Chapter 18
Nille ended the spar on the ground. A loss.
Clear. Undeniable.
He hadn't countered every strike. He hadn't avoided every blow. Punches and kicks had landed on him again and again, relentless, precise, overwhelming. And yet…
He had landed hits.
Not many.
Not decisive.
But real.
And to Nille, that was enough.
He lay there for a moment, staring upward, his chest rising and falling heavily. No sweat formed in the Enclave, no trembling muscles, no bruises, but the exhaustion was real. It lived in his breathing, in the way his thoughts slowed, in the quiet ache behind every movement.
Outside,
In reality,
His body told the truth.
Seated against the hospital wall, near the window, Nille's breathing was rough. Sweat clung to his skin, his shirt damp, his posture still locked in meditation. Anyone passing by would think he was simply resting.
But inside,
He had just fought.
Slowly, he pushed himself up within the Enclave and sat on the ground, mirroring his real posture. His eyes lifted toward the Melting Orb.
It pulsed faintly.
And there,
A small spark.
Tiny. Flickering. Moving in a slow, steady orbit around the orb, like it had a will of its own.
Nille watched it in silence, gasping softly for air.
"…So this place…" he muttered between breaths, "…it's all me."
The realization settled deeper now.
Everything here was a reflection.
The space around him, the wide, warehouse-like structure, it wasn't random.
It was memory.
After school, carrying sacks heavier than his arms should allow. The smell of rice. Dust in the air. The rough concrete beneath his feet. Long hours just to earn a few kilos, just enough so he and Granny Amparo could eat.
That life…
It built this place.
Nille leaned his head back slightly, his eyes still fixed on the vast interior.
Granny Amparo, selling vegetables at the wet market. Earning just enough for the two of them to survive. Days filled with sweet potatoes and greens. Rare moments when someone, a teacher, a classmate, a neighbor, would knock on their worn-out storage-like home and offer canned goods.
Those moments stayed with him.
Not as pity.
But as proof that life could be… a little kinder.
"…Heh," Nille let out a faint breath, almost a laugh.
The warehouse around him stood tall. Solid. Concrete. Strong.
Unlike the fragile walls of the home he grew up in.
Here,
Nothing leaked. Nothing broke. Nothing could be taken from him.
His eyes softened slightly.
"…I like this place."
Because here, he could build more than just weapons.
He could build possibility.
His thoughts drifted, slowly shaping the space around him. A gated path. Rows of soil breaking through sections of concrete. A place to grow vegetables, properly, safely. A system where water flowed where it was needed. A section for livestock, clean, organized, protected.
A self-sufficient space.
Secure.
Stable.
A dream.
It was an odd thing to imagine for someone his age, but Nille didn't think so.
Because he remembered that class video.
Japanese farmers transforming warehouses into living systems, controlled water, indoor farming, efficient space. Turning something ordinary into something that could sustain life.
That idea…
It stayed with him.
And now,
He was inside a place where ideas could become real.
Nille stared at the orbiting spark again, quieter now.
"…One day," he whispered.
Not about power.
Not about fighting.
But about something simpler.
"…I'll build something like this. For real."
The Enclave remained still.
But for the first time,
It didn't just feel like a battlefield.
It felt like the beginning of a future he actually wanted.
But Nille knew,
it was not something he could have.
Not yet.
The image of that vast, self-sufficient place slowly faded at the edges, not because he didn't want it, but because he understood what mattered more. Granny Amparo needed him. Every bit of strength he had, every small earning, every hour after school, it all went to her.
And he never questioned it.
He already knew the truth he never said out loud.
She was old.
Fragile.
And at any moment… she might be gone.
The thought pressed against his chest, heavy and sharp, but Nille did not run from it. He accepted it the same way he accepted hunger, exhaustion, and hardship, not because it didn't hurt, but because it was real.
And reality didn't wait for anyone.
"I just need to be there," he murmured quietly.
Not someday.
Not later.
Now.
He didn't want to miss those moments, the small ones. The quiet ones. The ones where she called his name, where she needed help standing, where she simply wasn't alone.
Because those were the moments that would matter when everything else was gone.
Still, he was just eleven.
No matter how much he endured, no matter how mature he tried to be, he was still a child standing in the middle of something too heavy for him to fully carry.
And so, he found his way to cope.
Not by running away,
but by stepping aside, just for a moment.
