Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cold clung to him like a memory, but soon it softened, retreating before a subtle, creeping warmth. What had been a bitter nightmare now gave way to the gentle veil of a dream. Yet peace did not linger. With a sharp gasp, his eyes flared open. His brown, slumbering eyes, scented faintly of the moon as if they bore witness to things unimaginable.

He found himself lying on the damp, stone-kissed ground, breath shivering beneath the cloth mask drawn over his face. The man stirred, his body slow to obey, heavy with the weight of what he had dreamed, or perhaps what he had escaped. His clothing clung tightly to him: layered hunting attire of muted greys and shadowed blacks, cut with earthen browns along the belts cinched at his waist and across his chest. It was a garb reminiscent of an infamous, taciturn old hunter, yet reimagined as a silent homage paid in cloth and leather.

Despite the trappings of a hunter, he bore upon him the unmistakable symbols of another creed. Two dark slivers of cloth hung loose from the backside of his shoulders, subtle yet telling, etched with the curling script and holy symbols of the Healing Church. Their presence whispered of an allegiance not to beasts, but to the institution that sought to cure, or conceal, the unknown beneath Yharnam’s surface.

At his left hip hung a leather scabbard, simple in design but carefully adorned with polished metal flourishes. Within rested a silver sword, a standard issue among the Church’s hunters and clerics, though it lacked the grandeur of its famed transformative brethren: neither Kirkhammer nor Ludwig’s Holy Blade. He had only the silver, slender blade. Perhaps it was enough. Just beside the scabbard nestled a repeating pistol, the weapon stored snug in a worn holster. More pouches adorned the belt, bulging slightly with vials, bullets, and the other secrets they kept.

With a groan muffled by his mask, the man pushed himself upright, spine creaking as though rising from centuries of rest. He reached for his plumed tricorn cap with his left hand, gauntleted and armoured in a design that bore no crest save his own. The gauntlet was a work of foreign art: stitched leather woven with fitted steel plates, the fingers ending in clawed protrusions—sharp, serrated, and cruel. Across the underside of the gauntlet lay a metal sheath. Its purpose was a riddle, concealed to all but its bearer.

His right hand bore a less threatening appearance. A plain leather glove covered the hand and wrist, yet even it was marked by oddity—a thin, deliberate slit cut beneath the underside of his palm where the wrist met the forearm. Its reason remained unclear, but nothing about the moon-scented man seemed accidental.

"Hello, good cleric," came a whisper, gentle as candlelight.

The voice lingered in the dream like the final note of a lullaby. Quiet, careful, and impossibly warm.

But the cleric had known where he was before she ever spoke. He had felt it in the air, tasting it in the stillness. This place, being the otherworldly, untouched corner of all realms that manifested outside the Waking World, was the Hunter’s Dream. His awakening had followed a death not easily forgotten, the sort of death that scraped at the soul, not merely the flesh. Without thinking, his right hand moved across his body, the leather of his glove brushing the fabric layered over his chest. His palm pressed gently there, rubbing the spot as if trying to remember the sensation. It mattered little now, save for the ache it left in both memory and muscle.

He pushed himself upright, boots crunching faintly on the pebbled path beneath him. He said nothing, not at first. His eyes, deep brown and sharpened by doubt, rose to meet hers—the plain Doll. She stood just as she always had: serene, a picture carved from grace and stillness, her gaze soft with compassion that transcended mortality. He stared too long, his look not one of recognition alone, but of disbelief. He stepped toward her, slow and cautious, as if movement might shatter her porcelain frame. His eyes searched her face, reading every line, every still-blinking motion of her eyes, and still… The resemblance clung to him like a phantom.

Then, wordless, his left hand rose. The steel claws of his gauntlet glinted in the pale light of the moon above, the tips catching beneath the hem of his cloth mask. With a subtle pull, the fabric slipped down, revealing the sun-kissed, stubbled face of a man not so easily unnerved, yet now visibly rattled.

“Well, I’ll be damned…” the cleric murmured, his voice dry with disbelief.

The Doll had not heard what he had uttered, for her expression remained unchanged, as if the words had slipped past her like wind through willows. Yet the cleric’s gaze had already drifted, drawn to the tombstone that loomed beside the quiet form of the Hunter’s Workshop. It stood sentinel, timeworn yet untouched by decay, its surface etched with memories, names, and destinations lost to the waking mind. His eyes, dim beneath the brim of his plumed cap, lowered with a heaviness that could not be masked. A quiet sigh passed through the cloth still hanging at his neck, the sound filled with uncertainty, like a man unsure whether he had truly returned… or if he had ever left. Without words, he offered the Doll a respectful nod—half-gratitude, half-reverence—and turned away.

The stairs that spilled downward from the Workshop beckoned him to the other stones. They stood like gravemarkers, each one a doorway to another place, another night, another burden. He moved past them with familiarity, his steps echoing faintly on the stone, until he reached one in particular—a certain tombstone. To a foreigner, it might seem no different from the rest—grey, cracked, ancient—but to a moon-scented inhabitant, it bore the weight of something personal, something unfinished.

He knelt before it, leather creaking faintly as his knees met the ethereal earth. His right hand rose, fingers brushing reverently across the timeworn inscription. He did not read the words aloud. He didn’t need to. They were etched deeper into his memory than they were into stone. Closing his eyes, he let the silence settle over him. Not the oppressive quiet of death, but the solemn stillness of purpose. Then, from the soft earth, they came. The little messengers of the Dream—pale, emaciated things—sprouted like weeds through the soil around him. Their tiny hands reached up, trembling with anticipation, their hollow groans rising like a mournful hymn. They crowded around his knees and waist, a congregation of the damned devoted to the moon-scented hunters.

Light began to gather, not in brilliance, but in threads, like mist pulling itself into shape. The man's body shimmered faintly at the edges, the lines of his form loosening, unfastening from the Dream. The messengers, eager and dutiful, clung to him in those final seconds. As his form began to dematerialise, dissolving into the ether of the Waking World, the only thing that lingered was a single breath on the wind.

“I will be back… for you…”

Chapter Text

The bell of the Astral Clocktower tolled, its chimes deep and resonant, rolling through the veins of Yharnam like the knell of fate. Each note marked the passing of dusk into nightfall, when the city truly awakened, not to life, but to the hunt. Shadows stretched long through bloodstained alleys and soot-covered spires, and with them came the beast hunters of the Workshop.

From rooftops, broken thoroughfares and misty alleys, the beast hunters emerged. Solitary figures clad in leather, steel, and silence, these hunters are the true guardians of Yharnam's gruesome nights, moving like wraiths across the cityscape. They kept to the dark, their presence ghostlike, unseen by the unworthy. Among the unworthy were the Yharnamite huntsmen: prideful men who paraded their ignorance in torn clothing and weaponised farm tools, puffed up with delusions of nobility, never knowing how deeply the scourge had sunk beneath their feet.

In one of Central Yharnam’s more dismal streets, a place where the stone bled and the lamplight burned crooked through the fog, a crude execution was already underway. Flames licked the air with an insatiable hunger, casting flickering shadows over a makeshift platform raised in the heart of a broken square. Crucified above it all was a beast, its monstrous body blackened and crackling, lashed to a charred cross and set ablaze like a warning to all who passed.

A crowd had gathered, not of townfolk, but huntsmen. Filthy and rough, they stood in clusters, their eyes gleaming with fanatic delight as they jeered and drank in the spectacle. Atop the platform stood a row of condemned citizens, their hands bound, eyes wide with fear. Mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters—ordinary Yharnamites dragged from their homes and accused of harbouring the beast within.

They were lined up beneath the hanging ropes, the nooses swaying slightly in the evening breeze. The one who orchestrated it all stood tall at the platform’s centre, garbed in a finely tailored coat, the sheen of his boots betraying his self-importance. His face bore no compassion, only disdain and cold authority. At either side stood his closest companions, armed and ready to enforce his decree without hesitation.

“These wretches,” he announced, voice cutting through the air like a blade, “have been touched by the scourge. I need no proof but their stench! Their eyes! Their trembling! The Hunt itself seals their fate.”

The condemned cried out their pleas, denials, and sobs, but they were wasted breath. The crowd below roared in approval, howling like the beasts they sought to destroy. The nooses were tightened. The condemned were pushed forward.

No mercy was given. The bodies fell, and the ropes snapped taut. The firelight cast their twitching shadows onto the stone below, their shadows dancing alongside the crucified beast above, in a grotesque theatre of fear, fire, and fanaticism.

The Hunt had begun, and in Yharnam, blood would always answer the bell.

Atop one of Central Yharnam’s crooked spires, hunched beneath the light of a pale, unsleeping moon, the cleric crouched in silence. The scent of the Dream still clung to him, faint but unmistakable, like dew on stone. Moon-scented and freshly returned from the liminal boundaries between realms, he had not come back to the Waking World for sanctuary, nor by accident. He had returned with a purpose. With prey.

Below, the streets burned orange beneath torchlight. The crowd was thick and cruel, their cheers rising like a chorus of madness, praising death as if it were a spectacle. And there, on the executioner’s stage, stood the man he had come for. Dressed in noble finery, draped in arrogance and self-appointed authority, the overseer of slaughter surveyed his victims as if they were nothing more than cattle. The cleric’s eyes narrowed.

Another toll from the Astral Clocktower rolled over the rooftops, marking the hour like a war drum. The sound sent a flock of crows shrieking skyward from their perches, but when their black wings cleared the air, the cleric was no longer upon the spire. He was already below.

Melding with the crowd of huntsmen proved easy. The dull gleam of his dark robes, muted greys and shadowy blacks, allowed him to blend seamlessly amid the leather-clad figures drunken with bloodlust. Their eyes, bleary with excitement and drink, barely registered his presence. Their minds were consumed by the violence on display, too consumed to notice the predator in their midst.

His pace was deliberate, unhurried. Step by step, he closed in on the platform, where the condemned twitched at the ends of their ropes and firelight danced across the face of the well-dressed executioner. Just as the suited man turned to bark another order, the cleric broke from the crowd.

In one fluid motion, his hand slipped behind his waist, unfastening Ludwig’s Rifle from its leather rig. The weapon's mechanism clicked as he flipped the barrel into place, its polished steel catching firelight like lightning in the dusk. The shot rang out like thunder. One of the guards crumpled, buckshot tearing into his chest and sending him sprawling backward in a limp heap. The crowd gasped, the cheer faltering to stunned silence. The second guard charged, cleaver raised high, screaming in fury.

The cleric sidestepped with practised grace, the cleaver slicing air where his body had just been. Before the man could recover, the cleric whipped the butt of his rifle around, striking the huntsman’s skull with a sickening crack. The man dropped like a sack of meat, motionless.

Now there was only the suited man, frozen in horror atop the blood-slick platform, eyes wide, voice trapped in his throat. The cleric advanced without a word, his boots thudding softly on the wooden steps. With a final click, the rifle was folded and holstered. His right hand fell away, and his left rose. The gauntlet on his forearm hissed and shifted, metal plates clinking as a hidden mechanism unfurled. A sleek blade snapped outward from beneath the sheath, sharp and silent. The crowd had no time to react. No time to stop him. The suited man turned to flee; however, it was too late.

The cleric sprang forward, rising briefly into the air like a shadow loose from gravity. He came down on his prey with merciless precision, driving the gauntlet’s blade into the man’s neck. Bone cracked beneath the weight of his strike. Blood sprayed in a fine arc as the executioner collapsed beneath him, lifeless.

Silence gripped the square.

Kneeling atop the corpse, the cleric slowly drew the blade back from the wound. It hissed as it retracted into concealment beneath his wrist, vanishing once more into the gauntlet’s hidden depths. Reaching into one of his pouches, he withdrew a white handkerchief, creased and folded with care. With ritualistic precision, he wiped the blood from the dead man’s neck, staining the cloth red.

A token. A confirmation.

Only now did the crowd understand as their cheers had turned to hushed fear, and drunken laughter died in trembling gulps. A Church Assassin stood before them. A phantom born of doctrine and death. A whisper made flesh. A warning.

However, fear is a fleeting thing in the hearts of men poisoned by blood and arrogance. In the wake of silence came a rush of fury—a blind, frothing rage that drowned out sense. The Yharnamite huntsmen, all armed with saws, cleavers, blades, and fire, roared in unison. Their minds, gripped by a false sense of superiority and bolstered by numbers, abandoned caution. They surged forward with the collective madness of a city long since lost. A single man, they thought. A single man, no matter the title, no matter the Church. He could be overwhelmed.

The Church Assassin, moon-scented and calm beneath the pressure, turned to face the mob. For the briefest moment, he considered standing his ground. His blade thirsted, his rifle was loaded, and his mind was steady. He could kill them. Dozens, or perhaps all of them. But that was not his task tonight. Time pressed against his spine like the point of a dagger, and without a word, he turned and fled.

His coat flared behind him, weapons clinking against his belt as he sprinted away from the square, vanishing into the artery-like alleyways of Central Yharnam. The cobbled ground was slicked with filth and fog beneath his boots. Behind him, the Yharnamites gave chase, their shouts echoing through the tight stone corridors like the howls of feral dogs. He moved like smoke, dodging stacked crates, vaulting over overturned barrels, weaving through the gloom. But his path, narrow and cluttered, soon curved into danger. At the far end of the alley, more huntsmen appeared, cutting off his escape. Their torches swayed, hungry and eager. The Yharnamites believed to have him cornered, unbeknownst to the fact that they were greatly mistaken.

The Church Assassin leapt.

Boots struck the wheel of an abandoned carriage, and with a pivoting grace, he rebounded off its frame to spring onto the iron bars of a boarded window. Wood creaked and groaned, but his footing held. Another leap—and he was scaling the building, clawing up the cracked masonry with a fluidity born of years spent in shadow and pursuit. Below, the hunters cursed and snarled like wounded beasts. They hurriedly scattered, trying to follow, but they were clumsy where he was honed.

Reaching the rooftop, the assassin did not pause. His breath was measured, his focus unbroken. He ran with purpose, bounding over tiled ridges and leaping the narrow gaps between buildings. Lanterns glimmered below like fireflies in a sea of dark, but he stayed high above them, unseen—until he wasn’t.

A shout from below echoed when one of the huntsmen had spotted him, just as he leapt across a narrow street. “There!” came the cry, followed by another wave of pursuit. They followed his trail now, howling beneath him like wolves trailing blood, but the assassin was nearly there.

The rooftops sloped downward toward the Great Bridge, the last stretch before Cathedral Ward. He vaulted across one final ledge, and directly ahead stood the narrow stone span leading to salvation, yet he was not alone. One of the huntsmen had arrived first, panting while searching for signs of his quarry, despite it being too late. The assassin dropped from above like a reaper from the moonlight. Steel hissed free from beneath his gauntlet. The hidden blade found the soft flesh of the man’s throat, ending him in silence. His body crumpled before his torch ever hit the ground.

The blade vanished again with a soft click as the assassin landed in stride, barely breaking pace. He raced across the Great Bridge, its cold stones echoing the urgency of his steps. Behind him, his pursuers screamed louder, gaining, daring to believe they might still catch him.

But then, the toll echoed. The Astral Clocktower struck the hour again, and ahead, a pair of White Church Hunters stood in stark white against the gloom, silent as statues. One of them pulled the lever they were guarding, and the ancient gears groaned while the great gate began to descend.

The assassin did not slow. The lower it came, the faster he ran. With a final push of will, he dove, sliding across the stone, his coat catching on the wind, his boots grinding against the ground. He passed beneath the gate’s descending teeth a mere heartbeat before it crashed shut behind him with a metallic roar. He rose to his feet calmly, brushing the dust from his coat.

On the other side, a mass of furious huntsmen stood breathless, separated by the bars. They barked threats, raised weapons, and shouted insults, yet they did not act, not with two other White Church Hunters standing beside him. The assassin turned his head, meeting the gazes of his allies for a long, silent moment. Then he turned to face the huntsmen once more, his expression impassive beneath his plumed tricorn. They dared not cross that threshold. For as maddened and misguided as they were, even the Yharnamites knew that one crossed the Healing Church and lived to boast of it.

The Church Assassin stood silent, his left clawed hand resting against the hilt of his sheathed silver sword as the cries and curses of the Yharnamite mob faded into the choking mist behind the barred gate. Across from him, the two White Church Hunters remained still, as if carved from the very stone of the walls, their pale robes untouched by the blood and madness that clung to the city.

Their eyes, hidden beneath low-drawn hoods, watched him. Then, as one, they stepped forward and bent low into a formal Church bow, the folds of their robes sweeping the ground in reverent motion. It was a gesture of deference, silent and absolute, marking the difference in both hierarchy and purpose. The assassin returned it only with a short nod, which was enough.

“Shall we arrest them, sir?” one of the White Church Hunters asked, his voice laced with anticipation.

The assassin’s gaze lingered a moment longer on the retreating shadows beyond the gate. Disordered and uncertain, the huntsmen stumbled back into the dark they had once claimed to rule, their bravado shattered and their cohesion broken with the loss of their self-proclaimed leader.

“Leave them for the wolves, brother,” he answered placidly, his tone flat and unaffected. “I doubt they will last the night without their ringleader.”

The other White Church Hunter gave a small nod of understanding. “Very good, sir. I believe Her Excellency will be quite pleased with your report, then.”

The assassin’s lips curled, not into a smile, but into the ghost of one—mocking, perhaps, or simply tired.

“And I was never here,” he said half-heartedly, voice low as the moonlight, then turned on his heel and walked away, the heels of his boots clicking softly against the stone.

Without another word, he vanished into the fog-draped path that led toward the Cathedral Ward, his silhouette swallowed by the shadows between the lamps. Behind him, the White Church Hunters remained at their posts, unflinching guardians at the edge of order and chaos.

The gate stayed shut, and the beasts howled in the distance.

Chapter Text

The Grand Cathedral loomed like a fortress of sacred stone, its towering arches and shadow-drenched corridors reverberating with the silence of restrained power. Within its hallowed walls, the air carried the scent of incense and aged parchment, memories soaked into every inch of marble and candlelit corner. Through the solemn hush, the Church Assassin walked.

His stride was measured and deliberate. The twin stairways that flanked the grand central hall rose before him like the arms of a throne, each step leading him deeper into the sanctum of Yharnam’s most powerful institution. To his left and right, Black Church Hunters kept to their posts, their gazes hidden beneath the shadows of their brimmed hats.

Further up, where the light grew dimmer and the shadows long, the White Church Hunters stood like statues before the restricted upper levels, pale-robed and dutiful to their oaths, yet none barred his path. Recognition passed silently between them, not in words but in the unspoken language of rank. The slivers of dark cloth that hung from the wrappings over his shoulders, marked with the engravings of clerical authority, whispered behind him with each step, swaying like the pendulum of a quiet reckoning.

His weapons clinked softly against his belt: the scabbard of his silver sword, the leather-bound holsters of his repeating pistol and Ludwig’s Rifle, and the metallic sheath nestled beneath his left clawed gauntlet. The sounds were subtle, but in the cathedral’s solemn hush, they echoed like chimes in a crypt.

At last, he reached a heavy set of double doors flanked by a pair of white-garbed clerics. A mutual nod was all that passed between them, without ceremony or delay. The doors creaked open, and the Church Assassin stepped into the vicar’s study. It was a vast room, surprisingly warm in hue despite the stone that encased it. The high walls were lined with shelves burdened by tomes and scrolls containing histories, decrees, and secrets. A fireplace crackled gently at the far end, casting golden light over the large desk where she sat.

Vicar Amelia, regal even in repose, finished the final strokes of her quill before setting it aside with practised care. She stacked the papers before her with a soft rustle, the golden engravings of her decorated vestments glowing in the firelight. Eyes that had seen too much and remembered more lifted to meet the assassin’s.

“Greetings, Mister Al-Dhar,” she said, her voice composed and velvet-smooth, yet carrying the weight of command.

“Your Excellency,” he answered with quiet reverence, lowering his head and performing a Church bow, both his hands clasped across his chest in solemn grace.

Vicar Amelia paused, setting the last of her papers to the side. Her attention was now his alone. The flicker of firelight played in her pale blue eyes, which met the assassin’s deep brown ones, piercing, tired, knowing.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, her voice laced with a tinge of amusement. She knew well that the Church Assassin never appeared without cause, and that his visits often bore fruit worth harvesting.

The assassin stepped forward, gloved fingers reaching into one of the hidden pouches at his side. He produced a crumpled handkerchief, darkened with blood, and placed it gently on her desk. The stain had long begun to dry, but the meaning was unmistakable.

“Lenard Williamson lies dead,” he said simply.

A flicker of satisfaction passed across Amelia’s features. Her fingers curled around the bloodied cloth, lifting it delicately between forefinger and thumb, like one might handle a sacred relic.

“So I’ve heard,” she mused, her voice amused. “Word spreads quickly. A certain zealot was struck down before a pack of huntsmen, was he not? A public execution tonight?”

“These fanatics sang songs to a false prophet,” the assassin replied coolly, folding his hands behind his back. “They glorified him as a saviour while he let innocent blood spill in the gutters. I thought it fitting that the Church deliver its message not in whispers, but with steel, this time.”

Amelia chuckled, a sound like velvet torn from the night. “Your reasons are sound and just,” she said, the warmth in her voice accentuating her approval. Her arms rested on the desk as she leaned forward, the flickering hearthlight casting soft shadows across her fair features. Her smile widened, both tender and dangerous. “Well done, Gops.”

He dipped his head again in silent thanks. For a moment, the air between them softened. The firm lines of his mouth tugged upward into a slight smirk, radiating a flicker of personality beneath the polished discipline.

“There was another matter that caught my curiosity, if you do not mind,” Amelia said after a thoughtful pause, her voice laced with a velvet softness that was never quite as harmless as it sounded.

She leaned slightly to the side, the flicker of candlelight catching the sheen of her pink lipstick as she tilted her head in quiet intrigue. Shadows curled beneath the sharp elegance of her cheekbones, and her eyes, blue as dying embers, glimmered with interest.

“Williamson’s case has been ongoing for some time now. Ever since you first received the contract, in fact… I know you well, Gops. Better than most. Delicate contracts like this one rarely linger under your hand for more than a few days. And yet…” she trailed off, her eyes narrowing with quiet perceptiveness. “Your scent carries that of the moon. More potently than I’ve grown accustomed to. And you've been rather… distant, recently. Quiet. As though your body is here, but your thoughts are elsewhere. Is there something troubling you?”

Gops did not respond immediately as he stood still, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his plumed tricorn hat. The flickering firelight danced across the steel of his gauntlet and the folds of his dark coat. In truth, the vicar had touched upon the very weight he had been wrestling with since his last return from the Dream. He felt it in his bones. In the silence between heartbeats. In the echoes of a face that should not exist.

“Pardon my delay in the Williamson matter,” he began, his tone composed, yet edged with a faint weariness, “as well as my moments of hesitation. These… disturbances are personal. And I fear they are finally catching up to me. Hence, my frequent visits to the Dream.”

He left it at that. Just enough to offer truth, yet wrapped in layers thick enough to keep it guarded. A fragment of the full story, carefully chosen.

Amelia watched him closely, her gaze probing but never unkind. She did not press further. She was far too shrewd to force open a door that had not yet unlocked itself. And though he gave her no name, no confession, she gleaned what she needed in the spaces between his words.

“I trust these personal matters will not hinder your duties?” she asked, her voice returning to its regal calm as her lips curled slightly in understanding.

“Certainly not, Your Excellency,” Gops answered, this time with greater firmness, the clarity in his voice reaffirming his resolve.

A gentle hum of satisfaction passed through Amelia’s lips, carried on a faint exhale from her nose.

“This pleases me enough, Gops,” she said warmly, her smile curling like silk around steel. “The Church has enemies at every corner, and I need my sharpest blade polished, not dulled.”

He nodded once, the firelight catching the glint of resolve in his eyes.

“Very good, Gops. The Hunt is on tonight,” Amelia said, her tone drifting into something softer, though no less measured. “Therefore, the meantime is yours to do as you may please, lest you require my audience for much longer.”

Her smile was gentle, yet her eyes, partially narrowed beneath the flicker of candlelight, spoke volumes. A quiet curiosity lay behind them, mingled with the understanding of someone who had known the assassin for years, who had come to read his silences as clearly as his words.

“That will be all, thank you,” Gops replied, dipping into a light Church bow, less rigid than ceremony demanded, but no less respectful. The gesture, like the man, struck the perfect balance between formality and familiarity. It was the posture of one who served dutifully, but was trusted beyond his title.

He rose, his eyes meeting hers one last time, and turned to leave.

“Safety and peace, Your Excellency.”

The familiar phrase echoed gently through the study, warm and cold all at once. The fire cracked behind him as he passed through the tall double doors, his boots muted against the polished stone floor, the silken slivers of his shoulder wrappings trailing behind like ghosts in his wake.

Amelia watched him go, her chin resting lightly atop steepled fingers. For a moment, the vicar sat in thoughtful silence, the assassin’s presence still lingering in the room like the scent of ash and dream-silver. Then she turned her gaze back to the stack of parchment before her, though her eyes did not yet read the words.

“Moon-scented and drifting…” she mused quietly to herself, as the fire popped in the hearth, and the Hunt pressed on outside.

Having taken his leave, the Church Assassin made no detour toward leisure or reprieve. The vicar’s offer of respite was well-meaning, but the Hunt, chaotic and moonlit as it was, served as a cloak for his true intent. It masked his movements, provided excuses for absence, and most importantly, afforded him time in the one place that refused to leave his thoughts.

Upon reaching the nearest lamp, with a flicker of pale mist and the rustling groan of unseen threads pulling him through the veil, Gops returned to the Hunter’s Dream. His boots struck the soft soil of the ethereal plane, and immediately, the familiar cluster of messengers spiralled up around his legs, groaning and writhing in adoration. The little things groaned with delight at his presence, some raising lanterns, others tugging gently at the hems of his coat like children greeting a father returned from war.

He exhaled heavily, his breath misting faintly in the ever-cool air of the Dream. With no eyes upon him, no titles or expectations to uphold, his brow furrowed, tension he had not allowed himself to feel in the Cathedral now settling in behind his eyes. The weight in his chest, vague but persistent, refused to lift.

The Church Assassin turned his gaze across the drifting, dream-swept landscape, walking softly down the worn path toward the Hunter’s Workshop. The gentle crunch of gravel beneath his boots was the only sound, accompanied by the muted whispers of the Dream’s wind. He walked with the quiet purpose of a man who had made this journey a dozen times in thought, but had only just now allowed himself to act upon it.

