Emil
A small, empty room. Pitch-black. Silent.
The air, chilly, seeped into his back, crawling along the lines of his spine. Emil sat on the floor. Trapped. Unable to escape. There was nothing to do in an empty room deprived of his senses. At the very least, he tried to cling onto his sense of time by counting the seconds that elapsed.
Once he reached the sixth digits, however, he gave up. His mind was trembling on the verge of insanity. The lack of sensory stimuli drove him mad. Wisp-like, formless projections began to manifest before his eyes. They were always there, persistent, ever-present—even if he closed his eyes. At some point, he could no longer tell if they were hallucinations or just the byproducts of his strange reality.
Disembodied voices also echoed in his head. He had no idea what they were saying. The string of words sounded hollow, muffled, more like a garble of noises than any coherent language.
None of it mattered to Emil. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he could hear another person’s voice instead of his own insane thoughts. It was torturously comforting.
A dim candle suddenly illuminated the room. Emil winced. The formless projections in his vision dissipated, retreating to the edges of his periphery before vanishing—as if they were being vanquished by the cleansing light. His ears rang, humming with a shrill pitch. The disembodied voices stirred, angered.
An adult body was sprawled behind the candlelight. They were gagged, bound by rope, their eyes concealed by a black cloth. Their frame suggested that it was a man. A steel collar was coiled around his neck, baring the insignia of the crown. As Emil’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a black “X” marked across the man’s forehead.
They were an inmate of the state. Sentenced to death.
How did they get in here? Emil sifted through his memories for answers. It didn’t help. He was too drunk on the precipice of madness. The sensory deprivation messed with his mind. He had no recollection of when the inmate was tossed into the room. They could have been here the entire time for all he knew.
He eventually noticed a knife implanted onto the ground before him. A single note was attached to the blade’s end.
“Here’s your reason,” it wrote. The edges were stained in blood. The ominous message jogged his mind. Right, he was sent here for disobedience. The witch wanted to teach him in killing techniques for the next stage of his training. He stubbornly refused, adamant that he won’t take a life unless he had a compelling reason to do so.
Here’s your reason.
The witch’s condescending voice echoed in his head. He could see her sadistic sneer, mocking him for his naïve stance. The implication here were clear—if he wanted to leave this hell, he had to kill the man before him.
The disembodied voices shrieked. They raged with a deafening bellow, screeching ravenously once he acknowledged the note. Although their words remained incoherent, Emil understood their intent. It wanted him to kill.
The presence of the dim candle restored a part of his senses. He could acutely feel the droop in his eyes, melting into his orbital sockets. The snag of his skin. The grimy coat of oil that clung onto his body. His brain reverberated within the confines of his skull—exhausted, yet pulsating with excitement at the prospect of leaving.
Emil stared at the handle of the knife. He then turned to his target. An inmate of the state. On death row. In other words, a treacherous bastard. A scum of the earth. The worst of the worst.
The witch made it easy for him to decide.
Here’s your reason.
Emil smirked with a look of resignation. He grabbed the handle of the knife. It felt absurdly light in his hands. The incongruity was unsettling—how could such a small tool so effortlessly end a person’s life?
He approached this target. His eyes narrowed. The voices in his head squealed in delight, cackling in anticipation.
He could finally leave this torturous room.
All he needed to do was plunge the knife into his victim’s throat.
***
Emil opened his eyes. Incandescent lights flickered above. His nose furrowed, assaulted by the nauseating smell of antiseptics. Sterile walls flanked him from all sides.
A familiar place.
It only took him a second to realize that he was in a medical house owned by Steiger. These establishments were spread across Ardair, hidden in plain sight, built for the sole purpose of providing rapid medical response to Steiger Cleaners on the field. This was the handiwork of the witch aimed at improving the survival rate of her indentured slaves.
He grimaced, suddenly struck by a violent headache. The entirety of his body was still shaking—a visceral reaction born from his earlier nightmare. That was a memory that I didn’t need to relive.