The Enclave.
This place.
This quiet, controlled space where nothing could be taken from him, where he could think, learn, and breathe without fear of losing anything.
"…Just for a bit," he whispered.
Not escape.
Not denial.
Just a brief moment of his own.
A place where he could rest without guilt.
Where he could prepare himself,
so when he returned to reality…
he would be strong enough to stay by her side until the very end.
And the truth was, being introduced to the supernatural world was overwhelming.
Nille didn't deny that.
In stories, in movies, the main character would discover something impossible, spirits, powers, hidden worlds, and accept it almost instantly. They would adapt, grow into it, even embrace it as if it had always been meant for them.
But that wasn't reality.
And Nille… was not just a character in a story.
He was eleven.
A child.
With a mind still trying to understand the normal world, now forced to process something far beyond it.
To him, it didn't feel exciting.
It felt like sinking.
Like stepping into quicksand.
The more he tried to move, to understand everything at once, the deeper he felt himself being pulled under, by confusion, by fear, by the weight of things he didn't fully grasp.
So he stopped.
Not out of weakness, but instinct.
"…I shouldn't rush," he whispered quietly.
His breathing steadied.
Because struggling blindly would only make things worse.
The scarf's words echoed faintly in his thoughts.
Perception determines truth.
If that was the case, then he couldn't afford to panic. Couldn't afford to react like those characters who rushed forward without thinking.
He had to do the opposite.
He had to stay still.
Observe, Learn., and adapt slowly.
Like someone caught in quicksand, where survival didn't come from fighting wildly, but from calming down, spreading your weight, and moving with care.
Nille lowered his gaze, his fists unclenching.
"…One step at a time."
Not everything needed to be understood today.
Not every power needed to be mastered now.
And not every truth needed to be uncovered immediately.
Because if he forced himself,
he might break.
But if he learned, slowly… then maybe, just maybe, he could stand in this world without being swallowed by it.
Nille let out a small, breathy laugh as he sat within the quiet vastness of his Enclave, the sound echoing faintly against the warehouse-like space he had shaped.
"…I'm thinking too much," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
For a moment, the tension in his chest eased.
He leaned back slightly, staring at nothing in particular, the weight of his own thoughts finally catching up to him. Just minutes ago, everything felt heavy, too deep, too serious, too much. Like he was trying to understand the entire world all at once.
"…Getting too philosophical," he added with a faint shake of his head.
It didn't suit him.
Or at least, it wasn't how he used to be.
There was a time when he didn't think this far ahead. When he simply reacted—when someone pushed him, he pushed back. When something was taken, he found a way to take it back or endure it. Simple. Direct.
Survive first.
Think later.
"…I miss that," he admitted quietly.
Because now, everything felt different.
He was still reacting, still adapting… but there was something else creeping in between those moments. Something unfamiliar.
A hesitation.
A tightness in his chest.
A constant awareness that one wrong move… could cost him more than just a bruise.
His fingers curled slightly.
"…I could actually die," he said under his breath.
There it was.
The difference.
Before, pain was expected. Hunger was normal. Getting beaten up was just part of life.
But now,
the stakes had changed.
And his mind knew it.
That quiet, creeping tension… it wasn't weakness.
It was anxiety.
Not loud.
Not overwhelming.
But present.
Always there, in the background, whispering be careful… don't make a mistake… think before you act…
Nille exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief moment.
"…So that's what this is."
He didn't reject it.
Didn't run from it.
Instead, he let himself feel it, just enough to understand.
Then he shook his head lightly and let out another small laugh.
"…If I keep this up, I'll break before anything even happens."
There was no point in overthinking every step.
Not now.
Not like this.
He opened his eyes again, calmer.
"…I'll just go back to basics."
Simple.
Observe.
React.
Learn.
He didn't need to become someone else overnight.
He just needed to remain who he was, and grow from there.
Nille adjusted his posture slightly, the weight in his chest no longer as suffocating.
Because maybe, just maybe, thinking wasn't the problem.
It was how much he let it control him.
And that, he could manage.
The thought settled quietly in his chest, grounding him just enough to keep moving forward without drowning in it. Nille lifted his gaze once more, this time not toward the vast warehouse around him, but toward the small, delicate life near the Melting Orb.
The seed.
It had changed.
