Bleeding keys

"Hey, Hana. Go heal his wounds," Kana said, stretching lazily.

A small, timid girl shuffled forward, fidgeting with the hem of her cloak.

"E-errm... h-humm... may I... um... p-please... t-take care of your... ah... hand..." she stuttered, barely getting the words out.

"Of course," Naoya said, smiling like losing a hand was just a normal Tuesday.

"Tch. You just got your wrist chopped off and you're still grinning like that?" Sinclair muttered, flipping her blood-knife between her fingers.

Hana placed her small hands over Naoya's wrist. A soft glow lit up — faint lines of mana moving through her skin, showing the activation of her healing stigma.

It wasn't flashy, but the bleeding stopped almost instantly, and the wrist started patching itself up neatly.

"Nothing at all," Naoya said with another grin. "I was just thinking about what kind of fun Belita must be having... with the Boss."

Bruce blinked.

Wait.

Belita?

"Hold on... Belita's here?" he blurted out.

"Obviously," Kana shrugged. "She's one of us."

Bruce's brain short-circuited.

Since when?!

Belita... that strict, scary maid... with them?!

Before he could even finish processing, the atmosphere shifted.

---

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Clink... clink... clink...

Everyone turned.

Even Kana and Sato, who usually looked bored out of their minds, straightened up a little.

The metal door creaked open slowly, as if the air itself was holding its breath.

A tall figure stepped inside.

He wore a long, ash-gray coat that brushed the floor, and a wide-brimmed hat shadowed most of his face. Only a faint glint of his eyes could be seen from under the brim — sharp, merciless, and ancient, like he had seen things no one else had survived.

Bruce felt a chill crawl up his spine.

Who... is this guy...?

His instincts screamed louder than ever — danger, overwhelming danger.

The man's steps were calm, unhurried, yet somehow every footstep felt heavier than thunder.

He stopped right before Bruce, looming over him.

Then, in a voice so casual it made the words ten times colder, he said:

"Unfortunately for you...

We're the bad guys."

The moment the words left his mouth, the room seemed to get even darker.

Even Sinclair, who usually acted cocky, silently tightened the grip on her blood-knife.

Bruce's mind went blank.

Bad guys?

What the hell is going on here...?!

---

"Yay! The Boss is here!"

Sinclair's voice was bright and bubbly as she sprinted across the room, arms outstretched, trying to throw herself into the man's embrace like an excited child.

He didn't even look at her.

He stopped.

The room felt like it dipped several degrees in temperature. Every breath after that grew heavier.

"...I smell blood."

Sinclair's steps stuttered. Her smile dropped instantly.

"W-Well, Boss, you see… the thing is…"

Her hands wrung together, the rest of her words evaporating under his gaze.

WHAP!

She didn't even see it coming.

A slap from nowhere—no movement, no wind-up—just a sudden crack of impact that flung her sideways like a broken doll.

Sinclair hit the cold stone floor with a gasp, her cheek instantly turning red, her eyes wide with confusion and pain. There had been no gesture. Just pressure, as though the air itself had turned against her.

"What have I told you," the Boss said flatly, "about wasting blood?"

Sinclair blinked fast, trying to fight back the sting in her eyes. "...I'm sorry, Father…"

Bruce, still chained to the stretcher, grimaced. "You bastard."

The Boss calmly pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his coat and held it over his nose like a man offended by the stench of rot.

"Sinclair. Is he the one?"

Still on the floor, Sinclair slowly pushed herself up on trembling arms.

"Y-Yes, sir…"

The Boss turned to Bruce, his hat shadowing most of his face.

"I'm going to kill you. At high noon."

His voice was soft, oddly pleasant.

"Which is exactly two hours from now."

Bruce clenched his teeth. "You're out of your damn mind. Let me go."

"And why should I?"

The Boss pulled a chair beside Bruce and sat down comfortably, as though he had all the time in the world. One leg crossed, arms resting easily.

"Where's Belita?" Bruce barked.

The Boss exhaled slowly through his nose. "The puppet you mentioned? Already broken."

Bruce's breath hitched. "Where is she?! What did you do to her?!"

He struggled against the chains, the metallic clinks echoing in the room.

"Not even a question about your brother. How cold."

"Minato will end you."

The Boss only laughed, loud and wild, like thunder rolling over a battlefield. When he finished, he leaned forward just slightly.

"Sinclair. Has the blood been collected?"

She nodded shakily, still on her knees. "Y-Yes… Father…"

WHAP!

Another invisible strike. The sound of flesh meeting force again filled the air. Sinclair was flattened to the ground, a sob escaping her lips before she could stop it.

"Call me Boss in public," he said. "'Father' is for when we're alone."

She clutched her cheek, broken, trembling. "Y-Yes, Boss…"

"The key."

With slow fingers, she reached into her jacket and pulled out a gleaming silver key. It shimmered with an eerie crimson sheen.

"Forged from his blood…" she murmured.

The Boss took it like a king receiving tribute.

"Naoya," he called.

A figure appeared from the shadows.

"Lock him up with the puppet. And take this to Lovee. Tell Ajax I'll be up shortly."

"Understood."

Naoya bowed and disappeared, the key vanishing with him.

As the door creaked shut, Bruce hissed through clenched teeth.

"Whatever you freaks are planning... Minato's going to rip it all apart."

The Boss smiled.

And beside them, Sinclair trembled on the cold stone floor—hit not by a hand, but by a force that felt like God's own judgment.

---