In a tailored black blazer, the gentleman's every stride through the expansive hall was a dance of elegance. His cane met the marble floor with rhythmic clicks, filling the stark white space with an acoustic tapestry. Underneath the jacket, a dark-blue vest framed a crisp white shirt, all punctuated by a bold red bowtie. A silver chain slung casually from his vest pocket, tethered to an intricate clockwork watch on the other end. Though he didn't glance at it, he sensed its ticking in sync with his increasing urgency. He picked up the pace, but broke no sweat nor decorum—a gentleman, after all, never breaks into a run.

As the towering double doors creaked open, their weight seemingly causing even the air to pause, a pair of guards emerged. Clad in cobalt-blue uniforms, they took their positions on either side of the entrance, brandishing saber swords in a salute that framed their faces. Behind this human gateway lay the king's audience chamber, a room that bore the nucleus of power—the throne.

The man's eyes caught its silhouette, even from his mid-hall vantage. This wasn't a throne ripped from the pages of children's fairytales, carved of marble or hewn from ancient wood. No, this was an edifice of iron, towering on four colossal, mechanical legs, crowned by a capsule-like seat. Its form was that of a gargantuan spider, albeit one wrought from metal, its surface gleaming silver and adorned with intricate golden filigree. Designed to be viewed—and feared—from the receiving hall, its ominous presence dominated the space. And make no mistake: this wasn't merely a seat of authority. It was a weapon, a mechanized harbinger of death.

As he neared the guards, his pulse ticked up a notch, an involuntary tribute to the throne's looming grandeur. The guards eyed him with a sort of detached curiosity—watchful, but not consumed by his presence. A mischievous impulse seized him, and with a flick of his wrist, he rapped his cane twice against the hall's marble floor as he closed the gap. The sound reverberated like a mini symphony, and the guards snapped to rigid attention, as though jolted by an invisible electric current.

He allowed himself a private smile as he glided past them into the audience chamber. Employing such a trick, a mere flair, was petty, he conceded mentally. Yet, the small act lifted a weight from his shoulders, dispelling some of the atmosphere's thick tension and leaving him slightly less burdened by his own anxieties.

The chamber sprawled before him, its vastness shrouded in an ambient gloom. Sparse gas lanterns dangled from select pillars, their greenish-yellow flames birthing more shadows than they dispelled. Yet, in stark contrast, the throne itself sat bathed in an unyielding column of white light, filtering down from a glass aperture at the dome's zenith. The floor of cold grey marble, dark walls marbled with blood-red veins, and the somber lighting—everything seemed to channel one's gaze towards that central spectacle.

The throne's canopy was closed, a petal-like shell hiding its occupant from view. the reflecting glass obscuring any presence inside, but he felt an aura of power emanating from within. The Emperor was inside.

Flanking the throne stood a lady and a gentleman. The man was attired in a meticulously tailored dark-blue cutaway coat, paired with straight grey trousers and a black bowtie. The woman wore a gown of delicate peach-colored fabric, embroidered and festooned with lace florals. His black high hat and her emerald high-crowned hat, its brim curled and ornamented with ribbons and blossoms, conveyed their distinguished taste. Each had a prominent accessory at hand - a mahogany cane capped with a prominent sapphire for him, a closed fan for her—they were unmistakably Elegants, like himself. Grandmasters of the elaborate social ballet.

Four guards in blue uniforms stood at ease behind them, each visibly armed with a long saber and a side pistol. His gaze darted momentarily to the shadowy recesses encircling the throne. Nothing was visible, yet an unsettling certainty gripped him: Imperial Shadows, trained killers, lurked in that impenetrable darkness. The mere thought of those hidden assassins sent a shiver down his spine, adding a touch more unease to his already elevated tension.

