Legacy's Wake

As the crushing gravity finally faded, releasing Trice, Desmond, and Ophelia from its relentless grip, an uneasy silence settled over the ruined terrain. The weight that had been pressing them down was gone, yet the lingering tension in the air remained. Adjusting her glasses with a composed motion, Ophelia exhaled softly through her nose, her expression one of quiet contemplation.

"They escaped once again," she remarked, her tone devoid of frustration but brimming with analytical scrutiny. "These pirates are proving to be exceptionally elusive. Just how many of them are we dealing with?" Her gaze drifted toward the path they had fled down, calculating their next move.

Desmond, ever composed, dusted off his sleeves before folding his arms behind his back and stepping forward. "We've expended enough energy pursuing them," he stated, his voice carrying an air of measured authority. "For now, we should regroup. We'll corner them when the opportunity presents itself. At this moment, however, I have a meeting to attend." With that, he cleared his throat, coughed lightly into his hand, and turned his back to them, walking away without further explanation.

Trice, who had remained mostly silent throughout the exchange, shifted his stance, the weight of suspicion evident in the sharpness of his posture. His eyes, hidden beneath his mask, narrowed as he watched Desmond retreat. His arms remained crossed, his breath heavy, exhaling through his nose in a scoff.

"A meeting, huh?" His voice carried an unmistakable edge. "And just who the hell are you meeting with?"

Desmond didn't stop walking, nor did he turn to acknowledge Trice's question. Instead, he simply raised a hand in a dismissive wave. "That's for me to know," he responded smoothly, his tone as unbothered as ever. "I'll return soon enough. Try not to get too impatient in my absence."

Trice clenched his teeth behind his mask, clearly displeased with the evasive answer. His fingers twitched slightly, itching to act on his irritation, but Ophelia—unfazed by Desmond's lack of transparency—adjusted the frame of her glasses once more.

"There is no strategic advantage in continuing the pursuit at this moment," she stated plainly, shifting her focus away from Desmond's departure and back toward Trice. Her voice remained as composed and professional as ever, devoid of emotion, purely logical. "Let them run for now. They will undoubtedly seek aid for that wounded girl. We will use this time to reposition ourselves accordingly."

Trice let out a breath, shaking his head. "Tch. Letting them go like that leaves a bad taste in my mouth." His fingers flexed in frustration before he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Still don't trust that guy either," he muttered.

Ophelia cast him a sidelong glance but offered no reassurance. Instead, she merely turned on her heel with a refined, deliberate stride. As she walked past him, she reached for the temple of her glasses once more, pressing them further into place.

"Trust is irrelevant," she replied coolly. "For now, we have more pressing matters to attend to. There are still pieces of this puzzle that require further investigation."

Without waiting for a response, she continued walking, disappearing into the distance, leaving Trice alone with his irritation, standing amid the aftermath of their failed pursuit.

Meanwhile, Nathaniel took it upon himself to thoroughly investigate the house they had been staying in—the very household that Hollow had provided for them. However, after uncovering the truth about his identity, none of them felt particularly comfortable remaining there any longer. Still, if there was more to Hollow's story than what he had told them, then the best way to find out was by digging through his own territory.

With that in mind, Nathaniel, along with the others, began combing through the house, meticulously searching for anything that might serve as proof or offer deeper insight into Hollow's connections. They examined every unlocked room, sifting through shelves, wardrobes, and cabinets, refusing to leave a single stone unturned. Even the doors that were meant to be locked weren't immediately dismissed—they tested the handles and checked for any possible way inside.

As Nathaniel remained laser-focused on the search, Elliott, who had been casually observing from the side, finally spoke up, his tone laced with skepticism. "Alright, man, seriously—what exactly are you expecting to find in here?" He stood with one hand buried in his pocket, watching as Nathaniel continued rifling through the furniture.

Without looking up, Nathaniel responded, his voice steady with purpose. "Something that can actually back up what Hollow claimed earlier. Remember what he told us? He said that the royal guards were working with him. Maybe not all of them, but at least one. If that's true, then there's gotta be something in this house that proves it—some kind of document, letter, or even a personal item that he kept hidden from anyone who might snoop around."

