"…Move," he ordered.
The group shifted instantly.
Too synchronized.
Too fast.
Just… disappearing into motion.
Shura's eyes narrowed.
"…Wait."
He took one step forward.
"I'm also—"
But the sentence never finished.
Because they were gone.
The alley ahead was empty again.
As if no one had ever stood there.
Only silence remained.
Shura stood still.
His hand slowly lowered.
Empty now.
"…What's that," he muttered.
A pause.
Then—
he exhaled slowly.
But something in that exhale didn't settle.
It tightened.