What was once still and uncertain had begun to stir. A tiny sprout pushed upward, fragile but determined, its form barely holding shape as if it was still deciding what it wanted to become. Sooner or later, it would grow leaves.
Nille stared at it, his breathing slower now.
"…I understand the warehouse," he murmured. "But this…"
His eyes shifted between the Melting Orb and the faint spark orbiting it.
The warehouse made sense, it was memory. Work. Survival. Stability.
But this?
This felt… different.
Not unfamiliar,
just not something he consciously chose.
"…Why would my mind make this?" he asked quietly.
The orb pulsed softly, its surface shifting like something half-liquid, half-solid, never fully settling. And the spark… it kept circling, steady, almost purposeful, like it had a role Nille didn't understand yet.
He tilted his head slightly.
"It doesn't feel random."
That was what bothered him.
Everything else in the Enclave followed logic, his logic. His experiences. His needs.
But these two…
They felt like symbols.
Or maybe, something deeper than memory.
Nille leaned forward slightly, studying the sprout.
A seed growing.
The orb melting, never fixed.
The spark orbiting, never stopping.
"…Change?" he whispered.
Growth.
Transformation.
Something beginning.
His brows furrowed.
"…Or something watching over it?"
He didn't know.
And for once,
he didn't try to force an answer.
Because unlike the warehouse, this wasn't something he could immediately trace back to a memory.
It felt like something his mind hadn't fully explained to him yet.
Something forming,
just like the seed.
Nille leaned back again, letting out a slow breath.
"…I'll figure it out later."
No rush.
No pressure.
If the Enclave was truly his,
then whatever this was…
it would reveal itself in time.
Nille's eyes opened slowly.
Reality rushed back all at once.
The faint hum of hospital equipment, the distant footsteps in the hallway, the quiet weight of the room, it all pressed against him as his breathing came out uneven. His body was drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
"…Too real," he muttered under his breath.
He reached up, fingers brushing against the scarf wrapped around his neck, and slowly pulled it free.
For a moment, he paused.
It wasn't wet.
Despite the sweat clinging to his skin, soaking through the shirt Junior had given him—the scarf remained completely dry. Not even damp at the edges. As if the heat, the moisture, even his exhaustion… never touched it.
Nille stared at it briefly, something in his expression tightening in quiet curiosity.
"…Strange," he murmured.
But he didn't dwell on it.
Carefully, he placed the scarf on his lap, treating it with the same unconscious respect he always did. Then, without hesitation, he grabbed the hem of his damp shirt and pulled it over his head.
The fabric peeled away from his skin, heavy and uncomfortable.
Gone.
The air felt cooler instantly, brushing against his body, easing some of the lingering heat. He exhaled, shoulders relaxing just a little.
From beside him, he reached for his old, worn shirt, the one he was used to.
The one that always felt like his.
He slipped it on.
It settled naturally against him, lighter, looser… familiar in a way nothing else was. No discomfort. No adjustment needed.
Just right.
Nille let out a quiet breath as he adjusted the collar slightly, his body finally beginning to settle after the strain.
For a brief moment, everything felt normal again.
Simple.
Grounding.
Nille exhaled, steadying himself. as he place the scarf into the side pocket of the cargo pans
Across the room, he noticed movement.
The young girl had stepped out, her expression composed but heavy. He had caught just enough to understand, she had asked her maid to stay and watch over her grandfather while she went to the small hospital chapel.
To pray.
Nille's gaze shifted slightly.
That alone told him enough.
Then his eyes landed on the nurse.
She had just finished her routine rounds, checking each patient with practiced efficiency. But when she reached the old man, when she checked him—something changed.
It was subtle.
Almost unnoticeable.
But Nille saw it.
The slight pause.
The tightening of her expression.
The way her movements became just a little more careful… a little heavier.
She didn't say anything out loud.
She didn't need to.
"…She knows," Nille thought quietly.
Or at least, she suspected.
And judging by the timing…
she had likely already said something to the young girl.
Not directly.
Not harshly.
But enough.
Enough to prepare her.
Nille leaned back slightly against the wall, his eyes resting on the elderly man lying still on the bed.
The room felt different now.
Heavier.
Like something unseen had already begun to settle.
"…It's close," he whispered.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Just understanding.
Because whether through the nurse's silent reaction… or the quiet absence of change in the old man's condition,
the outcome was becoming clearer.
