The graveyard was silent, bathed in the dim, golden hues of dusk. A lone figure stood before a weathered headstone, dressed entirely in black. He towered over the grave, his presence casting a long shadow across the stone.
In his gloved hand, he held a bouquet of roses—deep red, their petals rich with color even as the light faded. Kneeling slightly, he placed them gently at the base of the headstone, fingers lingering for a moment before he straightened.
"The world is round, dear," he murmured, his voice smooth yet edged with something colder. "They're here. In this city. I can feel them."
His gaze drifted upward, eyes half-lidded as if listening to something just beyond reach. A slow breath. A quiet certainty.
"Their holders are nothing—just ordinary people clinging to things they don't understand. Taking the relics will be effortless."
The wind stirred, rustling the grass, but he remained still.
"Then, we will be together again."