His ankles wobbled as he hopped off the bed. His left leg was still weak after his fight against Decim. The rest of his body was covered in bandages. His final recollections of the Nostra facility were vague. He remembered he confirmed Decim’s death before rushing to drag the surviving orphans out of the burning wreckage. He must have passed out shortly after.
The door to his room clicked open. Emil raised his head, expecting to see a medical staff. Instead, it was a face that instantly made him grimace.
“Well damn, you look absolutely overjoyed to see me, Emil!” It was Van. His obnoxious voice resounded across the sterile room, defiling the sanctity of the space.
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“How are you feeling?” he asked with a stupidly wide grin as he glanced up and down Emil’s body.
“Terrible,” Emil replied flatly. Everything ached and throbbed. The pains lingered with persistence, refusing to dissipate, as if his body was wrapped in a scalding blanket. Even breathing was uncomfortable.
Without warning, Van leaned in and pushed out his hips in an exaggerated fashion, making a mockery of the seductive poses done by prostitutes in the entertainment districts. “How about after seeing your dear Van?” he said in a disgusting voice as he blew him a kiss.
I’m going to puke.
“…Now I wished someone had gorged my eyes out,” Emil said, visibly disturbed, “Actually, no. I should have just died. What’s the point of living if I have to wake up to see this horror?”
“Ahahaha!" Van howled in delight, "I'm so glad that you still have a sense of humor!”
No, but I was being completely serious.
“Seriously though, I’m happy you’re still alive,” Van said, suddenly dropping his frivolous tone. He reached out and gave Emil a firm pat on the shoulders. “I just gave Hortensia a run-down of the mission outcomes. We recovered most of the Azurite and eliminated the remaining Nostra members in the area. All in all, this was a resounding success.”
Emil brushed his hands away. “What about the children that were working in the facility?”
“Hortensia had them moved to an affiliated orphanage. The plan is to evaluate their potential after they’ve rested up. Those who are deemed capable will be inducted into Steiger.”
The last sentence made Emil shudder. His throat burned. All the horrific experiences that he went through during his training flashed across his mind in an instant.
“Emil, I understand your feelings on the matter. But—” Van’s eyes narrowed. His usual flippant attitude vanished at the flick of a switch. “—Steiger isn’t a charity. This isn’t an organization with unlimited resources. They must be pragmatic about this. The fact that Hortensia was willing to offer these orphans a chance to make themselves useful is already intervening more than she should.”
“And that’s the damn problem,” Emil snapped. It took him a moment to realize his jaws were clenched. His hands were balled in fists, digging deep into his blood-stained palms.
***
He was discharged later that day. The medical staff wanted him to stay for another night, but being confined to a bed basking in the stench of antiseptics was too much for Emil to bear. And frankly, he missed Mia and Raz. This mission had already stolen too much of his time.
Emil pulled his hood over his head and trotted out into the streets of Lower Dannan. The medical house was located at the outskirts of the industrial district—not too far from the tavern where Mia worked. The sun was on the precipice of the horizon, beaming blood red as twilight descended upon the land.
It’s quiet. Too quiet. It was the end of the day. There should have workers roaming about.
Paranoia gnawed his mind. He quickened his steps. The low drawl of the blast furnaces continued to blare in the background. Plumes of smoke rose from the array of workshops and facilities lined along the district like ink blots against a canvas of brilliant red.
Maybe it’s just a long workday? Emil frowned. He hoped he was just being overly cautious.
The tavern that he currently called home finally came into sight. At a glance, everything looked normal. As he got closer, however, he noticed a couple of anomalies. The ground before the doors was unusually messy. Shards of glass littered the vicinity. Broken bottles in sight.
Fuck. Emil rushed in.
The inside of the tavern was chaos. Tables were flipped over. Chairs smashed. Traces of food and booze smeared the walls and doors. Broken plates and scattered utensils were everywhere.
