When he was released, Staan's first thought was of the young woman who had assaulted him. If her strength hadn't posed a risk of injuring him, the desperate look in her eyes had deeply touched him: he knew he had worn the same expression when the woman's sister had been taken from him. Only later did he think about all his plans, rendered obsolete by his two days of incarceration, and sighed at the task that awaited him. A sigh that brought a smile to his face, imagining what his friends would have said to him, he whose past works had been on a cosmic scale.

Updating the schedules for each of his itineraries, calling to reschedule or refund his tickets, all of this took him three days. Sometimes, he wondered about the underlying reason behind the visit of the Demon Prince, but most of his mental wanderings generally ended in a Celestial War, something he would have noticed the signs of long ago.

When he finalized the correction of his plans, Staan stretched and looked for his clock. He then took a few seconds to observe the rest of his abode. If he never returned from Hell, this place would have no reason to exist; the symbol of his presence here would fade away, dissolve in time. He, who had sought to minimize his impact on the human world, now wondered about the trace he would leave behind. Smiling at the paradox, he convinced himself that he could not leave without saying goodbye to the people who had helped him establish himself here. He grabbed his coat, his keys, and left his apartment heading towards a certain café in town.

Near the tavern, he recognized a familiar face sitting at a table, deep in conversation with the barmaid. Without a word, he passed under a pair of inquisitive glances. Barely had he crossed the stone arch when a gruff voice called out to him: they never thought they'd see him again. Happy to see him again, Franck welcomed him with great hugs and then questioned him about the reason for such an absence. While making sure not to reveal too much, Staan still delivered a shortened version of the recent events, ending with his plans to return home. No surprise from the owner, who revealed that he had always known he would eventually leave. "You should tell Carmen, I think she would appreciate it. Give them time to finish talking; it won't take more than five minutes." Yet, judging by the intensity of their conversation, Staan predicted that it might take much longer and then asked the man how he knew the duration of the conversation so precisely. Adamant, the proprietor replied that it was a very simple thing: Carmen's break would end in five minutes. Sharing a smile and a coffee, the two men parted ways, and Staan went to sit on the terrace with his order. The newspaper entrusted by his friend remained closed; after all, he was going back to Hell; human affairs no longer concerned him. He preferred to etch the memory of this place in his mind: every bump, every knot of every plank; the sound of footsteps on the floor and the mental map of creaking areas; the flickering light of the bar, interrupted by the passage of customers. As he detailed the scene, he saw the friend of the waitress get up, approach, and stop in front of him.

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"Good evening.

— Good evening," he replied cordially.

— Am I bothering you?" she asked, visibly uneasy. "I would like to talk to you, if you don't mind.

— No, go ahead," he encouraged her with a gesture. "Take a seat.

— Well." The woman gathered her courage with a deep breath before continuing. "I really wanted to apologize. Despite everything that happened, and although you knew my sister, I never really introduced myself: my name is Abigail. Rossi, you probably guessed. That's it. I apologize again for what happened during the interrogation; I wanted to... Well. I know it doesn't change what happened. I was under pressure, stressing myself out a lot, I had spent a week looking for you without success, and then I find you, bring you back, and they deny me the interrogation. Your notebook, the drawing of my sister... I cracked. I know it's a poor excuse, but I... I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry.

— Nice to meet you, Abigail," he greeted her with a tolerant smile. "My name is Staan Fleruci. Although I still remember your formidable right hook, know that I didn't hold it against you. Your superiors explained to me the complexity of the situation, and I sympathized with your position. I accept your apologies.

— Oh? Ok, but uh... Is that it? I mean... That's good!" stammered the now-named Abigail, evidently relieved. "I thought, with the hits, you would have filed a lawsuit for police brutality. You would have been right, huh! But I'm still glad that's not the case! I really wanted to apologize, and it was a bit of a gamble to wait for you here.

— No one could discourage me from frequenting these places, don't worry," he reassured her. "As for the anger that led you to act like that, know that I sympathize. I know how difficult it is to recover from losing a brother, or in your case, a sister.

— On that note..." hesitated his interlocutor. "I would really like to understand why there was her portrait in your notebook. And then how you met and if she had told you her story... In fact, I would like to talk about her with you. Not necessarily now, I doubt I'm good company today. It's Carmen who gave me the idea, but what do you say to a dinner? To make amends, properly.

— It's... Unexpected," admitted Staan. "But gladly.

— Tomorrow night, would that work?" she suggested. "With the pressure of my indictment, I won't be in the mood until I have the final decision.

— I didn't know about your punishment. I'm sorry to hear that.

— There had to be consequences for my actions. What would the police be with such impunity?" Abigail smiled, bitter. "So, okay for tomorrow?

— With pleasure.

— Let's say..." she thought. "Do you see the restaurant, Place de la Major? We say twenty o'clock?

— I'll be there," confirmed Staan.

— I have to go, but thank you," insisted Abigail, shaking his hand vigorously. "Thank you for letting me make amends.

— Come on, it's only natural," he dismissed. "What kind of being would refuse to give a second chance?"