Black curtains parted as a maid swept beneath the bar's wooden beams, her broom scraping against the sticky floor. A puddle of spilled beer darkened the wood near her feet, courtesy of a patron who had staggered past without a second thought. She sighed, stepping back to grab the mop.
The TrailingRose was a bar buried deep in the depths, infamous as a safe haven for hitmen, bandits, and murderers. Here, the damned could drink without watching their backs, celebrate their vices without fear of being ratted out, stolen from, or killed.
Laughter and shouting echoed through the room, a few patrons linking arms in a sloppy conga line. The air reeked of alcohol, sweat, and something darker—regret, perhaps.
But the Trailing Rose wasn't just a bar. It was more than a den of sin. It was a fine restaurant, and more importantly, it was home to something sacred.
A piano.
It stood off to the side, wrapped in chains bolted to the floor's wooden edges—an unnecessary precaution. No one dared touch it, not because of the restraints but out of sheer reverence.
This was, by all accounts, the last known piano from the old world. Preserved in a sanctuary for decades before finding its way here, it was an artifact, a relic of lost elegance in a place where refinement had long since died.
Then, a man stepped toward it.
The bar fell silent.
Every drunken gaze sobered. Every restless foot stilled.
The man's entire body was cloaked in black leather, his face hidden behind a thick mask. Silk gloves covered his hands as they hovered over the keys, his fingers wrapping gently around them—like an old lover reunited.
Then, he played.
SonataNo. 14, Moonlight.
Beethoven's masterpiece echoed through the bar, its melody weaving through the air like smoke, curling into every corner of the room. The audience swayed, their eyes glistening with something rare—genuine emotion.
He saw it.
The way their eyes sparkled, the way their ears twitched ever so slightly as the notes reached them. The way their noses burned as quiet tears slipped down their cheeks.
Humans were an abhorrent sight.
But this—this was the one part of them he loved.
Their innate, almost desperate love for music. Their gravitation toward something as masterful as Ludwig's work. He had often dreamed of a world where they could co-exist, where their appreciation for melody could bridge the chasm between them.
But no matter how much he wished, he knew it was impossible.
His fingers danced across the keys, a final flick of the wrist guiding the melody to its peak. His hands slowed, the last note ringing through the still air.
And then—silence.
The ones seated rose to their feet. The ones standing stepped forward.
Then, applause.
A chorus of clapping filled the Trailing Rose, a sound more powerful than any drunken cheer, any discordant brawl. Nestled deep within the depths, this place was a haven for the damned. Yet in this moment, it was something else entirely.
He loved this reaction to music.
His siblings could never feel this way. They saw no use for melody, no reason to sway, no purpose in listening. They couldn't comprehend the greatness encapsulated within a single piece.
He hated that.
But there was something he hated more.
Humans.
The clapping continued—smiles brightening the faces before him—until it stopped.
One by one, bodies collapsed. The first ten. Then the last.
The bar fell into silence once more.
Blood seeped through the wooden floors, dripping down to the foundations beneath.
He looked at the mess before him—dozens of corpses, the very same humans who had smiled, who had swayed to the sound of Beethoven's masterpiece.
Maybe if Ludwig had been born into this new world, if he had the privilege of witnessing its horrors and wonders alike, they could have been friends.
But alas, that wasn't the case.
Visca rose from the piano, stepping carefully over the chains as he made his way toward the bar. His shoes slapped against the bloodied floor, the crimson slicking against his soles.
"Where is Knox?" He spoke, voice raspy, rough.
Behind the counter, a maid stood, fingers stained red.
Ruge glanced up at him, her gaze lingering on the void-like mask that hid his featureless face. Slowly, she bent a knee, bowing. "Lord Knox has not yet returned from his stroll."
"Is that so." Visca's gaze drifted toward the bodies littering the floor. "And Jökull?"
"He's still locked up, sir," Ruge answered. "Though I'm not sure how long the chains will hold."
Visca finally turned to look at her. "What happened to the guards?"
"He ate them, sir."
A slow sigh left his lips. "Of course he did." He resumed walking, his pace unhurried. "Pack up the bodies and feed them to him. He doesn't move much when he's full. Just like a goddamn baby."
"Understood, sir."
"And Ruge," he added, hand tightening around the door handle. "Find Knox. Now."
"Understood."
The door clicked shut behind him.