As he took a step toward the enigmatic, spider-like throne, a coordinated movement from the pair caught his attention: the gentleman sharply tapped his cane against the marble, creating echoes that seemed to ricochet off the chamber walls, while the lady snapped open her fan with a flourish. The seemingly innocuous gestures were laden with 'Flairs,' sending a palpable wave of force that momentarily paralyzed him in his tracks. It was as if the air had thickened, momentarily trapping him in a bubble of heightened tension.

Regaining his composure, he swiftly executed a maneuver of his own. Sliding his right foot backward, he executed a low bow, sweeping off his hat in a graceful arc. With this, he embedded his own 'Flair' into the motion, a nuanced counter designed to diffuse any residual tension that might linger from his advance toward the throne.

The Elegants' faces softened almost instantaneously. In seamless unison, they offered appreciative nods, a silent acknowledgement that the social duel had reached a satisfying draw.

'Welcome, Sir Wentworth,' the gentleman intoned, his voice a measured blend of courtesy and detachment. 'The Emperor is pleased.'

We have heard of your recent triumphs in the delicate negotiations between House Feyorn and House Dredron,' the lady interjected, her voice resonating with cool respect. 'Your tactful interventions averted what could have been a cascade of violence and political turmoil.'

Sir Wentworth offered a slight bow of his head, acknowledging the compliment without overtly basking in it.

'The Graceful Halls have been commissioned to secure your particular skill set for a task of utmost import,' the gentleman continued, his words seasoned with an air of finality. 'The Emperor is expecting...'

The sentence hung in the air, its ellipsis a fog of implication. Sir Wentworth couldn't help but ruminate on the choice of phrasing. Was the Emperor 'expecting' a response, or was it tacit compliance that was anticipated?

Better not to dally in uncertainty," Sir Wentworth mused, opting for compliance over contemplation. "It is my honor to serve the Emperor," he declared, bowing his head and keeping his gaze respectfully averted.

"Good," the lady responded succinctly. "You are now appointed as Headmaster Elegant at the Halls of Kapa. Inquisitor Blackwood will brief you on the urgent matter at hand upon your departure."

For a fleeting moment, Sir Wentworth felt his spit congeal in his throat. "Headmaster, Your Highness?" He directed the query toward the sealed canopy of the enigmatic throne.

"It is the Graceful Halls' decision—" The gentleman's cane struck the floor with an authoritative thud, cutting him off. Sir Wentworth turned, bewildered, to face him.

"It is within our purview to make such determinations when exigencies arise," the gentleman intoned, his voice carrying an unexpected gravitas.

"However," the lady cut in, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she glanced at her companion, "understand that this decision comes in response to an event of unparalleled significance. Hence, the Graceful Halls have acceded to our request."

Conflicting emotions surged within Sir Wentworth—curiosity, panic, and a gnawing uncertainty about whether this unexpected elevation was a boon or a burden. But before he could gather his thoughts, the spider-like throne began its retreat, folding its mechanical legs and receding into the nebulous shadows. As it moved, each footfall of its monstrous limbs reverberated through the chamber, punctuated by a chorus of steam hisses and mechanical clicks.

It was time to go.

Flickers of movement caught his eye, and he imagined the concealed Imperial Shadows in the dark recesses. However, he had neither the time nor the inclination to ponder further; he turned and strode out of the throne room, passing through the imposing double doors, every step echoing in a hall that suddenly seemed to stretch much farther than before."

As Sir Wentworth walked further down the corridor, he noticed a figure gradually coming into view at the far end. Closer he came until he could discern a man clad in a grey cross-coat and trousers, completed with black shoes adorned with white spats and a bowler hat that sat squarely atop his head. A meticulously groomed mustache and goatee framed his face, and on his right hand gleamed the golden ring that marked him as an Inquisitor.

'Sir Wentworth, I am Inquisitor Blackwood,' he announced, his voice resonating with a rich baritone. 'Let us walk, and I shall acquaint you with the exigent matter at hand.' With a flick of his hand, he gestured toward the palace's front gardens.