The Doll lay by the stone steps leading up to the workshop, resting, her hands folded upon her lap, the curve of her head tilted in gentle slumber. Even in stillness, she was elegant, more statue than woman. Yet she breathed, in the way the Dream allowed its denizens to breathe, and her serene presence never failed to stir something deep within him.

Gops slowed his approach, instinctively careful not to wake her. His gaze softened, the lines around his eyes slackening as his stoicism faded into something more human, more worn. He stopped just a few steps away, watching her in silence, and breathed out a long, resolute sigh through his nose.

“Don’t mind me…” Gops murmured, almost inaudibly, as if whispering to the air itself rather than to the slumbering Doll.

With a slow, practised precision that betrayed both familiarity and reverence, he lifted his hands. His right hand was steady, and his left, clad in its signature gauntlet with clawed protrusions, moved with the delicacy of a jeweller. Metal met fabric with neither sound nor struggle, as he slipped the Doll’s bonnet free from her porcelain head, careful not to let a single thread snag or a lock of hair tug loose.

Her silver hair spilled free like starlight undone, cascading with a gentle shimmer over her pale cheeks and shoulders. It had always reminded him of moonlight reflected in still water, how quiet, untouchable, and hauntingly beautiful it was.

Nestled within her tresses, subtly hidden yet unmistakably radiant once seen, was the hair ornament he had been searching for. A beautifully crafted item, with fine filigree intricately worked into the shape of a delicate rose, woven with faded strands of moon-silver thread and a solitary, tiny gem at its centre. It glimmered faintly in the light of the Dream, not with the brilliance of treasure, but with the intimacy of memory. The Church assassin exhaled slowly through his nose, the air catching in his chest as if to hold back something unspoken.

“I need this for a little while… now more than ever.” Gops’ voice came again, lower this time, and closer.

Carefully, reverently, the cleric reached out. His fingers brushed against the ornament, and for a moment, he hesitated, his thumb grazing the smooth metal as his eyes dimmed with the weight of remembrance. Then he removed it, letting the silver strands fall gently away.

Before he withdrew, however, his hand paused once more. Almost without thinking, he moved to tidy the few strands of hair that had slipped forward, combing them gently behind the Doll’s ear with a gloved hand. It was a small, human gesture, one not of duty or design, but something deeply instinctive and tender. He then replaced the bonnet atop her head, setting it just as it had been. No evidence of his visit. No sign of what he had taken; however, something lingered in the air. A hush, or a shift. He stepped back and looked upon her one last time, as if expecting her to wake, or perhaps wishing she would. But she remained still and as serene as ever.

Cradling the ornament within his hand, Gops turned away from the workshop’s stairs, the messengers watching silently from the hedges. He tucked the piece into a secure pouch near his chest, letting it rest where his heart beat slowest.

In the Waking World, the Hunt would rage. Blood would spill, and flames would purge bestial hides.

But within the Dream, he had taken a piece of the past, in search of something yet uncertain.

Something not yet lost.

Chapter Text

The orange-hued rays of light emanating from the collapsed sun of the Nightmare struck the lumenflowers nestled within the garden, casting them in a surreal, yet oddly peaceful, glow. Their pale petals shimmered with life not their own nor nourished by warmth, but by echoes. Overhead loomed the Astral Clocktower, its face unmoving, its bells silent for now. The stillness of the nightmare was always a prelude to something violent.

Closer to the entrance, where the cobblestones met the half-dissolved barrier between dream and nightmare, the luminous bloom of a Hunter’s lamp pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. To the naked eye, it was a mere artifact of light, yet to the little messengers of the Dream, and the one whom they waited for, it was a beacon.

From nothingness, Gops emerged, boots softly planting against the petal-covered stones. The moment his form materialised, the messengers scattered in excitement, spiralling around his ankles before fading back into the ground. His expression, however, remained unchanged. Cold, composed, and familiar, the cleric had been here before.

The unnatural geography, the mangled architecture, the scent of old blood and lamenting winds, no longer startled Gops. The Nightmare had become a second theatre for his missions, a place not of awe but of purpose. The Church Assassin scanned the garden with a slow glance, confirming he had arrived where he intended, as no detail ever missed his gaze.

Without a word, Gops reached across his body to his left arm. With a practised touch, he unclasped a slender cable ring that had been fastened into the side of his gauntlet, a mechanism integral to his infamous gauntlet blade. The metal loop clicked softly as he slid it onto his pinky finger, a piece of foreign engineering fused with precision design. The moment it settled, a faint sliver resonated from within the metal sheath beneath his forearm, signalling the blade was primed and ready to deploy with but a flick of the wrist.

The Church assassin then reached behind him, fingers wrapping around the worn leather strap that held his Ludwig’s Rifle in place. In one smooth, silent motion, he unholstered the firearm and flicked it forward, the barrel rotating into combat position with an audible click. The familiar weight grounded him, being measured, efficient, and deadly. With an ease born of repetition, his right hand drew the silver sword from its sheath, the edge whispering against the scabbard as if greeting its wielder. The steel shimmered faintly in the Nightmare’s light, reflecting the garden’s eerie hues as well as the intent behind the blade’s purpose.

A lone breeze swept past, rustling the lumenflowers in quiet tribute, as if the Nightmare itself acknowledged the cleric's presence. Gops did not linger. He turned his head slightly toward the Clocktower and began his march, measured, purposeful, and unwavering. He was not here to gawk at the wonders of a broken reality.

He was here for her.

The moment Gops stepped into the threshold of the bell chamber, the air grew heavier. A sharp breeze pushed against him, not from the wind, but from the presence steeped in purpose and disdain. The ringing silence of the Astral Clocktower was broken only by the subtle creak of leather gloves tightening around a blade’s hilt and the distant clatter of the gears that turned above them, slow and timeless.

Perched in quiet contemplation moments before, Lady Maria now rose from her carved chair with the fluid grace of a dancer and the restraint of a killer, sensing the presence of the cleric without hesitation. Her Rakuyo, twin blades hidden within one, lay across her lap before she slid it free from its scabbard in one elegant motion. The steel caught the light filtering through the great clock face, casting a faint glimmer that painted her pale features in tones of ghostly silver. The scent had betrayed the Church assassin, for he was moon-soaked. The old huntress realised that it was not just the musk of a hunter, but it was him yet again.

“You, boy, are insufferable...” Maria muttered, her voice sharp as the edge of her blade, lined with exasperation rather than anger. She did not yell, as the weight of her disappointment was always enough.

Her words echoed through the chamber like a verdict. Yet this time, Gops gave her no reply, for he had tried twice before. Words meant to spark memory, sentiment, recognition; however, each time, the cleric had been cut down. Each time, the agony of dying by her hand felt deeper than the wounds themselves. It was not because of the pain, but because of what it reminded him she had lost, or perhaps, what he still foolishly clung to.

Now, he spoke only with action. He stepped forward, quiet and deliberate, his silver sword angled low, his body poised. No flourishes nor posturing. Just purpose. The Church Assassin raised his weapon not out of anger nor vengeance, but necessity.

Maria stepped toward him in kind, the heels of her laced boots clicking softly against the aged floorboards. Her expression was unreadable, half-scorn, half-sorrow, like a spirit forced to reenact the same cruel memory over and over.

Although the old huntress did not remember him, there was something inside her that did, for every time their blades met, it was not like fighting any other hunter. It was different. Her rhythm faltered when her aim narrowed, while her fury sharpened with a strange sense of familiarity that she could not fully name.

Gops’ eyes narrowed beneath the shadow cast by his plumed cap, as calm, prepared, and unyielding as he always was; yet they widened a heartbeat later. Lady Maria surged forward with breathtaking speed, a blur of red, silver, and fury. The Art of Quickening cloaked her steps in a ghostly afterimage, a haunting grace possessed only by the disciples of Gehrman, the First Hunter. Among them, Maria had reigned supreme, with her elegance married to lethality.

The assassin barely had time to react. His instincts, honed by decades of merciless hunts and silent killings, kicked in just as the gleam of the Rakuyo’s curved blade cut through the dim light of the Clocktower. Steel met steel, and the clash rang sharp and sonorous, a peal of defiance against the sombre tolling bells above. Sparks spilled from the collision of the Rakuyo’s deadly arc and the Church assassin's silver sword. Gops held firm, sliding a half-step back from the impact, boots grinding against the withered wood beneath them.

Maria did not relent. Her second blade, the off-hand dagger of the Rakuyo, shot upward like a serpent’s fang. Gops twisted his torso just in time, feeling the edge graze the grey fabric of his coat, barely a hair’s breadth from flesh. She flowed with the momentum of the miss, spinning low and driving her heel toward his shins. Gops leapt back, the flaps of his coat fluttering as he reset his stance, now flanking her left side. With a final click, the rifle was folded and holstered before his left gauntlet hissed sharply. The hidden blade extended with a precise snap, locking into place beneath his forearm.

Lady Maria came at him like rain, unrelenting and purposeful, while she unleashed another flurry. Every swing of her blades sang with history and fury. Every dodge the cleric made cost him his exertion, his doubt, and his restraint. It was not that Gops could not match her. It was that he did not want to. The assassin’s sword parried the lady’s thrust, his gauntlet blade deflecting the other. In a seamless motion, he rolled past her, coming to a low crouch. Their backs faced each other for a moment, a breath between chaos.

“I do not-” Gops began, but the words withered in his throat.

Lady Maria was already moving, a blur of grace and blood-honed fury. Her Rakuyo sang through the air as she spun, the blade cutting a deadly arc toward his neck. Instinct roared to life as Gops dropped low in a fluid crouch, the steel whisper of her blade slicing harmlessly above the plume of his tricorn cap. Before her next strike could find flesh, the cleric surged upward, meeting her second dagger with the raised edge of his silver sword.

Steel clashed with steel in a burst of sparks, the clash echoing across the vast chamber of the Astral Clocktower. Maria’s longer blade followed swiftly, but this time, Gops’ gauntlet caught it, with his hidden blade locking against hers in a furious blade bind.

“…wish to kill you!” he shouted, his voice ragged with strain, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

Maria’s green eyes narrowed, their cool intensity colder than any blade she carried. “That is why you die.”

With a sudden heave of strength, the old huntress broke the lock, shoving the cleric backward. She twisted at the hip, her coat flaring, and drove a booted foot into the assassin’s chest with the force of a cannon shot.

The impact hit Gops like a hammer to the ribs, his breath exploding from his lungs in a violent gasp. His silver sword slipped from his grip, clattering across the floorboards just as his back struck the ground hard enough to jolt his vision. He groaned, the wind fully knocked from him, with only his gauntlet blade remaining extended. It was then that something fell loose from his coat, something small, silver, and delicate. It struck the ground beside him with a soft metallic chime.

Maria froze.

Her eyes dropped to the floor between them. There, nestled in the cracks of the wooden floorboards, was the hair ornament. Her hair ornament. Elegant and old, a soft gleam of sentiment within the cold, brutal theatre of the Hunter’s Nightmare. For the first time, Maria hesitated.

“How did you acquire this…?” Maria’s voice broke the silence, low and strained, no longer coloured by fury but something more fragile and wavering.

Still flat on the ground, Gops blinked up at her, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the lady’s tone as he followed her gaze downward. The ornament lay between them, glinting in the eerie light of the Astral Clocktower, fragile and glimmering like a fragment of memory. He looked back at her, at the faint parting of her lips, the tension in her brows, the storm behind her pale green eyes. Not rage, nor hatred, but recognition, or something perilously close to it.

“You remember me not,” Gops breathed, stunned, “yet you recall… that?”

Maria’s gaze snapped back to the cleric. Her jaw tightened as she advanced a step, slow and deliberate. Her blades, once separate, were now conjoined into her famed trick weapon; however, it was the glint of silver in her off-hand that made Gops’ chest tighten. Her Evelyn was now aimed down at him, steadied with the precision only a master hunter could wield. Her laced boot pressed against his ribs, just enough to remind him that the old huntress was still in control.

“How did you acquire this?” she demanded again, the words no longer a question but a warning.

“Hh-!” Gops gasped as pain surged through his side. He winced, his breath shallow. “The… workshop,” he managed through clenched teeth. He could feel the bruised throb of his ribcage, something fractured for sure, yet Maria was unmoved.

“I asked how, not where,” she said, her voice sharpened like the edge of her Rakuyo. The pistol’s hammer clicked downward, an audible promise of violence. “Answer me.”

The chamber held its breath. Even the great bells above had fallen silent.

“Wait… you remember it?” Gops asked, his voice tinged with astonishment. The memory came back to him as clearly as a name etched in wet stone, during his first encounter with her in the Nightmare. “You only ever spoke of the hamlet… but Gehrman gifted that to you long after.”

Maria’s eyes flicked downward, then away. Her brow, once drawn with suspicion, began to loosen, the hard line of her mouth softening into something uncertain. She didn’t respond at first, but her silence spoke volumes. The ornament had awakened something. A memory, long buried beneath layers of blood and guilt. For the first time since the moment he arrived in the Nightmare, Gops saw a glimpse of her, not the warden of this cursed tower nor the merciless shade that met him blade for blade, but Maria as she once was.

“Yes…” the old huntress murmured, almost inaudibly, “He did…”

“I never lied,” Gops said quietly, not as a defence but as a reminder, perhaps to himself as much as to her.

Maria’s gaze darkened again, but not with anger. Instead, a kind of grief trembled behind her eyes, tempered only by a fragile composure.

“You need to leave,” she said, softly but firmly.

The words stung. Yet they didn’t surprise him.

The lady looked away as she spoke, her gloved hand slowly lowering her Evelyn, the hammer uncocking with a metallic sigh. “I… I need to be alone,” she continued, her voice heavier now, like a door beginning to shut. “Leave… before I change my mind.”

“Maria…” he breathed, the name escaping him like a secret he had not meant to share aloud.

She did not flinch. Maria only stepped back, lifting her boot from his chest, granting him the space he needed, and demanding he take it. A sharp throb rippled through his ribs as he pulled himself upright, groaning under the weight of the damage. He could feel the swell of bruising beneath his coat, but it was not the pain that lingered; it was the silence between them. Gops did not argue or plead, for there was nothing more to be said. Not now. So the Church assassin turned, his twin slivers of dark, engraved cloth trailing behind him as he limped toward the Hunter’s lamp at the base of the Astral Clocktower.

Neither of them looked back.

Chapter Text

The shift back into the Waking World brought with it a dull ache, one that Gops could not shake off even after leaving the Hunter’s Nightmare. By the time he limped through the great archway of the Grand Cathedral, the moonlight had turned pale, and the lamps burned low in their sconces. The swaying of cloaks, the muttered prayers, and the scent of incense hung thick in the halls, but none of it dulled the throb in his ribs.

He had barely made it to the infirmary before the White Church hunters began their quiet work. No words were exchanged, as none were needed. Upon unbuckling his belts, drawing back his coat, and lifting his undershirt to expose the purpling of his side, the clerics surrounded him with clinical precision. Healing blood was applied swiftly, mixed with whispers of sacred scripture and the press of medicinal tools, as if their speed might outrun the assassin’s pain. Gops sat propped on one of the sick beds, jaw clenched and eyes half-lidded with fatigue. Sweat glistened beneath the dark locks of his hair, some grey strands falling before his forehead, while his breathing came in tight, shallow draws.

“Al-Dhar!” came a sharp voice from beyond the hall.

Gops lifted his head wearily as the sound of boots echoed across the cathedral floor. Approaching him with a pace full of purpose was a familiar figure, a one-armed White Church hunter, his robes swaying behind him like a reprimand made manifest.

“Safety and peace, Bruce,” Gops greeted, offering a faint nod.

“Your presence deprives me of both,” Bruce retorted without pause, his tone clipped with irritation. “Care to tell me why I have spent the entire night combing every shadowed corner of this cathedral in search of you?”

Bruce’s hood was lowered, revealing a youthful but severe face. Fair-skinned and clean-shaven, save for a neatly trimmed chin beard, the man’s eyes were sharp brown, and his short black hair had been ruffled by wind and sweat. The cleric’s right sleeve had long since been folded and stitched over the bicep, the limb beneath it long gone, although his posture never betrayed imbalance.

The White Church hunter halted at Gops’ bedside with a scrutinising gaze. It was not the pain in Gops’ ribs that made him exhale, but the inevitable conversation.

“I did not realise I was under curfew along with the rest of Yharnam,” Gops replied, voice low but dry with sarcasm.

“No,” Bruce replied flatly, “but I did realise you were gone without so much as a trace for hours during the Hunt, only to reappear with broken ribs.”

Gops shifted slightly on the bed, suppressing the wince that followed. “I had to settle a certain debt,” he muttered.

The one-armed cleric raised a brow. “You settle debts like a man possessed.”

“Perhaps I am,” Gops said, his tone devoid of irony.

There was a pause. Bruce studied him carefully, his sharp eyes narrowing, not with suspicion, but concern buried beneath duty. The kind of concern only offered by those who have bled beside the other long enough to stop pretending they do not care.

“Do I want to know what happened?” Bruce hopelessly inquired.

Gops looked up at him, the candlelight glinting off the shadow cast by his brim.

“No,” the assassin replied, “you do not.”

“Good, because I have a task for you,” Bruce said without missing a beat, stepping closer.

Gops arched his scarred left brow, wincing slightly as he adjusted himself upright on the sickbed. “We are not expecting dawn for at least a couple of hours,” he replied, voice tinged with curiosity. “And I distinctly recall the Vicar herself relieving me of any contractual duties until then.”

“This is not a matter of contract,” Bruce said, tone growing more pointed. “And it cannot wait. We have had a number of reports tonight concerning a disturbance in Central Yharnam. A boarding house, specifically.”

Gops let the words settle for a moment before asking, “And no one else has seen to it… why?”

Bruce's gaze sharpened, jaw tightening slightly. “Had it been an ordinary scuffle, I would have sent one of the Black Church hunters,” he said. “But several of the reports mention a Hunter losing control. Residents nearby claim they have seen signs of a relapse, notably yelling. You understand the concern.”

“A blood-drunk,” Gops muttered, his voice low.

Bruce nodded once. “Possibly. Or perhaps a fledgling too deep in the bottle and too fresh in the Hunt. You are to find out which, and act accordingly.”

“Very well,” Gops responded, adjusting his belt and rising slowly to his feet. “Tell me the location.”

“It is the boarding house in Saint Michael's Alley,” Bruce answered.

Gops gave a slow, reluctant sigh, feeling the tightness flare in his ribcage while the healing blood accelerated the recovery. “So I am to determine whether to send for the Crow to execute a blood-drunk… or to subdue a drunk and drag him back to the ward.”

“Correct,” Bruce affirmed, voice flat. “Though if you can resolve it without bloodshed, the paperwork will be kinder to both of us.”

Gops exhaled through his nose and reached carefully for his coat, each movement stiff and deliberate. “Kindness does not visit Yharnam often.”

“No,” Bruce agreed, turning on his heel. “But tonight, maybe it can tolerate your company.”

The assassin grunted faintly, fixing his coat with one hand while the other retrieved his plumed cap, his clawed-gauntleted hand picking it up from the bedside table. There was nothing left to say, for he would carry out the task as he always did.

An hour had passed beneath Yharnam’s ever-fogged sky, yet the bells of the Cathedral Ward always managed to reach this far. The streets of Central Yharnam lay slick with fresh dew and the faint scent of damp ash, following a silence almost too uneasy to be natural save for an occasional howl of a beast that loomed within the hours of the Hunt.

Gops walked alone, his boots striking the cobblestone with steady, measured steps as he followed the narrow path of Saint Michael’s Alley. He had long memorised this part of the city, but even so, the houses seemed unfamiliar at night. Eventually, he came to a stop before the structure in question.

The boarding house stood crooked and bloated, as though rotting from within. What few windows it had were barred with rusted iron or boarded with haphazard planks, some still damp with the last rainfall. Chains had been nailed across one of the doors, while the other barely hung onto its hinges. The Church assassin studied the place in silence for a moment, his hands relaxed at his sides, with every weapon still holstered and every blade still sheathed.

Then, with a slight tilt of his head, the Church assassin raised one hand and pinched the brim of his plumed cap between the cold, clawed fingers of his gauntlet. He pulled it down gently, adjusting the angle over his brow until the shadow veiled his eyes. The dark strands of his hair framed his face in neat, weathered locks as he exhaled once through his nose. A quiet ritual. A moment of stillness before the threshold.

The door groaned on its hinges as Gops pushed it open, the sound brittle and strained, like the house itself resented the intrusion. A breath of stale, dust-laced air greeted him as he stepped inside, the interior cloaked in a shadow broken only by the flickering amber of a lantern hung beside the stairwell.

The Church assassin’s eyes adjusted quickly. His gaze drifted along the narrow corridor until it settled on the shape of a tall, hunched man peering up the staircase, half-hidden in the gloom. His wiry frame was cloaked in a worn leather vest that strained over a wrinkled shirt, deep brown trousers tucked sloppily into muddied boots. His face was drawn and weather-beaten, flanked by grey mutton chops that framed a mouth fixed into a permanent grimace. Atop his head sat a crumpled, sweat-stained hat that had long since lost its shape.

“Mister Baker?” Gops called as he stopped in his tracks, voice low but clear.

The hunched Yharnamite stiffened. A quiet curse slipped through his teeth before he even turned, with recognition in his bones before his mind caught up.

“Fuckin’ blimey…” the old man muttered, his shoulders sagging as if fate had played him the same bad hand twice. With reluctant civility, he turned to face the assassin, plastering on a strained smile. “Church assassin! Christ almighty. Aren’t I just thrilled to see ye. I know, I know. I ain’t supposed to be out till dawn.”

His tone wavered between mock-politeness and a resignation that said he would rather face any other cleric than this one in particular.

“So why are you?” Gops asked, his voice flat and eyes narrowed. His tone lacked accusation, for he was too familiar with the old man’s excuses to bother with anger.

The Yharnamite lifted his hands defensively, palms outward. “The Hunt’s still on, I get it,” he said quickly, his voice dropping to a hissed whisper. “I just stepped out the door for just a second to get a look at what sort o’ damage this drunk shit is doin’ upstairs!”

Gops remained still, unmoved by the explanation.

“Just cut me a break, will ye?” Baker added, his brows knitting together as he searched the assassin’s face for any hint of clemency.

“There are rules for a reason,” Gops replied coolly. His stance was statuesque, his silhouette as much a symbol of the Church’s authority as of his own vigilance. “And I’m certain no other cleric would be so willing to grant you a free pass.”

The assassin took a step closer, just enough for the light to catch the pale gleam of the blade tucked beneath his left gauntlet as he pointed two clawed fingers towards the Yharnamite.

“You do not want me catching you outside curfew again, Mister Baker.”

The Yharnamite shrank under the weight of the unspoken threat, nodding stiffly as his words failed him.

A sharp crack of glass rang out, followed by the splintering crash of a wooden chair shattering against stone just beyond the entrance. The fragments scattered across the cobbled ground like discarded bones. Gops did not flinch, for his eyes remained forward and unfazed. The same could not be said for Mister Baker, who jerked back with a startled yelp.

“Fuckin’ hell!” the old man cursed, clutching at his chest. “See? This is what I called you about. Do somethin’, Church assassin, before he completely tears up the place!”

“A Hunter, is he?” Gops asked, eyes still fixed ahead.

“I saw him carryin’ one o’ them… saw cleavers, or maybe a saw spear. Hell, I don’t know. One of those bloody things!” Mister Baker ranted, voice growing higher as his nerves frayed. “The freak’s on another bender, I’m tellin’ ye. He’s been goin’ on like this for hours. Turn this place to dust if you let him. He’s in a fuckin’ rage.”

Another furious grunt erupted from above, deep and guttural, the floorboards groaning with its weight. Gops and the Yharnamite both looked upward, the air now heavy with tension. A moment later, the sound of more furniture crashing filled the building, followed closely by the unmistakable shriek of a woman.

“Fuck you!” she yelled, her voice muffled but sharp enough to cut through the floor.

Mister Baker blinked, stepping back. “I didn’t know anyone else was up there…”

That, at last, drew Gops’ attention. His posture subtly shifted, not with alarm, but purpose. Without a word, he stepped past the Yharnamite, ascending the creaking staircase with methodical precision.

Whatever was happening upstairs, it would not remain unchecked much longer.

Chapter Text

Gops reached the landing, the groaning floorboards beneath his boots merging with the rising crescendo of voices and shattering debris ahead. The door to the flat stood half-ajar, vibrating faintly with the impact of chaos behind it. The assassin wasted no time. With a firm push, the door swung open, and the cleric’s eyes were met with a scene of violence in mid-bloom.

The flat, though modest in size, looked as if a storm had torn through it. Lamps lay smashed in corners, shards of porcelain and brass glittering among the broken glass. The couch had been overturned, one of its legs splintered, while chairs were in pieces, and kitchen utensils were scattered like the aftermath of a siege. The bedsheets were tangled, trailing off the mattress and onto the ground like cast-off clothing, with a mess of coins littered across the ground. It was a domestic ruin, but far worse were the people within it.

The man stood in the centre, broad-shouldered and unhinged, dressed in the scorched remnants of a charred hunter’s garb. His tattered cape hung limp and damp, clinging to him as though stained by more than rain. Despite the state of his attire, Gops recognised the telltale craftsmanship to be an old Powder Keg, Hunters that branched off the Beast Hunters long ago, and known for their love of excess and explosive ingenuity.

The woman, by contrast, was dressed finely, though her outfit carried an air of seduction more than elegance, adorning a silken dress cut high at the thigh, sleeves loose and trailing. Her long, red hair was tangled in a mess, and her makeup was smeared with tears across her fair features. She was backed into the corner, arms raised as if to ward off the inevitable.

“Goddamn you!” the hunter roared, his voice a brutal rasp as he raised his hand and slapped her across the face. The impact echoed, and she cried out as she was hurled against the wall, hitting it with a heavy thud as she attempted to keep herself on her feet.

“Hey!” Gops shouted, his voice sharp and commanding, slicing through the room like a thrown blade.

The Hunter barely had time to react before the assassin closed the distance in a flash. Gops slammed him hard against the adjacent wall, the Powder Keg’s back striking wood and plaster with a dull crunch. The assassin’s gauntlet pressed against the man’s collarbone, pinning him with cold fury. The woman rose slowly from where she had fallen, each movement deliberate as if suppressing the tremble in her limbs. Her heels clicked softly against the wooden floorboards as she stepped forward, stopping just behind the tall figure of the Church assassin. Despite the swelling on her cheek, her eyes burned not in fear, but with venomous fury.