And as the afternoon slowly moved forward,
Nille knew.
They didn't have much time left.
when Lin Meiying stepped out of the room with a face far too composed for someone her age, but Nille saw through it. There was weight behind her eyes now. Understanding. Or at least… preparation for something she didn't want to accept.
Afternoon had already deepened.
Time was moving.
The nurse soon approached their side, moving with quiet efficiency. She replaced Granny Amparo's IV bag, checked her vitals, and offered Nille a small, reassuring smile, professional, practiced.
As if nothing was wrong.
As if everything was under control.
Then she left.
The machine beside the elderly man continued its steady rhythm,
beep… beep… beep…
Weak.
Fading.
In the corner, the maid remained silent. Still. Watching. Then, almost discreetly, she pulled out her phone and sent a message.
Nille didn't need to ask.
"…Family," he thought.
The ones who were waiting.
Not for recovery, but for news.
He stood up slowly, grounding himself, and began fixing his things. One by one, he placed his belongings inside the rucksack Doctor Miyako had given him, his movements calm, controlled.
Prepared.
Then, he reached for the scarf.
He draped it around his neck again, letting it settle naturally.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"…Can you sense anything? It's almost sunset."
For a brief moment—
silence.
Then the scarf responded.
"Affirmative."
Its tone was different this time.
Heavier.
"I can sense hunger."
Nille's expression hardened slightly.
"Some are already lurking… in human form," it continued. "These are stronger than the Gabunan you encountered."
A faint chill ran down his spine.
Then,
"There is a peculiar one," the scarf added. "Currently within the hospital corridor. Disguised… as a watcher."
Nille's head snapped slightly.
"…You can sense them from that far?" he whispered, disbelief creeping in.
"It is not far," the scarf corrected calmly. "It is near."
A pause.
Then,
"The moment the young girl exited…"
Nille's grip tightened.
"…a Buso detected her."
Silence fell heavily around him.
"It has taken the form of a frail, elderly woman," the scarf continued. "Positioned just outside this room."
Nille's breathing slowed.
Controlled.
Focused.
"It has identified the girl as mixed-blood," it added. "A desirable target."
His eyes shifted slightly toward the door.
"Buso favor internal organs," the scarf explained coldly. "Particularly the heart. Fresh blood—especially from those with mixed lineage, emits a stronger lure."
Nille clenched his jaw.
"…So she's in danger."
"Yes."
The answer came without hesitation.
"However…"
A faint shift in tone.
"It is hesitating."
Nille frowned.
"Why?"
"Because it senses competition."
The room felt colder.
"The elderly man is dying," the scarf said. "That alone draws others."
Nille's eyes flickered.
Gabunan.
More of them.
"They are already preparing to converge once the sun sets," it continued. "To them, a dying soul is a feast."
Nille exhaled slowly.
So that was it.
Two choices.
A fresh, living target,
or a guaranteed dying one.
"The Buso is deciding," the scarf finished. "Whether to claim the young girl… or compete for the old man."
Outside the door, something waited.
Watching.
Choosing.
And inside the hospital, with fewer staff, quieter halls, and fading daylight,
it had already become something else.
Not a place of healing.
But a feeding ground.
Nille's eyes sharpened.
"…Then we don't wait."
Because the creature was still deciding, Nille rose, his movements deliberate and quiet. He walked toward the sliding door of the room, eyes sharp, senses alert. Ahead, an elderly woman moved slowly toward the staircase, her frail posture deceptive. But Nille knew better. The Buso had already made its choice. The young girl.
He followed, ten steps behind, careful to remain unseen. The scarf stirred softly within his mind. "Closing your third eye is wise. When it is open, it emits a certain energy frequency that weakens their illusions. It can reveal what hides beneath disguise."
A brief pause, the presence tightening around him like a coiled spring. "But… at the same time, they can sense you. That energy is detectable to those who feed on what you carry inside. Move carefully. Make every step deliberate."
Nille nodded slightly, feeling the weight of the warning. His heart raced, yet his movements remained calm, measured, each step a whisper on the hospital floor, each breath synchronized with the quiet rhythm of the approaching danger. The Buso was close, but for now, it did not know he was already knew what it was , the Buso was preoccupied with following the young girl whos mixed blod is making the old woman salivate in hunger .
meanwhile Nille nodded inwardly. The knowledge had come to him naturally, instinctively. Most who awaken their third eye never learn to close it. It was a delicate control, one that could betray even the slightest emotion or thought. Yet he had learned.