Sir Wentworth signaled his appreciation with a nod, and together they exited the grand edifice. The gardens that lay before them were a kaleidoscope of color and symmetry, artfully arranged patches of flora in geometric designs. Roses, dahlias, geraniums, and petunias filled the air with their mingling fragrances. Amidst these blooms stood stately trees—lime trees, horse chestnuts, and a few ornamental cherry trees, their placements meticulously chosen for maximum aesthetic impact. Various shrubs added further layers of complexity to the garden, each contributing to an overall effect of managed yet abundant life.

"So," Sir Wentworth began, casting a sidelong glance at the Inquisitor, "all of this is rather abrupt, yet shrouded in mystery." The Inquisitor nodded in agreement.

"Indeed," he finally spoke after a few tense seconds of silence. They continued to stroll through the opulent gardens, their path veering toward the eastern side. Losing patience, Wentworth halted and pivoted toward the Inquisitor, casually brushing off some invisible speck of dust from his coat—a covert gesture designed to trigger a goading Flair.

The Inquisitor stopped to face him but showed no outward signs of recognizing the Flair, and then continued speaking. "As you may well know, our Empire has reached its zenith largely through the miracles of science and technology." He paused, affording Wentworth a moment to nod in agreement. "Yet, despite these advances, there are phenomena that continue to perplex even our most accomplished scholars. Abilities such as shadow manipulation utilized by the Emperor's Shadows or the mind-affecting 'Flairs' employed by yourself and your colleagues."

As he uttered the final words, the Inquisitor nodded ever so subtly toward the spot on Wentworth's coat where his hand had brushed earlier. Wentworth felt heat creep into his cheeks. Clearly, his covert maneuver had not escaped the Inquisitor's keen observation.

Choosing not to respond, Wentworth maintained his composure. An apology seemed superfluous. The Inquisitor was clearly a man of penetrating intellect, and to offer an excuse would be to underestimate him.

"Instead, he offered: 'Many refer to these abilities as magic,' pausing for emphasis before the word 'magic' to gauge the Inquisitor's thoughts. 'Ah, magic,' responded Inquisitor Blackwood, nonchalantly motioning for them to continue their walk. Wentworth fell in step. 'For centuries, this so-called magic has been an enigma that even our finest scientists couldn't unravel. We were almost resigned to never understanding it.' Wentworth sensed the Inquisitor's distaste for the unexplained. 'Until now,' Blackwood added, casting a sideways glance at Wentworth to catch his reaction.

Stopping abruptly, Wentworth met the Inquisitor's eyes. 'Are you saying, Mr. Blackwood, that you've discovered the origin of this magic?' The Inquisitor nodded affirmatively. 'Precisely, Sir Wentworth,' his voice tinged with pride. A victory for science over the inexplicable. What implications could this have? Would this power now be widely accessible, or could it be suppressed? Bypassing these thoughts, Wentworth asked, 'What have you found?'

Blackwood seemed to be choosing his words carefully. 'Well, it appears to be another planet,' he finally said, looking at Wentworth as if seeking a co-conspirator in his awe."

Another planet, you say?' Wentworth finally broke the silence, his eyes narrowing slightly.

'Yes, but not just any planet. It's on the opposite side of the sun, which is why it has been so elusive,' Blackwood elaborated. 'Our recent advances in telescopic technology have finally allowed us to detect it.'

'And how does this relate to magic?' Wentworth was skeptical but intrigued.

'Ah, the most curious part,' the Inquisitor smiled. 'The telescopes also detected a trail of cosmic dust and rock along the planet's orbital path. We believe this trail intersects with Aaz's orbit at certain times, releasing... well, what people call "magic" into our atmosphere.'

'That's groundbreaking! But it does make me wonder...' Wentworth paused, his gaze momentarily drifting to a hummingbird that darted among the garden's flowers. 'If this dust is capable of imbuing people with magical abilities, why haven't we observed similar phenomena in animals?'