"You’ve got something on your face," she said coldly, glaring past the assassin at the Powder Keg pinned against the wall.

The Keg snarled, lip curling. “Fuck are you talkin’ about, you stupid-”

Before he could finish the insult, she spat. The wad of saliva and blood splattered across the Keg’s face, running down the bridge of his nose and cheek like crimson ink on parchment.

The man winced, half out of surprise, half from humiliation. A guttural sound rumbled in his chest as his fury reignited. His eyes, bloodshot and glazed with drink, locked onto hers with unfiltered rage. Gops soon realised that the Keg was not blood-drunk, for this was the fury of a man who had long since drowned himself in liquor and pride, and now lashed out because it was the only thing left he knew how to do.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you! Fuckin’ fucker!” he roared, spittle flying, his entire frame thrashing beneath Gops’ hold.

“Alright, everyone just-” Gops began, trying to defuse the explosion that was moments away from erupting.

Yet the Keg struck first.

With a sudden jerk of his head, the Powder Keg slammed his forehead into Gops’ nose with brutal precision. Gops reeled, stumbling back a pace, vision momentarily blurring at the edges as pain bloomed across his face. Blood dripped down from his nose, but he remained upright just barely, as his resilience was born of the old blood coursing through his veins, just like any other Hunter.

The Church assassin silently cursed to himself, jaw tightening as he wiped the blood from his upper lip with the back of his glove. In all his years serving the Church, he had found his assassination contracts far simpler than delicate engagements like this, for there was no ambiguity or restraint, just a blade to the throat and silence to follow. But here, amid overturned furniture and the stench of alcohol, he was forced to act with discipline, bound by his word to resolve the matter without steel.

Across from him, the Powder Keg was already squaring up again, swaying slightly from the weight of drink but still formidable, every muscle tensed with undirected fury. Gops exhaled slowly through his nose, the pain radiating through his face sharpening his focus rather than dulling it. His fingers flexed as he raised both fists, slipping instinctively into a combative stance that mirrored the martial discipline drilled into him by both the Church and sheer experience. The claws of his left gauntlet, a set of metal protrusions covering his fingers and knuckles, glinted beneath the flickering lamplight. Though forged for assassination, Gops had learned to blunt their impact just enough for subdual. That, at least, was the intention.

“I am not drawing steel,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Then you’re gonna die with empty hands!” the Keg shouted, staggering forward with a wild haymaker.

Gops ducked low under the blow, pivoting on his heel. He struck with precision, first with a sharp jab from his right fist to the ribs, then followed up with a punishing backhand across the hunter’s jaw using his clawed left. The jagged metal knuckles tore a shallow gash as they made contact, and the Keg reeled, blood joining the spit already trailing down his face.

The drunken Hunter coughed out a curse, swinging again, slower now, unfocused and desperate. Gops sidestepped easily, catching the Hunter’s forearm in a twisting hold before driving his shoulder into the man’s sternum. The impact slammed the Keg back against the far wall. The plaster cracked, and the wood beneath groaned. The hunter sagged, stunned, held up only by the assassin’s grip on his collar.

“Jozef! This is your only warning,” Gops growled, voice low and cold. “Stand down.”

The Keg spat blood onto the floor between them. “Go to hell.”

“Been there,” Gops muttered, before driving his knee into the man’s gut.

Jozef dropped like butchered meat, crumpling to the floor with a heavy grunt. Not unconscious, but grounded as he wheezed, coughed, and muttered slurred curses into the floorboards. Gops stepped back, breathing steadily, his clawed gauntlet still half-raised in case the man had more fight left in him. Behind him, the woman let out a long exhale, that being half relief, and half exhaustion. Gops turned his head slightly, eyes still locked on the fallen drunk.

“You sound?” the assassin asked, voice even as he adjusted his plumed cap.

“I will be,” she answered, voice raw but composed.

The room had fallen quiet, save for the dying flicker of a shattered lamp’s ember and the ragged breaths of the Keg groaning on the floor. Gops flexed the fingers of his clawed gauntlet once, bloodied from the encounter, before letting his arm fall to his side. The woman folded her arms beneath her chest, posture casual, though her bruised cheek betrayed the storm she had weathered. She leaned lightly against the broken doorframe, watching the Church assassin with a wary sort of amusement, like a fox eyeing a trap it had escaped once already.

“What is your name?” Gops asked, tone quiet but firm.

“Whatever you’d like it to be, handsome,” she replied, slipping into the same rehearsed bravado that kept her safe in most places. Her voice purred, but her eyes remained cold. The woman played the part with practised ease, slipping back into the sultry rhythm of her trade, even if her ribs still ached.

Gops exhaled, tired of the games but unwilling to press. “Try not to make this more difficult than it has to be…”

Although she did not answer, the cleric let the moment hang before moving on. “Why was he hitting you?”

The woman’s expression changed, less mockery, more weariness. She drew a shallow breath before speaking again, slower this time.

“He asked me who he was,” she said. “Asked if I remembered him, or if anyone did. I told him no.” The woman shrugged. “So he started beating me. Then you showed up and started beating him.”

She shifted her gaze past Gops, locking eyes with the slumped figure on the ground. Jozef groaned, half-coughing on his own breath as he pushed himself onto one elbow. His face was a ruin of sweat and bruising, but his words rang clearer now, sharp with liquor-fed honesty.

“I’m a Powder Keg, yer wench…” he growled, dragging his words through grit and bile. “I’m the one who purged Old Yharnam… takin’ orders from the real monsters.”

He looked up at the assassin, eyes bloodshot and gleaming with defiance. “I lit the fires when they told me to. My brothers and I burned the plague from the streets, and the Church called us saviours, until the screams got too loud. We were then labelled unstable. Dangerous. Heretics!”

His lip curled, his voice rising.

“The purge wiped us out, and them fuckers disbanded us like we were nothin’. Like the fire was ours to bear!”

He jabbed a trembling finger toward Gops, rage and old grief mixing into venom.

“That’s who I am! A ghost in their books. A traitor to the traitors!”

His voice broke into a hoarse bark as he twisted back toward the woman. “That is who I am! You STUPID WOMAN!”

“Hey!” Gops snapped, stepping forward with force behind his voice. “I said that was your last warning.”

The words struck like iron, cold and final. Jozef’s bitterness may have held a sliver of truth, but there was no excuse or redemption in the way he acted tonight. Not in the eyes of the woman nursing her bruises, nor in the mind of the Church assassin who had seen enough bloodshed passed off as righteousness. Jozef spat to the side, rising slowly, his joints creaking like rusted hinges. The booze weighed heavy in his limbs, but he moved with grim purpose all the same. One gloved hand reached toward the jagged shape leaning against the splintered wall, that being the serrated saw spear, its teeth stained and dull.

“You are a glutton for punishment, Jozef,” Gops muttered with a low snarl, disappointment heavy in his voice. His shoulders squared as he watched the former hunter shuffle toward the trick weapon, like a man chasing his own ruin.

“You ain’t know punishment like I do,” Jozef growled, wrapping his fingers around the saw spear’s handle, lifting it with effort but no hesitation.

Outside, the sky had begun to pale. The night was slowly dying, its pitch darkness thinning into the faintest tint of grey through the clouds. But within the confines of Saint Michael’s Alley, violence still ruled the hour. Gops and Jozef both crashed through the window of the building, with shards of glass and splintered wood bursting outward as they smashed through the boarded planks.

The air swallowed their bodies, while the street yawned beneath them as they fell together, grappling onto each other in fury. They struck a wrought iron lamppost mid-plummet, with Jozef’s shoulder glancing off with a sickening crack while Gops' side slammed hard against it. The collision broke them apart, flinging them in opposite arcs.

Gops landed first, his plumed tricorn cap falling off his head while he crashed down atop a derelict carriage whose roof had long since rotted away. The frame caved beneath him, wood splintering into sharp fragments as the weight of his armoured body shattered the cart apart. Dust and broken leather flew as he rolled from the wreckage, his breath sharp, but his limbs still moving. Somewhere behind him, Jozef’s saw spear clanged against cobblestone, followed by the wet thud of a body hitting the street. The dawn crept closer, and the fight seemed to have come near its end.

Gops lay sprawled atop the shattered remnants of the carriage, the splintered wood beneath him groaning beneath his weight. Pain pulsed across his ribs and shoulders, blooming slowly like a bruise beneath the skin of dawn. He let out a long, tired groan, his chest rising as he pulled in a breath of chilled morning air. For a moment, he stayed there, motionless, letting the ache settle.

Then, with effort, he rose to his elbows, peering across the street. Jozef lay sprawled on the cobblestones, his saw spear just out of reach, his limbs slack, unmoving, and unconscious. Gops allowed himself a short breath of relief before turning his head toward a more immediate concern. Mister Baker stood frozen several paces away, hands clasped atop his crumpled hat, mouth agape in horror as he stared at the wreckage of the cart. His eyes flicked between the ruined wood, the unconscious Keg, and the slouched figure of the assassin.

“Good morning, Mister Baker…” Gops muttered, resting his head back against a broken panel and letting his gaze drift up toward the slowly brightening sky. His eyes fluttered closed as the bruises began to truly register, biting deeper with every breath. Still, even through the pain, a dry flicker of humour remained in his voice.

The old Yharnamite did not blink. “My cart…”

“Aye…” Gops winced. “Sorry, but it could not be avoided.”

There was a pause long enough to hope that would be the end of it.

“I can’t be mad at ye…” Mister Baker finally said, voice softer, though his disappointment leaked through like a cracked pipe. “I called for ye. And ye came to help… But even when ye help, things end up more fucked than they started!”

Gops did not respond. He did not move or argue. His eyelids lowered in a slow, shameful blink, his bruised form quietly soaking in the judgment. Although he may have said nothing, a small part of the cleric agreed. Mister Baker let out a long sigh and placed his hands on his hips, glancing away from the assassin’s crumpled figure and toward a shape approaching from the gloom.

“At least you’re not fuckin’ dead,” the Yharnamite muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

But the words had barely left his mouth when Gops’ eyes snapped open, wide with alarm, before a cold grip clamped down on his ankle. The Keg had roused himself from unconsciousness in the time it had taken for pain to lull Gops into stillness. With a guttural grunt, Jozef dragged the assassin off the shattered carriage wreckage and onto the cobbled street. Before Gops could fully react, a thick hand was around his throat. He was lifted before being crushed against the brick wall behind him with a thundering slam. Jozef’s other hand joined the first, both pressing into the assassin’s neck.

“Quit fuckin’ around!” Jozef snarled through gritted teeth. Spit flew from his mouth, eyes bloodshot not with bloodlust, but a drunk’s desperation. A man with nothing left but rage.

“I know you’re fuckin’ in there!” the Keg howled. “Come on out, yer fuckin’ dog! I’ll put yer right back in the Dream!”

Gops fought against the tightening pressure, his boots scraping against the wall for purchase. The edges of his vision darkened. Breath came in short, broken gasps. Panic did not grip him, for he was no stranger to death, yet the thought of Jozef unleashed upon the city in this state dug deeper than fear. The assassin’s left gauntlet moved on instinct, hand surging forward to claw at the Keg’s face. The sharpened steel tips screeched as they tore into skin, carving shallow trenches along Jozef’s cheek and temple. The Keg let out a roar of pain, but his hands held fast, with his knuckles bone-white from the effort.

The edges of Gops’ consciousness flickered. No choice left. With what strength remained, he yanked his clawed hand back, his gauntlet blade sliding into place with a metallic hiss. The glint of steel caught the faint morning light. He prepared to drive it into the hunter’s gut and end the fight as easily as he would with any contract.

However, before the assassin could strike, a saw spear came crashing down. Steel met shoulder with a sickening crunch. Jozef howled, his grip instantly releasing as the cleric staggered sideways, blood spraying from the fresh wound. The spear struck with enough force to send him collapsing to the cobbles once more, groaning in pain before falling still, unconscious yet again but still breathing. Gops dropped to his knees, coughing violently as air rushed back into his lungs. His vision cleared just enough to look up.

The woman from the boarding house stood behind the felled Keg, her hands tight around the saw spear’s handle. Her finely tailored dress was splattered with blood, and her jaw was set with cold resolve.

The woman released the saw spear’s handle, leaving the weapon lodged deep in Keg’s shoulder. Its blood-slick edge quivered slightly from the weight still embedded in bone and sinew, jutting out like a grotesque ornament. She looked up toward the Church assassin, eyes catching the soft, growing light behind his silhouette. Gops was doubled over, coughing hard, the sound ragged in his throat. His dark hair was wild and tangled across his scarred brow, a line of blood trailing from his nostril to his upper lip. With a mechanical hiss, he retracted the hidden blade back into the gauntlet on his left arm.

“You have my thanks…” he muttered, his voice hoarse but steady.

“Don’t mention it,” the woman replied, already kneeling beside the unconscious Powder Keg. Her fingers rifled through his coat and belt with the swift efficiency of someone who had done this before, not with guilt, but with purpose. “I’m just collecting what he owes me.”

A few tarnished coins clinked together in her hand. Her expression soured.

“That’s it?” she muttered with a grunt before slipping the meagre winnings into her purse. Straightening with a sigh, she gave the slumped hunter a contemptuous look, then drove the heel of her boot hard into his ribs.

Gops winced, not from pain, but at the absurdity of it.

“The man has a saw spear lodged in his shoulder,” he commented flatly. “He is not feeling that.”

The red-headed woman did not look at the cleric as she replied, “It’s more for me.”

They stood in a brief, tired silence, the quiet only broken by the rustling of loose debris stirred by the dawn breeze. Gops drew in a steady breath through his bruised ribs, the pain crackling like glass in his chest, but he did not protest. He knew well enough the punishment a Hunter’s body could endure, and what lingered longer was never the bruising.

“I suppose he is having a bad day,” Gops offered with a faint trace of irony.

“That makes two of us,” the woman said without missing a beat. With one final kick to the downed Keg’s leg, she turned on her heel and stepped onto the pavement, her stride regaining the poise that masked the weariness behind her eyes.

Gops knelt beside the unconscious Keg, bracing a boot between the man’s shoulder blades to keep him in place. He reached for the embedded saw spear, gripping the handle with both hands. With a harsh grunt, he yanked the trick weapon free. Blood welled from the wound in a fresh wave, painting the ruined cobblestones beneath them.

Without hesitation, Gops cast the saw spear aside, clattering to the ground with a dull metallic clang, before reaching into the pouch affixed to his belt. From within, he retrieved one of the three slim glass vials he possessed, a steel needle already affixed. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, thick and dark like ink, its hue tinged with the faintest glow of corrupted gold.

He plunged the needle into Jozef’s thigh and pressed the plunger down. The sacred blood hissed slightly as it entered the bloodstream, vanishing beneath the skin. It would not heal everything, but it would keep the Keg alive, stanch the worst of the bleeding, and help the hunter’s battered form knit itself back together in time. Rising slowly, Gops allowed himself a breath before glancing ahead. The woman had already begun to walk away, hips swaying with deliberate indifference; however, he was not finished.

“Hey,” he called out after her, his voice low but firm, drawing her attention without resorting to force. She paused mid-stride. “You seemed disappointed with what he had on him. Would you mind telling me who it is that you really work for?”

There was no accusation in his tone, only observation and instinct. There were many brothels in Yharnam, but there was something else about her. Not just the act, but the desperation. A carefully composed performance, now beginning to fray at the edges. The woman turned her head slightly, just enough to offer a side glance. Her lips curled into the faintest smile, as measured, alluring, and elusive as she has been following the confrontation.

“My apologies, Church assassin,” she said, voice silk-wrapped and airy, “it is… a sacred discretion.”

She let the silence linger a moment, then added, “Do you like my ornament?”

With a gentle flourish, she raised her bare arm, revealing the cuff wrapped elegantly around her upper bicep, being gilded and unassuming, yet clearly more than simple jewellery.

Gops did not so much as blink. “If you do not answer my questions, I cannot help you,” he said flatly, his patience thinning just a little behind his bruised features.

“I’m answering them the best I can,” she replied with a faint shrug, though her eyes betrayed the calculation behind her calm facade.

Then, abruptly, her gaze shifted to the ground where Jozef had lain only moments ago. Gops followed her eyes, only to find the Keg was gone, as well as his weapon. Only a dark smear of blood remained, like a brushstroke dragged across the street in haste. No dragging prints nor staggering steps, just absence, sudden and clean. The Church assassin’s posture tensed, his eyes narrowing as he took a cautious step forward, boots crunching on loose stone.

“Wonderful,” he muttered under his breath.

Just as Gops took a step to pursue the vanishing trail of the Keg, he felt a gentle hand wrap around his wrist. Her touch was light, but deliberate, with her slender fingers curling around the leather of his right glove.

“Please,” the woman said softly, her voice lined with a strange serenity despite the chaos of the night. “We don’t have to make more of a thing out of it than it already is.”

Gops paused, casting her a sidelong glance. “It is not about you,” he replied, voice firm but not unkind. “I cannot have him running around the city in the state he is in.”

She smiled, crooked and amused. “Good, ’cause I was beginning to think it was all about me.”

“That is not what I mean,” Gops sighed faintly before the edge of his mouth curved upward. Despite everything, with his bruises, the broken carriage, and the trail of blood leading into shadows, the cleric could not help but mirror her laughter with a small smirk of his own.

The woman blinked, suddenly realising she’d kept hold of his wrist longer than she intended. She pulled her hand back without a word, and the two of them turned, their gazes lifting to the sky as the last remnants of night began to surrender to the earliest hues of dawn.

“I’m still going to need a statement,” Gops said at last, cutting the silence.

“I’ve… got some things I need to drop off,” the woman murmured, brushing a lock of red hair behind her ear.

“Come see me at the cathedral during the day, then,” Gops offered.

“I’m a little overdue for a visit to the clinic, Church assassin,” she teased, casting him a wink. “But I’ll stop by tomorrow morning.”

“Very well,” Gops eventually agreed.

Silence hung between them like the mist still lingering in the alley, before the woman took a step closer, her boots barely making a sound on the damp cobblestone.

“Hey,” she said, her voice now soft and earnest. She leaned in, her breath warm against the side of his face as she brought her lips near his ear.

“You’re not as bad as everyone says you are.”

Before he could respond, she pressed a gentle kiss to his bruised cheek. The contact was light, but genuine. Her lips met the coarse stubble that shaded his jaw with a tenderness rare in Yharnam. Then, without ceremony or pretence, she turned and walked past him, her fingers lifting in a casual wave behind her as she disappeared down the street.

Gops stood there, watching her silhouette shrink into the fog and distance until there was nothing left of her but the sound of her boots. He tilted his head back toward the sky. The first streaks of pale light had begun to break through the clouded heavens, casting the city in its usual shroud of grey. Another Hunt neared its end.

And soon, the clocktower’s bells would toll as another day would rise over Yharnam.

Chapter Text

Dawn broke over Yharnam like a cold breath on old stone, casting its ashen light across the rooftops and cobbled streets. The Astral Clocktower’s great bells tolled the hour with a slow, solemn chime that echoed off the spires and alleyways. From the corners of shadow and ruin, the beasts retreated, driven back into the sewers, cellars, and deep-buried roots of the city where daylight seldom reached. Beast Hunters returned from their grim work, while those spared by the Hunt emerged cautiously from their homes, drawn by routine or ritual.

In Central Yharnam, market stalls reopened, their wares covered in mist and ash. Blood vendors stood idle in their rickety booths, and messengers scampered unseen. In Cathedral Ward, the faithful drifted toward the Grand Cathedral, as they were always seeking the touch of sacred blood. The gift of healing, purpose, and forgiveness. Through the heart of the medical halls returned Gops Al-Dhar.

The crowd parted for him in silence, uttering no words, only glances. Some turned their faces. His reputation preceded him like a shadow cast by a dying candlelight. The bruises on his face were fresh, his gait untouched by the pain. Blood clung to the fingers of his clawed gauntlet like rust, and he made no effort to hide it.

The White and Black Church hunters that manned the cathedral’s sanctum watched his passage with careful neutrality. Among them, none dared step in his way. Although the Church assassin held no rank they could name, no title that gleamed on parchment, his authority was felt in every heavy footfall on sacred ground. Only the Choir and the Vicar herself stood above him, save for the Captain of the Healing Church hunters, who stood equal.

The cleric climbed the spiral staircases of the Healing Church Workshop, higher and higher through the winding catacombs of knowledge and cruelty, until he reached the highest level, where secrets breathed and loyalty was measured not in words, but in silence. There, the old bureau had been converted into the nerve centre of the Church assassins, nestled like a parasite beside the Choir’s Orphanage. Filing cabinets and scroll racks lined the walls like tombs for truths best left buried. Iron candelabras cast long, flickering shadows over tables covered in parchment and bloodstained charts.

At the far end stood a desk. Behind it, as always, stood Bruce. He was hunched slightly, focused on a set of rolled documents, his lone arm shifting through them with uncanny efficiency, while the pale robes he wore were partially stained with old ink.

“Al-Dhar,” Bruce said without looking up. “I trust you have returned bearing good news?”

The Church assassin stopped before the desk, with his posture straight, and his expression unreadable.

“That depends,” Gops replied evenly. “Do you consider unconscious drunkards and destroyed carriages good news?”

Bruce’s brown eyes flicked upward. “Only if the unconscious drunkard is not you.”

Gops did not smile nor say anything else, letting his silence speak volumes.

Bruce set his quill aside, exhaling slowly. “Go on, then. Tell me everything.”

“There was a Hunter, indeed, but no blood-drunk. It was Jozef,” Gops reported as he stood before the counter, his tone composed despite the wear of the long night etched into the bruises on his face.

Bruce’s quill froze in his grip. He lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing at the name spoken.

“That is… unexpected,” Bruce muttered. “His appearance, that is. Not his addiction to liquor.” He sighed sharply through his nose and pinched the bridge between his eyes. “Do not tell me he has been out hunting again. It is expressly, and strictly, known that a Hunter cannot hunt without a badge.”

“He was not hunting,” Gops replied. “Still dresses the part, but there was no prey this time. He was about to pay a woman to sleep with him, before he started attacking her in a drunken stupor. I intervened, but the scuffle escalated into me flying out a second-storey window.”

Bruce’s brow lifted, his expression beginning to sour.

“And you return with neither of them… why?”

“Jozef got away.” Gops answered plainly.

Bruce blinked once, as his shoulders went rigid. “He what-”

“You ought to be thankful he still draws breath,” Gops replied dryly, eyes narrowing as he stepped away from the counter and began pacing toward the window overlooking the distant rooftops of Cathedral Ward.

Bruce clenched his jaw, ready to unleash a litany of grievances, but he stopped short. A long breath escaped through his nose as he ran a hand back through his short black hair, the strands tousled further in the act.

“And what of the woman?” Bruce’s voice emerged, tired and low.

“She was due for a visit to the clinic,” Gops said, briefly glancing at his blood-streaked gauntlet. “And I would say that is for the best, if you think I look terrible.”

Bruce grunted in reluctant agreement, but proceeded not to let up. “Perhaps. Yet you fail to realise the greater issue. A defective Powder Keg, charged with assault and battery, is still wandering the streets. Meanwhile, we sit here without even a formal statement from the woman involved.”

“Calm yourself,” Gops answered, turning to face him. “She will come. Said she would visit me at the cathedral tomorrow morning and explain everything.”

Bruce leaned back slightly, the joints in his shoulders creaking with the motion. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, already thinking ahead. “I shall send word to the Black Church hunters. If Jozef is still in Yharnam, we will find him.”

“No,” Gops interjected, his voice firm. “I would rather the captain not know. Not yet.”

Bruce’s eyes sharpened. “Al-Dhar, I cannot task the Church hunters without his knowing. Orders must be accounted for.”

“That is why I want you to keep an eye on the streets,” Gops said evenly. “Just until the woman meets us. We do not need the captain crashing his boot down before we understand what is truly going on.”

Bruce stared at him, incredulous. “Why would I do that for you?”

“This is not for me, Bruce.” Gops stepped closer again, his voice quiet but pointed. “You and I both know Jozef, and we both know Walkinshaw. If another fight breaks out, they will kill each other.”

The one-armed hunter fell into thought, resting his chin beard atop the knuckles of his good hand, elbow planted against the desk. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant toll of bells and the soft rustle of paper behind him. Finally, he spoke.

“Fine,” Bruce said, voice resigned. “This stays between us, but if that lady does not show up by tomorrow morning, I am going to have no choice but to inform Captain Walkinshaw.”

“That is all I ask,” Gops said, his voice low and final.

“Go clean yourself up, then. You do look terrible,” Bruce added with a dismissive flick of his hand, already returning to his scrolls.

Leaving the bureau’s central chamber, Gops made his way into his quarters, a modest living space tucked within the upper recesses of the Healing Church's assassin bureau. Although small, it was more than enough for someone who had long since abandoned the trappings of companionship. A bed with stiff sheets, a single aged couch, a narrow kitchen with a tea kettle forever warming on the hob, a rudimentary shower behind a canvas curtain, and a curtained alcove where he stored his garments and gear. It all fit together like the inside of a hunter’s coffin, being sparse, functional, and built for solitude.

Once alone, the assassin let his shoulders drop. He rolled his eyes and sighed in exhaustion, no longer needing to maintain the posture expected of him by the Church’s eyes. In the shower, he let lukewarm water run over the half-dried blood clinging to his tanned skin and toned muscles. The bruises and cuts had stopped bleeding, but each movement carried a dull ache that reminded him of Jozef’s grip and the stone wall that had caught his back. There was no need for a blood vial, not yet anyway. Weariness was the greater wound, and for that, the only balm was time.

Freshened and dressed in a loosely-buttoned shirt and black trousers, he stood before a small mirror, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. Although he had removed his left gauntlet that housed the more prominent hidden blade, his right arm remained armed with another. Strapped beneath the forearm and nestled against the muscle was a second blade, far more discreet in design. It was tucked neatly into a narrow metal sheath, held in place with worn leather bindings. This one was made for concealment beneath his sleeve, forged with subtlety in mind, its purpose rooted in misdirection. When his enemies saw an unarmed man, that blade would be the truth they realised too late.

Having brewed a cup of warm tea, Gops turned, only to find an unexpected presence waiting for him.

“That for me?” came a youthful voice.

“Leon?” Gops muttered, instantly recognising it, his expression tightening with mild annoyance.

A teenage boy stepped into full view, beaming like a cat that had snuck into the cream. Leon, barely seventeen, wore an oversized white shirt tucked into worn trousers, with old suspenders going over his shoulders. His unruly brown hair was partially hidden beneath a slightly tilted beret, the same one he was never seen without.