Determined to find anything useful, Nathaniel kept at it. He yanked open the small drawers on the nightstand, only to find them completely empty. He crouched down to check underneath the beds, dusting his hand along the wooden floor, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Frustration was beginning to creep in as he moved from room to room, each search turning up nothing but wasted time.

But just when he was about to consider moving on, he entered another room—one that, at first glance, seemed just as ordinary as the others. However, his sharp eyes scanned every inch of the space, and that's when he spotted something different. Nestled against the far wall was a wooden desk, one of its drawers secured shut with a metal lock. There was no key in sight.

Nathaniel straightened up slightly, his fingers running over the cool metal of the lock as his mind started racing with possibilities. "Take a look at this," he murmured, motioning Elliott over.

Elliott, who had been standing idly behind him, leaned in to get a better look before grinning. "Oh, now this has gotta be something juicy," he mused, his tone filled with intrigue. "I mean, think about it—why would you slap a lock on a drawer and not leave the key around unless there was something in there worth keeping secret?"

On the far end of Cascade Cradle, not too far from Dr. Hugo's mansion, Temoshí and Phoebe finally arrived at their destination—the place Stitch had mentioned. The towering iron gate stood before them, but instead of stopping to appreciate the craftsmanship or even considering knocking, Temoshí simply bent his knees, pushed off the ground, and vaulted over it with ease, landing softly in the yard.

Phoebe, still standing on the other side, sighed heavily and crossed her arms. "You do realize there's a perfectly good bell right there, don't you?" she pointed out, her voice laced with mild annoyance. "You know, the kind normal people use instead of breaking into private property?"

Temoshí, unfazed, kept strolling forward, his hands tucked casually into his pockets as he took in the surroundings. He wasn't interested in formalities—his focus was on the house ahead. Without so much as a glance back at Phoebe, he continued toward the main entrance, smoothly pressing his back against the outer wall as he crept along the side.

Peeking around the corner, he scanned the large window, his sharp eyes locking onto the dimly lit living room inside. There, sitting stiffly on the couch, was Stitch, her fingers gripping the fabric of her clothes as she kept a nervous eye on Chiaki's immobilized body.

"It's them," Temoshí muttered under his breath. He swayed his hand in Phoebe's direction, signaling her to climb over the gate.

She narrowed her eyes at him, her irritation only growing. "Oh, of course. Let's break in like a couple of common criminals. Great plan." Despite her complaints, she rolled her eyes, took a running start, and vaulted over the gate with practiced ease. Landing lightly, she jogged over to Temoshí, who was already standing at the front door, his knuckles poised against the wood. Without hesitation, he knocked twice.

Inside, Stitch flinched at the unexpected sound. Her heart pounded as she turned toward the door, suspicion tightening her grip on reality. At this hour? No one was supposed to be visiting. And in this part of the city? No one should be visiting. She had every reason to be wary.

Her mind raced. Could it be those royal guards? Marines? Someone looking for trouble?

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay calm. Instinctively, she reached into her casket, her fingers wrapping around a set of needles, preparing for the worst. The knocks came again, louder this time, more insistent. Her nerves screamed at her to run, but she gritted her teeth, steeling herself.

She took slow, measured steps toward the door, pressing her ear against the wood. No voices. No immediate threats. But that didn't mean anything.

Another knock.

That was it. She had to act fast.

Without a second thought, Stitch gripped the doorknob, inhaled sharply, and yanked the door open. "Back off!" she shrieked, thrusting her hand forward, the sharp tip of the needle aiming straight for whoever dared disturb her peace.

For a split second, everything was silent.

Temoshí didn't flinch. He simply leaned his head back slightly, effortlessly dodging the needle, his face blank with complete disinterest. His gaze flickered down toward the tiny weapon before shifting lazily to Stitch's trembling arms. His expression remained as nonchalant as ever, as if this was nothing more than a mild inconvenience in his evening.

Stitch, still gripping the needle tightly, hesitated as confusion overtook her initial panic. Slowly, she cracked open her healthy eye, blinking rapidly as her vision adjusted. Her breath hitched when she finally recognized who was standing before her.

"Temoshí?"

