The Drowned dreadful past

The spring wind carried an eerie tune as it whistled through the trees, rustling the leaves above and scattering petals along the forest floor. The chill of the night clung to the air, sending an involuntary shiver down Belial's spine. The scent of damp earth and distant firewood mingled with the floral undertones, making the atmosphere feel both tranquil and heavy. The wind howled through the gaps in the branches, whispering secrets from an unseen past, as if the forest itself was eavesdropping on their conversation.

The moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting fragmented shadows across the clearing. Each flickering movement of the leaves sent eerie patterns shifting over Cassidy's face, making it hard to read his expression. He leaned against the trunk of a towering oak, arms crossed, his face turned away from Belial. His usual casual smirk was absent, replaced by a quiet heaviness that pressed down on the space between them like a stone. It was a kind of stillness Belial wasn't accustomed to, one that made the hairs on his neck rise.

A long, uncomfortable silence stretched between them before Cassidy finally spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Believe it or not, mon ami," Cassidy began, breaking the quiet, his voice low and distant, laced with something akin to sorrow. "I was part of Vague Noire, a crime organization."

"Believe it or not, mon ami," Cassidy began, breaking the silence, his voice low and distant, "I was part of Vague Noire, a crime organization."

Belial frowned. The name meant nothing to him, but Cassidy's tone carried a weight that sent a chill up his spine. He knew what a mob was—enough to understand that Cassidy wasn't talking about some street gang. This was something darker, something that left scars beyond the surface.

Cassidy glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "Ever heard that name before? Vague Noire?"

Belial shook his head slowly.

Cassidy chuckled dryly. "Didn't think so. They weren't the kind of people you read about in papers or hear about in taverns. They were shadows, Belial. Shadows with teeth."

Belial shifted uncomfortably, the hair on the back of his neck rising. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the rest. But Cassidy didn't seem to care whether he did or not.

"This all happened eleven years ago," Cassidy continued, his gaze drifting into the distance. "I was seventeen then, young and stupid. Thought I could take on the world. In Le Milieu, I was their golden boy. Renowned. Feared. If you had a problem, I was the one to make it disappear. No questions asked."

Belial studied Cassidy, trying to reconcile the man standing before him with the cold, calculating figure he described. Cassidy, who always had a sly remark or an infuriating grin, now seemed like a stranger.

"What happened?" Belial asked, his voice cautious.

Cassidy hesitated for a moment, then exhaled sharply. "An accident. A job gone wrong. There was a woman—an innocent woman—caught in the crossfire. She wasn't supposed to be there, wasn't part of the plan. But plans don't mean much when bullets start flying. She died, Belial. Just... gone."

The words hung heavy in the air, as oppressive as the night itself.

"It wasn't your fault," Belial said quietly, though even he wasn't sure if he believed it.

Cassidy's laugh was bitter, cutting. "Doesn't matter. In Vague Noire, fault doesn't matter. Responsibility does. And when you're the one in charge, everything is your responsibility. Her death? That was on me. At least, that's what they decided."

Belial clenched his fists, anger bubbling in his chest. He had seen Cassidy face impossible odds with a grin on his face, had fought alongside him in the darkest moments. To think of him being treated as nothing more than a scapegoat filled him with rage.

"So, what did you do?"

Cassidy's jaw tightened. "I turned myself in."

Belial blinked, caught off guard by the confession. He had expected a tale of revenge, of Cassidy fighting his way out of the mob's grip. Not this.

"You turned yourself in?"

"Yeah." Cassidy's voice was quieter now, tinged with something Belial couldn't quite place—regret, perhaps, or resignation. "I couldn't take it anymore. The lies, the blood, the guilt... it was too much. So I walked into the lion's den and laid everything bare."

Cassidy frowned. "And that's when I met Adrian Carter."

Cassidy's lips twitched into a humorless smile. "You remember him, don't you? We ran into him after the Guild Wars. The guy who threatened to rip us apart if we stepped out of line."

Belial shuddered at the memory. Adrian Carter wasn't a man you forgot easily. His presence was like a storm, suffocating and unpredictable. The thought of Cassidy facing him alone was almost incomprehensible.

"I didn't know what to expect when I confessed," Cassidy said, pulling at the collar of his shirt. "Judgment, maybe. A bullet to the head if I was lucky. But Carter... he didn't kill me. He did something worse."

Cassidy fully unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the tattoo sprawled across his chest. Belial leaned in, his breath catching as he took in the intricate design.

It was a vertical scale, perfectly balanced. On one side sat a golden skull, its surface shining as if it had been forged from sunlight itself. Opposite it was a dull, faded skull, its edges cracked and crumbling. Surrounding the scale were flowers—some vibrant and blooming, others wilted and decaying.

"This," Cassidy said, gesturing to the tattoo, "is Carter's handiwork. He called it The Scale of Retribution."

Belial's eyes widened. "What does it do?"

"It's his ability," Cassidy explained, his voice hollow. "A living symbol of judgment. The golden skull represents life—the lives I save, the good I do. The other..." He tapped the fading skull. "The other represents death. Every sin, every life I take, drains it further. The flowers grow or wither based on the balance."

Belial stared, equal parts horrified and fascinated. The idea of carrying such a mark, of having one's guilt and redemption laid bare for the world to see, was almost unimaginable.

"Carter gave me a choice," Cassidy continued. "Face execution or carry this. Live every day with the weight of my sins, knowing that the scales might never tip in my favor. I chose the tattoo. Thought I could handle it."

His gaze turned cold. "But living with this? It's worse than dying. It's a constant reminder that I'll never be free."

Belial swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. The Cassidy he thought he knew—the confident, carefree fighter—was gone. In his place stood a man haunted by his past, marked by a curse that would never fade.

"What about Vague Noire?" Belial asked finally, desperate to break the silence.

Cassidy's smirk returned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Gone. Carter made sure of that. Burned them to the ground, one by one. By the time he was done, there wasn't even a whisper of them left."

Belial should have felt relieved, but something about Cassidy's tone sent a chill down his spine.

"If they're gone, then why are you still here?" Belial asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Cassidy didn't answer immediately. He stared into the distance, his expression unreadable.

"Debts like mine," he said finally, his voice cold and distant, "don't end with fire."