The boy grinned wider. “Got you at last.”

Gops pinched the bridge of his nose and walked past him, making for the couch. “Little man, this has got to stop. You cannot keep sneaking out of the orphanage like this.”

Leon followed without shame, hands tucked behind his head. “I’ll be of age in two years, Gops. After that, we’re basically roommates.”

“You will be your own man, yes. Live with me, no.” Gops retorted.

“But I’m already tired of Madam Audrey,” Leon sighed, then contorted his face into a ridiculously exaggerated frown. “I don’t think she’s ever had an emotion other than… this.”

Gops sighed through his nose. “She is the headmistress of the Choir for a reason. She has a far easier time tolerating you than I.”

Leon flopped onto the armrest of the couch, peering at the tea in his hand. “What have you got there?”

“Chamomile,” Gops answered, flatly.

Leon grimaced. “No wonder you’re always so grumpy.”

“Grumpy is the only thing keeping me alive.” Gops remarked.

“I’m serious!” Leon insisted, pushing off the couch and walking around to face Gops directly. “It wouldn’t be a terrible idea for you to offer me some. It also might help you show everyone how different you are now.”

Gops raised an eyebrow at him, dry amusement flickering in his gaze. “Offering tea will get people to like me? Hmph.” He let out a low, sardonic chuckle.

“It’d be a start,” Leon replied with a shrug. Then, more quietly, almost without inflection, “Especially considering you orphaned a fair amount of kids back in the Laurence days.”

The words came like a flicked dagger, light and almost casual, but still sharp enough to cut. The implication hung there, more than just an accusation. It bore truth, history, and the faint echo of a wound never entirely healed. However, Leon, whether out of stubbornness or sheer defiance, did not flinch from the memory. Neither his own nor Gops’.

The cleric’s jaw tightened slightly, though his eyes remained fixed on the steam rising from his teacup. “I thought Amelia was meant to be a fresh start for us all,” he said at last, his voice lowered, no longer cutting. There was no harshness nor cold armor, only fatigue. “It has been two years since she was made Vicar. Besides… I cannot change the past.”

“You cannot change people’s memories either,” Leon answered.

That gave Gops a pause. The silence that followed was not empty, but weighted, thick with things unspoken and histories unburied. The assassin stared into the cup in his hand, not seeing tea, but something else. Someone else. In the stillness, his thoughts drifted to the Dream, and the Hunter’s Nightmare. To the woman with the ashen hair and the voice that still followed him through corridors of his sleep. He remembered the day he returned with the hair ornament, how it had stirred something in Maria, restoring a portion of her memory; however, Leon’s words struck a deeper nerve.

He may never be able to change memories, indeed, yet could he ever change how she felt toward him… if she ever remembered it all? Could he ever change how the rest of Yharnam saw him? The assassin. The killer.

“I’m not saying it’s fair, Gops, but it’s true,” Leon continued, more slowly now, his earlier bravado giving way to something gentler. “People are scared of you. Even some of the orphans get nervous when they hear your name.”

He leaned back slightly as if to give the cleric space, not physically, but in thought.

“It doesn’t always have to be like that, though. Life’s easier with friends. Especially if you live a really long time… like Hunters do.” Leon expressed.

Gops let the silence linger before answering, his tone softening with a slight curve of amusement. “Are you saying you are going to be a Hunter?”

“Or perhaps an assassin like you,” Leon replied, shrugging. “One who can actually smile.”

The cleric scoffed. “Please.”

“And you cannot deny I caught you off guard today,” Leon added, nudging the edge of the truth like a child prodding at a sleeping bear.

“I knew you were here,” Gops replied, though the flatness of his voice betrayed the transparency of the lie.

“Sure you did.” Leon uttered confidently.

A smirk tugged at one corner of the cleric’s mouth. It did not last long, but it was visible enough for Leon to catch, and satisfying enough for him to file it away as a rare victory. With no contracts weighing on him for the moment, Gops rose from his seat. The conversation, though it stirred memories he often buried, had left him with a curious trace of clarity. The boy’s words, though clumsy and unpolished, had struck something real. Something that made him want to act. Looking down at Leon, he lifted the teacup from the arm of the couch and held it in one hand.

“If I give you this,” he asked plainly, “will you go back to the orphanage?”

Leon’s eyes brightened with a beam. “Cross my heart.”

Without a word more, Gops set the still-warm cup on the coffee table. Leon eagerly leaned forward and clasped the handle with both hands, the way he always did when he thought something had been earned. He looked up at the cleric again, his grin softening with sincerity.

“Thanks, Gops,” he said. The edge of boyish sarcasm was gone now, as what remained was a kind of quiet gratitude.

By then, Gops had already begun dressing back into his Church attire. The quiet hiss of leather straps and the muted shuffle of cloth signalled his preparation for a different journey, one not tied to the streets of Yharnam, but to the realm beyond the veil. Leon, sitting cross-legged on the couch with the teacup balanced between his palms, simply watched him go, content for now to know the assassin had not turned completely to stone.

Garbed once more in the infamous regalia of his rank, Gops fastened the final strap of his gauntlet and settled the long-plumed cap atop his dark hair. The sharp silhouette of the Church assassin was once again complete. Without further delay, he strode out of his quarters and descended through the hallowed halls of the Grand Cathedral, his boots echoing faintly against the polished stone floor.

Outside, the morning air of Yharnam was cool, yet thin, touched by the faint scent of incense and wet cobblestone. At the base of the Cathedral’s steps stood a lone Hunter’s lantern, its pale flame flickering with otherworldly promise. Gops approached and reached out. A soft hum enveloped his hand, and the world around him dissolved.

The Hunter’s Dream welcomed him in its perpetual dusk, yet the cleric did not linger. Instead, when he approached the unique gravestone and opened his eyes again, the world was sickened by colour.

The Hunter’s Nightmare greeted him with its oppressive light once again. The orange sun that hung in the sky like an open wound drenched the air in hues too harsh to be beautiful, yet too radiant to be ignored. Twisted architecture spiralled into unknowable skies, and the old gardens of the lumenflowers glowed eerily beneath his feet as he made his approach. The grand double doors of the Astral Clocktower loomed ahead, being weathered, proud, and open. Within the bell chamber of the tower, Lady Maria sat, always as the Church assassin remembered her.

Maria was poised, distant, and ethereal beneath the soft rays of the Nightmare sun leaking through the grand clock. This time, however, the lady's hands were not idle. The hair ornament she had recovered from him in their last meeting now danced between her gloved fingers. The old huntress twisted it gently, letting it catch the light as she studied it, less like an object, and more like a fragile sliver of the past. When her green eyes rose to meet his, they did not falter. It was not a surprise that filled her expression, as it was something closer to recognition.

As Gops stepped cautiously across the threshold of the chamber, his posture stiffened instinctively, half-expecting the draw of her blade, a sudden strike, or a silent rebuke; however, none came. Maria simply watched, and when he stopped a few feet from her, she lifted her gaze fully to meet his. Then, for the first time in this Nightmare, she spoke to him without malice.

“Come,” Maria invited, her voice steady and clear. “Let us talk.”

Chapter Text

Seated atop the small set of stairs that ascended to the grand clockface of the Astral Clocktower, Gops sat with his forearms braced against his knees, hands clasped loosely before him. Across from him, Lady Maria had turned in her chair to face him properly, her posture composed and quiet, though her green eyes remained fixed upon him with that same unyielding sharpness. She cradled her sheathed Rakuyo in one arm, the other still gently toying with the delicate hair ornament, its presence stirring something long buried in her, a tether to a memory she could not fully grasp, but one that held meaning all the same.

Gops, by contrast, felt less composed. He had prepared for the weight of her blade, but not for the weight of her words. He had not expected to be welcomed with conversation. The silence between them stretched, not heavy, but uncertain. Maria did not press. She simply waited, calm and measured, her patience as deliberate as the Nightmare itself. It was Gops who finally broke the silence.

"I had wondered if you would remember," he muttered, eyes lingering on the ornament in her fingers. "Or if the Nightmare would deny you even that."

“I, too, wondered,” Maria murmured at last, her voice carrying the weary hush of someone who had spoken only to ghosts for too long. “I have thought as much for as long as I can remember being here… in this twisted, accursed mirror of our world.”

Gops shifted slightly on the steps, his gaze steady. “You know how long it has been?”

Maria exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, but close. “Too long.” Her eyes trailed upward, toward the great brass clockface looming overhead. “You would think I would be able to keep track, residing in a tower that is built to mark time. Yet, after a while, the hours turned to days… days to weeks… then months. Eventually, the bells just became noise. A slow, aching toll of punishment. A reminder of what I did. Of what I deserve.”

“No,” Gops’ voice came softer now, and lower. “No… as I have told you before. Always.”

Maria’s head tilted slightly, just enough to suggest a question, though she said nothing for a beat. Her eyes narrowed faintly, not with suspicion, but concentration, like she was studying the very presence of the man seated before her.

“I do believe we knew one another,” she finally said, her words careful, deliberate. “Yet I hold no image of you. No clear memory. It is only… a sensation. As if I should remember you, though I do not.”

Gops’ hands remained clasped in front of him, elbows still braced on his knees. “And the ornament? What did it stir in you?”

Maria looked down at the delicate trinket resting in her palm, then lifted it delicately between her fingers. The silver caught the orange haze of the Nightmare’s sky, glinting like a frozen tear.

“Gehrman made this,” she said quietly. “He forged it after the horrors at the hamlet. He told me to keep it close. That no matter what this world becomes… there is still beauty, even in its ugliest corners.”

Her voice softened further as she examined the details, each curve and carving etched by the hand of her old mentor. “This gave me compassion when I feared I had none left. It reminded me that I could still feel something worth holding onto.”

Gops did not interrupt. He let the stillness fill the space between them, as if not to scare off whatever fragile spark had been rekindled.

“I suppose,” he said at last, “it awoke a core memory.”

Maria gave the faintest nod, her eyes still fixed on the ornament. Yet behind them, something shifted. A glint of familiarity, and longing, of something not quite remembered but not fully forgotten.

Gops let the quiet linger, allowing the moment to breathe. A rare warmth stirred within his chest, something soft and steady that he scarcely felt in anyone else’s presence. It had been far too long. He missed her voice, the lilting, foreign accent that gave her words their sharp, poetic edge. He missed her clarity, the way she always spoke with purpose. His brown eyes, so often dull with exhaustion or cold resolve, now carried a faint glimmer of light, just briefly, just enough for him to feel it, but not enough to show.

A slow breath slipped from his nose, grounding him. He watched Maria hold the ornament delicately in her gloved fingers, her expression distant, caught between the present and the dreamlike haze of memory. She felt the object’s weight, its meaning, but not the life they had once shared. In Gops’ mind, a quiet longing stirred again. He wondered.

What else is left in the Waking World? What relic might still lie hidden? Something they both touched, and cherished… Something that could make her remember…

“Cleric…” Maria’s voice cut softly through his thoughts.

He blinked, lifting his gaze back to her.

“You never told me how you retrieved this,” she said, eyes still on the ornament.

“Because I never knew where to begin,” Gops replied, his voice low, contemplative. “You already know of my… ability to cheat death.”

“Yet another question in need of answering,” Maria said, raising a brow faintly as she recalled the times she had run him through, and yet, he had always returned.

The assassin gave a slight nod, another huff through the nose. “Much like the Nightmare, there exists a Dream. One where the moon hangs closest.”

Maria’s eyes narrowed subtly. “That explains your scent.”

“Indeed. All bound to the Dream carry its scent. If they die, no matter where, they awaken there again.” His tone carried no arrogance, only the strange burden of knowledge.

“Such power,” she said, already cautious, “never comes without cost.”

“You are not wrong.” Gops’ gaze dropped for a moment, his thoughts sharpening. “This is the part I had been struggling the most to put into words.”

Maria remained silent, waiting.

“The Dream,” Gops continued, “is tethered to its host. Its whole existence depends on one soul. That host is Gehrman.”

Maria’s eyes widened, the green of her irises flaring with intensity beneath the pale fringe of her lashes. “Gehrman… He can travel here…?”

“No,” Gops replied quietly. “Unlike me, he cannot go anywhere.”

A beat passed before he continued, “He is imprisoned in the Dream, as you are in the Nightmare.”

Maria’s lips parted, brow furrowing slightly beneath her plumed cap. “How…?”

“Laurence,” Gops said, the name laced with a bitter weight. “I was not present the night it happened, but from what I gathered, he attempted a ritual, something ambitious. Arrogant, truly. It went terribly wrong and Gehrman vanished that night… He was not seen again until I awoke in the Dream and discovered I was moon-scented.”

Silence crept into the space between them. Maria’s eyes slipped shut, her pale brows tightening as her jaw tensed with restrained ire. The mere mention of the first Vicar’s name was enough to stir the old fire within her.

“He mourned you,” Gops said, his voice quieting. “More deeply than he ever let on. In his grief, he carved a mourning doll… made in your exact likeness.”

Maria’s eyes snapped open, disbelief overtaking her features. “What…?”

“I could not believe it either,” he admitted. “But it seems when the Dream manifested, that doll… it came to life. Animated, somehow, by the will of something greater.”

Maria stared at him, stunned.

“She resembles you in every detail,” Gops went on. “But her spirit… her manner… it is not you. She is far too gentle. Almost… docile at times.”

Maria’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I cannot believe this…”

Neither could the cleric, even now.

Gops let the silence settle again, allowing her time to absorb the truth. “Gehrman loved you like a father,” he said after a pause. “Whatever entity governs the Dream must have believed that giving him a version of you would ease his suffering… but it only deepened it. Trapped in that place, surrounded by echoes and distant memories, he fell into despair.”

He coughed lightly, disguising a tremor that worked its way up his throat. He had experienced a similar grief, silent and crushing, when Maria had vanished from the Waking World. But he pushed the feeling down, swallowing it whole. It took him a moment before he spoke again, his voice steadier this time.

“That is how I eventually found your ornament,” Gops said, grounding himself with the memory. “It was left within the workshop in the Waking World. Forgotten. But not by me.”

“It was me…” Maria murmured, her voice low, nearly lost beneath the weight of memory. “I left it behind… I left everyone. Everything.”

The confession hung in the air like dust suspended in a shaft of light. Gops swallowed, his throat tight. As much as he yearned to offer her comfort, to place a hand on her shoulder and say it was all forgiven, a part of him still needed to understand. Why she vanished. Why she abandoned the world they once shared. Why she left him.

“…Why?” he finally asked, the word escaping like a breath he had not realised he was holding.

Maria’s lips pressed into a faint line, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, slowly, her eyes rose to meet his. Though no precise memory of Gops bloomed in her mind, she sensed the fracture her absence had left in him. She could not recall the depth of their bond, but she could feel its ghost in the room, woven through the way he looked at her, in the quiet ache behind his words. The old huntress owed him more than silence.

“Walk with me,” Maria said at last, rising from her seat. Her movements were fluid and graceful, unceremonious yet imbued with purpose. One hand held her sheathed Rakuyo loosely at her side, the other cradled the silver hair ornament with quiet reverence, as if it might vanish again should she let it slip.

Gops followed Maria into the heart of the lumenflower gardens, their white blossoms swaying gently in the ever-present breeze of the Nightmare. The soft glow of the petals shimmered under the oppressive orange sky, each one casting a pale, ghostly sheen as though lit from within. It was eerily quiet here, too quiet, save for the soft crunch of gravel beneath their boots and the occasional flutter of the tall blooms brushing against fabric. At the far end of the garden, near the looming, rust-stained entrance to the research hall, Maria finally came to a halt. She stood still, her back to Gops, shoulders drawn.

“The patients,” the old huntress said at last, her voice a breath carried in the wind. “You have heard their cries?”

“They call for you,” Gops replied.

Maria lowered her gaze, unsurprised, but the pain still found her. “I thought as much… Their voices reminded me of the poor souls from the hamlet. Pleading. Desperate. Dying.”

She turned away from the dark threshold of the research hall, refusing to even glance into its shadowed maw. Her steps were slow, heavy with memory, as she wandered back through the garden paths with no real destination, only the need to move.

“How I thought I could atone,” she murmured. “That by giving up my badge and relinquishing this gift,” she looked down at the silver hair ornament in her gloved palm, “I might find redemption. A fool, was I, for believing that tending to the sickly would be enough to cleanse my hands.”

She shook her head, almost bitterly.

“But fate… fate had no mercy for the likes of me. I sought peace. Instead, I was given a garden of agony.”

Gops walked beside her in silence, his eyes fixed ahead. Her words stung, not just in what they revealed, but in what they implied. She believed herself undeserving. Beyond saving.

“There were people who cared for you, Maria,” he said softly, though he did not include himself among them out loud. “And many you cared for in return. There is a reason the patients call for you still. Why they weep your name in the dark. They crave the comfort you once gave them, the calm in their torment. You were the peace they remembered in their pain.”

Maria stopped. Her voice, when it came again, was calm but firm. “You do not understand. I am the one who gave them that pain.”

The assassin turned to face her. “How can I understand? I asked you, again and again, when you still walked the Waking World, but you turned your eyes away every time.”

Maria’s expression tightened, her jaw clenching beneath her pale cheekbones. She looked him dead in the eye, and for a moment, something sharp flickered behind her calm exterior.

“Then allow me to enlighten you, cleric.”

The old huntress spoke the title with intent, half spite, half sorrow.

“We did not just massacre every villager. We butchered them. Tore them apart piece by piece, inside and out. For Byrgenwerth. For the sake of their precious knowledge.” Her voice hardened, etched with old horrors. “We cleaved through their skulls, while the scholars extracted their thoughts. Their insight. Men. Women. Children, even. Right after desecrating the god that washed up on their shore.”

Her grip tightened around the Rakuyo at her side, the other hand closing protectively over the ornament as though it were the last sliver of her soul untouched by what she described.

“I was there,” she said, more to herself than to him. “And I did nothing to stop it.”

Gops staggered inwardly at the sudden rise in Maria’s voice. Her accent, normally poised and laced with elegance, now cracked with raw emotion, piercing through the stillness of the gardens. It was not just her words, it was the weight behind them, the pain barely restrained beneath her composed veneer. The assassin’s breath caught in his throat because, perhaps more than anyone, he understood her. To be remembered only as a killer, judged solely by the blood on one’s hands. It was a burden the cleric, too, bore in silence. Yet her anguish stirred something deeper within him, old wounds long buried, and with them, anger.

“I, too, have committed atrocities,” Gops said, the words escaping him faster than he intended, sharpened by emotion. “But that never gave me the right to press a blade to my throat.”

Maria’s eyes narrowed, her stance growing still. “I beg your pardon?”

“What? You do not remember that either?” Gops snapped, frustration rising to the surface like a tide he could no longer suppress.

“I do, as a matter of fact,” she shot back, lifting the sheathed Rakuyo slightly in her hand, the gleam of its silver inlaid hilt catching the nightmare light. “I carry the very instrument that ended my life.”

“Then why, Maria?!” Gops barked, his voice finally breaking with the force of everything he had held back.

“Because I was a coward!” she shouted, the confession erupting from her chest. “I ran from everything. My oath, my blades, my past. I thought I could atone by spending the rest of my days tending to the sick, but even that was a lie. The Choir did to them what Byrgenwerth did to the villagers. It never changed. Nothing changed. Everyone I touched suffered for it. I could not bear to harm another soul. Not again.”

Her voice shook, but her hands remained steady as she turned her gaze back onto him, eyes blazing. “And you, Church assassin,” she continued, her tone cold now, calculated. “You speak of atrocities as if we share a burden. So tell me, where were you?”

Gops straightened, eyes hardening. “I was not even alive when the hamlet happened.”

“I am not speaking of the hamlet,” she replied without hesitation, stepping forward. “You claim you knew me up to my final days. Then tell me, what kept your hand from questioning the horrors that came after? What kept you from seeing right from wrong when everything around us was falling apart?”

“I never had the chance-” Gops began, his voice low and taut.

“There is always a chance,” Maria snapped, her words like ice. “The difference between you and I is that I accepted what I had become. I was rotten and I knew it. You, on the other hand?” She shook her head. “You dream of redemption while still barking at the heels of the Vicar like a chained dog, blind to the blood caked on your hands.”

The words landed like a blade slipping through a weak point in his armour. Maria’s voice echoed for a moment, then vanished into the heavy silence that followed. Gops’ breath caught, not from fury this time, but from the sting of recognition. She was right. There was no retort he could give, no self-justifying lie that would hold in her presence. The truth had come like cold steel, cleaving through him, and all that remained now was regret.

Maria exhaled quietly, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the garden’s uneasy stillness. The anger that once flared behind her green eyes had dimmed, replaced by a wearied calm. She looked away from him, casting her gaze toward the crooked skyline of the Nightmare, where the twisted spires of a false Yharnam shimmered beneath an accursed sun that never set.

“I’m sorry…” she murmured, softer now. “I should not have spoken like that.”

“No,” Gops replied, voice hoarse. “You were right. I have been a wreck. You tried to change, truly. But I…” His eyes dropped to his gloved hands, one of them clawed, flexing them slightly as if to feel the weight of what they had done. “I stayed a killer. Some deserved it, yet not all. I know that.”

Maria parted her lips in hesitation, then closed them again. There was something on the tip of her tongue, and the assassin noticed.

“What is it?” the cleric asked, his scarred brow raised beneath his cap.

“I… I do not remember your name,” she said, not in shame, but with the quiet heaviness of someone admitting a deeply personal loss.

“Assassin is just fine by me,” Gops muttered, turning his back to the horizon and slumping to the ground. He sat with a quiet exhale, leaning against the cold stone railing that framed the gardens. The white petals of the lumenflowers danced quietly in the still breeze, untouched by time or decay.

“No,” Maria countered firmly.

She stepped toward him with steady feet, then lowered herself to a crouch directly in front of him. The tip of her sheathed Rakuyo touched the garden path beside her boot, her hand resting atop the hilt with quiet familiarity. Her other elbow perched atop her bent knee, and her green eyes met his brown ones with a clarity that seemed to pierce through the veil of forgetfulness.

“That is not fine,” she said.

“What is the point of it, Maria?” Gops murmured, his voice barely lifting above the soft rustle of lumenflower petals. His eyes, dulled by years of blood and duty, held the weight of a man long worn down. “I have scarred too many people and ruined lives. Even under a new Vicar, I remain unchanged. I am nothing but a dog who can take a life with ease… but the moment I try to do an ounce of good, all I do is worsen things tenfold.”

The words spilled out like rot from a wound left untreated, bitter, festering, and long overdue. He had not meant to bare his heart, but there was something in Maria’s presence that dissolved his armour. He could never afford this kind of vulnerability in Yharnam. Not in front of the Church. Not even before the Dream. Yet here, in this warped garden beneath an eternal sun, he could, and he did.

The wind stirred gently, teasing at Maria’s cape, lifting the hem of it behind her shoulder like a breath from the world itself. She did not respond right away. She merely watched him, her eyes narrowing not with judgment, but understanding. The kind only those who have known guilt could offer. The old huntress tilted her head, faintly, her silver lashes catching the light like frost. She knew that tiredness, for she had lived in it.

“I am tired…” Gops admitted at last, hanging his head low. His back remained slouched against the stone balustrade, one leg drawn up, his left gauntlet resting atop his knee like a knight broken in his vigil.

Then, without a word, he felt her glove atop his hand. The gesture was gentle and steady. No pity nor absolution, just her presence.

“I know,” Maria whispered.

She remained crouched in front of him, her body still, eyes not once leaving his. The Rakuyo stood quietly beside her, the steel hidden, the blade at rest.

“Like I have told you… there is always a chance,” she continued, her voice softer than before, but grounded. “I realised that far too late, after I had thrown everything away.”

She tightened her grip slightly, not demanding nor pleading, but affirming.

“Do not make the same mistake as I did, good cleric.”

The name rang differently in her voice this time. Not as a jab. Not as a title. But as a tether to who he had once been, and who he still might become. Gops found himself caught in the depths of her gaze, drowning in the quiet storm of green that seemed to shimmer with light. There was something endlessly grounding in the way her hand lingered atop his own, as it felt real, and somehow more comforting than all the half-truths and rituals the Church ever gave him. For a long moment, nothing else seemed to matter. Not the killings. Not the vows. Not the blood. Only this fleeting fragment of stillness, shared between two broken souls in a place stitched together by memory and regret.

Eventually, he stirred from the trance, eyes blinking softly as if waking from a dream. He gave a faint nod, reluctant, as if even the smallest motion might break the fragile moment they had built. With effort, Gops rose to his feet. Maria followed, standing tall in a manner that reminded him of who she truly was, unyielding and dignified. Her height eclipsed even his, though he was already taller than most Yharnamites. There was no sense of threat, only reverence.

“I am… likely expected by now,” Gops muttered, voice tinged with reluctance.

“Then do not let me be the one to keep you waiting,” Maria said, her voice soft as linen caught in the wind. There was something in her tone, gentle and familiar, not unlike the Doll. Perhaps the Dream had preserved more of her heart than she realised.

The Church assassin nodded once more, this time with greater resolve, though each step away from her felt like a wound freshly torn. He made his way toward the lantern, that pale flame shimmering before the threshold of the Astral Clocktower. Maria watched him go, her silhouette steady amidst the sea of white-petaled lumenflowers. Just before touching the light, he paused.

“Gops,” the cleric said, turning slightly.

Maria tilted her head. “I beg your pardon?”

“My name,” he clarified, a small smile barely ghosting his lips. “Gops Al-Dhar.”

With that, he knelt beside the lantern. A breath later, his form dispersed into mist, drawn back into the Waking World. Maria remained still, her gloved hand tightening faintly around the hilt of her Rakuyo. Her eyes lingered on the space where he had vanished, as though she could still see the shape of him in the air.

Her lips parted.

“Gops…” she repeated quietly, as if tasting the name for the first time.

And somewhere, deep within her cold blood, a warmth stirred.

Chapter Text

The day in Yharnam waned beneath a dusky shroud, as the sun dipped low behind the ashen skyline, casting long, weeping shadows across the stone-paved streets. One by one, the oil lanterns affixed to crooked walls were snuffed out, and the hurried murmurs of the townsfolk gave way to an uneasy hush. The Astral Clocktower’s bells tolled, hollow yet commanding. As if on instinct, the citizens retreated behind locked doors and bolted shutters, pulling curtains tight as if to shut out not just the dark, but the creatures that came with it.

