From the rooftop of the abandoned building, Matt watched everything through the binoculars.
The thug he had hired was still leaning against the lamppost, smoking his cheap cigarette as if he were guarding nothing more than an ordinary shipment.
He had no idea what was about to happen to him.
The side door of Warehouse 17 creaked open again with the same slow, rusted sound.
Vargan the Cold stepped into the fog.
Tall. Thin.
His dark coat seemed to swallow the weak glow of the distant gas lamps.
He walked straight toward the thug without any sense of urgency, as though the entire street belonged to him.
The thug lifted his head when he heard the footsteps.
He opened his mouth to say something—perhaps a joke, perhaps a question.
He never spoke the words.
Vargan extended his hand.
There was no warning.
No shout.
Only a swift movement—almost elegant.
The thug's right arm tore free from the shoulder with a wet, fleshy sound, as if sliced away by an invisible blade. Blood burst outward in violent sprays.
For a second the man simply stared at the stump, unable to understand what had just happened.
Then the pain arrived.
He screamed.
A guttural, animal howl that echoed between the silent warehouses.
Vargan gave him no time for anything else.
His other hand moved like a blur.
The thug's left ear spun through the air in an arc of blood before landing on the cobblestones with a soft, sickening sound.
The man collapsed to his knees, shrieking as he clutched the side of his head with his remaining hand.
Vargan seized him by the collar without effort and dragged him toward the warehouse.
The thug's heels scraped along the ground, leaving two red streaks across the stone.
His screams grew muffled as the door closed behind them.
Silence returned.
Matt lowered the binoculars for a moment, exhaling slowly through clenched teeth.
Damn…
He didn't even fight.
He just walked up and tore him apart like a doll.
Exactly one hour passed.
Then the side door opened again.
Vargan stepped outside alone.
This time he carried a wooden bucket and an old rag.
He walked to where the bloodshed had begun and knelt down.
His movements were calm.
Methodical.
Almost bored.
He gathered the loose clumps of the thug's hair, scrubbed the cobblestones until the dark stains dissolved into the mud, dumped the filthy water into the river, and returned to the warehouse without looking back even once.
The door closed with the same slow creak.
Matt remained perfectly still against the chimney, the binoculars pressed to his eyes.
The scar along his side pulsed strongly.
But it wasn't only a warning.
There was something else within that rhythm.
Approval.
So that's what you do when no one's watching…
You don't kill quickly.
You play.
You tear them apart… drag them inside… and then clean up like it's just another night's work.
He slowly lowered the binoculars.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Acting Method began settling into place like roots burrowing deep into soil.
Three nights.
I have three nights to learn exactly how that monster breathes…
His gaze returned to the warehouse.
Because on the fourth night…
I'll be the one dragging him inside.
The fog of the Tussock closed around the warehouse like a burial shroud.
Matt didn't move.
The first night had only just begun.
The fog of the Tussock had thickened into something like cold soup when Matt's pocket watch reached half past two in the morning.
The side door of Warehouse 17 creaked open again.
Vargan stepped outside once more, his pace slower this time, almost lazy. His dark coat fluttered behind him like broken wings. He paused at the threshold for a moment, sniffing the damp air, then turned east and disappeared into the alleys that ran along the docks.
Matt tightened his grip on the binoculars.
Again…
Thirty minutes later, Vargan returned.
This time he wasn't alone.
He dragged a woman by the hair.
She was one of the many unfortunate souls who sold their bodies around the northern docks—perhaps thirty years old, with dirty black hair stuck to her face with sweat and blood. Her dress was torn, and she was barefoot. She had tried to scream, but only a strangled gurgle escaped her throat.
Vargan held her with one hand, his fingers buried in her scalp like claws.
The woman kicked weakly, her heels scraping across the cobblestones. Vargan stopped beneath the dim light of a broken lamppost, roughly one hundred and forty meters from Matt's hiding place.
