As the Night Parade unfurled in all its ethereal glory, a young man sat on a weathered bench in the park, surrounded by the quiet rustle of trees. The crimson glow of the blood-red moon bathed him in a surreal light, casting long, wavering shadows across his figure. His brush moved with fluid precision across a canvas, creating a stunning image of the celestial festival before him.

The man’s jet-black, shoulder-length hair framed his pale face, and his piercing blue eyes locked intently on the scene before him. His attire was simple, a black-and-blue striped shirt beneath a worn black apron splattered with paint streaks. Despite being very much alive, his gaze reflected an unsettling depth of knowledge and understanding, as if he could see far more than the mortals bustling just beyond the park’s edge.

On his canvas, he painted the Night Parade, yet his palette was a stark contrast to the vibrant hues of the festival. He worked only with shades of blue, his strokes capturing the beauty of the astral floats, the falling feathers, and the drifting fireflies in a haunting monochrome.

Pausing briefly, the man tilted his head, his lips curling into a faint, almost bitter smile. “So, the traitorous son is active tonight,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, as though speaking to no one and everyone at once. His brush froze mid-stroke as he gazed skyward. “Oh, Michello. I wonder what chaos you shall sow.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as though burdened by a thought too heavy to bear. “I truly despise that child,” he said softly, the edge in his tone sharp enough to cut. “To be so abundantly gifted by our lord, yet so easily lured by falsehoods. Such a waste of grace.”

The young man returned his focus to the canvas, his brush gliding over it with a renewed intensity. The strokes were bold and deliberate, yet they seemed almost melancholic, as though he were pouring not just skill but also grief and disdain into the image. The painting became a vivid, albeit somber, portrait of the Night Parade—its joyous revelry transformed into a haunting tableau under his skilled hand.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the heart of the Night Parade, Arthur and Emelia wandered through the festivities together. The glow of the festival illuminated their faces, and the jubilant laughter and music surrounded them like an embrace. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the oppressive weight of their existence seemed to lift, replaced by a fleeting sense of wonder and peace.

Arthur leaned his head back against the tree's rough bark, the distant sounds of the Night Parade fading into the background. The vibrant hues of the festival seemed far removed from the weight of the moment, the crimson glow of the blood moon casting an eerie light on the two of them.

He took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the ground. “I’ve been avoiding telling you how I died,” he began, his voice low and trembling. “I’m sure you’ve already figured it out, but…” He paused, his hands curling into fists as he mustered the courage to continue. “I killed myself.”

Emelia’s breath hitched, her hands tightening slightly on her lap. Her lips parted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Finally, she managed to ask, her voice laced with a fragile vulnerability, “Can you tell me why…? Was it because of me?”

Arthur’s head shot up, his eyes meeting hers. He hesitated momentarily, the weight of her question pressing down on him like a vice. “No,” he said firmly, though his voice cracked with emotion. “Your death… it wasn’t the reason. It was the first domino, though. After you… everything just got worse. And not having you there for any of it… it made everything so much harder.”

A single tear rolled down his cheek, glinting in the moonlight before falling away. His voice wavered as he continued, “I felt like I was drowning, Emelia. Every day, it got harder to breathe and harder to see any way out. And then… I just stopped fighting.”

Emelia’s heart clenched at his words, guilt twisting in her chest despite his assurances. Without a word, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. Her fingers trembled as they pressed against his back, and she whispered, “I’m so sorry, Arthur. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

Arthur froze for a moment before he relaxed into her touch, his own arms wrapping around her hesitantly, as though he feared she might vanish. “It’s not your fault,” he murmured, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “None of it was your fault.”

“I wish I could’ve stayed,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I wish I could’ve been there for you. I’m so sorry… Please, Arthur, tell me more. I need to understand.”

Arthur pulled back slightly, his eyes red and glistening as he met her gaze. He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Arthur’s voice trembled as he recounted his memories, each word laden with raw pain and bitterness. “The grief… it consumed me. Losing you, Emelia, was like a piece of me was ripped away. I thought that was the worst of it, but somehow, life kept finding ways to break me further.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, his hands gripping his knees as if grounding himself. "The bullying at school—it got worse after you were gone. It was like they could smell my vulnerability, like predators sensing wounded prey. Every insult, every shove, every cruel laugh—it drove me closer to the edge. I thought I was losing my mind."

Arthur’s gaze grew distant, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But even that wasn’t the worst of it. My dad… his drinking spiraled out of control. It was always bad, but after you were gone, after everything, it became unbearable. I found out he’d killed a teenager in a drunk driving accident years ago. And, of course, his buddy—a lawyer—got him off. I wish he’d gone to jail that day. Maybe things would’ve been different."

His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles turning white. "He’d always been violent, but after he lost his job and the booze became his best friend again, the violence escalated. He’d hit me, hit my mom… more than I can count. One night, he pushed her down the stairs. She broke her arm, her ribs—she could barely move for weeks. I was the one taking care of her while he sat there, guzzling down another bottle like nothing happened."

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Arthur’s voice cracked, his eyes filling with unshed tears. "I couldn’t take it anymore, Emelia. I snapped. All the fear, the anger, the helplessness—it boiled over. One night, I grabbed a knife… and I stabbed him. Again and again, until he didn’t move."

Emelia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as tears streamed down her cheeks. "Arthur…" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Arthur shook his head, his expression a mixture of guilt and despair. "And that wasn’t even the end of it. That damn angel—Veritas, fed off my despair, amplified every negative emotion until I felt like I was suffocating in it. I thought I could escape it all. I thought maybe if I ended it, I could find some peace. So I climbed to the school roof and tried to throw myself off."