In the heart of the city, the spires of the Healing Church stood like silent sentinels. Within its hallowed halls, Gops took quiet refuge. On nights when no contracts called for bloodshed, Gops did not stalk the alleys or scale rooftops. His rank afforded him something rarer than most hunters ever lived to enjoy, that being rest, and yet, rest never came easily.

He remained in attire from the waist down. His dark, reinforced trousers tucked securely into well-worn leather boots, their soles scuffed and stained with years of quiet killings. Belts strapped around his waist and upper leg bore pouches, vials, and hidden tools of his grim trade, each holster precisely where it had always been. Only the heavy coat was missing from his usual garb, the cloth he always adorned over his shoulders, and his tricorn cap.

Above the waist, he wore only a fitted dark-grey undershirt, with a few buttons left undone at the neck, revealing the faint curve of his collarbone. The sleeves were worn differently on each side as his left arm was bare to the forearm, rolled up for ease, while his right remained sheathed beneath fabric, hiding the second hidden blade affixed beneath. Hanging from a thin chain around his neck, gleaming faintly in the low candlelight, was the badge of the Church Hunters, its edges worn, its emblem unmistakable. Although he had long surpassed those who bore the title, Gops still wore it openly, not as a necessity, but as a declaration. A silent vow, for his allegiance to the Healing Church had never wavered.

Tonight, the assassin was alone, seated at the heavy oak desk within the dimly lit confines of the Church Assassin’s bureau. A single candle burned nearby, its flame flickering shadows dancing across the cobbled walls. The room was absent of the one-armed intelligencer who normally shared the space. No doubt he was off tending to his end of their planned bargain. In his absence, Gops had taken it upon himself to maintain the paper trail the man left behind. He moved with mechanical precision through filing ledgers, sorting contact lists, examining personal letters, and indexing confidential dossiers with names that once only passed through whispers. Some were allies, while others were marked.

One folder in particular lay open before him, a spread of parchment bearing a fresh ink scent. Notes were still unfinished, but the entry had already been titled. It belonged to a woman, the very one he had encountered the night prior in Central Yharnam. Gops was preparing her documents with careful hands, as she was due to meet him again at dawn by the cathedral. Setting the quill aside, the cleric leaned back into the creaking frame of his chair, the worn leather groaning faintly beneath his weight. A breath escaped him, quiet and tired, as his gaze wandered to the candlelight stretching shadows across the bureau walls. The flame swayed gently, casting long silhouettes of shelves and tomes, and in the stillness, his thoughts slipped elsewhere. Back to the Hunter’s Nightmare.

Back to the garden of pale lumenflowers beneath the warped heavens, where time seemed to hold its breath. The memory came unbidden, vivid as if no time had passed. He could see her still. Maria, poised in the hush of the Nightmare, her presence stark against the sun that never set. The memory of her words lingered like a spectre in his mind, looping softly with a weight he could not shake. His scarred brow furrowed as he exhaled, slow and through his nose, lips pressed in a thin, contemplative line. He recalled the scent that clung faintly to her, clean and faintly metallic, yet warm in a way he could not describe. Her voice too, that unmistakable lilt of her forgotten homeland, graceful even when sharpened by pain. Her glacial green eyes, bright beneath pale lashes, that had met him without flinching. They had seen him. Not as the assassin, nor even the cleric, only as Gops. The man.

His thoughts gradually returned to the present, the memory of Maria’s eyes fading like mist under torchlight. Gops exhaled quietly, long and steady, before drawing out a worn silver pocket watch from the pouch on his belt. The chain caught the candlelight as he checked the time, just under a few hours until the Astral Clocktower’s great bells would toll the end of the Hunt and the slow crawl of dawn thereafter.

He rose from his seat, the old wood creaking beneath his weight, and began gathering the sheaves of parchment he had prepared for the morning meeting. Just as he reached for the final page, the distinct sound of hurried footsteps echoed up the corridor outside the bureau. A sharp, purposeful rhythm. Heels, light, yet not untrained. A woman’s pace, but not the civilian he expected. Gops paused, his senses honed by instinct. No civilian could have come this far into the upper levels of the Healing Church without clearance.

A silver-haired woman stepped briskly into the room, her Choir robes flowing behind her in clean, layered whites tinged with ceremonial blue. Her garb was pristine, her posture commanding, yet she bore no blindfold cap like many of her kind. Instead, her face was exposed to full view, pale and patrician, her features sharp as if chiselled from ivory. Her eyes shone with a glacial clarity, radiant and piercing. Normally, there was a quiet ease in her presence, a tempered grace; however, there was none of that tonight. Only focus.

“Gops,” she said firmly, her voice clipped yet melodious.

The Church assassin furrowed his brows faintly, his tone teetering between formality and concern. Her name left his lips more as recognition than address. “Madam Venderkwast?”

“We haven’t the time,” she said, pivoting with swift grace. “Come with me.”

Without further word, she turned sharply and began striding down the corridor from whence she came, her pace giving him no room for hesitation. Gops followed without question, his boots echoing against the marble with a steady rhythm. Something in her tone told him this was no mere summons, and if she had come personally, it meant it could not wait.

“Madam Venderkwast…?” Gops called as he followed her brisk steps, the concern rippling beneath the evenness of his voice. She did not turn. The scholar’s pace was unrelenting, her Choir robes trailing behind like pale smoke in the dim light.

“Elhain-” the assassin tried again, this time using her name, gently, as if to reel her back to him.

“What?” she snapped, eyes flicking over her shoulder without slowing.

The sharpness in her voice cut through the air like a scalpel, but when their eyes met, her tone softened not with words, but with the weight behind her stare. Gops did not flinch, though his brows knit tighter, deeply worried now. The Choir member exhaled through her nose, clearly fighting to centre herself.

“Apologies,” Elhain muttered, eyes flicking away again. “I am just…” Her sentence trailed off, unfinished, her thoughts elsewhere and fractured, running ahead of her tongue as she led him through the stone corridors of the Healing Church workshop.

“What happened?” Gops pressed, his tone low but firm. He was not seeking courtesy, only clarity.

“Not here,” she answered, still not slowing. “Brother Bruce insisted it was imperative that you meet us outside Oedon Chapel. Immediately.”

Gops nodded silently and followed without hesitation, his long strides matching her pace as they descended through the workshop’s inner levels. The sound of boots on worn stone echoed through the stairwells like a ticking clock, each step marking the march toward something unknown. They crossed into the lift chamber without another word. Gops moved past her just slightly and pulled the lever himself, letting the platform groan and rumble as it began its descent.

“We shall speak outside,” Elhain said as her voice steadied, cool and quiet, but edged with urgency.

Gops did not reply, for he did not need to. The look he gave her, being silent and resolute, was enough. The elevator sank until reaching the ground floor, toward the chapel, and toward whatever had summoned the Choir and their hound in the night. Outside the chapel, the night air hung thick with damp mist, curling between the spires and broken statues like restless spirits. Gops stepped out into the stone courtyard to find Bruce waiting, his silhouette hunched beneath the flickering torchlight, flanked by three Black Church hunters who had been digging.

The rhythmic clang of pickaxes against packed gravel echoed hollowly through the night. The sight alone was jarring, as Church hunters were not gravediggers, and they did not toil in the earth unless something unspeakable had called them to it. Gops furrowed his scarred brow at once. The one-armed cleric looked up as the Choir member and the assassin approached. Relief flickered across Bruce’s weary face, though it did little to mask the dread steeped in his features. His breath left him in a sigh, one that said more than words ever could. Elhain slowed to a stop beside Gops, her arms folded tightly beneath her robes. Bruce gave her a grateful nod, then turned toward the assassin.

“What is going on?” Gops asked, his voice low and controlled, but strained beneath it was the tension of a man who already suspected the answer was far from kind.

Bruce hesitated, glancing once at Elhain. She gave the faintest shake of her head, perhaps not in disagreement, but in caution. The cleric exhaled and gestured toward the shallow pit behind him.

“I believe it best that you see it for yourself,” he said grimly.

At Bruce’s motion, the Black Church hunters stepped aside without a word, the ends of their pickaxes resting in the stone as they made room. A mound of disturbed gravel marked the spot where something, or someone, had been unearthed.

A red, tattered cloth lay draped across a shape partially exposed in the loose dirt. Gops stepped forward slowly, his boots crunching over the broken stone and gravel, before he knelt at the edge of the pit. His hand reached forward with careful precision, drawing back the soiled fabric. Beneath it lay a body, bound in a dirt-stained sack, before his breath caught in his throat. The arm was what he saw first, outstretched unnaturally as if in the middle of a desperate reach toward the sky. The cold, pale limb protruded from the torn opening of the satchel, fingers frozen mid-gesture. Then, he recognised her face.

It was her.

The woman Gops was meant to meet at dawn, the one whose papers still lay stacked on his desk. Her skin, once tinged with life, was now a ghastly shade of grey-blue. Her lips parted, not in rest, but in what seemed like the last gasp of hope. Her lifeless eyes stared skyward, blind and unmoving, yet somehow still pleading. For a moment, Gops did not move. His hand hovered just above her face, but something inside him faltered. The assassin lowered his hand, curling it into a tight fist as a cold wind swept through the chapel yard, tugging gently at his shirt sleeve. She had not even made it to the cathedral, and now, the assassin had a corpse.

“No…” Gops murmured, the word slipping from his lips like breath stolen by grief. His eyes shut tight for a brief moment, as though the darkness behind his lids might somehow undo what lay before him. He shook his head faintly, resigned, yet unwilling to fully accept.

Bruce stepped closer, careful not to disturb the stillness of the scene. His brow furrowed, voice low. “Was it her?”

Gops gave only the smallest of nods, still kneeling beside the grave, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the disturbed earth.

Elhain took a step forward, her robes whispering over the cobblestones. “You knew this woman?”

“She was a working girl,” Gops replied, his tone quiet and even. “Never gave me her name. I came across her last night when she was being attacked by Jozef.” His gaze darkened. “A former Keg.”

Elhain’s breath hitched. “Planes above…” she muttered. “Did he…?”

“I have been scouring the streets all day, madam,” Bruce interjected, turning toward her. “Central Yharnam this morning, Cathedral Ward by dusk. I even swept the nearby alleys again while you were away. There is no trace of him anywhere.”

A tense silence followed, the weight of the moment settling over them like a funeral shroud.

“Who else knows of this?” Gops asked, lifting his gaze.

Bruce exhaled slowly. “Only us, for now. Yet I doubt we can keep it that way much longer.”

Gops’ expression shifted, something colder behind his eyes. “Of course,” he muttered, bitterness curling in his throat.

Elhain and Bruce exchanged a knowing look. They had seen that edge in the assassin before, knowing full well what history brewed beneath his words when it came to the Church Captain.

Elhain turned to one of the three Black Church hunters nearby, her voice sharp but composed. “Alert the captain. Send word to the headmistress, and the Vicar as well.”

“At once, madam,” the Church hunter replied, bowing swiftly before breaking into a run toward the Grand Cathedral. His steps faded into the night, leaving the rest to stand vigil over the grave.

Gops remained crouched, his hand resting against his knee, eyes fixed on the grim scene in the unearthed gravel. The weight of it pressed down on him, how needless this death was, as well as its ritualistic display. Despite his strained history with the Church Captain, he understood now that the matter could no longer remain confined between himself and the only two clerics within the Healing Church who still looked at him without suspicion or disdain. As much as the assassin hated it, the circle had to widen.

While they waited for the message to reach the Grand Cathedral, Gops extended a hand toward the body, steady and slow. With a reverent touch, he gently slid her eyelids shut, granting her what little dignity the grave had denied. The gesture was wordless, but it stirred something silent in the two standing nearby. Elhain brought her gloved fingertips close to her lips, her expression sinking beneath the weight of quiet grief. Bruce exhaled through his nose, a short and heavy breath that said more than words could.

“No trace, you say,” Gops murmured, his voice low and edged with suspicion. He did not look up, yet his words were aimed at the one-armed cleric. “What was the state of the body when you first arrived?”

“It was unlike anything I have ever encountered,” Bruce answered. “The ground had not been disturbed, at least, not in the way you would expect. The stone seemed as if it had never been tampered with, and yet… her arm was the only part visible above the surface.”

Gops’ brow tightened, his scar twisting with the movement.

Bruce continued, “When we dug into the stone, we found her wrapped entirely in a thick sack, its opening tied with rope right where her arm emerged. Whoever did this… wanted her to be found.”

A heavy silence lingered between the three of them, the kind that seemed to hum beneath the skin, restless and thick with implication.

“Thankfully,” Bruce continued, breaking the stillness, “Madam Venderkwast happened to be visiting Oedon Chapel at the right hour, as well as our Brothers here,” he gestured with his lone arm toward the pair of Black Church hunters still lingering near the burial site, “who were patrolling the streets prior.”

The one-armed White Church hunter cast a quick glance back toward the chapel behind them, his brow furrowing as he added, “Our pthumerian friend inside was kind enough to lend me his cloak to cover the body until your arrival.”

Gops gave a faint nod, though his focus was already shifting elsewhere. He crouched once more beside the grave, eyes narrowing as he studied the woman’s outstretched limb with the eye of a seasoned assassin. The line across her pallid skin marked precisely where the stone had once ended and the air had begun. However, it was not just that, as it was what adorned her arm that drew the cleric’s attention. The woman’s delicate cuff sat around her bicep, dulled but unmistakably present. Gops remembered it. She had spoken of it briefly, almost proudly, when they had first met. Now here it was, positioned perfectly above the soil line, as if the killer had gone to meticulous lengths to ensure it would be noticed.

“Her ornament…” Gops murmured, his voice distant yet certain. He did not look up as he spoke, letting his thoughts roll out loud. “It sits directly above where the ground met her skin.”

He paused, standing once more and turning to Elhain and Bruce.

“I believe it was meant to be seen,” he said quietly, the words carrying a subtle weight. “The limb. The cuff. All of it.”

“Furthermore, it is not as if someone just dragged her here and tossed her over,” Bruce said darkly, stepping a little closer to the shallow grave. “Whoever did this had time. Time enough to not only bury her in this grotesque fashion, but to lay every stone back in place.”

Gops glanced around the immediate vicinity, with paved cobblestone stretched outward in all directions, undisturbed, the joints between each stone faintly dusted but otherwise seamless. It was the work of someone patient and meticulous.

“Oedon Chapel is laced with incense,” Elhain added, her voice cool but taut with calculation. “It keeps the beasts at bay, and subsequently, the beast hunters as well. The perpetrator knew they would be alone here, and that they would not be interrupted.”

One of the remaining Black Church hunters, his posture rigid and eyes alert, stepped forward slightly. “Madam,” he said, addressing the Choir member’s observation, “I believe they also knew our patrol shifts. Oedon Chapel is one of the safest places during the Hunt. The culprit may have orchestrated this at any point during the night, knowing full well the security would be at its lowest.”

Elhain’s brows drew together, thoughtful. Her gaze dropped back to the half-buried figure, as if seeing it anew.

“It appears we have an artist,” the Choir member muttered under her breath.

Bruce let out a slow, troubled exhale. “Let us hope the artist does not plan on unveiling a whole series of such grim pieces across Yharnam.”

The weight of the thought sank into the air between them.

“There has not been a serial killer in Yharnam for a long time,” Gops said, though the certainty in his tone faltered just slightly. His eyes lingered on the lifeless hand that still reached skyward, fingers slack with cold. “It is too soon to say.”

But in truth, deep down, he feared it may have already begun.

Chapter Text

Dawn crept slowly over Yharnam, the thick morning mist parting to reveal soot-darkened streets that began, once more, to stir with life. Lanterns were extinguished, shutters creaked open, and the timid steps of early risers returned to cobbled paths left deserted through the long night. Yet, though the Hunt had ended for now, and peace tentatively resumed in Yharnam, unrest still festered behind the sealed gates of the Grand Cathedral.

The great double doors remained shut to the city beyond, guarding the hallowed silence of the cathedral’s vast hall. Within, a congregation of Church hunters lingered restlessly, their boots echoing on polished stone and their voices hushed beneath vaulted ceilings. Among them paced Gops, cloaked in the full raiment of his assassin attire. His arms were folded in a brooding silence as he circled the central aisle like a hound anxious for the signal to strike. The twin slivers of his dark shawl trailed behind him with every purposeful step, parting only when he finally halted at the sound of familiar, measured footsteps. Descending from the upper reaches of the cathedral, Bruce emerged, tired yet composed as ever. The one-armed intelligencer approached, his gait steady despite the long hours behind him.

“Anything?” Gops asked, eyes narrowing as he turned to face him.

“Not yet,” Bruce replied quietly. “Madam Venderkwast has brought the body to the headmistress. The Choir will be performing the autopsy as we speak. Until then, all we can do is wait.”

Before another word could pass between them, a thunderous voice rang out from the steps at the far end of the nave.

“What in the name of Oedon is going on!?”

The Church hunters parted instinctively, heads turning toward the source. Ascending into the cathedral hall with purposeful steps came Ian Walkinshaw, the Captain of the Healing Church Hunters. His imposing silhouette cut a harsh figure against the cobbled walls behind him, clad in a fusion of vestments both ceremonial and martial. Choir whites melded with the rugged weight of Executioner’s belts and heavy cloth, while over his shoulders hung the tattered remnants of a great cape that once belonged to the days of glory and fire.

The radiant sword hunter badge gleamed upon his chest, an eternal emblem of his former station. He was the last of the Holy Blades, the once-revered knights who had served beneath Ludwig’s banner in an age once reigned by the old hunters. His greatsword rested sheathed across his back, held firm by thick leather straps, and the steel of his eyes burned with the sharpness of a man who had lived long, fought harder, and suffered enough to leave his soul weathered. His bald crown caught the morning light beneath the cathedral’s dome, and the fullness of his white goatee twitched with disdain as he scanned the tense assembly before him.

“That did not take long,” Gops muttered beneath his breath, just low enough for Bruce to hear. The one-armed cleric sighed softly, shoulders tightening with anticipation. He could already feel the confrontation brewing in the air like a storm behind stained glass.

“A woman found dead, buried by hand within spitting distance of Oedon Chapel” Walkinshaw growled, voice booming through the cathedral like judgment itself, “and there is not an ounce of information?”

The captain did not pause for pleasantries, or perhaps he never had.

“No one could have predicted this, Walkinshaw,” Gops replied evenly, standing his ground. His tone was calm, but taut, like wire pulled tight. “She was on her way to provide a statement to me.”

“Oh, I am well aware of the fight that broke out in Saint Michael’s,” the captain spat, stepping closer now, “and even more so of the damage you caused!”

His accusation crackled through the air like a whip.

“How can I be certain,” the captain went on, voice dripping with disdain, “that I am not looking at the killer right now?”

Gops did not flinch, holding the man’s gaze, his eyes hard beneath the rim of his plumed cap.

“Scared you will be next?” he replied, low and sharp.

Walkinshaw’s jaw tightened. The muscles along his neck twitched, like a hound barely restrained. “Tread carefully, assassin. The Church does not suffer those who bite the hand that feeds them.”

“Yet here I am,” Gops said, his tone unbothered by the insult. “Fed and breathing.”

Walkinshaw’s gaze narrowed. “Always acting as if your leash is longer than it is.”

“Captain Walkinshaw,” came a voice, feminine and composed, yet bearing the weight of quiet command. “Mister Al-Dhar. Brother Bruce.”

The three men turned at once, the edge in their postures softening at the sight of the approaching figure. Clad in her flowing robes of pale ivory, trimmed with delicate gold thread that shimmered faintly in the morning light leaking through the vast hall, Vicar Amelia descended into the Grand Cathedral with quiet grace. A hood lay over her head, though strands of golden hair slipped free, framing the fine contours of her face, stern in poise, but not without kindness. The vicar’s every step echoed with the stillness of reverence, the very air seeming to part for her presence. All three clerics offered a church bow in unison, practiced and respectful, a gesture of the men long steeped in hierarchy.

“Your Excellency,” Bruce said first, his voice touched by relief, as if the tension of the previous exchange had finally found a place to rest.

Amelia lifted her chin, casting her gaze across them with calm precision. “This is a most unfortunate affair, and further discord,” she added, her eyes moving briefly between Gops and Walkinshaw, “will only make our burden heavier.”

“Innumerable pardons, Your Excellency,” Walkinshaw replied stiffly. The bow of his head was proper, yet his voice was less so. Gops did not need to glance sideways to feel the hollowness in it.

Unbothered, Amelia moved on. “Headmistress Audrey and her Choir members are preparing a preliminary report from the autopsy. Until then, we must act on all viable leads with prudence and care.”

She turned her gaze to Gops, and though her expression remained formal, there was a slight, almost imperceptible, softening of her features. Unlike many in the Healing Church, Amelia was among the few who regarded the Church assassin not with suspicion, but with the practised empathy of someone who understood the burdens carried in silence.

“I have been briefed on the events at Saint Michael’s Alley,” she said. “Jozef's actions, in particular. Is it true?”

“It is,” Gops answered, voice steady. “He attacked her unprovoked. I intervened. After that, she left to seek treatment at the clinic. That was just before dawn.”

“And then an entire day followed,” Amelia murmured, already following the threads. “You are saying anything could have occurred between then and the moment she was found.”

Gops nodded once. “Indeed. I do not know what happened to her during that period.”

“I see.” The vicar’s voice was pensive, her gaze distant for a moment. “Did she give you a name? Anything we might trace?”

“No…” Gops said quietly. “She avoided my questions on her identity, even when I asked directly.”

The captain’s scoff broke the moment like a snapped bowstring.

“What good are you, then?” Walkinshaw muttered, arms still crossed, disdain laced through every syllable like venom on a blade.

Gops turned his head just slightly in the captain’s direction, not enough to offer a full retort, but enough to remind him he had heard; however, Amelia spoke before the tension could tighten again.

“Enough,” the vicar said, her voice soft, yet resolute. Her tone carried the weight of her office, a velvet-wrapped hammer that brooked no argument. Even Walkinshaw, for all his pride, gave pause.

“Now then,” Amelia continued, her voice steady as she gathered her thoughts. The tension in the cathedral had not entirely lifted, but her composure served as a steadying presence. “Learning of the girl’s identity and locating Jozef are our highest priorities.”

She turned her attention to Bruce, her expression firm. “Brother Bruce, I want you to expand the search beyond the city’s bounds. Old Yharnam will be your next stop. Should your search yield nothing, proceed into the woods, but only as a last resort.”

Bruce inclined his head without hesitation. “Understood, Your Excellency.”

At this, a furrow gathered between Walkinshaw’s brows. He shifted ever so slightly, clearly caught off guard by the direction of the orders. “Your Excellency?” he inquired, tone carefully measured, but a touch of expectation still laced within.

“And I want Mister Al-Dhar to lead this case against the killer,” Amelia continued, her voice unwavering. Her words landed with purpose, silencing the chamber once again. “He will begin by visiting the clinic. I have arranged for Doctor Iosefka to receive him and provide whatever assistance she can.”

At that, Gops lifted his gaze in quiet surprise. He blinked, taken aback. For a heartbeat, he thought he had misheard. He had assumed, like everyone else, that the captain would take the reins of this matter. The assassin and the captain may have shared their rank equally within the Church’s hierarchy, yet here he was, named above the captain on this rare occasion.

Walkinshaw stepped forward. “Your Excellency, with the highest respect,” he said, his tone straining to remain courteous, “how could you assign this task to him? We ought to act with strength. Yharnam needs force, not a lone dagger in the dark.”

“And that is precisely what you will offer,” Amelia responded, her gaze falling on him like frost beneath starlight. “You will see to the safety of our streets by deploying more Church hunters, both White and Black. I want patrols active at all hours. The last thing I want is the people to know that there is a killer amongst us. That is your charge, Captain Walkinshaw.”

There was a pause, brief but heavy, as Walkinshaw stood in silence. He looked to Amelia, then to Gops, then finally down at the polished floor beneath his boots. He wanted to argue. Gops could feel it in the tension behind the man’s jaw, yet the moment passed.

“…At once, Your Excellency,” Walkinshaw said at last. He gave a curt Church bow, turned sharply on his heel, and strode down the cathedral’s great stairway. Behind him, a group of Church hunters followed at his gesture, their boots clinking softly beneath their cloaks.

Gops watched him go, his expression unreadable, until the doors closed once more and the cathedral fell to stillness.

He turned back to the vicar. “Your Excellency?” the assassin asked, his voice low while the question behind his words was clear.

“You were the only one who knew her, Gops,” Amelia answered gently. Her tone, now free of the formality she had carried in the captain’s presence, softened when she looked upon the assassin. “I trust you to act in Yharnam’s best interests.”

She then looked at Bruce, nodding once. “May the good blood guide your way. The both of you.”

Midday sunlight filtered through the heavy Yharnam fog as a carriage trundled down the cobbled artery of Central Yharnam, its iron-bound wheels rattling over weathered stone. When it came to a slow halt near one of the quieter intersections, tucked just far enough from the thoroughfares to be easily missed by the common eye, the horses exhaled great clouds of mist from their nostrils, flanks twitching as they settled into place. The door creaked open, and Gops stepped down from the cart, his boots clicking softly on the stone. He offered a brief, grateful nod to the coachman, who returned the gesture with a flick of the reins before guiding the carriage onward into the grey sprawl.

Standing alone beneath the quiet of the overcast sky, Gops adjusted the angle of his plumed hat, pinching the brim with his clawed left hand. The shawl upon his shoulders stirred faintly in the breeze, its twin lengths trailing behind him like fading smoke. His eyes swept up toward the modest building before him, its brick exterior stained by time and weather, yet still exuding an air of purpose. Favoured by many Yharnamites for its reliability despite being owned by the Healing Church, Central Yharnam’s clinic was unassuming but respected. A lantern flickered faintly beside the entrance, its flame pale in the daylight, casting jittery shadows on the front door as Gops raised his gauntleted knuckles and knocked three times, firm and clear. The door opened almost at once, as if someone had been waiting for him.

Standing within the threshold was a woman garbed in the pale robes of a White Church huntress, though the hood had been left undrawn, revealing a deliberate sense of presence. Her auburn hair was pulled into a high ponytail, though a few strands hung loose, neatly swept across her forehead to partially obscure one of her eyes. Her skin bore a soft, porcelain pallor, untouched by the grime that plagued the average Yharnamite. Her green eyes, sharp and watchful, met his own with an air of keen appraisal, bright as emerald glass.

“Oh, well, hello! You must be the Church assassin,” she said, her tone precise, measured, yet not unfriendly. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh, Mister Al-Dhar.”

“And you must be Sister…” Gops trailed off, giving her room to finish.