"You are different, " the scarf continued, almost in awe. "From the moment Granny Amparo took me from that old wooden box and placed me in your hands… I sensed it. You are not like the others."
A faint shiver of awareness ran through him as he moved. He could feel the subtle pull of the Enclave, the resonance of the Buso's presence, and the threads of fate winding tightly around the girl ahead. But Nille held steady.
Focus, the scarf urged. Every step matters.
And for the first time, he realized just how far his instincts, and the scarf, had already begun to trust him.
Nille moved deliberately, each step measured, yet carrying the subtle urgency of someone aware of a predator's gaze. As he passed the elderly woman on the stairwell, the faint, rotten stench hit him, an unnatural decay that clung to the air. It confirmed what the scarf had already told him: this was no ordinary human, but a Buso in disguise. His pace quickened, though he kept his movements casual, even brushing past Lin Meiying as she descended the stairs. He already had a sense of where she intended to go, the small hospital chapel, and he used that knowledge to time his own movements.
As he reached the ground floor, Nille raised a hand in a polite, almost nonchalant wave to the nurse stationed there. "Hello po," he said softly, his voice carrying the faintest tinge of urgency masked by casual tone, "I would like to return this book to the mini library."
The scarf, ever attuned, slid the folklore book into his hand as if from nowhere, guiding it with invisible precision. To any observer, it looked as though he had simply brought it with him. The male nurse, busy but friendly, gave a nod without suspicion. "Ok, no problem. It's always open naman," he said, returning to his own routine.
Nille didn't linger. He moved toward the mini library, a small room tucked into the corner of the hospital, the faint scent of aged paper and polished wood greeting him. He placed the book carefully on the return shelf, lining it up with the others, and allowed his eyes to scan the room for anything useful—objects that could serve as tools, improvised weapons, or anything he could adapt in a pinch. A pair of heavy scissors, a metal ruler, and a small wooden mallet caught his attention; he memorized their positions and shapes, the scarf subtly highlighting them in his peripheral awareness.
With the book back and the room scouted, Nille slipped toward the chapel, moving quietly but with purpose. The sunlight spilling through the stained-glass windows fell across the tiled floor, illuminating the small altar where Lin Meiying had already begun her prayer. The young girl knelt, her hands clasped, unaware of the shadow stalking the hallway behind her. Nille stayed just outside the doorway, hands brushing the scarves around his neck, ready to react. The Buso's presence lingered nearby, watching, calculating, while the boy prepared silently to intervene at the perfect moment.
Nille watched intently from the shadows, his pulse quickening even as he forced his body to remain still. Lin Meiying knelt in quiet prayer, her small frame pressed to the cool wooden floor of the chapel, unaware of the subtle predator at the bench beside her. The elderly woman had already settled herself on the edge of the long wooden bench, her back straight and hands folded—but there was something unnaturally deliberate in the way she moved.
As Lin finished her own prayer, the old woman shifted slightly, feigning imbalance. Her fingers trembled just enough to suggest weakness, her lips parted as if letting out a quiet gasp of surprise. The bench creaked under her "weight," drawing the girl's attention. The Buso had calculated the perfect angle, just enough for Lin to notice, just enough for her instincts to stir.
"Oh, dear…" the woman's voice cracked faintly, a carefully crafted tremor. She slowly leaned forward as if about to fall, placing one hand on the edge of the bench. Her eyes flicked toward the girl, a subtle glimmer of false vulnerability. Lin, ever polite and soft-hearted, instinctively turned toward her, the natural urge to help rising without hesitation.
The old woman let out a soft sigh, a barely audible whimper, as her other hand brushed her chest. She tilted just enough to make it appear as if she had lost her balance during her fake prayer. Her intention was clear to anyone who could see beyond the surface: the girl would move closer, she would reach out, she would console her… and that would be the moment the Buso struck.
From his hidden vantage, Nille's grip on the scarf tightened. The subtle decay lingering around the woman was unmistakable now, sharper than before. Every movement—the trembling hands, the faltering weight, the small sound of distress, was bait. Nille's mind raced. One wrong move from the girl, one instinctive step forward, and the predator would have its opening.