Then Matt saw Vargan's lips move.
The air around the woman seemed to thicken.
Her movements slowed, becoming distorted and unnatural. Her eyes widened as her muscles refused to obey her. A scream that should have shattered the silence dragged out into a low, warped wail, every sound stretched far longer than it should have been.
Vargan smiled.
It was a smile without teeth—only dark, wet gums.
He extended his other hand and lightly brushed the woman's left arm.
The skin beneath his fingers began to blister.
First it turned red.
Then black.
Then it split open like rotting fruit.
Thick, dark smoke seeped from the wound, carrying the stench of burnt flesh. The woman tried to recoil, but the unnatural heaviness in the air held her in place, frozen in a moment of terror—mouth open in a silent cry, eyes bulging, while the flesh of her arm decayed and peeled away in sticky strands that dropped to the ground with wet sounds.
Vargan did not stop.
He grabbed the half-ruined arm and pulled slowly.
The tendons stretched and snapped one by one with faint, damp cracks. The joint split open with a sickening sound, exposing pale bone covered in dark, bubbling residue.
The woman could not even faint.
Something held her consciousness in place, forcing her to endure every second.
A string of bloodied saliva ran down her chin as she tried to beg for mercy.
Only a broken, drawn-out sound emerged.
Vargan chuckled quietly.
Almost affectionately.
He shoved his fingers into her mouth.
Her tongue began to swell and decay instantly, dark blisters forming and bursting one after another.
Thick fluid spilled down her neck.
Satisfied with the brief entertainment, Vargan lifted her by the hair as if she weighed nothing.
Her body hung limply.
Her left arm was little more than a ruined stump.
Without hurry, he dragged her toward the door of Warehouse 17.
Her heels left long streaks across the ground as they vanished inside.
The door closed behind them with the same rusty creak.
Matt slowly lowered the binoculars.
His mouth had gone dry.
The scar along his side burned harder than ever.
Gods…
He didn't kill her quickly.
He savored it.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, keeping his mind cold and focused.
So this is what an Angel Without Wings does when he has time.
Matt leaned back against the chimney and kept watching the warehouse.
The second victim of the night was already inside.
And he still had two more nights to learn every detail about how that monster hunted.
Matt lowered the binoculars with hands that barely trembled. The cold metal pressed into his palms as silence settled over the docks again like a damp blanket.
The door of Warehouse 17 was closed once more.
Inside, Vargan had the woman.
Thirty minutes, Matt estimated. That monster seemed to take about thirty minutes with each victim before coming out to clean.
He leaned back against the broken chimney, feeling the rough brick scrape against his back. The scar pulsed with a slow green warmth, almost comforting, as if the Mother were reminding him that all of this was part of the cycle.
But his mind… his mind was a storm.
It's not just killing, he thought, the realization cutting deeper than any blade.
Joren was quick. One strike and it was over.
But this… this is something else.
Vargan did not kill out of hunger.
He savored it.
He stretched every second until the victim felt time itself fracture.
That's what it means to be an Angel Without Wings.
To lose your humanity and turn pain into an art.
Matt closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the air heavy with the scent of the river and distant blood.
The Acting Method was no longer just a phrase Elara had repeated to him.
He could feel it moving within him, like roots growing beneath the soil.
I'm a Criminal too.
I've been one for months without realizing it.
I stole. Hurt people. Told myself it was just instinct.
But I never did it like this.
I never turned it into a spectacle.
If I want to fully digest this potion, I need to understand it.
I need to feel what he feels when he drags someone inside.
Not for pleasure… but because the perfect crime demands preparation.
It demands control.
It demands that the world believes you're nothing more than another shadow.
Matt opened his eyes and looked at the warehouse again through the binoculars.
Nothing.
Only fog, and the faint orange glow leaking through the cracks of the boarded windows.
Inside, the woman was probably living through an eternity of pain.
Matt felt no pity.
What he felt was curiosity.
Cold.