“Doctor,” she corrected with a faint smile, one corner of her lips tilting upward with pride. “Doctor Iosefka. At your service.”

Gops inclined his head slightly, more in respect than formality. “Then I hope I have not kept you waiting, Doctor.”

“Nonsense. I had already received word from the Vicar this morning to expect you,” She stepped aside, gesturing toward the dim hall beyond the threshold. “Please, come in. We’ve much to speak about.”

The door swung gently shut behind him, closing off the mist-veiled streets of Yharnam as Gops stepped deeper into the quiet hush of the clinic. The air inside was different, as it was cleaner and cooler, with the faint trace of disinfectant and incense woven together in the walls. The assassin’s boots made little sound across the wooden floorboards as he followed Iosefka through the main corridor, her measured steps just ahead of him.

They passed rows of sickbeds aligned with methodical precision. Some were empty, sheets folded and pristine, while others were occupied by resting patients, each one cloaked in quiet suffering. Pale figures turned weakly on their cots or breathed shallowly beneath gauze and linen. Other doctors and nurses moved with silent efficiency between them, administering draughts, adjusting bandages, or whispering soft reassurances. All wore the insignia of the Healing Church embroidered into their shawls.

Gops’s eyes wandered, not with suspicion but curiosity. For all the blood-soaked alleys he had stalked in service to the Church, it struck him how rare it was to step into one of its medical arms. It had taken him longer than he would care to admit to finally meet the woman so often spoken of in hushed, respectful tones. The clinic might have been old in its stone and timber, but it was clearly reborn in spirit, refined and alive with purpose.

“Impressive place,” Gops said, his voice low but sincere as they ascended a narrow stairwell to the second floor. His brown eyes lingered on the finely kept medical instruments laid on trays, the labelled vials lined in meticulous rows, the faint glint of surgical steel. “Especially for a young doctor.”

Iosefka glanced back over her shoulder with a faint smile, not smug, but acknowledging.

“I consider myself lucky,” she replied, her tone clipped and articulate. “This building belonged to my parents. I inherited it two years ago, after they passed. It was an apothecary once, humble, with roots in traditional medicine. When I began my own practice, I converted it into what you see now.”

They stepped into an upper room filled with soft light filtering through high windows, where an array of tomes and anatomical diagrams lined the shelves. A long desk stretched beneath the window, flanked by yet more labelled jars and surgical implements. The faint scent of alchemical tinctures hung in the air.

“Vicar Amelia noticed my efforts to aid the less fortunate,” she continued, her voice more tempered now, yet not without pride. “Those who could not afford the Grand Cathedral’s blessings. So I offered my loyalty, and in return, the Healing Church entrusted me with something greater. The gift of distributing blood healing. A privilege, to say the least.”

The doctor turned fully to face him now, hands gently folded in front of her robes.

“To mend those abandoned by the city. Or left in its wake.”

Gops studied her for a quiet moment, eyes narrowing slightly not with suspicion, but with an assassin’s instinct to measure the weight behind words.

“You seem to wear both titles well. Doctor, and ally.” Gops complimented.

“That is the idea,” Iosefka said, with just a glimmer of something unreadable behind her smile.

Gops nodded once more, the door clicking shut behind him with finality as he stepped fully into the upper chamber. The quiet hum of alchemical instruments and the faint scent of ether gave the room an almost sacred stillness. Clean, clinical, and utterly removed from the filth-ridden streets below. The plumed cleric followed Iosefka to the centre of what was unmistakably her personal laboratory.

Turning toward her, Gops offered a subtle bow of his head, grateful but not stiff. “I hate to cut to business,” he began, his voice low, composed, “but I imagine you already understand the reason behind our meeting.”

“Of course,” Iosefka replied, without so much as a beat of hesitation. “Utterly dreadful, what happened last night.”

She crossed the room with practised grace, approaching the long desk near the window, its surface cluttered in an organised chaos of papers, vials, and medical records. Her fingers skimmed over a stack of documents before selecting a particular folder, which she slid across the desk toward the assassin.

“The poor girl visited me yesterday morning with some awful contusions,” Iosefka said. “Her name was Lindsey. Lindsey of Cainhurst.”

Gops’s scarred brow lifted with a faint flicker of surprise. “Cainhurst-born…?” he echoed, stepping forward. He lifted the pages with his gloved hand and skimmed their contents, eyes narrowing again with focus. “What in the name of Oedon brought her to Yharnam?”

“Perhaps she was a survivor,” Iosefka suggested, folding her arms as she stood beside the desk. “Of the siege. Seeking sanctuary after what the Executioners did to her kin.”

He considered that, though his expression remained unconvinced. “Not likely. Her records list a next of kin. A brother named Gabriel, who still resides in Cainhurst Castle.”

Iosefka blinked, eyes sharpening with the weight of that name. “Her own brother…?”

Gops gave a slow nod. “Which complicates things. We cannot ignore Cainhurst’s disdain for Yharnam. If Gabriel knew she was here, it may be possible he did not approve.”

The doctor paced a step, thoughtful. “But how would you even reach him? Cainhurst does not admit outsiders anymore. Especially not from Yharnam.”

“They would not know that I am there,” Gops replied, a flicker of something sharper edging into his tone. “There is a Hunter's lantern in the castle. I can reach it through the Dream.”

That caught Iosefka's attention, fully. Her green eyes flicked up to meet his, a glimmer of curiosity flashing across them. “So it is true,” she murmured, a subtle fascination creeping into her voice. “I could tell… by your scent. Yet I’ve never worked with someone tied to the Dream before.”

The doctor stepped a little closer, almost studying him anew, not with scepticism, but with the intrigue of a scholar gazing upon a rare specimen. Gops held her gaze, his posture still, composed, as the weight of his connection settled into the space between them.

“This may prove to be… a very unique partnership,” Iosefka said softly, more to herself than to him.

“Partnership…?” Gops echoed, his scarred brow shifting with mild disbelief.

“Why, yes,” Iosefka tilted her head slightly, her ponytail swaying with the motion. “Did the Vicar not inform you?”

Gops’s expression deepened into quiet contemplation.

“You and I are to work together on this case,” she continued, stepping around to his side once more. “I was given the order directly.”

“No…” Gops muttered, almost to himself. “She did not inform me.”

“Is there something the matter?” Iosefka asked, her voice still poised, yet carrying a subtle note of concern.

He shook his head faintly. “Only that I have worked alone most of my life,” he admitted, glancing toward the open journal on the desk rather than meeting her eyes.

“I understand, Mister Al-Dhar,” she replied gently. “But the Vicar was clear, for she believes I should be involved. I am to provide whatever assistance I can in your investigation.” She paused, a small, sincere smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I promise not to be a hindrance.”

There was a moment of silence between them as Gops processed the new arrangement. He did not dislike her, nor was he the kind of man to reject help out of pride, but old instincts were difficult to quiet as trust never came easily to him.

“Very well,” he finally said, nodding, his voice carrying the weight of quiet acceptance. Still, a flicker of curiosity lingered behind his eyes.

Turning his attention back to the stack of documents, Gops flipped through several pages until his gloved finger landed on a scrawled address.

“There. This is where she lived,” the assassin said, tapping the page. “Thirteen Bowery Street. Cathedral Ward.”

“I’ll bow to your judgment on this,” Iosefka replied. “Where shall we go first?”

“I think it best we visit Lindsey’s residence,” Gops answered, already mentally charting the route. “Should our search yield nothing, then we can worry about infiltrating Cainhurst and questioning her brother.”

The Church assassin closed the file, the sound marking the end of their preparations. Without another word, he reached for the door, with Iosefka following close, her boots tapping quietly behind his heavier steps. Outside, the light of midday had turned golden and soft against the damp cobbles of Central Yharnam, while the two clerics descended the steps of the clinic, their twin shadows cast long by the truth yet to be uncovered.

Chapter Text

The carriage wheels clicked to a halt on the slick, cobbled street of lower Cathedral Ward. Mist clung low to the ground, curling between the worn stones as if the ward itself exhaled with weary breath. Gops stepped down first, offering a brief nod to the coachman, followed closely by Iosefka, who dipped her head in gratitude. With the flick of reins, the cart trundled off into the distance, its clatter fading beneath the ever-present hush of the ward. Though the hour was early in the afternoon, the light that filtered down through the overcast sky was pale, silver-toned, and solemn. Cathedral Ward stood still beneath it, cloaked in the echoing silence of barred windows and forgotten prayers.

Gops flexed the clawed fingers of his left gauntlet, the blackened steel creaking faintly with the motion, before letting the hand fall to rest against the hilt of his sheathed silver sword. His gaze scanned the row of timeworn townhouses ahead, their crooked chimneys and shuttered windows giving the impression of quiet watchfulness. Then, without another word, he began toward the marked address. Iosefka fell in step beside him, the white heels of her boots clicking softly behind his more deliberate tread. A repeating pistol hung at her hip, and in her gloved hand was a folded threaded cane, subtle and elegant. A favourite trick weapon among clerics, being an armament that was meant to blend in among citizens, yet quick to act when needed. As they walked, Iosefka broke the silence.

“What is it that you hope to find?” she asked, her voice even but curious.

Gops kept his eyes ahead. “Who she worked for,” he replied. “Lindsey seemed like she had money problems last I saw her. When I questioned her about it, she deflected.”

“Debt?” Iosefka ventured.

“Perhaps, or something more dangerous. Desperation makes people useful to the wrong kind of employers,” Gops uttered.

They rounded a bend where the buildings leaned a little closer to one another, and the lanterns hanging from their rusted brackets swayed gently in the wind. Some townsfolk passed them by without words, their faces downcast and their hats lowered, typical of this part of the city where the Astral Clocktower’s glow did not shine as brightly. After a few more steps, Gops slowed before a narrow stairway leading up to a wooden door with peeling black paint. The number "13" was barely visible above the frame, carved into a weather-worn plaque. The assassin paused, eyeing the door and the surrounding windows, his senses sharp behind a calm expression.

With a quick glance behind to ensure no wandering eyes, the Church assassin crouched to work the lock. However, Gops barely had time to insert the lockpick into the keyhole before the door gave a soft creak and drifted inward beneath the pressure of his hand. He froze. His eyes widened subtly as his scared brow furrowed, a flicker of alarm flashing behind his composed expression. Rising slowly from his crouch, Gops returned the pick to the pouch on his belt and rested his palm flat against the weathered wood. With deliberate care, he pushed the door open. The hinges groaned under the weight of stillness, the sound of their protest stretching into the silence like a warning.

“Has someone... been here?” Iosefka asked in a hushed tone, stepping closer to peer over his shoulder. Her green eyes scanned the dim interior, narrowing slightly.

“Stay on your guard,” Gops murmured.

He reached behind him, fingers brushing the familiar weight of the Ludwig’s rifle secured at the back of his belt. In a single, silent motion, he unlatched the weapon and swung it forward, unfolding the barrel with practised ease. The rifle settled into his gloved right hand while his left remained free, claws gleaming while the blade beneath his gauntlet was primed and ready to deploy. Crossing the threshold, the Church assassin moved like a shadow gliding through half-light. Iosefka followed in his wake, the metal of her cane brushing softly against her pale dress with each step as they reached the second floor.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. There was no overturned furniture, broken glass, or any signs of violence or immediate struggle. In fact, the residence appeared surprisingly neat, unsettlingly so. The chairs were tucked, the rug still flat and centred, the lantern on the wall guttering low with what remained of its last oil burn; however, drawers were left open, alongside several chests and wardrobes. Some were pulled out only halfway, while others gaped completely, their contents scattered or missing. Clothes were tossed in odd bundles, some draped over open cabinet doors. Personal belongings had clearly been disturbed, rifled through with a rushed, searching hand.

Gops’ eyes peered toward one of the desks, with the top drawers open, but not the bottom half. Approaching slowly, his boots made quiet, practised steps across the wooden floorboards, each movement honed by years of silent work in darker places than this. The Church assassin kept his rifle in his right hand, the barrel low and steady, while his left carefully shifted some of the papers left scattered atop the desk and messily within the drawers. Most were mundane, such as receipts, notes, and a few torn letters, until his metal claws tapped the base of the bottom drawer, and the soft, hollow thud echoed.

His scarred brow furrowed, sharpening his gaze. With a slight twist of his left wrist, Gops wedged the tip of his claws beneath the panel. The wood gave a protesting creak, then snapped free in a single, splintered motion, confirming his suspicion. A false bottom, cleverly placed, but no match for his trained eyes. He held the plank a moment, but before he could inspect what was hidden beneath, his attention was pulled away by a voice from the other room.

“Mister Al-Dhar,” Iosefka called, her tone laced with unease.

Gops set the false panel atop the desk and moved quickly, stepping through the short hallway that divided the apartment. The doctor stood in front of the hearth, her cane lowered, her green eyes fixed on the flames licking gently at the brick-lined chimney.

“The fireplace is still lit…” she murmured as he approached.

The Church assassin followed her gaze, instantly noticing the unnatural vitality of the fire. This was not the embered end of a night’s warmth. It had been stoked recently, the heat still pulsing, the flames bright. Kneeling slightly, he looked closer and spotted the curled edges of burnt parchment among the wood. Someone had been here recently, and they were trying to erase something. Before the assassin could share the thought aloud, it became undeniable. Behind them, the creak of hurried boots on old wooden floorboards rang out, then a stumble following a slam. Then came the unmistakable sound of footsteps descending the staircase in a full sprint, echoing the rhythm of a hasty escape.

“Al-Dhar!” Iosefka’s voice cracked with urgency.

Gops did not respond, as his focus narrowed to the pounding of hurried footsteps rushing down the stairs, each strike like a drumbeat in his ear. He counted them, mapping the man’s path in his head. When the timing was perfect, he did not pursue toward the door at all, instead, he pivoted sharply and sprinted for the window. The glass erupted as he crashed through, tucking himself into a tight ball with his arms shielding his face. He hit the open air for the briefest heartbeat, only to then drop like a hawk upon its prey. The fleeing man had just cleared the threshold of the front door when Gops’ full weight drove him to the cobblestones with bone-jarring force. The impact knocked the wind from the stranger’s lungs and flattened him to the street before he could even think of escaping.

“GAH! Fuck, man!” the Yharnamite wheezed, writhing under the assassin’s knee.

Rising, Gops flipped the man onto his back, his worn beret skittering away to reveal a weather-beaten face, creased with age and labour.

“What were you doing in there?” Gops asked, his voice like the edge of a drawn blade.

“I, I-uh-!” the man stammered, panic stripping his words to fragments.

Iosefka emerged from the doorway at a run, slowing only when she saw the assassin already had the situation under control. Relief softened her tense expression, though her eyes stayed sharp. Without looking at her for long, Gops hooked his clawed hand into the man’s collar and, with effortless strength, lifted him until his boots barely scraped the street. The Old Blood’s gift was evident in the way he held the man aloft, his strength often hidden beneath the assassin’s precision and quiet grace. With a single, deliberate motion, he pinned the Yharnamite to the wall, his right hand still gripping Ludwig’s rifle at the ready.

“And why did you run?” Gops murmured, voice low and steady.

“I-argh! I cannot tell you-” the Yharnamite blurted, his voice cracking as he jerked his head from side to side like a trapped rat. His eyes darted toward every shadow, as if some unseen terror lurked there, waiting to pounce.

“You were in the residence of a murdered woman,” Gops said coldly, his tone flat and cutting. “So try again.”

“I… I did as they told me!” the man stammered, his voice quivering. “She’s gon’ kill me-”

“Who is ‘she’?” Gops pressed, his brows drawn together in a hard, unblinking stare.

The answer never came.

A sharp pop split the air, a sound as quick and cruel as the snap of a whip, followed by a wet, sickening thud. The man’s head jerked violently as a bullet tore through his skull. The wall behind bloomed in a grisly spray of red, streaks and droplets spattering across the stone, and across Gops’ gauntlet. The assassin let the body drop without ceremony, his instincts snapping into razor focus.

Iosefka gasped sharply, her breath catching in her throat. Before her panic could bloom into words, Gops had already moved, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. One arm hooked around her waist, he pulled her swiftly into the shadow of the doorway, tucking her out of the line of fire.

“A shooter!?” the doctor hissed, half in disbelief, half in fear.

Gops grunted in confirmation, his gaze already fixed on the street beyond. He leaned, intending to catch sight of their attacker before the doorframe splintered inches from his head, flecks of wood stinging his cheek. The assassin drew back instantly, his jaw tightening.

“Damnit,” Gops muttered through clenched teeth. “A good one, too.”

The rifle remained steady in his right hand, but his left clawed hand moved with speed and precision, unholstering the repeating pistol that hung beside the scabbard of his silver sword. The familiar weight of the sidearm settled into his palm, possessing the range he needed. The Church assassin inhaled once, steadying his breath. Then, in a blur, he broke from cover, eyes sweeping the rooftops. The first two shots had already given him a sense of where the shooter lay in wait. On the far roof at the end of the alley, Gops caught sight of her. A slender, feminine silhouette against the gloom, long rifle still in hand. Her head turned just enough to glimpse him, and in the next instant she was gone, turning heel and vanishing from the ledge.

“Stay here!” Gops barked toward the doctor, his voice sharp and commanding. Both firearms were holstered in one smooth motion, and without waiting for a reply, he was moving.

The assassin sprinted through the narrow alley, boots striking the stone in rapid succession, until he reached the base of the building where she had been perched. A pulley system, its rope taut and the counterweight hanging by the roof, waited there like an invitation. Without hesitation, Gops planted a boot on the bench beneath it and leapt upward, one hand gripping the coarse rope, the other flashing with cold steel as his gauntlet blade slid free. In a single stroke, he sliced the rope clean. The counterweight dropped with a thud, and the sudden pull wrenched him skyward, hauling him toward the rooftop with calculated, merciless speed.

The rush of air cut against his face as the rooftop rushed closer. His boots struck the ledge with a sharp thump, knees bending to absorb the force before he surged forward without breaking stride. The city unfolded before him in a shadowed sprawl, slanted shingled roofs slick with mist, chimney stacks coughing thin ribbons of smoke into the cold night, the skyline jagged with looming spires.

Ahead, the shooter vaulted to the next rooftop, her movements sharp and deliberate, before twisting mid-step to bring her rifle to bear. In that split second, Gops saw the muzzle glint beneath the moonlight. He threw himself toward the nearest chimney stack, boots scraping the tiles as the rifle cracked. The shot tore past in a vicious whistle, splintering the edge of the brick beside his head.

The assassin wasted no time. In one fluid motion, Gops unholstered the repeating pistol in his clawed left hand, snapping his body out from cover to level the barrels. Two thunderous reports roared from the weapon, the recoil thudding through his arm. The cleric’s aim was not that of a trained marksman, for he had always preferred the closeness of steel and claw, but the sudden counter forced his quarry into retreat. She dropped behind her own cover, the rifle vanishing over her back as she rose into motion once again.

Gops broke from the chimney and gave chase, boots hammering against tile and wood. He leapt after her, the gap between rooftops yawning below, coat tails flaring as he landed on the next roof with a solid, sure-footed thud. The shooter dropped into a controlled slide, her boots skimming over the slick shingles. In one fluid motion, she vaulted off the roof’s edge, twisting her body to slip between two closely packed buildings. Her descent was swift and deliberate, a predator’s retreat, using the narrow gap to bleed speed before hitting the ground.

Gops reached the ledge just in time to see her shadow fall into the alley below. His gaze swept the scene in an instant. It was a narrow, claustrophobic corridor hemmed in by damp brick, one end sealed by a high wall, the other spilling out toward the main street, yet something else caught his eye. Suspended high up was a platform laden with barrels, swaying lightly on its rope pulley above the open stretch of the alley.

Without hesitation, Gops’ clawed fingers dipped to his belt. A serrated throwing knife flashed in the pale daylight before spinning through the air. The blade struck true, severing the thick rope with a sharp snap. Gravity did the rest. The platform came crashing down in a deafening explosion of splintering wood, shattering barrels across the stone. Dark powder spilled in thick streams, the scent of sulphur rising sharp and acrid into the alley.

The shooter landed and whirled toward the sound, her eyes widening at the sudden barricade sealing her escape. In the heartbeat it took her to process, Gops was already upon her. He dropped from above with a speed that seemed impossible for a man in his heavy gear, tackling her onto the cold cobblestones. They hit the ground hard, the air between them charged with adrenaline and grit. Gops straddled her, knees pressing into the cobbles, his clawed hand gripping one wrist while his gloved hand locked the other, pinning them to either side of her head. Their breaths came fast and ragged, the only sound in the alley besides the faint hiss of powder spilling across stone.

She lay sprawled on her back, the long rifle still slung across her shoulders, its polished wood pressing against the wet cobblestones beneath her. Gops’ shadow loomed over her, his weight a steady anchor that kept her pinned where she was. In the dim light, the assassin could study her more clearly. She was young, but with a certain maturity etched into her features, as though life had taught her hard lessons early. Her braided brunette hair clung dimly to her cheek, framing sharp brown eyes that regarded him with an unsettling mix of mischief and calculation. Her skin bore the healthy tone of someone accustomed to the outdoors.

Her attire was functional rather than ornamental, adorning a long, weatherworn coat with its hem darkened by alley grime, draped over trousers cinched with belts strapped tightly around her thighs. The belts bristled with munitions, rifle cartridges and smaller rounds alike, suggesting she carried more than one firearm and knew how to use them. Everything about her appearance whispered of someone prepared for the long hunt.

“Hh-” she grunted as his weight bore down, but the sound shifted into a low, amused scoff. A sly smile curved her lips as she arched a brow, voice lilting with mockery. “Quite the predicament we’ve caught ourselves in.”

“I am in no mood,” Gops muttered, breath escaping in a slow, tired exhale. The plumed cap that had clung stubbornly to his head through the rooftop chase now hung at an angle, a thread away from falling.

“Forgive me,” she murmured, her tone dripping with coy insolence. “I am but a great admirer of your work, Church assassin.”

Gops’ eyes narrowed. “Then you should know that blowing a man’s head off right before my eyes was not only stupid,” the assassin said, his voice low and measured, each word as sharp as a drawn blade, “but it leaves us with very limited options. None of ’em being any good.”

“I must say, you’ve had me in quite the bind,” the woman said, her tone light as if they were conversing over tea instead of in a dark, narrow alley. “Deciding who to kill… however, you would’ve just come back.” There was a glint in her eye, one that hinted she had scented something unusual about him. Something that did not belong in the waking world.

Gops’ gaze sharpened. “Clearly he worked for you,” he said, voice hard. “And was terrified of his trigger-happy boss. So tell me. Who are you, and what did you have him do for you?”

“Do for me?” she parried, voice thick with coy amusement. “I haven’t the foggiest. My job is simple. Make sure someone carries out their task without getting caught. Those who fail…” She tilted her head, smirking. “…well, they have a death wish. And that, Church assassin, is who I am.”

“Deathwish?” Gops scoffed, his expression unimpressed.

“It’s what my friends like to call me,” the sharpshooter murmured.

“I am not your friend,” he said flatly. “So how about you tell me your real name, and who you work for.”

“Tsk, tsk…” She wagged a finger, still pinned by her wrists but smiling as though she had the upper hand. “Sorry, dear. Confidential.”

“You seem to have a lot of faith in your boss,” Gops remarked, eyes narrowing.

“Faith? In my boss? Oh, no…” She laughed, the sound low and genuinely amused. “Although, if you truly desire the truth, I put all my faith in that beast waking up.”

Gops’ eyes widened as a low, guttural snarl rose from the shadows behind him. Only now did he register the oppressive gloom, with the alley’s walls being so close, its length so narrow, and not a single ray of daylight to break the darkness. His gut twisted as the chase had been a setup from the very beginning. He moved for Ludwig’s rifle, the motion swift, but not swift enough. Deathwish’s legs coiled beneath him like springs, and in one sudden motion she kicked up, both heels slamming into his chest. The force drove him a step back, straight toward the sound of claws scraping stone.

In the same breath, she rolled backward to her feet, crossing the wreckage of splintered barrels in a nimble bound. Her hand darted to a windowsill where an oil urn hung on a fraying rope, something she had placed there long before their confrontation. With a quick jerk, she freed it, hurling the clay vessel onto the puddled gunpowder. The heavy crack of shattering pottery was followed by the reek of oil saturating the powder-blackened cobblestones.

The sharpshooter unslung her rifle in one practised motion, shouldered it, and fired into the ground. The spark took instantly, as the oil and powder roared to life in a blinding flash. The explosion filled the alley with a deafening clap, flames writhing between the brick walls and cutting off the assassin’s escape.

“Good luck!” Deathwish called over the roar, her voice lilting and almost playful. Turning away, the sharpshooter disappeared into the mist as though she had never been there at all.

Gops’s grip slipped from his rifle the moment Deathwish’s heel connected with him, sending him sprawling, his plumed cap tumbling off his head. Rolling swiftly away from the beast’s swiping claws, the assassin drew his silver sword with a practised flourish. His brow furrowed deeply, shadowed by loose strands of dark hair falling over his brown eyes, every muscle taut with focus.

The creature before him was a fully transformed lycanthrope, snarling and snarling on all fours, its muscles rippling beneath coarse fur. It lunged, claws extended, letting out a feral roar that reverberated through the narrow alley. Gops dodged just in time, then closed the distance with a fluid, predatory grace. His blade cut through the air, striking twice in swift succession as the steel bit into the beast’s flesh.

There was scarcely room to maneuver in the cramped passage, but Gops managed to retreat just enough to evade a furious barrage of clawed swipes. Risking a glance, he snatched his rifle from the ground with his left hand, ready to bring the fight back to range. Yet the lycanthrope was faster still, leaping forward and crashing down atop him, pinning him close to the wall of roaring flames left in Deathwish’s wake.

The heat pressed against his back as the beast growled, hunger raw in its eyes. Gops blocked an incoming swipe with a powerful jab of his sword, the blade sinking deep into the creature’s malformed palm. The monster howled in pain but retaliated immediately, swinging its other massive arm down in a crushing blow. The metal of Gops’s rifle slammed up to meet the strike, sparking against claws like iron against stone.

Locked in a desperate wrestle, the beast jerked its head forward, jaws snapping dangerously close to the assassin’s face. The lethal bite was nearly upon him when a fiery whip cracked across the lycan’s muzzle, hissing as it scorched flesh and fur. The whip’s searing serrated edge came from beyond the wall of flames, a blur of movement and heat. Seizing the opening as the beast recoiled, Gops wrenched his sword free from the wounded palm and drove it upward with deadly intent, piercing the creature’s neck. Blood sprayed in a dark arc, and without hesitation, the assassin shoved the barrel of his rifle into the gaping maw and down its throat.