The sheer disbelief in her voice made him tilt his head slightly, as if wondering why she was so surprised. He casually reached up, guiding her hand away from his face with ease, and watched as the tension in her body melted into visible relief.

Stitch exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Damn it, I thought you were someone else! You didn't have to scare me like that!"

Temoshí, still unfazed, arched a brow. "I knocked."

Phoebe, who had been standing behind him with her arms crossed, let out an amused snort. "Yeah, genius, maybe knocking while also announcing yourself would've been the smarter move. You know, like a normal person?"

Stitch groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "You knocked like a damn assassin about to kick the door in. Who knocks that quietly at night?! I thought I was about to get murdered!"

Temoshí blinked. "Would a murderer knock first?"

Phoebe burst into laughter. Stitch just stared at him, mouth slightly open, at a complete loss for words.

With an exaggerated, almost cartoonish expression of disbelief, Stitch wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and shot Phoebe a confused glance. Her lips twisted slightly, and she narrowed her eye at the unexpected guest. "Hold up—why's she here? And more importantly, where was she earlier when we actually needed her?" she demanded, slipping her needles back into her pocket with a frustrated sigh.

Before Stitch could press any further, Phoebe casually stepped forward, reaching out to give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder, a smug grin already forming on her lips. "Oh, y'know, I'd love to give you some elaborate excuse, maybe make it sound all dramatic," she mused, tilting her head thoughtfully before shrugging, "but the truth is, I'm just a really heavy sleeper. No clue what went down earlier, but hey, at least I'm here now." She chuckled lightheartedly, as if that alone excused her absence, before shifting her gaze to scan the interior of the mansion with mild curiosity.

Meanwhile, as the conversation unfolded, Temoshí's sharp eyes flickered toward the grand staircase in the distance, where he quickly spotted a familiar figure standing at the top. Shanya leaned lightly against the wooden railing, her arms resting over the polished surface as she peered down at them with a puzzled expression. She raised a brow at the sight of the new arrival, her gaze shifting between Temoshí, Stitch, and Phoebe before letting out an amused scoff.

"Well, damn, Burnsy," she called out as she casually began descending the stairs, her steps slow but deliberate. "Didn't really need to go 'round givin' Stitch a heart attack like that. Coulda just said somethin' instead of knockin' like a damn horror movie villain."

Temoshí, as always, remained perfectly unbothered by the remark. He stood relaxed, his posture as effortless as ever, while he watched Shanya approach. His expression didn't waver, but there was a certain warmth behind his gaze as he looked at her. "I'm just glad you're safe," he said simply, his tone lacking any dramatics but carrying an undeniable sincerity.

However, his relief was short-lived as his attention quickly snapped toward the couch, where Chiaki's motionless form still lay. Without wasting another second, he moved past them, stepping toward her with a sense of urgency, his previous calmness giving way to silent concern. He crouched slightly, his keen eyes examining her condition, and just as he was about to ask what had been done to help her, Stitch took it upon herself to explain.

"Dr. Hugo," she began, but before she could finish, the man himself strode in from the adjacent room, his presence commanding yet composed. His gaze landed on Chiaki before shifting toward Temoshí and the others, his posture straight and professional.

"Administering an antidote was necessary to counteract the toxin I used on her," Stitch continued, gesturing toward the girl's still body. "It was the only way to keep her stable, to make sure—"

Before she could complete her explanation, Hugo smoothly picked up where she left off, his voice calm yet precise as he delivered the final assessment. "In simple terms, she'll live. The antidote was administered just in time—any longer, and the toxin would have begun breaking down beyond the point of reversal, inevitably leading to complete organ failure. It would've been a swift but absolute death." His tone remained clinical, but the weight of his words was unmistakable.

He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves before adding, "Additionally, I stitched the wound on her neck. There will be a scar, but she is fortunate. It could have been much worse."

Temoshí exhaled slowly, nodding in understanding as he processed the information, "You don't know how relieved I am. Thank you, Dr.". The tension in his shoulders lessened ever so slightly, though his eyes remained fixed on Chiaki. There was still a long road ahead, but at the very least, she had another chance.

To be continued...