Calculated.
If I were him… how would I do it?
Would I start with the limbs so they couldn't run?
Would I use the Slow effect from the very first second so every cut lasted hours inside their mind?
Or would I let them beg first… just to hear the moment their voice breaks?
The scar pulsed again, sending a wave of green warmth that eased the knot in his stomach.
Feed the garden, a whisper echoed in his mind.
Everything returns to the soil. Even suffering.
Matt smiled without joy.
It was a crooked, dangerous smile.
That's why Elara sent me here.
Not just to kill him.
To learn how to be a better Criminal than he is.
More patient.
Colder.
When my turn comes, I won't burst in screaming.
I'll walk in knowing exactly how he'll beg… how he'll bleed… and how his death will feed something greater than my hunger.
Exactly thirty minutes passed.
The side door creaked open again.
Vargan stepped outside carrying the same wooden bucket and filthy rag.
This time the mess was worse.
Puddles of blackened blood mixed with melted residue.
Clumps of hair stuck to the cobblestones.
A torn piece of the woman's dress.
And something that looked like a small, blackened finger.
Matt watched without blinking as Vargan knelt down and began cleaning.
Scrubbing.
Gathering.
Throwing the remains into the river.
Every movement was precise.
Routine.
Almost bored.
Like a butcher finishing his shift.
When he finished, the ground was clean again.
Only the smell remained.
Vargan wiped his hands on his coat, glanced once into the fog, and went back inside.
Matt lowered the binoculars and released the breath he had been holding.
First night… almost over.
He leaned back once more against the chimney, feeling the Acting Method settle a little deeper into his bones.
Two nights left.
And somewhere inside him.
The Criminal smiled.
Matt waited until the first gray ray of light began to seep through the smog.
Dawn arrived cold and filthy, staining the sky a pale orange that barely pierced the thick fog of the Tussock.
Only then did he move.
He climbed down from the rooftop using the same rusted ladder, unhurried. His boots made almost no sound. He slipped the binoculars into the inner pocket of his coat and left the rope, the bottle, and the burlap sack exactly where they were—ready for the second night.
Then he began walking south, toward the Harvest Church.
His steps were calm, shoulders relaxed, like any laborer returning from a night shift.
He didn't have a single penny on him.
Looking for money now would mean fights, questions, possible witnesses.
Unnecessary.
So when he passed a poor bakery that had just opened, he waited until the owner stepped into the back room for a moment. With a smooth, almost affectionate motion, his Criminal hand slid across the counter and took a large loaf of black bread.
He tucked it under his coat without breaking the rhythm of his stride.
No one shouted.
No one saw.
Natural instinct, he thought with a faint, cold smile.
Crime isn't evil.
It's simply… efficient.
The streets were beginning to wake.
A group of barefoot children played in a puddle of filthy water near an alley. They chased each other, laughing and throwing mud, completely unaware of the stench and the faint scent of blood that still lingered in the air.
Matt glanced at them from the corner of his eye.
Months ago, I was like them.
Now… I'm the one who decides who lives and who becomes fertilizer.
Then he saw it.
A black carriage.
Polished.
Pulled by two perfectly groomed horses.
The coachmen—two tall men—wore immaculate dark liveries, white gloves, and top hats. Not a speck of soot on them. The windows were completely opaque, hidden behind thick velvet curtains that revealed nothing of whoever sat inside.
The carriage rolled slowly along the main street of the northern docks, as if the East Borough were just another pleasant avenue.
Matt narrowed his eyes and slowed his pace without realizing it.
What the hell is something like that doing here?
This district belonged to workers, prostitutes, and rats.
Even the middle class avoided it unless they had a reason.
A carriage of that level…
That meant someone from the noble districts.
Or worse—
Someone who didn't want to be seen.
Someone who could afford Beyonder protection… or secrets worth more than the entire East Borough.
The scar pulsed once, warm, like a gentle warning.