Blackwood raised an eyebrow, visibly intrigued by the question. 'A very keen observation, Sir Wentworth. That is yet another mystery our scientists are itching to unravel. It could be related to cognitive complexity, or perhaps something as yet entirely unknown to us.'

'So, What's the plan?', he asked the inquisitor.

'We are currently devising a way to send an expedition to this planet,' said Blackwood, lowering his voice. 'For that, we'll need the support of all five major corporations to build a vessel capable of such a journey.'

'Is that even possible?', The whole idea seemed so audacious that it bordered on fantasy. Blackwood shook his head, his lips tightening. 'Honestly, I'm not the expert on that,' he sighed, 'but the scientific community thinks it's doable. They've done their homework, it appears.'

'And the corporations,' Wentworth felt a sense of dread just thinking about it. He sensed Blackwood shared his sentiment, so he pivoted back to a subject he was more familiar with. 'They're going to want to know the why and how, aren't they?'

'That's where your new position as headmaster comes in, Sir Wentworth,' the Inquisitor smirked. 'You'll oversee a special research project, something captivating enough to get their backing, yet not revealing the true purpose of the expedition.'

Wentworth felt the weight of his new responsibilities settling in. 'A tall order, Mr. Blackwood.'

'But not impossible, especially for someone with your skills. Additionally, your new role provides you an excellent position to scout out special candidates—individuals displaying a greater affinity for magic than others. We believe such people could be key for our mission.'

Wentworth nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. 'Then I shall commence my duties posthaste. The empire, it seems, stands on the cusp of a new era.'

'Indeed,' said Blackwood, his eyes reflecting the hues of the intricate flowers around them. 'And you, Sir Wentworth, are right at the heart of it.'

Phantom was a ghost among the shadows, his back pressed against the cool brick of the "Morgen Company" store. Overhead, the moon spilled its silver light across the cobblestones, weaving a tapestry of light and dark with the golden glow of the gas lamps. He stood there, a master of invisibility, wrapped in shadows that seemed almost sentient, cloaking him from the world.

The street, usually bustling, was now a quiet, almost surreal landscape. People passed by occasionally, their footsteps echoing faintly on the stone. They remained blissfully unaware of Phantom's presence, their eyes never flickering in his direction. He often mused over the chaos he could unleash, imagining their startled faces if he were to step into the light. The thought brought a twisted smile to his lips - the sheer surprise, the screams that would surely follow.

His smile slowly dissolved into a sigh of resignation. The revelation he was about to make was intended for a singular audience - one person alone. And the reaction he anticipated was not a scream or a yell, but a gasp that would mark the release of his final breath. His fingers grazed the picture tucked in his pocket, a light, almost reverent touch. There was no need to pull it out; the face captured within was etched into his memory, destined to remain long after its owner ceased to exist. This was both his curse and his blessing. Once committed to memory, a face never faded from his mind. The visages of those he had encountered, those he had marked for a grim fate, were indelibly imprinted in his consciousness.

"Phantom" didn't quite sit right with him, a moniker bestowed by his Sanctum peers. He always thought his knack for becoming invisible, even at point-blank range, overshadowed his photographic memory. His skill lay in rendering himself so still that not even his breath fogged the air on a chilly day, a feat achieved through slowing his heartbeat and adept manipulation of the Veil. When given the chance to pick his own alias, he'd suggested "Portrait," a nod to his exceptional recall of faces. But, inevitably, they settled on "Phantom."

"Portrait's a dumb name, anyway," his childhood friend and fellow shade, Hound, had quipped post-initiation. Hound, a tracker of unparalleled skill, could've easily been dubbed "One-Beer" for his notorious lightweight drinking habits – a nickname that almost stuck, if not for their tight-knit group's intervention. A slow smile and a controlled breath marked his amusement at the memory.

Glancing up at the quarter's clock tower, he noted ten minutes remaining – time he had to 'kill'. The irony of the phrase tugged another smile onto his lips, a private joke against the backdrop of his waiting game.