His breath steady, Gops pulled the trigger. The quicksilver bullets tore through the lycanthrope’s insides, the mercury’s venomous touch wreaking havoc where silver alone might not suffice. The monster’s snarls twisted into agonised screams as the rounds found their mark, their specialised ammunition having been crafted specifically to slay beasts like this.

Gops spun on his heel, still alert, but a wave of relief washed over him as the flames began to wane. Emerging from the smoky haze was Iosefka, her calm presence a balm after the chaos. The doctor’s poised figure stepped forward, the threads of her cane quietly unfolding back into their slender, original form. Gops straightened, flicking the clinging blood from his silver sword before sliding the blade back into its sheath with a practised motion.

“Did you see where she went?” he asked, voice steady despite his laboured breaths.

“I did not see anyone,” Iosefka replied softly, her eyes scanning the dim alley. “Only the howls reached me, and I feared the worst.”

“I am fine,” Gops assured her, holding back the thought to remind her of his connection to the Dream. In truth, he was glad she had intervened. “I owe you.”

“Please,” she said, lifting the hand that still gripped the cane, gently brushing his stubbled chin upward as her fingers instinctively searched for injury. “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing that keeps me from breathing,” he muttered, shaking off the sharp sting of exertion. “She knew who I was. Anticipated every step of the chase… planned to lead me right into that beast’s jaws.”

“Was there more than one?” Iosefka asked, eyes drifting toward the lifeless creature at their feet.

“Better not to linger and find out,” Gops replied grimly. “Back at Lindsey’s residence... there were-”

“False panels,” Iosefka finished, nodding. “I searched the rest of the place. Found only a few letters. The rest… burned by that man.”

Gops exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration tempered by resolve. “We work with what we have. Let us return to the cathedral. Dusk will not wait.”

The sun dipped lower, casting Cathedral Ward in the dim glow of early evening as the carriage rolled steadily through its quieting streets. Inside, Gops and Iosefka sat side by side, the flickering lamplight revealing worn letters clutched in their hands. The air was thick with unspoken questions, the weight of their discovery settling between them like a shadow.

“Ah, here,” Gops murmured, breaking the silence as he shifted the letter he held, catching Iosefka’s attention. “This one is addressed to Arianna. I know her and the place she works. The owner could very well be Lindsey’s employer.”

“You ‘know’ Arianna?” Iosefka’s brow lifted, a hint of curiosity mingling with surprise. The woman’s name was whispered often in Yharnam, carrying a reputation that preceded her.

“We were all young once,” Gops replied with a quiet hum, a small huff escaping his nostrils.

Iosefka’s lips twitched in amusement before her expression sobered, eyes narrowing as she finished reading the letter in her hands. “This one… it is addressed to no one. Yet you can see the strain in the words, pleading for more time to pay off debts.”

Gops’ brows furrowed deeper, a sombre breath exhaled through his nose. His gaze met Iosefka’s green eyes, sharing the silent burden of the victim’s struggle. Then he turned toward the carriage window, eyes wandering past the thin veil of evening mist to the shadowed streets outside.

After a long pause, Iosefka spoke softly. “Every time I believe we gain some ground, things only unravel further. This... ‘Deathwish’ and whoever commands her... There is always a bigger fish lurking.”

Gops pondered, the weight of her words settling heavily. “Feels like we are taking one step forward, then two back... just when I think things cannot get much worse.”

Silence stretched between them again as Iosefka watched Yharnamites retreating to their homes, the distant bells warning of the impending curfew. “Mister Al-Dhar,” she finally whispered, “after everything… There are so many here struggling beyond what we realise. The Church often gets so caught up in enforcing its laws, it is easy to forget the rights those laws should protect. To forget our duty to those who suffer, like Lindsey… preyed upon and left to drown in debt.”

Gops lowered his eyes, his silence being a quiet acknowledgment of her words. “Was that part of why you opened your clinic?”

Iosefka nodded softly. “Partly, yes. Still... sometimes it feels like it is never enough.”

“There is only so much you can do, Doctor,” Gops said gently. “You are saving those who cannot even reach the cathedral before curfew. It is people like us who have to hold the line and keep things from falling apart.”

Iosefka’s voice softened, curiosity threading through her words. “Yet you are here… possessing the power to cheat death, and still you seek the perpetrator behind the murder of a girl… why?”

Gops’s gaze drifted toward the carriage window, watching the blurred shapes of buildings and shadows pass by, yet his thoughts remained rooted in the narrow space they shared. “You said it yourself… The Healing Church has always been a broken system. Not to say the Vicar is not trying to mend it, but there is still so much of Laurence’s legacy left to clean up. Even after two years.” He turned, meeting Iosefka’s eyes directly. “There is much I left behind, too, back in those days. A reason most people know me, and not for anything good.”

Iosefka’s tone was gentle but firm. “Her Excellency seems to trust you, though.”

Gops gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Which baffles me still.”

“Mister Al-Dhar,” Iosefka said quietly, “I do not think you’re being honest with yourself. There is a reason the Vicar trusts you. I have mine, the moment you made sure I was safe before chasing after that shooter.”

Their eyes locked for a long moment, and Gops’s lips twitched into a faint nod. Then he turned back to the letters in his hands, steeling his focus. “I… suppose we should visit Arianna tomorrow morning.”

Iosefka smiled, the tension easing just slightly. “A sound plan. She is off during the Hunt, after all.”

Gops arched his scarred brow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And how might you know that?”

“You said it yourself. We were all young once,” Her lips curved into a warm smile, their shared past a brief but welcome respite from the grim task ahead. “What shall we do in the meantime?”

“I think it best you report our findings to the Vicar, and remain in the cathedral. I will go to Cainhurst. See if I can learn anything from Lindsey’s brother,” Gops answered without hesitation.

“Tonight? Are you certain?” Iosefka’s concern was clear.

“I am. It will save us time, and I can use the Dream to get there without causing alarm,” the assassin assured her.

“Right, of course,” the doctor nodded, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “I’ve always wondered about the Dream. When do you find time to visit it?”

Gops produced his small pocket watch from within his trousers, beneath the flaps of his coat, before flipping it open with practised ease. “I barely need any,” he said. “I tested it quite a few times when I first discovered my connection. Time flows differently there. Heavily dilated. Roughly five minutes in the Dream feels like a single minute here.”

Iosefka’s eyes widened, the scholar in her sparked to life. “That is… fascinating. So, an hour in the Dream would only be twelve minutes in Yharnam, yes?”

“That is how it seems,” Gops nodded once more.

“Very fascinating, indeed…” she breathed, eyes still locked on the delicate watch in his palm.

The carriage came to a gentle halt, the wheels creaking softly against the cobblestone as Gops and Iosefka stepped down onto the worn street before the Grand Cathedral’s towering entrance. They exchanged grateful nods toward the coachman, who tipped his hat in return before the carriage rolled away into the fading light. For a moment, the two stood face to face, their eyes meeting with unspoken understanding.

“You should get inside,” Gops said quietly, his voice steady but edged with urgency. “The Hunt will commence soon. I will join you again at dawn.”

Iosefka inclined her head in acknowledgment, beginning to turn toward the cathedral’s grand doors. Then she paused, looking back over her shoulder. “One more thing...” she called softly.

Gops hesitated, his gaze drawn away from the nearest Hunter’s lantern by the weight in her tone.

“Please...” she implored, her eyes searching his. “Do be careful, Mister Al-Dhar...”

A faint smile flickered across the assassin’s lips. “I will,” he promised. “And please, call me Gops.”

Her eyes brightened with warmth and relief. “Only if you call me Iosefka in return.”

“As you wish,” Gops replied, the words quiet but sincere. “Safety and peace, Iosefka.”

With that, they parted ways. The doctor stepped into the looming sanctuary of the cathedral, and the assassin turned toward the shadowed streets beyond, his path leading toward the nearest Hunter’s lantern, ready to face the night ahead in the forsaken castle.

Chapter Text

The chilling breeze bit at the Church assassin’s face as snow drifted down in slow, unending curtains, each flake dissolving against the dark wool of his coat. Cainhurst’s courtyard lay silent under its white shroud, the great iron gates behind him sealed, the broken bridge beyond guarded by the solitary sentinel he had already bypassed without sound or struggle. Gops awoke beside the Hunter’s lantern, its faint, otherworldly glow casting soft light over the frostbitten stones. He rose, every weapon and tool in its place, and reached up with the steel tips of his clawed left hand to pinch the brim of his plumed cap, straightening it against the wind. The task before him was clear, that being to find the victim’s brother; however, the difficulty lay in where he might be, for Cainhurst was a vast labyrinth of marble halls, frozen courtyards, and shadowed chambers.

Figuring that gaining high ground would be his first advantage, Gops crossed the courtyard without a sound, the crunch of snow underfoot masked by the wind’s hollow wail as he reached the outer wall. With practised grace, he dug his claw into the stonework, scaling upward with a rhythm born of years spent climbing where others dared not tread. The ascent was swift, his boots finding purchase in narrow ledges until he crested the battlement and pulled himself to the top.

From this vantage, the castle unfurled before the assassin, showcasing a sprawl of towers and parapets, torchlight flickering in the distance where patrols moved like slow, methodical clockwork. Gops’ sharp gaze swept the grounds, seeking a younger guard, someone green enough to be pliable. Since the siege, the undead queen’s royal guards had been slaughtered alongside the last of the Vilebloods, their duties now taken up by the surviving nobles who fancied themselves as knights. They were fewer in number, but not without pride. If the Church assassin were to find the man he sought, it would begin with one willing tongue among these silent watchers.

Time slipped by in silence. Gops moved from shadow to shadow along the outer wall, the snow muffling his steps, his breath hidden behind the cloth mask that hung at his neck. The bitter air gnawed at any exposed skin, but he endured it without complaint, his eyes fixed on the movements below. He had stalked several guards already, each one too disciplined, too wary, or simply too dull to serve his purpose, until one finally caught his attention.

A young knight had taken over a patrol near the great iron-banded elevator that rose to the upper reaches of Cainhurst. Something in his behaviour stood out. He paced the platform with restless energy, glancing over his shoulder more often than the routine demanded, as though ensuring no prying eyes lingered. Then, with a slow groan of gears, the elevator doors opened. A noblewoman stepped out. The knight bore no ring of betrothal, yet her gloved hand glittered with one. Gops’ eyes narrowed as a small scoff passed through the cloth of his mask. This was the thread he needed to pull.

The Church assassin descended from the battlements with the quiet precision of a falling snowflake, slipping into the cover of frost-laden bushes at an overlooked corner of the courtyard. From his hiding place, he watched the pair meet. Their embrace was quick but not furtive enough to mask the tenderness in it. Words of affection passed between them in hushed tones, punctuated by fleeting kisses. Time stretched, and at last the woman returned to the elevator. The doors shut, the lift creaked upward, and the knight stood alone once more.

That was when Gops struck.

A gloved hand clamped over the knight’s mouth, dragging him back into the cover of the bushes. The move was swift, calculated; no cry for help had time to form. The assassin pinned him against the cold stone, his left arm rising to reveal the clawed gauntlet, from which his slender blade slid free with a whisper of metal. Its tip hovered a hair’s breadth from the knight’s cheek.

“Call for help,” Gops murmured, voice low and cold, “and you can kiss your secret little affair goodbye.”

The knight’s eyes flared wide, his muffled protests fading into silence. Realisation darkened his expression with confusion, fear, and the bitter understanding that the man before him knew far more than he should.

“I am going to take my hand away,” Gops continued, steady and deliberate. “You will be compliant. Understood?”

The knight gave a tight, shallow nod. Slowly, Gops withdrew his hand, the cold steel of the gauntlet blade never wavering from its place.

“I had been warned of you… filthy peasant,” the knight growled between clenched teeth, his voice thick with disdain. His blue eyes raked over Gops’ dark attire, the subtle sigil engraved within the two slivers of cloth that fell behind his figure, recognising at once the markings of the Healing Church, sworn enemy to Cainhurst.

“Then if you know what is good for you,” Gops said, his tone flat and cold, “you will tell me where Gabriel is.”

“Sir Gabriel…?” The knight’s brows drew together. “What business has he with you?”

“I would only speak with him,” Gops replied evenly. “As I now speak with you. No blood spilt, should you choose to cooperate.”

“What cause have I to place trust in you, assassin?” the knight asked, lingering on the final word as if it were venom.

Gops leaned in slightly, the blade at his gauntlet pressing close enough for the knight to feel the icy kiss of its edge. “Shall I bear the nature of your meetings before the whole of the castle? Or shall I leave her corpse half-buried in the snow, with none to bear the blame but you? Or perhaps…” his voice dropped lower, sharper, “I do both.”

The knight’s jaw clenched, his breath shuddering against the cold. For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Then, with a sharp exhale that plumed into the night air, he relented.

“Enough,” he said, the defiance in his tone dulled by fear, or perhaps the weight of what could be lost. “I tell you only for her sake. Nothing more.”

“How chivalrous,” Gops remarked, the smirk hidden beneath his cloth mask, but felt all the same.

“His chambers lie in the eastern wing,” the knight said at last. “Third room down the hall… upon the third floor.”

“My thanks,” Gops murmured, retracting the gauntlet blade from the young knight’s throat. In the same motion, his elbow drove sharply into the side of the man’s head. The knight crumpled to the frost-rimmed stones without so much as a cry. The earlier threat had been hollow, yet Gops knew well enough how to wield words like a blade, sharp enough to cut without drawing blood.

An hour passed beneath the cold embrace of Cainhurst’s winter. Within its high, echoing halls, candlelight swelled against the polished floors, red carpets spilling down their length like unfurled banners, and walls draped with tapestries and gilt-framed portraits. The air smelled faintly of smoke and old perfume.

One nobleman made his way along the corridor, his steps soft against the carpet. He was red-haired, with a neatly kept moustache shadowing his lip, and his green eyes glinting with that peculiar arrogance born of ancient blood. At his chamber door, he drew out a ring of keys, the tumblers clicking in quick succession before he stepped inside. The hearth within still glowed with life, the fire fed earlier in the evening. Without removing his coat, he crossed to a nearby table, uncorked a bottle of dark wine, and poured it into a waiting chalice.

“Gabriel of Cainhurst,” came a voice, calm and deliberate, and close enough to raise the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Gabriel froze mid-step. He turned sharply, not startled so much as repulsed by the figure leaning against the wall in the far corner. Half-swallowed by shadow, the assassin stood with arms folded, his dark attire bleeding into the dimness like an unwelcome stain. A flicker of recognition crossed Gabriel’s face, quickly replaced by a cold, hard glare. His lips curled just enough to betray his distaste. With deliberate slowness, he set the bottle and cup upon the table, as though their weight were suddenly offensive in his hand.

“Assassin,” he said at last, the word heavy with contempt, spat as though it might leave a taste behind.

“You do not seem surprised to see me,” Gops observed, stepping out from the darkness. Each footfall sent the faint clink of sheathed steel and the muted weight of firearms whispering into the quiet.

“Oh, I am,” Gabriel replied. His green eyes raked over the assassin’s form as though he were sizing up a mongrel in the street. “But I know better than to run from a dog… especially one that answers to the Church’s whistle.”

Gabriel took up his chalice once more, turning his back to the assassin as if the sight of him were an insult to the room itself. “Unfortunately for you,” he said coolly, “you would do well to believe that I would rather rot in the snow than answer to you.”

“Even if it concerns Lindsey?” Gops’ voice cut through the warmth of the fire like a draft through an unsealed door.

The nobleman froze. Slowly, he turned back, his green eyes narrowing to slits. “What of her…?”

A heavy pause hung between them as Gops’ gaze was steady and unblinking. “Your sister was found… murdered.”

The chalice slipped from Gabriel’s grasp, striking the carpet with a muffled thud before rolling onto its side. Red wine bled into the threads like a wound opening beneath their feet. For a moment, he stood as though struck by an invisible blade, his breath caught and posture faltering, before collapsing into the armchair behind him. His hands gripped the rests so tightly the tendons stood out white against his skin, pale as he already was. His eyes never left the assassin’s.

“Lin… Lindsey…” His voice was barely a whisper, frayed at the edges.

Gops said nothing, his expression unreadable. Whether Gabriel’s grief was genuine or merely theatre was impossible to tell. Still, he stepped forward, the muted sound of his boots pressing the silence in closer around them.

“You… dullard creature…” Gabriel’s tone had shifted, grief twisting swiftly into fury. “So… what now? Have you come for me next? To finish the job?”

“I did not kill her,” Gops replied, his voice cold enough to frost the air between them. “I am here to find the animal who did.”

Gabriel leaned forward in his chair, the firelight catching in his green eyes like a glint of polished glass. “And you think I hold the leash of such a beast?” His voice was laced with venom. “You overreach, Church dog. My sister’s blood is not on my hands.”

Gops stopped just short of the desk between them, the faint clink of steel at his hip breaking the stillness. “Then tell me whose hands it is on.”

A bitter laugh escaped Gabriel, low and without humour. “You arrive unbidden, defile my home with your stench, and speak of Lindsey as if her memory were a coin to be traded for answers. Yet you expect me to swoon with cooperation?”

“No. I expect you to understand,” Gops said, his tone flat, “that I will find the one responsible, with or without your goodwill. If you loved her, even a fraction of what you claim, you will speak.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened. He rose from his seat with slow deliberation, the chair legs scraping faintly over the polished floor. “You dare speak to me of love for her? I watched her grow, saw her kindness squandered on the undeserving, her smile wasted on fools-” He stopped, breath catching as though the words themselves hurt. “If I knew her killer, their corpse would already be rotting in the snow.”

“Then help me put it there,” Gops pressed.

Gabriel turned away, his gaze sinking into the fireplace as though the flames might burn away the bitter taste of the conversation. The firelight danced across his sharp features, throwing shadows beneath his tired eyes and deepening the crease in his brow. His jaw tightened, the knuckles around his cup whitening as though the weight of memory alone might shatter it.

“She left Cainhurst many years ago…” Gabriel finally uttered.

“Why?” Gops asked, his voice measured.

Gabriel’s shoulders rose and fell with a slow, deliberate breath before he answered. The warmth of the fire did little to thaw the cold in his expression. “She was my sister, yet only sharing half my blood,” he said at last, eyes fixed upon the dancing firelight. “I discovered secret correspondences between my mother and the King himself. I will say no more, for I believe you can piece together the rest. Had word of it ever spread… the King would have condemned Lindsey and our mother to a fate worse than death, being the offshoot of such a scandal.”

The noble shifted in his chair, the leather groaning beneath him. His green eyes caught the firelight as he turned his head slightly, and for the briefest moment, there was a glint of something between regret and defiance. “Then came the siege. With the King slain, the Vilebloods extinct, and the Queen’s immortality sealed away by your precious martyr, our mother was counted among the innocent nobles your people slaughtered. That left only myself, and those few who still remain. Lindsey among them.”

Gabriel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the flame painting his hair in streaks of molten copper. “In the aftermath, we agreed she would leave Cainhurst. I told the others she vanished in the chaos of the assault. That was the last I ever saw of her.”

“You hid her,” Gops muttered, his voice low. “From the King, from your own kin, and from the ruin that followed.”

“I protected her,” Gabriel corrected sharply, turning his head just enough for the assassin to catch the hardened line of his jaw. “Even from you, if need be.”

“She was not safe,” Gops replied, stepping closer, his boots silent on the carpet. “Whatever life she carved out beyond these walls, it ended under a murderer’s hand, and I will not have you cling to your pride while the trail grows cold. You are coming with me to Yharnam.”

Gabriel’s lips tightened, his gaze still rooted in the flames. “You speak as though I would not tear apart the very stones of your abysmal cesspool of a city to bring her justice. What you fail to realise is that your Healing Church razed Cainhurst to dust. Any truth I might give you will be bent to their will, used not for Lindsey, but for the chains they seek to bind us with.”

“I am not here for your trust,” Gops said, his tone as unyielding as steel.

However, before Gops could take a step toward the red-haired noble, the chamber doors shuddered with a deafening crack. Twin bullets punched through the wood, the force driving splinters into the air. Gabriel jerked violently as both shots struck his chest, the chalice tumbling from his hand as he toppled backward, the chair legs scraping before giving way beneath him.

The Church assassin’s senses sharpened in an instant. The echo of the shot lingered in his ears, yet he knew the sound too well. A repeating pistol, with its rhythm being unmistakable. His own firearm was unholstered and in his hand before the thought finished forming. He dashed for the door, shoving it wide with his boot. The wood slammed against the wall, but he had barely crossed the threshold before steel flashed in the dark. A blade fell from above in a clean, vicious arc, its edge gleaming in what little light reached the corridor.

Gops threw himself backward, the air hissing past the cloth of his mask as the blade missed him by a hair’s breadth. The attacker did not falter, anticipating his retreat as though it had been rehearsed. The hallway lay in near-total blackness; every flame along the sconces had been snuffed out, leaving the long corridor a tunnel of shadow. Even so, the intruder’s silhouette stood out, his dark feathers draping their form like a shroud, yet broken by glints of thin, silvered armour along the head, arms, and legs. A perversion of the Crow’s garb, gleaming like a predator’s teeth in the dark.

Gops drew his silver sword in a single, fluid motion, the steel catching what little light the corridor allowed. His other hand kept the repeating pistol steady, its weight a familiar counterbalance to the clawed gauntlet encasing it. The first exchange came sharp and sudden, silver biting against steel, sparks leaping in the dark.

Gops met each strike head-on, turning them aside with the angled precision of a practised killer, yet something in the rhythm unsettled him. The blows were not wild nor desperate; they were measured, almost surgical, and each one threatened to slip past his guard. This was no common blade-for-hire. The man’s skill was suffocating, his pace steadily forcing Gops into a defensive dance. Each committed strike from the assassin was either swatted aside with insulting ease or avoided entirely by movements so quick they seemed to blur. Gops’ suspicions gnawed at him, but the darkness cloaked his foe too much. He needed certainty.

With a sudden twist of his wrist, the cleric levelled the pistol and squeezed the trigger. Both barrels roared, the hall erupting in twin flashes of fire. The brief flare cast the attacker in stark relief as the frozen image burned into Gops’ vision, the truth striking harder than the clash of their blades. The man wore the thin, gleaming armour of the undead queen’s royal guard, fitted plates strapped to his arms and legs for swift manoeuvres, but his chest bore the darkness of the Crow’s garb. One hand wielded the wicked length of a Chikage; the other, a repeating pistol raised in silent defiance.

The man stood cloaked in silence, his face hidden beneath the smooth, expressionless mask of his helm. Strands of false silver hair spilled from the backplate, swaying faintly with each movement. When Gops’ twin shots split the air, the stranger slipped aside with effortless precision, so fast it seemed the bullets had missed their mark before they had even been fired.

There was only one other person Gops knew who could outmatch him so utterly, and she was trapped in the Hunter’s Nightmare. The thought was still coalescing when his opponent confirmed it without a word. In a single, fluid motion, the stranger slid the sheathed blade into place, then drew it again. The weapon emerged steeped in crimson, its length swollen with an edge of solidified blood, trailing like a ghostly scythe behind the motion of its unsheathing.

A Vileblood.

The realisation came too late, as pain exploded across his abdomen as the crimson blade carved through coat and flesh alike. Gops staggered back, eyes flaring, breath hissing through clenched teeth. He brought his silver sword around in a desperate counterstrike, but the Vileblood was already gone from his arc, reappearing just beyond reach to carve a second line of agony across his chest. Before he could regain his footing, the attacker spun with predatory grace, boot catching Gops squarely in the chest and sending him sprawling onto the cold marble floor. His plumed cap tumbled loose, clinging to his head by little more than a miracle. Through the haze of pain, he blinked up, only to find the corridor empty.

“What the fuck…?” the assassin muttered, forcing himself upright, weapons raised and senses straining for the faintest sign of movement; yet there was nothing. The Vileblood had vanished as if swallowed by the dark.

Gops’ breath came ragged now, edged with pained winces, warmth spilling from the lacerations across his side and chest. With a final glance down the hall, Gops holstered the pistol and shifted the silver blade to his left hand, while his right found a familiar needle in one of his pouches. The sharp sting bit into his thigh as he injected the healing blood. The outer wounds began to knit within moments, but the deeper damage resisted, sending a hot, tearing ache through his core. He gritted his teeth, sweat beading at his brow, and endured the merciless rush of the cure.

Then came the sound of footsteps, not one pair but many, a growing thunder of boots against the marble. Gops’ head snapped toward the far end of the hallway, where the faint glow of torchlight began to bloom at the top of the staircase. The light swelled with each step, drawing closer until it spilled onto the floor of his level. The knights had heard the fight, undoubtedly the gunshots, and were closing in.

The first shapes emerged from the gloom, their polished reiterpallasch catching the torchlight in brief, deadly glints. A half-dozen of them fanned out as they advanced, the flames in their hands casting long, flickering shadows that danced across the walls until their light fell on the assassin at last, illuminating his silhouette in the dark.

“Trespasser!” one bellowed, the others echoing it like a single voice.

Gops’ jaw tightened, a curse slipping between his teeth in silence. He did not have the strength for another drawn-out fight, yet he had a way out. His free hand found another pouch along his belt, fingers curling around the small, cold sphere hidden within. In a smooth motion, he threw it at his feet. The pellet cracked against the boards with a muted snap, and in the next instant, the corridor bloomed with a sudden billow of choking smoke.

The air turned thick and grey, swallowing torchlight and form alike. The knights charged into the haze, their boots pounding blindly forward, but where Gops had stood, there was now only the curling veil of smoke.

“Ach! Find him!” one of the knights barked, his voice rough with smoke as he hacked through a cough. Shadows of steel and torchlight wavered in the haze, the clamour of boots and armour filling the corridor as they searched for the vanished intruder.

Two peeled away toward the chamber scarred by splintered bullet holes. Inside, they found the red-haired noble sprawled across the floor, his fine clothes darkened with spreading blood.

“He shot Sir Gabriel! Quickly!” one cried, dropping to his knees beside the wounded man. The others rushed to assist, voices rising in urgent shouts for aid, while the remaining knights continued to sweep the hall, blades at the ready, their eyes stinging in the smoke.

Outside the castle, pressed close against the cold stone, Gops hung from the narrow ledge beneath a tall, stained-glass window. Both hands gripped the weathered masonry, his clawed left locking firm to keep him steady as the wind clawed at his coat. His body was entirely hidden from the torchlight within, suspended just out of view.

