When Lanling arrived at the empty cottage, he was met with disarray—a fallen stool, scattered brushes, and splashes of paint.
But it was the jarring red consuming nearly half the canvas that made his chest constrict. It felt as if his own blood had been spilled.
He turned sharply, throwing open doors, his eyes scanning every corner—once, twice, a third time, then a fourth.
Haruki was nowhere to be seen.
No matter how many times he looked, he didn't reappear.
Cold dread seeped into his veins, his body poised to bolt—until something caught his eye.
A ball, shifting slightly from the tremor of his steps.
His breath hitched.
He scrambled forward, nearly crawling, before slowing to carefully pick it up with trembling hands.
It had been activated.
And as the nightmare that haunted his sleep took shape before his eyes, his shoulders sagged, his body sinking to the floor.
The ball rolled from his loosened grip.
A few tears slipped down, darkening the red of his robe.