The sudden appearance of a familiar figure staggering down the street a few dozen feet away took Phantom by surprise. Early, the bastard. Likely thrown out of a bar for failing to foot his bill. The man's gait was unsteady, wavering like a tightrope walker without balance, his head lolling to the side as if he were a marionette with its strings suddenly cut. Phantom had chosen this moment with precision, ensuring his target would never see what was coming.

At a glance, Dante Del Borne looked pathetic, a mere shadow of a man, swaying drunkenly through the street. To an unknowing eye, he was just another drunkard. But Phantom knew better. Del Borne, despite his current sorry state, was responsible for the deaths of several corporate elites and an Empiric Diplomat. His drunken demeanor belied a darker past, one marked by sin and now, as decreed by the emperor, by retribution.

Phantom had shadowed him for days, meticulously studying his routines and quirks. By all appearances, Del Borne was a man beaten down by life – spending his days as a street cleaner and his nights drowning in alcohol, confined to a cramped apartment in the lower quarter. Yet, beneath this mundane facade lurked a Whisperer, a man whose skills had eluded the Sanctum for four long years. Whatever had transpired since his last killing had clearly taken its toll, leaving him a husk of the dangerous figure he once was.

The figure of Dante Del Borne staggered toward his apartment, passing Phantom in a drunken shuffle. Every few steps, he stumbled, then lurched forward as if yanked by an unseen force. Phantom seized the moment, emerging from the shadows just as Dante clumsily reached into his pocket for his keys. In the moonlight, a flicker of steel in Phantom's hand momentarily caught the light, casting a fleeting reflection on Dante’s wooden door. Instantly, Phantom realized his error – exposing his weapon under the full moon was a mistake, amateurish in its carelessness.

He was mentally chastising himself, vowing to learn from this lapse, when Dante spun around with startling speed. The drunkard's facade fell away as he released a cloud of fine, black powder from his hand. His eyes, now clear and sharp, betrayed a hint of surprise, but any trace of inebriation had vanished, along with Phantom's overconfidence. In that split second, it was Phantom's turn to be taken aback. However, his training and instincts swiftly kicked in. Without inhaling, he quickly maneuvered the side of his cloak in front of his face with one hand, using it as a makeshift shield. 

Phantom was momentarily thrown off balance by the drastic change in Dante's behavior, but there was no time to ponder this as the black powder began to irritate his throat, despite the protective barrier of his Shadoweave cloak.

"You shadows think you can get to me?!" Dante's voice, rough with excitement and a tinge of madness, echoed through the night. "You think you serve the greater good of your precious empire?!" His ranting inadvertently bought Phantom precious seconds.

Seizing the moment, Phantom launched a poisoned dart, concealed and ready at his wrist, aiming for Dante's neck. But Dante's instincts were sharp; he ducked swiftly, his tirade cut short as he prioritized survival. In a swift counter, Dante brandished a knife, lunging at Phantom's face. Instinctively, Phantom raised his arm, and the knife struck the Shadoweave cloak. To Dante’s likely surprise, the fabric withstood the blade, its unexpected hardness a testament to the cloak's unique properties.

Dante Del Borne's frustration was evident in the disgusted snort that escaped him as his attempts to stab and slash at Phantom proved futile. Phantom had quickly recalibrated, deftly moving beyond the reach of Dante's knife. The precision of Dante's movements betrayed a level of expertise beyond that of a mere street thug – he was a professional in his deadly craft.

In a swift maneuver, Dante pulled a small ceramic ball from his pocket and hurled it onto the ground, where it shattered, releasing a billowing cloud of smoke into the street. The sound of rapidly receding footsteps told Phantom that Dante was making a run for it. Not wasting a moment, Phantom pursued, his thoughts racing. This chase had drawn out too long, risking unwanted attention.