Matt kept walking, but his mind was already calculating angles, possible routes, faces he might recognize later.
He didn't stop.
He didn't stare directly.
He simply stored the image in the cold, patient part of his mind that was learning how to truly be a Criminal.
Interesting…
The carriage vanished behind him into the fog.
Something else is moving in Backlund.
And it doesn't smell like the Orthodox Churches.
Matt quickened his pace slightly, the stolen bread still warm against his chest.
The Harvest Church was no longer far away.
Matt pushed open the discreet door of the Harvest Church just as the sun began to rise, weak and yellow through the smog.
Inside, the air smelled of damp soil and fresh herbs—a stark contrast to the foul stench of the docks still clinging to his clothes.
A priest on duty—a thin, middle-aged man in a brown robe with a tired smile—was arranging stalks of wheat on the main altar. He looked up when he heard the door.
"Good morning, brother," Matt greeted him, his voice hoarse but respectful as he inclined his head slightly. "I've come to… reflect for a while."
The priest nodded without asking further questions. In the Harvest Church, unnecessary questions were never asked.
"May the Mother nourish you," he replied softly.
Matt walked past him, circled the altar, and slipped behind the thick vines that concealed his hidden corner. The narrow space welcomed him as it always did: compacted earth beneath his boots and a faint emerald glow on the ceiling.
He knelt for a moment, touched the scar on his side, and murmured a short phrase in Hermes that Elara had taught him.
"Mother, I've returned."
The roots beneath the soil parted with a living whisper. Matt descended through the organic tunnel, feeling the pulsing walls wrap around him like a warm embrace. The air grew purer, rich with the scent of fertile ground.
At the end of the passage, the underground garden opened before him: emerald flowers slowly blooming and closing, a moss-covered bench, roots breathing quietly in the dim light.
Elara was already there, seated on the bench as though she had been waiting all night. She wore the same dark green coat, and her gaze—both maternal and toxic—rested calmly on him.
"You're early," she said, gesturing to the place beside her. "Sit. Tell me everything. Don't omit anything important."
Matt dropped onto the moss, feeling the exhaustion of the night settle deep into his bones. He pulled the stolen bread from his pocket, broke it in half, and offered one piece to Elara. She accepted it with a small smile.
"Vargan is… methodical," Matt began, taking a bite. "He came out shortly after midnight. First he took the thug I hired. The man didn't even fight. Vargan tore his arm off in a single motion, then his ear, and dragged him inside while he screamed. Thirty minutes later he came back out to clean. Blood, hair—everything. Like it was routine."
He paused, remembering.
"Then at two-thirty he came out again. This time he brought a woman from the docks. I think he used the slowing ability you mentioned from the beginning… made her feel every second like an eternity. Melted her arm with black smoke, rotted her tongue, stretched the tendons until they snapped. He didn't kill her quickly. He savored it. Dragged her inside the same way. And thirty minutes later he came back out again to clean, just as calmly."
Matt looked directly at Elara.
"He doesn't use all his power against normal humans. He holds back. But when he wants to… he can turn pain into something slow and deliberate. He always cleans afterward. Leaves no visible trace. Patient. Cold. Exactly what you expected."
Elara chewed her bread silently for a moment, studying him.
"Good," she said at last, her voice soft but satisfied. "You're observing with the eyes of a Criminal now, not merely those of a hunter. That's what I needed from this first night."
She paused, then leaned slightly forward.
"However… listen carefully to something, my son."
"You're not there to enjoy the spectacle. You're not there to savor pain the way he does. Remember this: you are only acting. You are the Criminal preparing the perfect crime, yes—but you are not Vargan. Don't let yourself be carried away by that dark hunger you feel when you watch him drag someone inside. The Abyss wants you to rejoice in suffering."
"The Mother does not."
She reached forward and gently touched the scar on his side. A calm green warmth spread through him.
