POV: Michael
The night air in Fortuna carried a calm that felt artificial.
Michael moved past the iron gate of the orphanage, steps slow and quiet. The laughter of children had faded hours ago, replaced by the occasional shuffle of robes on stone and murmured prayers drifting from chapels nearby.
He stopped at the edge of the courtyard.
There it was again.
A flicker at the edge of his senses—soft, distant. Like embers beneath ash. Weak, but not untraceable. Not human.
Demonic.
His eyes shifted toward the orphanage windows, wide and arched, glowing faintly from within. A soft warmth spilled from them—candlelight, maybe, or cheap electric fixtures. He didn't look for long. Just enough.
Inside, sitting alone in the common room, was a boy.
Pale. Small. Maybe seven or eight years old. White-haired. Thin arms wrapped around his knees as he sat by the window, staring out into the dark courtyard. Not playing. Not speaking. Just… still.
Michael narrowed his eyes slightly.
That was him.
The aura wasn't aggressive. Not awakened. But it was there—coiled deep and waiting. A sleeping storm in the shape of a child.
He stepped back, eyes drifting up toward the neighboring chapel. Its tall doors stood open, golden light spilling onto the front steps like spilled honey. Lanterns flickered from within.
Michael turned toward it and walked slowly.
Inside, his footsteps echoed through an empty nave. The walls were stone and stained glass—cool, silent, hallowed in appearance if not in purpose. Candles burned low in tall stands beside a statue of Sparda, arms lifted in passive benediction. The scent of incense lingered like memory. Bitter, old.
Michael's eyes rose to the vaulted ceiling. Scenes of Sparda's victories stretched across it—cast in faded paint and heavenly halos.
'For an order devoted to hunting demons,' he thought, 'they sure canonized one quick.'
He kept walking until he spotted movement near the back.
A woman stood by a wooden podium, folding a stack of blankets. Mid-thirties, dressed plainly in gray robes. No jewelry, no excess—only a small brass pin marking her as one of the Church's caretakers.
She looked up when she noticed him.
"May I help you?" she asked, polite but watchful.
Michael gestured casually toward the orphanage wing. "The boy. White hair. Sitting alone."
Her posture shifted slightly. Not alarmed. Not exactly surprised either. But guarded.
"Are you interested in adoption?" she asked carefully, eyes flicking from the hilt of the sword at his back to the pistol holstered beneath his coat.
Michael gave a quiet breath of dry amusement. "No."
She didn't smile.
He stepped closer. Calm. Measured.
"Who are his parents?"
Her hands didn't stop folding. Her voice didn't rise. "His mother brought him to us when he was still a baby. She comes back sometimes. When she can."
Michael tilted his head. "From the city?"
"No. She passes through. Never stays long. A few hours. Sometimes less." The woman paused, then added, "She… works on the road."
Michael's eyes narrowed slightly. "A prostitute."
The caretaker gave a slight nod, not embarrassed by the word. "She never gave another name. Just left the child in our care. We don't ask more than we're told."
"And the father?"
The woman's hands stopped moving.
"That's harder to say. She didn't name him. Said he wasn't from here. That he came one night and was gone before dawn."
Michael studied her expression—flat, calm, honest.
She didn't know.
She truly didn't.
"She said he wasn't someone she expected to see twice," the woman finished.
Michael's arms folded across his chest as he leaned back against one of the chapel's pillars.
'If she doesn't know... then neither does the kid. Not yet.'
The caretaker followed his gaze toward the common room windows.
"He's quiet," she said softly. "Good with the little ones. Never lashes out. But…"
She trailed off for a moment.
"There's something in him. Like he's waiting. Watching. I've worked here for twenty years, and I've seen hundreds of children—but him? He never forgets a face. Never forgets a word."
Michael said nothing.
The woman looked back at him. "And you? You're not from here either, are you?"
He paused near the archway leading out of the chapel, one hand brushing lightly against the frame.
"No," he said. "Just passing through."
Then he walked out into the night.