The Trailing Rose once belonged to a man named Ymir Kovalchek—an entrepreneur who believed that even the scum of the depths needed a place to dine. He built a restaurant in the middle of nowhere, banking on the idea that if the food was good, hitmen and murderers alike would protect it out of self-interest.
Ymir's body was eaten by Jökull.
Visca strolled through the dimly lit corridors of the Trailing Rose, passing several rooms before stopping at one—the master suite. Inside, rare paintings adorned the walls, their presence heightening the large room to an even greater degree.
Visca couldn't see. If that wasn't already evident.
Neither could he smell. Nor feel.
For an ability as great as his, sacrifices had to be made.
He stepped further into the room, fingers gliding over the surface of a painting. Within his mind's eye, the world was outlined in stark blue, the details illuminated in a vivid, almost beautiful light. The paintings, however, were traced in red.
A counterfeit Mona Lisa.
A counterfeit Last Supper.
The original Starry Night.
Van Gogh's masterpiece unfolded in perfect clarity before him, the swirling blues and yellows vibrant in his mind's vision. A small smile tugged at his lips. Sometimes he wished a human were here, standing beside him, with the mere purpose of admiring the paintings as well.
But all the same.
A creak echoed from beyond the door, footsteps pressing against old wooden boards.
The handle cracked open.
Knox stepped inside, his figure bathed in the glow of candlelight. Draped over his shoulder, two bloodied strings dangled—Intestines.
"Where did you go?" Visca asked, turning to his younger brother. "I believe I mentioned that no one was to leave until I said so?"
"The others already left," Knox replied, voice light, almost childish despite his height. "Plus, I'm here now, aren't I?"
Knox's features were small and delicate, his face frozen in an eerie youthfulness. He dressed like a schoolboy from a British academy a century ago—plaid jacket, white inner top, matching shorts. His hair, dark and neatly trimmed, framed his face.
Still, despite his appearance, Knox was over twenty years old. At least, he should've been.
Visca sighed, stepping behind the large desk at the center of the room, sinking into the chair. His hands pressed against the polished wood.
"I suppose you are," he said.
Knox tilted his head. "So, what did you call me for?"
"Diamantis Harkkavel was captured by the humans." Visca said. "As much as I don't care for him, if he leaks certain information, our plans will be ruined. We can't let that happen."
A cough racked Visca's chest, dark blood splattering against the inside of his mask.
"This is what you get for trusting him over us," Knox muttered, arms crossing.
"Diamantis is part of this family," Visca stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Whether you like it or not."
Knox turned away, pouting like a child denied a treat. The intestines on his shoulder slid off, splattering against the floor.
Visca merely looked at the mess. "Again with dirtying my floors..."
"So?" Knox sighed, ignoring him. "What do you want me to do?"
"Before he was caught, Diamantis revealed something to me," Visca said. "There's an affected in New Haven. White hair, all white features. His mutation is small, but ever-growing."
Knox perked up, excited. "Another addition to the family?"
"Most likely," Visca confirmed. "Your task is simple—take a few of our siblings with you, storm the settlement, and find him.
Knox's expression shifted, his excitement fading. "I'd be taking them to their deaths," he muttered. "Why don't we just use humans? Like you did in Raval?"
"Without Diamantis, they'll die," Visca said. "His presence holds them together—that's why we can't do that."
"Should I bring him back too?"
"No." Visca shook his head. "Drakoulis will return soon. He can simply create another."
Knox's lips curled into a faint smile. "So I should kill him?"
Visca caught it but only sighed. "Yes. He's of no use to us anymore."
Knox chuckled, already turning toward the door. "Now you're talking. What about the humans in the settlement? Should I leave them be, or should I give them a glimpse of the future?"
Visca's gaze shifted to the Last Supper painting across from his desk. In it, Jesus predicted Judas's betrayal. But Visca never saw it as mere prophecy, instead he saw it as foreshadowing. A moment destined to unfold.
Just like death. A truth written from the moment of birth.
All he would do was reveal that truth a little sooner. It was his purpose after all. His predestined fate.
Visca sighed softly as he turned back to Knox. "Do as you please."
"Now you're talking," Knox chuckled, already at the door. He paused, fingers resting against the handle. "I wonder if I should let them run first. It's more fun that way."
He left before Visca could answer, whistling an old nursery rhyme as he disappeared into the hall.
Visca exhaled, his gaze shifting to the bloodied mess on his floors. "Children..." he murmured.