"Everything you take must nourish the garden, not vanish into the void. Every life you claim, every drop of blood, every scream… must return to the soil. If you begin to enjoy the process as he does—if you let the role swallow you instead of controlling it—then you won't be nourishing anything. You'll only be wasting it."
"And the Mother does not tolerate waste."
Elara withdrew her hand and smiled with that unsettling tenderness that always carried a hidden warning.
"This is your great performance, Matt. Act well. But never forget that it is only a performance."
"Rest for a few hours."
"Then return to your mission."
Matt nodded slowly, feeling her words settle inside him like deep roots.
"I'll remember," he murmured.
Elara rose to her feet, the vines around her shifting softly as though breathing with her.
Matt climbed the last steps of the living tunnel, and the roots closed gently behind him with a damp whisper. He emerged in his hidden corner behind the altar, where the emerald glow from the ceiling still filtered through as it always did.
The narrow space welcomed him with the familiar scent of moss and fertile soil.
He sank down onto the packed earth, resting his back against the wall of roots.
For a moment, before exhaustion claimed him, his thoughts drifted.
Who am I now?
He thought about the boy he had been months ago—a common thief in the East Borough, someone who stole because he was hungry and fought because someone looked at him the wrong way.
Then came the potion.
The Abyss.
Elara.
The Mother.
Now he was a Criminal who acted with intention, a marked blessed who was meant to nourish the garden… yet he still felt that dark roar every time he watched Vargan tear someone apart.
Am I the monster pretending to be a Criminal just to survive?
Or am I already the Criminal… merely pretending that something of the old me still remains?
The scar pulsed once, warm, as if the Mother were answering him.
You are mine.
And that is enough.
He didn't finish the thought.
The thick vines forming the living curtain moved on their own.
They slid slowly, almost affectionately, around his arms and legs, wrapping him in a gentle but firm embrace—like roots cradling a seed.
The green warmth surrounded him.
Matt closed his eyes.
Sleep came almost instantly.
When he woke, the sun was already high.
The vines withdrew with the same delicacy with which they had wrapped around him, leaving only a faint tingling on his skin.
He sat up, stretched his still-aching muscles, and ran a hand across his face.
Stepping out from the hidden corner, he gave a brief nod to the priest still tending the altar, then pushed open the door of the Harvest Church and stepped into the street.
Backlund's smog greeted him again—thick and familiar.
As he walked aimlessly along the cobblestone streets, his Criminal mind was already working on something practical.
I need money.
Five soli a night won't last forever.
I can't keep stealing bread every morning. Sooner or later someone will notice.
He considered a few quick options: robbing a small moneylender near the edge of the East Borough, offering temporary protection to a desperate merchant… or perhaps something cleaner.
Something quiet.
Something that wouldn't attract the attention of officials or Beyonders.
Maybe a small but clean theft this afternoon.
Or finding someone willing to pay for information about the northern docks.
Something easy.
Something that won't take time away from the hunt.
Matt smiled to himself, that crooked smile already beginning to feel natural.
The Criminal was awake.
And he was hungry for coins.
Matt walked a few more streets, his stomach still half-empty despite the stolen bread, when he saw the same poor bakery stall where he had acted earlier that morning.
The owner—the older woman with hands blackened by soot—stood alone behind the counter, sweating under her dirty apron while staring helplessly at the small line of three customers waiting.
Matt smiled to himself.
Perfect. The same shop. The same woman. And she has no idea that the thief from this morning is now here asking for work.
He approached casually, hands in his pockets.
"Ma'am, need some help?" he asked in a hoarse but friendly voice. "I can sell for you for a few hours. I'm quick… and I don't steal much."
The woman looked him up and down, tired, and let out a long sigh.
"One penny for five hours. Not a coin more. If you break something or scare off customers, I'll kick you out myself."
Matt almost laughed out loud.
One penny. Five hours. Seriously…
He accepted without bargaining.
"Deal."
The owner tossed him a worn apron and put him behind the counter.