As if in response to Phantom's concern, Dante veered into a dark alley, disappearing from view. The footsteps ceased, a silence that signaled an imminent ambush. Phantom, however, had his own advantages. He focused, summoning the shadows from the Veil around him. The darkness responded, swirling and enveloping his form, growing in intensity until it consumed the alley's corner in an impenetrable shroud.

Stepping cautiously around the corner, Phantom was fully alert. His heightened senses were tuned to any sound or scent, as he, too, was blinded in the complete darkness. Yet, this was his realm. He anticipated Dante's panic, his desperation, expecting him to betray his position with a hasty, ill-considered move. In this game of cat and mouse, Phantom was the predator, and the alley his domain.

"The moment they handed me the contract for Edward Blackwell, I knew the Sanctum would come after me," Dante's voice echoed off the alley walls, its origin elusive in the dense cloak of darkness. Phantom strained his senses, trying to pinpoint the source, but Dante's voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

"Do you want to know what I whispered in his ear before I killed him?" There was no trace of mockery in Dante's query. Instead, it carried a sense of urgency, as if he was compelled to share something with Phantom. Despite this, Phantom knew that whatever Dante was eager to reveal wouldn't sway his resolve. A contract from the Sanctum was absolute, unyielding. Dante, of all people, should have understood that.

Phantom moved with deliberate caution through the alley, every sense heightened for any hint of Dante's presence. A slight rustle to his right was all the cue he needed; he launched a dart in that direction. The soft exclamation of surprise that followed confirmed his aim.

"I whispered him the last words he will hear..." Dante's voice was now laced with the strain of the poison coursing through his veins. Phantom zeroed in on his location, and in an instant, he dissipated the shadows, lunging towards the now faltering figure. He grabbed Dante by the shirt, slamming him against the wall, his dagger poised at the man's throat.

"Sullivan appreciates your service. Your knowledge must be kept secret." Dante's words came out as a hoarse whisper, almost as if he were the one making the kill. Phantom's confusion was evident, and seeing this, Dante added, "That's what they told me to whisper. But you see, I know who Sullivan is."

For a brief moment, Phantom hesitated, but then he pressed the dagger deeper, slicing through Dante's throat. Dante's eyes widened in shock and pain before he collapsed into Phantom's arms, who gently laid him down. As life faded from Dante's eyes, leaving them empty and glass-like, Phantom pondered the implications.

Dante's revelation about Sullivan nagged at him. Causing him to forgo protocol.

He rifled through the dying man's pockets, finding only some money and a piece of paper with an address - 27 Blackthorn Lane. His search also revealed a locket, hidden under Dante's shirt. Inside was the photograph of a young girl, about 13, with red hair and piercing green eyes. Phantom studied the photo, his mind racing. Dante was believed to be a member of The Whisper, unlikely to have any family that could be exploited. Could this girl be his deceased daughter, a remnant of a life he had left behind?

The whisper echoed in Phantom's mind, a chilling refrain: "Sullivan appreciates your service. Your knowledge must be kept secret." Edward Blackwell, the Empiric diplomat, was his target, but this whisper implied a deeper, more convoluted plot. 'Sullivan' was a moniker used within the Sanctum for none other than the emperor himself. There was no mistaking the implication – the emperor had ordered Blackwell's assassination.

The realization that Dante was aware of Sullivan’s true identity was startling. It suggested a level of inside knowledge that was both dangerous and rare. The fact that the emperor had utilized the Whisper, a faction often at odds with the Sanctum, instead of his own operatives, hinted at something far more sinister. It pointed towards a cover-up, something so sensitive that the emperor was willing to eliminate his own agents to keep it hidden.

Phantom's mind raced with the gravity of the situation. The implications were enormous and treacherous. Was his own life now in jeopardy? Had he unknowingly become entangled in a web of imperial intrigue?

He needed to leave, to distance himself from Dante's lifeless body and the crime scene. The information he had stumbled upon was volatile, potentially life-threatening. He had to plan his next steps carefully, navigate this newfound danger with the utmost caution. The stakes were higher than ever, and now, more than just his mission was on the line – it was his very existence within the Sanctum, perhaps even his life.

