Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Attack Of Rosa Noctis (I)

“Close the door behind you,” King said, voice low but sharp.

The soft click of the lock echoed like a gunshot in the still room. Overhead, the single light buzzed faintly, casting a pale yellow glow over the deep mahogany desk and the worn leather folder now resting at its center.

King’s fingers hovered.

Then he opened it.

The scent of old paper and ink rose up—aged, faintly metallic. Like secrets soaked in blood and time.

A smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

He knew it.

He knew James Azal wasn’t just some overqualified teacher with dead eyes and a spotless file. He’d said it from the beginning—no one that quiet was ever truly harmless.

And now?

Now he had proof.

A photo. Grainy but clear. James Azal standing next to Thomas Thorn. Timestamp: six years ago.

The smirk faded. His lapis eyes darkened.

“So,” he muttered, fingers curling tighter around the page, “Thomas Thorn isn’t dead.”