His voice broke entirely, and he squeezed his eyes shut, the tears finally spilling over. "But I didn’t even get that right. Instead of dying, my body was stolen. Veritas took everything from me—my life, my pain, my identity—and left me as this."

The weight of his confession hung heavy in the air, the distant sounds of the Night Parade fading into an almost haunting silence. Emelia reached out, her hands trembling as she cupped Arthur’s face, forcing him to look at her.

"You went through all of that," she said, her voice choked with emotion, "and you’re still here. You’re still you, Arthur. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. But I’m here now. We’ll face this together."

Arthur leaned into her touch, his tears mingling with hers as they sat under the haunting crimson glow of the blood moon. The ethereal light cast an almost surreal aura around them, the vivid reds and golds making the world feel both alive and suffocating.

"Can you tell me who did it?" Arthur asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching hers. "Who killed you? Do you know?"

Emelia’s gaze faltered, her hands trembling slightly as she gripped his. Just as she opened her mouth to respond, the air seemed to shift. A cold chill swept over them, and both turned their heads toward a scene that froze them in place.

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. Standing across the park was himself—or rather, Veritas. The angel wore his stolen body with an air of arrogance, his purple eyes glinting in the moonlight. Beside him stood a girl, and Arthur immediately recognized her. Long hot pink hair cascaded down her back, contrasting sharply with her pale, almost ghostly skin. Her cold gray eyes were void of emotion, like mirrors reflecting nothingness. She wore a long black dress adorned with fake black flowers, the petals seeming to drink in the crimson light. Two hair ornaments resembling thorny vines rested on either side of her head, completing her unsettling appearance.

The girl clung to Veritas’s arm, her body language brimming with a twisted sense of devotion. Her grip on him was possessive, as though she feared he might vanish if she let go.

Arthur’s voice broke the silence, sharp with confusion and unease. “What’s the damn angel doing with our classmate… isn’t that Maria?”

His words were met with silence. Then he turned to Emelia, noticing her sudden rigidity. Her wide, tear-filled eyes were locked on the scene before them. Her entire form trembled violently, her hands clutching his as though he were the only thing anchoring her to reality. If she could have vomited, Arthur was sure she would have.

“No… no,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear. Tears poured down her face, soaking into the fabric of her sleeves as she desperately tried to look away, but her gaze refused to shift.

Arthur’s heart pounded, alarmed by her reaction. “Emelia, what’s wrong?” he asked, his worry growing with each passing second.

Her voice came out shaky, barely audible, but her words hit like a thunderclap. “That’s… that’s the girl who killed me.”

Arthur’s blood ran cold. His eyes snapped back to the girl standing beside Veritas. Maria. The girl who had seemed so ordinary, so unassuming, in life now exuded an aura of darkness that set every nerve in his body on edge.

He turned back to Emelia, his own fear overshadowed by the sight of her pain. “Emelia…” he began, his voice heavy with sorrow, but no words could bridge the chasm that opened between them at that moment.

Maria—the girl who had taken everything from Emelia—stood there, alive, clinging to the monster who had stolen his body. The night that had promised fleeting joy now felt like it had been consumed by a deeper, more sinister darkness.

“Oh my, what an interesting development,” Michello’s voice broke the heavy silence, his tone dripping with amusement. Arthur and Emelia turned abruptly, startled as Michello tumbled out of the tree they were sitting under, landing with a theatrical flourish. He dusted himself off casually, his ever-present grin stretching wider. “I’d wager Veritas knows exactly what she did. If anything, I’d bet he amplified whatever hatred she had for you, just to make her do it. Such a delightful twist, don’t you think?” He chuckled darkly, as though recounting a particularly entertaining story.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Emelia stammered, her voice shaking as she momentarily forgot the chilling sight of Maria and Veritas. “And why were you in a tree?”

Michello waved her questions away with a lazy hand, his pink eye glinting mischievously. “Such questions are irrelevant, my dear. The important matter at hand is this, tonight, I shall hunt an angel.” He tilted his head, his chainsaw hanging loosely at his side, the blade glinting ominously in the crimson moonlight. “There are two in this park, but only one of them is the thief who stole my friend’s body. At no extra charge, I’ll even chop the limbs off that Maria girl. Consider it a bonus.” He flashed them a thumbs up, as though offering a neighborly favor.

Arthur’s stomach churned at Michello’s casual tone, his unease growing with every word. “Won’t you suffer some kind of divine retribution if you do this? Especially on a night like this?” he asked, his voice edged with both worry and disbelief.

Michello threw his head back and laughed, a rich, unrestrained sound that echoed through the park. “Divine retribution? Oh, my naive young lamb, I’ve been courting divine wrath for years!” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve angered every other part of the world, from demons to every government agency on the planet. Why, I even killed two of Santa’s reindeer once. Poor old Saint Nicholas has been trying to kill me every Christmas since.” He straightened, his grin now bordering on maniacal. “If divine retribution hasn’t caught me yet, what’s one more act of defiance?”

Arthur and Emelia exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and resignation. Michello’s chaotic energy was impossible to ignore, and his unrelenting confidence in the face of cosmic consequences was somehow both terrifying and oddly reassuring.

“Now then,” Michello said, lifting his chainsaw with a theatrical twirl. The blade roared to life, its guttural hum filling the air with a sense of impending violence. “Let us begin the hunt. Shall we?”