Evelyn scaled down the window into the shadowy embrace of the alleyway. Just a few steps from the ground, she released her hold on the pipe and dropped onto the uneven cobblestones. She knew her father would appreciate her cautious exit strategy from their home, though it came with its own risks. "I know I shouldn't leave the house while you're away, father," she murmured, brushing her hands clean, "but this endless waiting, slowly extinguishes the light of hope and I can't bare it any longer".

"Where are you, father?" she whispered to herself, a quiet note of unease in her voice. "Something is not right. I can feel it." With swift steps, she approached the end of the alley, cautiously peering around the corner. The houses on the street cast looming shadows, like dark trees in a dense forest, and the moonlit road snaked between them, a silvery path in the night. A faint, familiar scent caught her attention - the smell of her father's dusty coat. It was a mere wisp, hours old, but it pulled her towards Marlowe Avenue. She moved along the fringes of the street, skirting the bright moonlight, cloaked in shadows.

Her father had taught her many skills - the art of silence, how to remain unseen, the ways of the knife, and the importance of situational awareness. She cherished these lessons; they were the rare moments they spent together. "In my profession, there is no place for family or love, Evy," he would often say. "You are my only family and love, so I must keep you safe." He never disclosed the nature of his work, only hinting at its dangers and the enemies it brought. She had her suspicions about what he did, but she never voiced them.

Sometimes, the weight of his profession, of the knowledge he imparted to her, felt like a heavy burden. He had taught her how to wield a knife against others, emphasizing, "use it only for self-defense!" His intense gaze had drilled the seriousness of that instruction into her. Now, her hand trembled slightly in her pocket. She clenched the knife tighter, seeking to steady herself and prepare for whatever lay ahead.

Guided by the familiar scent of her father's coat, Evelyn wove her way through Marlowe Avenue, following the trail across the city's shadowy streets. She moved with practiced stealth, pausing now and then in the concealing darkness to let a passerby or a noisy wagon rumble past. With each step, the scent grew more pronounced, a tangible thread leading her onward.

Memories surfaced of how, as a toddler, she had used this very scent to track down her father. The image of his face – a blend of disbelief and mild annoyance each time she found him – flickered in her mind, coaxing a small, wistful smile onto her lips amidst the tension of the night. Her steps continued, determined and silent, as she navigated the labyrinth of the city under the cloak of darkness.

The stern admonition of her father echoed in her mind as the tangy, metallic scent of blood began to intertwine with the familiar, dusty smell of his coat. "Don't ever try to find me when I work, Evy!" His voice had been a tempest, his gaze a storm clashing against her youthful innocence. "It's too dangerous!" Those words, now laden with bitter irony, reverberated through her thoughts as her pace involuntarily quickened, her heart pounding in unison, almost compelling her to break into a run. She bit her lip to restrain herself, the urge to sprint nearly overwhelming.

"But I was bored and you've gone for so long," she had protested, her voice quivering on the edge of tears, even as he scooped her up in his arms and hurried back to their home, his eyes darting alertly around.

Now, the scent of blood grew more pungent, mingling with the increasingly strong odor of her father's sweat. Evelyn turned into another street lined with various shops. Her gaze momentarily settled on the entrance to the "Morgen Company" store. Its window displayed an array of liquor bottles, while barrels of beer were strategically placed at the front, all bathed in the ghostly moonlight. The street was shrouded in darkness, save for the warm glow of a couple of gas lamps casting large circles of golden light, pushing back the moon’s spectral embrace.

As memories and present fears intertwined in Evelyn's mind, her focus sharpened on the darkness stretching down the street ahead. It was as if she could visualize her father's trail of sweat and blood, a spectral smoke trail left in the wake of a fire. The imagined path seemed to beckon her, like a thread woven into the heart of a labyrinth.

