—"Raphael… A few days ago, I found this… near your mother's body."
Lyra's voice was as light as a passing breeze. She held out a small, glimmering object: a silver necklace. Under the room's dim light, the intricate pattern engraved on the pendant seemed to glow with an eerie beauty—so exquisite it sent chills down the spine.
At first, Raphael only glanced at it out of politeness—until his eyes landed directly on the necklace. In that instant, the world stood still.
His face went pale, lips pressed tightly together. His eyes widened—not out of surprise, but because of some unnameable emotion.
—"…This necklace…" Raphael echoed, as if whispering to himself. His hand trembled slightly as he took the delicate item. His eyes remained locked on it, breath so slow it was almost nonexistent.
—"You've seen it before, haven't you?"
Lyra studied his expression closely, her voice soft as a feather drifting onto still water—cautious and careful.
—"No… no, I haven't."
The reply came too quickly. The words were clear, but his voice wavered—stammering like a child caught in a lie. And his hand—his hand clutched the necklace tightly, as if afraid someone might snatch it away.
Lyra didn't press further. She looked at Raphael for a moment, then quietly turned away.
—"Alright… I'll be heading back to work now."
The door shut. Her footsteps gradually faded.
The room fell into silence again. Cold, biting silence.
Only Raphael remained—frozen, like a statue buried beneath time. In his hand was the silver necklace, gleaming faintly with a light from the past—a light only he could see.
And then, it shattered.
The memories surged back—fast, forceful, and painfully clear.
—"Raphael… I don't feel safe letting you go to this meeting."
A delicate boy sat at the edge of the bed, slender and small. His eyes were as clear as an autumn stream. Soft hair framed his face, falling gently across his forehead, and his lips pressed together in honest worry.
—"Don't worry so much," Raphael sat beside him, his voice like spring wind—warm and soothing. "I'll be back soon."
A gentle smile. A kiss on the forehead. As always.
—"Wear this necklace," Julian said, taking it off from around his own neck. "I want you to keep it… as a good luck charm."
His hands trembled as he fastened it around Raphael's neck, but his eyes sparkled—that special kind of light reserved only for the one you love. Pure, unwavering light, as if love alone could shield against every misfortune.
Raphael remembered it all—the warmth of Julian's fingertips as he adjusted the chain, how delicate his touch was, how he looked at Raphael like he was everything.
—"Alright," Raphael had said then, "I'll take your good luck charm with me. Julian… I'm going now. Goodbye."
Just before he stepped out the door, he heard Julian's soft voice behind him:
—"Come back soon… I'll be waiting."
The memory faded.
Raphael snapped back to the present.
His breathing was ragged. His chest tightened.
—"Julian…"
He whispered the name, voice hoarse, as if it had been etched into his soul.
—"It can't be him… It can't be…"
The words repeated—fragile, trembling—from somewhere deep within the ruins of memory.
A bitter smile curved on Raphael's lips.
It was not the smile of the living—
but of someone trying to survive long after the most beautiful parts of life had died.
He clutched the necklace, gripping it so tightly that his fingers turned red.
The air froze.
And in that room, only the sound of broken breathing remained—
the quiet gasp of a heart rising with unspeakable pain.
———————————————————
—"Hey, Atropa… What do you know about the Aconite plant?"
Jimson Snake's voice slipped through the dimly lit room, where the only light came from an old desk lamp. He sat with his back turned, posture lazy and languid, yet every word he spoke cut through the air like a blade grazing bare skin. His voice wasn't loud, nor soft—it was just right. Right enough to weigh down the darkness like a murmured curse.
Atropa paused, momentarily caught off guard by what seemed like a casual question.
—"…Aconite? That's the poison Boss is so fond of… but I don't know much about it," he replied respectfully, his tone slow and cautious, like a man stepping through a minefield of Jimson's moods.
Jimson didn't turn around, but Atropa could sense a smile.
A crooked one.
Not friendly. Not joyful.
The kind of smile one wears when recalling a memory… lethal in its beauty.
