The toxic, slow-moving waters of the Area 17 canal sludged quietly beneath the rusted iron walkway. The air here was thick with the familiar, suffocating scent of chemical runoff—a stark, gritty contrast to the purified, artificially sweet air of the Upper District Hide had just left behind.
Hide walked alone through the dim, flickering amber glow of the streetlights. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his face an unreadable mask of cold indifference.
He pulled his right hand out of his pocket. Pinched between his index and middle finger was a crumpled, pristine white napkin, thoroughly soaked in fresh, dark red blood.
He paused at the edge of the canal, looking down at the heavy, blood-soaked cloth. Inside it was a severed human thumb.
Enji Sihue's left thumb, to be exact.