He stayed frozen, his third eye closed as advised, letting the scarf guide his senses. Every heartbeat, every breath, every minor shift of the Buso's form was now data he could read. The tension in the chapel was almost tangible, a taut wire stretched between predator and prey, and the seconds felt like hours as Nille prepared to intervene at the precise moment.
The old woman's eyes flicked up to meet Lin's, faintly pleading, a masterful deception honed for moments like this. "Could you… help me?" she whispered softly, her voice edged with subtle menace masked as frailty. The trap was set. The girl, pure and unaware, was the lure.
Lin Meiying's eyes flicked toward the trembling figure at the edge of the bench, her mind calculating rather than rushing. Helping others wasn't something she did lightly, or often. Courtesy and empathy had been a luxury she'd been taught, not a habit ingrained. But the chapel, the quiet space filled with the scent of worn wood and incense, had a way of softening her instincts, if only briefly.
In that fleeting instant, a thought passed through her mind: I just prayed for Grandfather… maybe doing something good now will… help? It wasn't heroism, exactly. It wasn't courage born of selflessness. It was a transaction, a tiny investment in the cosmic ledger she had been taught existed, the belief that good deeds would be rewarded, that the universe would take note.
With slow, deliberate movements, she rose from her kneeling position, her posture stiff yet careful. She approached the old woman cautiously, stepping lightly across the chapel floor. Her hands extended, just enough to steady the frail figure without giving away the calculation behind it. The Buso, hidden in human guise, froze for the briefest heartbeat, sensing her approach.
Lin Meiying's eyes didn't waver, though her heartbeat raced under the pretense of composure. She leaned in slightly, murmuring softly, "Here, let me help you," her voice calm, measured, but threaded with the naive conviction that this small gesture was a good act that might somehow matter.
The old woman's lips curved in the faintest, predatory smile beneath her guise of gratitude. Every micro-movement, the faltering balance, the feigned weakness, was designed to draw Lin closer, to make her reach out fully, to make her vulnerable. Yet Lin Meiying, while acting as if aiding her, kept a careful distance, her body alert, her mind sensing that something was not entirely right.
Behind the awareness of action, Nille's presence lingered quietly. From his hidden vantage, he tracked every step, every motion, every micro-expression. The tension in the chapel had thickened, a subtle hum of danger hovering in the air, waiting for a single misstep. And though Lin believed she was performing a small, good deed, she was walking the line between innocence and peril—a line Nille was ready to intervene on if it tipped too far.
Lin Meiying's voice rose, sharp and cutting, her usual stoicism replaced by the heat of indignation. "What do you think you're doing, barging in like that? Do you think this is some joke?!"
Nille didn't flinch. He stood a step in front of her, his presence deliberately rough, his tone blunt, even bordering on arrogance. "Relax. I know her," he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of authority. "Now, step aside."
Lin blinked, caught between shock and confusion. The boy she had known as nothing more than a quiet neighbor in a hospital room, someone she thought might ask her for coins or trivial favors, was suddenly standing like a shield, facing the old woman at the edge of the chapel bench with a confidence that didn't belong to someone his age.
The old woman, the Buso in disguise, hesitated. Her lips curved faintly in a predatory smirk, but her eyes flickered, sensing the sharp shift in energy. She had been about to inject a paralyzing potion into Lin's blood, counting on the girl's kindness to draw her closer. But Nille's sudden appearance, the roughness in his tone, the air of authority he radiated, threw off her rhythm.
Lin, though still fuming, took a cautious step toward Nille, her hands clenching slightly. "How dare you speak to me like that?!" she scolded, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury, unaware yet that the danger lurking behind her had been momentarily stalled.
The Buso's fangs, hidden behind her thin-lipped smile, twitched in irritation. This human boy… he was different. Stronger. Far more aware than she expected. And with the sun inching closer to the horizon, the shadows lengthened, thickening the tension in the chapel.
The air hummed with danger as the old woman's disguise began to falter in small, almost imperceptible ways. Every muscle in Nille's body tensed. The Buso had made a decision: she would strike, and she would strike soon. But Nille was ready, his mind synced with the scarf, his instincts sharp, standing firm as the young girl unleashed her anger, unknowingly adding fuel to the confrontation.
The chapel, once a sanctuary of quiet prayers, now trembled with the silent promise of imminent violence. The sun was almost set, and the predator had chosen its moment.