In less than ten minutes, Matt was already selling black bread, slicing pieces with a rusted knife and taking dirty coins with that crooked smile that made customers pay without arguing.
While wrapping a large piece for a hunched old woman, he couldn't help mocking himself silently.
What a pathetic Criminal you are, Matt.
This morning you stole an entire loaf without anyone noticing…
And now you're here selling the same damn bread for a single penny.
One penny for five hours.
I could have taken the whole cash box and run.
But no. Here I am, acting like an honest vendor like an idiot.
He cut another piece, weighed it quickly, and collected two pennies with a smile that almost looked genuine.
The Mother must be laughing down there. "Nourish the garden," she says.
Right. Nourishing it by selling bread for coins that barely buy a cigarette.
The scar pulsed once, almost as if it agreed with the sarcasm.
Matt kept selling, cutting, collecting coins.
Each time he handed someone a piece of bread, he thought about Vargan dragging bodies, about the slowing power, about the woman melting apart…
Then he turned to the next customer and smiled as if nothing had happened.
This is Acting too, he told himself while slipping the penny into his pocket.
Acting like a harmless poor man to build an alibi.
Acting like a patient Criminal so I don't lose control.
Everything is a damned role.
And for the first time that day, he let out a quiet laugh—almost inaudible—as he cut the next loaf.
How pathetic…
And how perfect.
The five hours passed quickly.
Wednesday was always a busy day on that poor corner: workers finishing their morning shifts, housewives bargaining over every penny, children begging for scraps with wide eyes.
Matt barely had a second to rest.
He cut, weighed, wrapped, collected coins, smiled when necessary, and remained silent the rest of the time. The worn apron clung to his body with sweat and soot.
At exactly three in the afternoon, the owner tapped him on the shoulder.
"You're done. Here."
She placed a single copper coin in his palm.
One penny.
Nothing more.
Matt looked at it for a moment, then closed his fist and let out a quiet, almost silent laugh.
"Thank you, ma'am. May the Mother bless you."
He removed the apron, left it on the counter, and walked away slowly, unhurried. The pale afternoon sun barely pushed through the smog, yet the heat still clung to the skin.
As he headed toward the lower middle-class district—that gray strip where small workshops mixed with two-story houses and people still pretended to have a bit of dignity—his mind began mocking him mercilessly.
One penny, Matt.
One damn penny for five hours of honest work.
He gave a crooked smile as he slipped the coin into his pocket near the scar.
Really? Me?
The Mother's blessed Criminal…
The one who watched an Angel Without Wings melt a woman apart last night…
And now I'm about to beg on the street so I "don't lose myself in the role"?
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.
How pathetic.
I could walk into any tavern, snap the neck of the first man who looked at me wrong, take every coin inside and walk out again.
Nobody would stop me.
The Abyss is practically whispering in my ear: "Do it. It's natural. It's instinct."
And here I am… planning to beg like a stray dog just to remind myself that I can still choose.
The scar pulsed once, softly—almost amused.
Yes, yes… I know.
"Act, but don't lose yourself."
Easy to say when the desire is so simple, so clean.
Steal.
Hurt.
Take.
No rules.
No performance.
But no… he had to keep pretending to be a poor fool who sold bread and begged for coins.
Because if he let himself slip—even a little—
the Abyss would swallow him whole, and the Mother would turn him into fertilizer.
Matt shoved his hands into his pockets and quickened his pace toward the place where beggars and poor workers gathered in the late afternoon.
It would be so easy to give in…
His crooked smile grew wider. Darker.
And it's going to be very entertaining not to.
He reached the place he had in mind: a small square surrounded by workshops and two-story houses. Beggars sat at the corners with rusted bowls while tired workers passed by without looking.
Matt leaned against a wall, slouched his shoulders, stretched out one hand, and adopted the empty expression he had perfected during his street days.
No one suspected anything.
The Criminal was begging.
And inside—
he was laughing.