"No one should see us together, love, they could hurt you to get to me," her father's voice echoed in her memory, breathless and urgent as he hastened to safety. "But what if they hurt you instead, papa?" she whispered to the unseen trail, her voice barely audible. "What will I do then?" A solitary tear traced a frustrating path down her cheek.

Overcome by a surge of determination, Evelyn broke into a run. She moved swiftly, her body cutting through the imagined trail in her mind, which seemed to dissipate around her, scattering in all directions. The scent of her father grew more intense, a conflicting signal that both beckoned her closer and warned her to stay away. Another tear left a salty streak on her face, adding to the emotional storm within her.

The dark street gave way to shadowy houses clustered tightly together, forming a continuous wall. Following the trail, Evelyn turned right into an alley, her steps faltering as she sensed something new, something unfamiliar. This additional scent hadn't registered before, but now, it was unmistakable, intermingling with her father's. It stood out, alien and intrusive, a stark contrast to the familiar, comforting aroma she had been following. With heightened caution, Evelyn slowed her pace, her heart pounding as she prepared to face what lay ahead in the alley.

The sudden, rapid footsteps echoing in the alley jolted Phantom from his thoughts. He turned, his gaze meeting that of a young girl, about thirteen, with short red hair and piercing green eyes – eyes that were unmistakably those of the girl from the locket. She halted abruptly, her tearful eyes shifting from the body of Dante Del Borne on the ground to Phantom, her expression a turbulent mix of grief and anger. The realization that she was Dante's daughter hit Phantom with a shock.

Her reaction was not one of surprise, almost as if she had braced herself for such a scene. Her eyes flickered between Phantom and her father's body, torn and uncertain. One hand was concealed in her coat pocket, and Phantom was suddenly grateful that his face remained hidden by the Veil.

"Run along, child, this is no concern of yours," he said, his voice deliberately altered. The girl flinched, startled, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks.

"This is my father!" she cried out, her voice cracking with emotion. "You killed my father!"

A heavy weight settled in Phantom's chest. The Sanctum's orders were explicit: leave no witnesses. He cursed himself silently for lingering at the scene. His eyes drifted to Dante's lifeless form. Who would have imagined an assassin with a living daughter? It was an occupational hazard, indeed.

Then, a sharp pain seared through his thigh, snapping him back to the present. Glancing down, he saw a knife embedded in his flesh. Looking up, he saw the girl, her hand still extended, her face etched with horror. "Shit," he muttered, yanking the knife out. The wound was not deep, the throw lacking force, but blood seeped from the cut nonetheless.

The fading sound of the child's retreating footsteps filled the alley as she fled. "Wait!" Phantom called out, but his plea fell on deaf ears. He knew she wouldn’t stop, not after what she had witnessed. In his wounded state, pursuit was not an option; exerting himself would only hasten his own collapse.

His thoughts turned to the address he had discovered in Dante's pocket: "27 Blackthorn Lane." Could that be where the girl was heading? The possibility nagged at him. The Sanctum’s rules were clear – no witnesses could be left. Yet, a part of him resisted, rationalizing that she had neither seen his face nor knew his name. But deep down, he was acutely aware of why such orders existed. They were born from the bloody lessons of the past, from comrades who had spared witnesses only to pay dearly later.

The idea of harming a child was abhorrent. "A child that is rather skilled with a knife," he muttered to himself bitterly, the irony of the situation not lost on him. He could almost imagine the mockery of his comrades if they knew of his predicament.

Reaching for his belt, he retrieved a small metal bottle, uncapping it with his teeth. The sharp, bitter scent of its contents filled the air as he poured the ointment onto his other hand. Grimacing, he applied the thick, rubbery substance to the wound. It worked immediately, staunching the bleeding and dulling the pain.

With the bottle secured back onto his belt, he took a deep breath, steadying himself. "OK, little girl, it's you and me and emperor help me if I know what to do," he whispered into the night.