A group of thugs were crowded at the back. They had machetes and knives in hand. A wicked grin plastered on their disgusting faces. Their eyes were wide with savage glee as they slowly closed in on someone as a group.
It was Mia. She was cowering. A knife was in her hand as she desperately tried to fend them off.
Emil saw red.
***
MIA
Mia staggered backwards. Her legs teetered. The knife felt uncomfortably loose in her hands as she stared dumbfounded at the scene before her.
Another intruder suddenly appeared. In a flurry of attacks too fast for her eyes to follow, the five thugs that ransacked the tavern were immediately downed. They crashed into the floor, bleeding and foaming at the mouth, seemingly unconscious. Mia gulped, unsure if the new arrival was friend or foe.
“Mia, are you alright?” the intruder asked. Mia froze at the sound of her name. Who is this? As if realizing their suspicious appearance, the intruder slowly pulled back the hood concealing their face. Disheveled black hair flopped onto their head. Their eyes were wild and intense, betraying the intellectual gaze dwelling in the bluish pupils. Scars and fresh burn marks sullied their boyish face. It took Mia a second to recognize him.
“E-Emil?” she whispered in shock. She couldn’t believe her eyes. When was the last time I saw him fight? She sifted through her memories, unable to recall a single instance except for that day four years ago when their safe haven was destroyed.
She couldn’t reconcile this version of Emil inside her head. The person in front of her radiated the sharpness of a dangerous, battle-hardened warrior.
What have they done to you? Her eyes trembled, unable to imagine the hell he must have endured to become…this. It suddenly dawned on her. Four years had passed and she still had no idea of what he was doing to bring money in to keep them afloat. All she knew was that he was frequently absent and often in pain once he returned home. Whenever she tried to ask, Emil always stubbornly shut her down.
He took a step towards her. Mia instinctively flinched. His savage violence was still fresh on her mind.
“S-Sorry,” Emil mumbled.
“…It’s fine. I’m fine. They didn’t touch me,” Mia said, trying to pacify his rage. The terrifying glare in his face finally softened. Slowly, he began to look like his usual self.
“B-By the way, are they still alive?” she eventually found the courage to ask, grimacing at the thugs sprawled on the floor. The grisly aftermath of Emil’s rampage was horrific.
“Barely. But they’ll live,” Emil muttered dispassionately. He approached the unconscious thugs and grabbed each of them by the foot. Without mercy, he began dragging them out of the tavern.
***
“So, what happened?”
The two of them took a seat by the counter. It was the only place in the tavern that was relatively intact. Everywhere else was a ransacked mess.
Mia couldn’t help but notice the fresh scars on Emil’s face. Nasty welts and cuts smeared his cheeks. She saw bandages wrapped around his body from the few glimpses she caught beneath his cloak.
That should be my question. She chewed on her lips, fighting to push down the emotions threatening to erupt. The sight of Emil’s injuries was tearing her apart.
“…The local gangs in the area are getting rowdier. It started a couple of days ago. We weren't the only ones that have been attacked,” Mia explained, “There are rumors that the three syndicates in Lower Dannan are all under pressure. They were the ones apparently keeping all the smaller gangs in check. Without their presence, everyone started to do whatever they wanted.”
Mia caught the briefest of shock flash across Emil’s eyes. So he had something to do with it. She quickly changed the subject, knowing that he would feel guilty for indirectly putting her in danger.
“Raz is getting better by the way. The medicine you brought is working.” She tried to reassure him with a smile.
“That’s good,” he muttered. News of Raz's recovery seemed to have eased the tension on his mind. Emil’s head suddenly slumped onto the countertop. In just a few seconds, he was fast asleep.
Mia stared at him longingly as the tears she had been holding back stormed out.
A cauldron of emotions escaped her chest. Relief that Emil was back. Fear over the instability plaguing Lower Dannan. Pain at Emil’s suffering. Helpless that she couldn’t do any more to alleviate his burden.
Please tell me, she sobbed, wincing at the needles prodding her heart, what else can I do to help him?