—"It has many names," Jimson said. "Monkshood. Wolfsbane. Queen of Poisons. But no matter what you call it… it's still a sweet little murderer."
His voice slid across the room like a chill draft, calm and haunting.
He lifted his left hand—glove removed. Long, slender fingers flipped open an old folder filled with botanical sketches and chemical diagrams. Dark, dried sap still clung to his nails.
—"It kills quietly… but elegantly. Just a small amount of aconitine alkaloid, absorbed through the skin or ingested, and the heart begins to misfire… until it stops. No marks, no mess. The police'll chalk it up to cardiac arrest or sudden arrhythmia."
Atropa's brow creased slightly. His skin tingled—not from fear, but from the chilling serenity in Jimson's tone.
Jimson tilted his head toward a clear glass jar on a shelf. Inside it, a bluish-purple flower was beginning to wilt. Its delicate petals remained eerily intact, as if preserved from some long-dead season.
—"It's not just poison. When properly refined and dosed, it's a painkiller… a treatment for rheumatism, joint pain. But that's just a disguise. What makes it truly special… is that it brings death with grace."
Jimson turned slightly—just enough for half his face to catch the light. That face: hauntingly beautiful, too still, too cold. And his eyes—deep, endless, like an abyss that had learned to stare back.
—"That's why," he said slowly, "I don't waste it on just anyone. A plant like this… should only be used for those who are worthy. Someone special… or someone who doesn't deserve an ordinary death."
Atropa flinched. Just a little.
Not from the words—but from something else.
The air had shifted.
This wasn't just a lesson in toxicology anymore.
It was a warning.
Or a requiem. For a death yet to come.
—"…Boss, are you planning to use it on someone?"
There was no reply.
Jimson simply closed his eyes and smiled.
This time, the smile was softer.
But it carried something bitter. And mocking.
The lab fell silent.
The light seemed to recede, swallowed by the thickening dark—until it felt as though the room itself, Jimson himself, and even that fleeting smile… had all become one with the night.
————————————————————
Lucian's mansion was shrouded in darkness, the storm outside raging like a fury unbound. Thunder rumbled violently through the sky, its echoes resonating against the thick glass windows. And yet, within the grand room on the top floor, a gentle warmth lingered—soft and serene, a stark contrast to the chaos beyond the walls.
Aaron had long since drifted into slumber within Lucian's embrace, his peaceful face resting against the other man's chest. Each breath he drew was quiet and steady, almost melodic. Under the dim golden light, strands of his soft hair fanned out over the pillow. Lucian gazed at him in silence, his fingertips lightly brushing Aaron's cheek, as if he were afraid to break a fragile dream.
Rrring.
The sudden illumination of the phone screen cut through the quiet like a blade.
Lucian turned his head slightly, his sharp gaze sweeping over the message that had appeared. His eyes, cold as a frozen lake in winter, narrowed.
He didn't rise right away.
Instead, he gently lifted Aaron's head and placed it back onto the pillow, carefully tucking the blanket around him, mindful not to stir the sleeping man. Then, as though sealing the moment, Lucian bent down and pressed a kiss to Aaron's forehead—a touch so soft, so tender, it seemed almost foreign coming from the man known in the underworld as a cold-blooded king.
Lucian's footsteps made no sound as he left the room, walking down the carpeted hallway with the storm's tapping fingers on the glass his only companion.
When the door to the study clicked shut behind him, three figures were already waiting inside. None spoke. Not until Lucian took his seat at the head of the room, his glacial stare sweeping over them. Then, one of the men stepped forward and bowed respectfully.
—"Sir Lucian," he began in a clear, steady tone, "we've confirmed… that on that night, Jimson Snake was seen heading to…"
Lucian closed his eyes and leaned back, one hand tapping lightly against the armrest. He was calculating. Or perhaps… restraining his fury.
Under the pale golden light, a strand of rain-soaked hair clung to his shoulder—cold, like the ominous thoughts threatening to spill from the depths within him.
Outside, the rain showed no sign of stopping. The wind howled in waves, as if trying to tear the night apart.
EndofChapter22.