The faucet ran in a thin silver stream, splashing softly against the ceramic sink. In the quiet of the Kazama kitchen, the sound felt strangely loud tonight—steady, repetitive, like it was trying to fill the silence Luke had carried upstairs with him.
Sora stood over the dishes with rolled sleeves and tired eyes, her fingers moving on habit rather than thought. Warm water slid over porcelain, over chopsticks, over the faint sting of detergent against her skin.
Then her hand stopped. Near the edge of one white plate, diluted by the running water, a pale streak of red spiraled slowly toward the drain.
Sora looked at the blood, she knew it wasn't hers or Miku's—it belonged to the son she gradually was losing. The thought of it made her heart ache.
Before that thought could fully take root, she twisted the faucet completely open. The sudden rush of water swept over the pink streak, erasing it from sight.
Sora scrubbed the porcelain aggressively, her hands moving with a frantic, desperate precision. Her fingers clamped hard against the rim. "It's just a cut Sora, it's nothing," she told herself, squeezing the ceramic until her knuckles turned white, fighting the urge to let it shatter against the sink.
Slowly, the running water washed the suds away, leaving the plate completely spotless.
But the kitchen felt colder now. She turned off the faucet, dried her hands on her apron, and looked up toward the dark staircase—quietly accepting the weight of her son's lie.
Upstairs, the room was silent except for the slow rhythm of Luke's breathing.
Moonlight spilled through the gap in the curtains, casting pale silver across the floor and the edge of his bed. Luke lay motionless beneath the sheets, one arm resting over his eyes as if trying to block out a world that refused to leave him alone.
The phone near his pillow vibrated once—soft, weak, then still.
For a moment, the veins beneath his left arm pulsed faint violet beneath the sleeve of his tracksuit before fading back into the dark.
Between the warmth of home and the cold of the Morningstar estate, Luke Kazama slept suspended somewhere in between, like the Holy and Demonic pillars within his soul.
The foyer of the Morningstar estate was filled with silence, deafening enough to hear the chandelier sing.
The golden stain on the wool kept blooming through the place, leaving veins of Luke's presence near the landing.
The amber light of the chandelier spilled over the gold mark as if it was stealing the dignity of the manor. Vera stood before it, wearing a white night gown along with the ruined blazer draped over her body. The burn on her palm pulsed through her glove—slow, deliberate and impossible to ignore.
She slowly reached for it. Not to erase, but to feel the little part of him that was left.
Her fingertips met the gold spot. A warmth ran up her body, the burn in her palm pulsed—only for a fraction, her heart pounded like it had found something.
But it was still empty. Without him.
"Why? Why do I feel this?" Vera whispered, her voice desperate. Her fingers were still on the rug, but she knew—it still couldn't bring him back.
Creak
The door slowly opened.
Vera's head snapped toward the door. The movement was quick. Too quick, as if she was hoping her Vassal came back to her. Her eyes, filled with expectation, were still on the entrance.
A familiar figure stepped inside, but not the one she was longing for. It was just Vianne.
"You're looking at the door like he'll come back, when we both know he's not," Vianne stated as she walked in wearing a magenta t-shirt with her uniform skirt, holding her blazer, shirt and tie in her right hand.
Vianne tossed her uniform aside on a nearby armchair, walking towards Vera, who was still looking at the door.
"Luke-kun made it in one piece, mostly," Vianne sighed, stretching her arms. "But…," she continued as she knelt beside Vera, "that woman with him, probably his Mom. She felt… different."
Vera raised an eyebrow at Vianne's words. She didn't look at her, but she was curious.
"What do you mean by that, Vianne?"
"I can't quite put my finger on it," Vianne mused, "but when she was closing the curtains I felt her gaze… it made my demonic energy silent. It was like looking at a graveyard."
Vera remained quiet for a long moment, the amber light of the chandelier catching the sharp, dangerous curve of her mouth. She didn't pull her fingers away from the gold-stained carpet. Instead, she pressed harder, letting the residual warmth sting her burned palm.
"A graveyard," Vera murmured, her violet eyes flashing in the dim foyer. "How fascinating. It seems our little Apostle has been keeping secrets from his Queen."
She stood up slowly, pulling Luke's ruined school blazer tighter around her shoulders like a stolen cape. She turned her back to the door, looking up the grand staircase.
"Let his mother keep her silence for tonight, Vianne," Vera commanded, her voice dropping into a lethal, quiet confidence. "But tomorrow, we'll begin digging up the graves."