Through the glass, muffled by the thick pane, came the frantic cries of the search. It was almost laughable how perfectly the assassin’s presence and the earlier gunshot had aligned to cast him as Gabriel’s would-be killer. A neat little frame, laid for him by the silent Vileblood. A slow, controlled breath slipped through the cloth of his mask, fogging the cold night air before drifting away. His gaze dropped to the sheer face of the wall below. Tightening his hold, Gops began his descent down the outer wall, boots and fingers finding their place along the weathered stone as the din of pursuit faded behind him.

The hours slipped by, the night thinning toward its first pale whispers of dawn, yet Gops lingered still within Cainhurst’s shadowed halls. He had circled his way to a quieter quarter of the castle, far from the stir of searching knights. The frigid air and the hush of the place left him alone with his thoughts, and the unanswered question gnawing at him. A living Vileblood. The first he had laid eyes on since the siege, when the Executioners swore the line had been ended. Not just any survivor, as this one bore the armour of the Crow, a mantle only one other had ever worn in his lifetime. Stranger still, the man had turned his blade upon his own kin within Cainhurst’s walls. There was something tangled here, something deeper than a simple ambush, for the assassin had his newest murder suspect.

But Gops had not come here only for answers. If he were already within these old halls, he would use the moment to seek out what he had long left behind. It had been years since his last step across the castle’s threshold, yet his memory of the western wing remained sharp. He traced an old route in silence, melting into the shadows of empty corridors, until he stood before a set of doors more ornate than any around them, standing tall, elegant, and sealed for decades.

The lock yielded to his careful pick, the tumblers clicking softly before the doors creaked inward, exhaling a breath of stale, dust-laden air. Beyond lay a chamber that time had left untouched, a room of muted grandeur, once the private quarters belonging to one of Cainhurst’s most formidable figures. Lady Maria.

No footfall had disturbed this place since she turned her back on the castle and its treachery against Yharnam. Everything remained as Gops remembered. The heavy drapes, the proud old furniture, the faint arrangement of the room; it was a perfect preservation, save for the slow creep of dust and the soft drapery of cobwebs in forgotten corners. The cleric's gaze softened as he stepped inside, his brown eyes wandering over each familiar detail. Memories came unbidden, warm ones as fragile as breath, that held close in a place otherwise cold. It was here he found what he had come for. A candlestick, modest in size yet wrought with delicate craftsmanship.

Lifting it from its place, the Church assassin brushed away the veil of dust with a slow breath. Gops recollected that Maria’s mind, though dulled by the nightmare’s curse, could still be stirred by objects tied to her deepest memories. If anything could draw her gaze back to him, pulling some glimmer of recognition from the fog, it might be this.

The candlestick was no mere trinket, as it was an old shard of their shared past.

A relic from the day they first met.

Chapter Text

Many years before the present, Cainhurst stood unshadowed, its spires gleaming beneath the winter moon, its banners snapping in the high wind. The marble halls were alight with music and laughter, the castle deep within an age of opulence, while far to the south Yharnam still lingered in the time of the old hunters. On this particular night, the ancient fortress welcomed guests from beyond its frozen borders. The annual winter ball was a long-held tradition, being a night of wine, waltz, and whispered intrigue, but also a political gesture meant to reaffirm the alliance between Cainhurst’s old bloodline and Yharnam’s rising power. For this evening, even members of the Healing Church and the Hunter’s Workshop had been invited to walk beneath its vaulted ceilings.

A black carriage drew to a halt at the base of the great staircase, its wheels crunching to a halt on the frost-bitten cobblestones. Two towering Cainhurst steeds, their coats as dark as pitch, pawed the ground in the cold, their breath steaming in the night air. The high gates loomed open above, spilling lamplight across the snow. From the carriage descended the first Hunter himself. Gehrman wore a formal coat of deep grey wool, his frame upright, his bearing sharp and precise. The hunt’s leathers were nowhere to be seen tonight; instead, he had dressed in the manner of a gentleman, though there was a stiffness to it, as if the garb itself sat uncomfortably upon his shoulders.

Gehrman turned, extending a gloved hand toward the carriage’s shadowed interior. A pale hand emerged in answer, delicate yet strong in its grasp. Maria stepped down to meet the night air, the silk of her Cainhurst-crafted gown catching the light from the gates above. The bodice was finely embroidered, the skirt trailing in soft folds, though her hair, pulled back into the familiar ponytail she had worn since her youth, defied the softness of her attire. A black ribbon bound it at the nape, with a few errant strands framing her pale face.

“Gehrman,” Maria said softly, her voice a low breath against the night’s chill. “Let us not linger here for long.”

Their hands parted as Maria set her boots upon the frost-edged stone. The look she gave him was not one of defiance, but of quiet weariness, of someone prepared to endure rather than enjoy. Gehrman’s gaze softened in return; he had raised her in the way of the hunt, and though no blood bound them, the bond was that of father and daughter.

“I’d rather not be here either,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest smile. “But there are courtesies that must be observed. Even a hunter cannot hunt forever without breaking bread with those who hold the coffers.” He glanced toward the open gates, where music drifted faintly down through the cold. “Besides… I thought you might have been looking forward to this evening. A chance to reunite with family and friends.”

Maria’s eyes drifted past him to the castle’s golden light, her lips tightening by a hair’s breadth. “All the more reason to leave as soon as possible,” she murmured. There was no malice in her tone, as it was merely the discomfort of one long aware of her place in the eyes of others. She was well known here, and her name carried weight, for she was distantly bound by blood to the queen herself. A truth the huntress carried like a shadow, whether or not she wished it.

“Oh, don’t think too hard on it,” Gehrman said, his voice pitched low and gentle, though there was an unspoken firmness beneath it. With the calm of a man who had long walked into places he would rather avoid, he started up the great staircase toward the open gates.

Maria exhaled through her nose and followed, her gown whispering across the stone with each step, the black ribbon at her nape swaying faintly in the wind. The moment they crossed the threshold, the castle’s heart swallowed them whole. The main hall blazed with candlelight reflected in polished silver, spilling across marble floors and walls draped in deep red banners. The air was thick with perfume, warmed wine, and the layered murmur of conversation. Noblemen in embroidered coats and women in gowns of silk and lace mingled in clusters, their jewelled masks of courtesy barely concealing the sharpened curiosity in their eyes.

Among the gathered guests were the Beast Hunters, men and women Maria recognised by gait, posture, or the faint glint of an eye, though their familiar garb was exchanged tonight for the restraint of formal attire. Their weapons were absent, but the way they held themselves betrayed old habits, with their measured stances and constant scanning of the room.

At the far side of the hall stood Vicar Laurence, already deep in the revelry. He was a tall, commanding figure, his formal vestments immaculate, the white stole of his office draped over one broad shoulder. He laughed in quiet tones with a circle of clerics from the Healing Church. Among them stood a black-haired woman whose posture was attentive, her gaze following the vicar’s every word. It was she who noticed them first, as her hazel eyes brightened the moment they found the pale hunteress and her mentor. Breaking from the circle of dignitaries, she murmured a polite excuse and slipped free, moving through the crowd with quick, light steps. Her gown, deep blue satin, flowed behind her, one hand raised in a wave meant not for Gehrman, but for the younger lady at his side.

Maria, already braced against the press of the room, found her gaze softening the instant it met the approaching figure. The hall’s murmurs shifted, since Cainhurst nobles were rarely subtle in their commentary, and the whispers at her arrival followed her like an ocean wave. Yet here, in the warmth of that familiar face, the noise dulled to nothing. Gehrman caught her glance and offered a small nod, stepping aside to give her the space he knew she wanted. Maria moved forward, her steps measured, her presence unshaken despite the attention she drew. When they met, the embrace was warm and unhurried, two friends greeting in the midst of the public spectacle.

“It is so good to see you, Maria,” the woman said, her voice coloured with genuine delight.

“It is a merriment to see you, Adeline,” Maria replied, her tone softer now, the edges of formality melting away. She drew back just enough to take in her friend’s appearance. “This dress suits you wonders.”

Adeline laughed lightly, her dark eyes gleaming. “Please. Take a look at yourself for once!”

As the two close friends strolled side by side, their steps unhurried, they exchanged warm nods and brief greetings to familiar faces drifting through the flow of the ballroom. Cainhurst’s great hall was a tide of silks, jewels, and polished words, and though Maria’s composure remained steady, her focus often lingered on Adeline’s easy way of moving among the crowd. The pale huntress had adorned her neck with an elegant chain this evening, from which her familiar green brooch now hung. The gem caught the candlelight with every motion, resting just above the soft dip of her neckline.

Her eyes wandered over the hall, tracing the gilded arches and the tall windows she had once looked out from as a girl. For all its splendour, the castle was a place she had outgrown. The memories stirred within her were tinged with fondness, yet they carried no longing. She had found her purpose far beyond these walls. It was then when the huntress’ gaze halted. Across the room, a man stood alone at the edge of the gathering. He was motionless among the currents of conversation, though his eyes had found her.

Even at this distance, Maria’s keen sight of a hunter caught his details in the flicker of torchlight. His skin kissed by the sun, a clean-shaven jaw, black hair neatly combed, though some unruly strands softened the sharpness of his face. Brown eyes, steady and perceptive, held her green ones for the briefest heartbeat. Then he turned, as if the moment had not existed at all, his attention claimed by some unseen elsewhere. Maria lingered in the empty space he left, the trace of curiosity pressing against her thoughts. Beside her, Adeline’s gaze followed the path of her friend’s distraction until it, too, found the solitary figure. A small, knowing smile touched her lips. She knew the man, a fellow cleric, yet instead of weaving a tale, she chose mischief.

“He is a handsome fellow, isn’t he?” she teased, her voice pitched low, the words wrapped in playful innocence.

Maria’s eyes shifted away, her lips curving only slightly. “Please try not to speak your thoughts out loud,” she said, the gentle scold softened by the warmth beneath her tone.

The murmur of conversation thinned, dwindled, and at last fell away entirely. All eyes turned toward the grand staircase at the far end of the hall, where a column of armour and shadow emerged from the torchlit archway above. The royal guards descended first, silent figures in full plate, their helms catching the glow of the chandeliers. Each bore a sheathed Chikage at their hip, the lacquered scabbards gleaming like dark glass. Their steps rang against the marble, measured and deliberate, parting the crowd into reverent stillness.

Then the king appeared. Regal yet austere, King Morcant stood at the crest of the stairs beside his queen. His presence was one of cool command, his bearing sharpened by decades of rule.

“Denizens of Cainhurst,” he proclaimed, his voice deep and resonant, carrying easily to every corner of the vaulted hall, “Our most bounden thanks to thee for thy presence upon this night’s occasion.”

A ripple of movement swept the assembly as courtiers and guests bowed their heads. Silk skirts whispered across the floor; the gleam of gilded cuffs dipped toward the marble.

Queen Annalise stepped forward beside him, her silver crown glinting beneath the light. Where her husband was stern stone, she was porcelain elegance, cold and unyielding to most; yet capable of the smallest, most deliberate warmth when she willed it. Her voice, when she spoke, was clear and measured, each word chosen with care.

“On this night,” she declared, “we are most honoured to receive guests of great renown, come forth from the fair city of Yharnam.”

She extended one pale, gloved hand in turn toward the figures she named. “Laurence, vicar most esteemed. Ludwig, the Holy Blade. Audrey Florence, high mistress of the Choir. Gehrman, master of the Hunter’s Workshop.”

Yet when the queen uttered that last name, her gaze did not rest upon the master, but rather upon his pale protégé standing at his side. For the briefest of moments, her features softened as her eyes lingered on Maria with something almost tender, almost knowing, before her composure returned like the frost that crowns the castle’s spires.

“His Majesty and I do bid thee welcome,” she concluded, “and pray thou makest thyself at home within these walls.”

The hall erupted in polite applause, the sound echoing beneath the high, ribbed ceiling. Time slipped by beneath the glow of chandeliers and the hum of conversation, the night’s festivities unfolding in gentle waves. The clink of crystal, the rustle of silk, and the low murmur of courtly intrigue filled the grand hall, until a subtle shift in the crowd’s attention signalled a new moment to unfold.

A distinguished nobleman emerged from the throng, pausing at the foot of the great staircase where the king and queen had earlier stood. His attire was impeccable, adorning a deep crimson velvet embroidered with silver thread, and beside him rested a long table lined with slender candlesticks. Each bore an unblemished white taper, their flames dancing faintly in the warm air. In the nobleman’s gloved hand, one such candle flickered, its small golden light painting his features with shifting shadows.

“Ladies. Gentlemen,” the noble began, his voice rich and measured, calling the attention of the assembly without force, “might I have thy gracious ear?”

The surrounding voices fell away. A few nearby turned their heads; others adjusted their posture, sensing the announcement was meant for all.

“As part of this most anticipated gathering,” he continued, “it is our humble wish to invite thee to partake in a small amusement.” A faint smile crept across his face, one part hospitality and one part challenge. “Our musicians shall play a waltz, a most melodious one, wherein all who wish to join the dance may do so… but first, must endure a test.”

He held the lit candle aloft for all to see, the little flame swaying but never faltering.

“It is said,” he intoned, “that the truest measure of a perfect waltz is not in its swiftness alone, nor in its grace, but in the union of both. Swift and delicate. Smooth and unbroken. Such that the flame borne by the lead dancer remains untouched and unquenched, until the final step is taken. A task most simple to imagine… yet most cruel to master.”

A murmur of intrigue rippled through the hall, and the nobleman’s eyes glimmered with knowing mischief.

“Now,” he said, letting the candle’s light play across the faces of those who listened, “this shall require not only skill, but the perfect partner indeed.”

The nobleman’s words lingered in the air, like the final toll of a great bell. From the balcony above, the orchestra stirred to life, their bows poised against strings, a low hum of tuning notes melting into the gentle promise of a waltz yet to begin. The hall shifted with a current of anticipation and glances were exchanged, and some eager souls already began searching for partners.

Maria, however, stood back from the slow swell of movement, her hands resting neatly before her, gaze distant as though she might melt into the marble columns. The candle test, to her, was nothing but a spectacle for nobles who had the time to sharpen their steps instead of their blades.

“Do not dare stand here all evening,” Adeline murmured at her side, her tone laced with the conspiratorial mischief Maria knew all too well.

“I have no interest in balancing candles, Adeline,” Maria replied evenly. “Not when I can keep my dignity intact.”

Adeline only smiled, an expression Maria immediately recognised as trouble. “Pity. I think you might already have caught someone’s interest.”

That was when the huntress felt a presence at her side. The quiet, deliberate kind that did not so much intrude as arrive. Maria turned her head slightly, only to find the man she had noticed earlier that evening, the one who had stared just a moment too long before turning away. Closer now, she could see the faint line of a healed scar through his left eyebrow, the subtle wear on the knuckles of his gloved hands, the faint metallic sheen of a clasp within his right cuff that was barely visible beneath the sleeve, appearing to be more functional than ornamental.

The man bowed, not deeply, but enough to mark the gesture with formality. “My lady,” he said, his voice warm yet edged with a quiet confidence, “I believe we are to dance.”

Her pale brow arched slightly. “Are we, now?”

“I saw no one else worth asking,” he replied without hesitation, his brown eyes locking on hers, searching but not prying. Then, with the smallest, knowing tilt of his head, he added, “Besides… I think you would rather see that candle burn until the end, would you not?”

With an unbeknown tinge of reluctance, Maria was about to give a polite refusal, but Adeline leaned in with a soft whisper meant only for her. “If you turn him down, I will personally hand him to someone who will say yes, only for us to watch her fail miserably.”

“Adeline,” Maria murmured in warning.

Her friend’s eyes sparkled. “Go. Do me this favour, will you?”

Maria allowed herself a small sigh, one that Adeline would interpret as victory, and extended her hand. The man’s grip was sure, neither too firm nor too light, as he guided her toward the nobleman’s table. When they reached it, the candlestick was handed to him first. Without a word, he shifted it into both their hands, his palm beneath hers, their fingers lightly brushing as they steadied the stem together. The flame trembled, caught between the pair, its soft light painting their faces in gold.

From above, the first notes of the waltz unfurled like silk into the air.

The pair drew close as the first swell of strings filled the hall, moving with the unspoken understanding of the waltz. The man’s gloved hand settled lightly at her waist, the other joining hers in a shared hold upon the slender candlestick, its flame trembling faintly between them. With a subtle lift of his chin, he met the huntress’ gaze, steady and unhurried, despite the inch or two she had over him in height. The set of his shoulders and the quiet confidence in his posture seemed to bridge that difference entirely, allowing Maria to surrender the lead without hesitation.

Their first steps were measured, almost tentative, in time with the slow, graceful opening of the melody. The world beyond their orbit softened; the vaulted ceiling faded into shadow as, one by one, the chandeliers above were snuffed by the nobles on the overlooking balconies. Soon, the only light came from the flickering flames clasped in the hands of each pair. Faces were cast in warm gold or drowned in silhouette, the watchers on the edges of the hall melting into the darkness to observe the dancers from afar.

Maria’s eyes, half-lidded with focus, lifted from the wavering flame to the man before her. “So,” she murmured, her voice low and silken, close enough that the words needed no force to reach him. “Does my bold captor bear a name?”

His mouth curved faintly, though it was not quite a smile. “Captor… or saviour?” he returned in the same subdued tone. “From what I saw, half the court was of one mind. To claim your hand before I did.”

Maria’s lips curved faintly at his answer, though she kept her gaze fixed upon his brown eyes rather than the flickering light they guarded between them. The steps of the waltz tightened, pulling them nearer, their pace shifting with the music’s slow rise.

“And yet,” she murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly as though testing the space between them, “you have not answered me.”

A beat passed as the warmth of the candle painted the sharp line of his brow, the faint scar cutting through it, a mark that caught her notice even as he stepped with effortless precision, guiding her turn without so much as a falter in the flame.

“Gops,” he said at last, his voice low enough to be almost lost beneath the music. “Gops Al-Dhar.”

She tasted the name in silence, her green eyes narrowing with a flicker of intrigue. “I will remember it.”

Gops answered with nothing more than a slight incline of his head, though there was a hint of satisfaction in the set of his jaw. Around them, the other couples moved like dark silhouettes caught in pools of gold, the hall seeming to sway with the dance. The shared candlestick was now more than a test, as it became a fragile treaty between them, its quivering flame daring either to misstep.

Maria matched his pace with deliberate precision, her gown whispering against the floor, her breath steady. Neither yielded ground in the subtle tug of the dance, each turn and sweep a quiet negotiation for dominance. Yet, through it all, the flame between them held fast in an unspoken promise that neither would be the one to let it die.

The music swelled, its tempo urging the dancers into swifter, more intricate steps. Around the hall, flames began to falter, some snuffed by a mistimed turn, others lost to the faintest stumble. A hush of disappointment followed each extinguished light, yet Gops and Maria glided on, their movements seamless, the candle between them as steady as their gaze. Neither had the training of a court dancer, yet together their steps moved with a precision that suggested something older, instinctive, as though their bodies already knew the rhythm they had never shared before.

“Yours?” Gops murmured at last, his voice threading between the rise and fall of the strings.

Maria blinked, pulled from the quiet drift of her thoughts. Still, her feet obeyed the music without falter, keeping perfect pace as though the waltz were second nature. She tilted her head, a subtle gesture urging him to clarify.

“Your name,” he said, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, as if amused at having caught her mind elsewhere.

A quiet huff escaped her nose. “Pardon me. I am… perhaps too accustomed to the notion that everyone already knows my name.”

“And you call me bold?” His tone was warm with mock reproach.

“I believe the word you are looking for is brash, to which I am not,” she countered, a fleeting roll of her eyes softening the retort. Her gaze held his as she spoke her name with quiet finality. “Maria of Cainhurst.”

“I shall remember it, my lady,” Gops said, the faint curl of a smile brushing his lips.

Maria gave a quiet shake of her head, the gesture hiding the smirk that threatened to surface. When her eyes lifted again, they found his, being rich, dark brown, steady and unflinching. “You know your footing,” she observed. “Are you a hunter of the Church?”

“Not exactly,” the cleric replied, voice low and deliberate. “I carry the badge, yes… but my work is far more delicate than most.”

Maria’s gaze sharpened. “An assassin?”

His scarred brow arched at her certainty. “What gave it away?” he asked, tone light but edged with genuine curiosity.

“I saw you earlier,” Maria said, her voice smooth yet precise. “Standing alone, far from conversation. Watching the room instead of partaking in it. Your eyes moved, but your posture stayed still, studying your surroundings.”

“I must be getting sloppy,” Gops muttered, though his grin betrayed no real regret. He matched the growing tempo of the waltz with ease, his steps never faltering. “Though I will admit, your footing is far more graceful than mine, for a Beast Huntress. One who hides the full truth of her lineage, lest she be mistaken for either a damsel… or danger.”

Maria’s lips curved faintly, impressed. “Touché. Although…” her gaze held his, “…that is but the tip of the iceberg.”

As if summoned by her words, the music swelled, the pace of the waltz sharpening. Around them, couples stumbled and faltered; here and there, the delicate flames winked out, surrendering to the slightest error. With each extinguished light, the grand hall dimmed, the shadows stretching longer, until the warm glow seemed to retreat into the hands of the few who still remained.

Their own candle trembled, not from a misstep, but from a shift in the air between them. The flicker of the flame mirrored the faint quickening of their breath. Maria felt it wavering and instinctively adjusted her grip, but Gops’ hand closed over hers at the same moment. Their fingers pressed together around the candlestick, steadying it in unison.

One by one, more flames died out. The vast chamber grew darker still, until at last the only light left was theirs, its soft glow catching the faint sheen of Maria’s hair and painting Gops’ features in gold and shadow. The rest of the hall became a blur of faceless silhouettes, watching silently from the edges as the pair moved in their own pocket of warmth and radiance.

In the fragile circle of light, the gold flecks in his brown eyes caught hers and held it. For a heartbeat, they seemed impossibly close, not only from the waltz’s embrace, but from something unspoken passing between them. Then the music pulled them onward once more, their steps falling back into the same unbroken rhythm they had shared from the very first note; two strangers moving as though they had always known each other’s pace, dancing in a darkness that belonged to them alone.

The music began to slow, its final notes lingering in the air like the last embers of a dying fire. Gops and Maria matched its cadence, their steps easing into a graceful stillness. The great hall lay shrouded in shadow, their candle now the sole island of light.

Within that fragile glow, Gops found himself drawn irresistibly to the green depths of her eyes. The warm flicker painted her pale features in gold, and the nearness between them blurred the boundaries of the dance. He could feel her breath ghost against his lips, the space between them narrowing until words felt clumsy, almost intrusive.

Maria too was caught in the moment, her gaze holding his as though neither could look away. Something deep within her, a quiet and buried longing, wished they were truly alone. It was a fleeting thought, but it carried the weight of inevitability, as though some unseen thread were tugging them closer, inviting them to surrender to it. The air between them thickened, their faces drawn together by an unspoken pull. It was not the music that guided them now, but the urge, as mutual, silent, and undeniable as it was.

And then, the spell broke. The music ended, followed by the applause of the onlookers that swelled around them like a sudden wave. Gops and Maria straightened almost at once, their posture returning to the formality of the dance. To the crowd, they were victors of the evening’s challenge, the last bearers of the flame.

But to the two who had shared that final dance, the triumph was secondary. Something had passed between Gops and Maria in that darkness. It was brief, intangible, and impossible to name.

Yet it lingered, refusing to fade.

Chapter Text

The chandeliers of Cainhurst flared back to life, scattering golden light across marble and steel as the nobles erupted in applause. The music shifted to a livelier tune, and the hall resumed its grand revelry. Laughter, the clink of goblets, and the rustle of gowns filled the air, but for Gops, the moment felt fractured, since the intimacy of the waltz already faded into smoke.

Praised and congratulated by passing lords and ladies for outlasting every couple in the candlelit trial, he offered polite nods, yet his thoughts lingered elsewhere. In the haze of cheer and chatter, Maria was nowhere to be seen; however, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Across the hall, framed in the archway of one of the side doors, the huntress’ figure slipped into the shadows of a corridor. For the briefest heartbeat, she paused, half-turned, her face aglow in the dying light of the hall. Her green eyes sought the cleric’s, steady and unflinching even at such a distance. The look lingered, a beckoning tether, before she vanished into the depths of Cainhurst’s labyrinthine passageways.

The meaning was unmistakable, and without hesitation, the Church assassin easily excused himself by vanishing into the eddying sea of nobles too caught in their own revels to notice his departure. With each step he took from the hall, the noise of the crowd dulled, replaced by the silence of shadowed corridors. The corridor stretched long and dim, lined with gilded sconces whose flames burned lower than those in the hall. Gops followed the subtle sound of her steps, the swish of her gown as it swept across the marble.

Maria did not hurry, nor did she slow, for her pace was measured and deliberate like a lure cast for him alone. At one point, she paused by an archway, turning slightly so that the candlelight traced the sharp curve of her jaw. Her eyes found his once more, the faintest curve of her glimmering lips forming as if she were testing his resolve. Then she continued on, deeper into Cainhurst’s inner halls. Gops realised soon enough where the huntress was leading him, venturing past the grand gallery, past the servants’ quarters, up a spiral stair where the air grew quieter. There were fewer doors, fewer torches, fewer reasons for anyone else to wander.

At last, Maria stopped before a tall, carved door of dark oak inlaid with silver. Without a word, she pressed it open as the faint scent of parchment, lavender, and wax drifted out, a chamber that was unmistakably hers. The room was bathed in muted candlelight, a contrast to the noise and grandeur of the ballroom. Heavy curtains draped the tall windows, the faint light of the moon filtering through their seams. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickers of warmth upon the chamber’s stone walls and the great bed dressed in deep velvet sheets.

The huntress stepped inside with the confidence of one who belonged here, though something in the curve of her lips hinted at anticipation. Her fingertips brushed against the mantle as she turned to face the assassin who soon approached her, her green eyes catching the light of the fire.

“Cainhurst can be overwhelming,” Maria said at last, her voice calm and carrying an edge of softness now that the court was far behind them. “I thought you might appreciate a quieter corner of it.”

Gops lingered in the doorway for only a breath before stepping inside, slowly closing the doors behind him. The sound of the latch falling into place felt heavier than it should, as if sealing them away from the rest of the world. The cleric’s eyes traced the room once, then returned to hers, finding the same pull he had felt when the candlelight had kept them close on the dance floor.

Maria held his gaze, unflinching, her expression softened by the fire’s glow. “So… Gops Al-Dhar,” she murmured, the faintest tease of her foreign accent in her tone, “do you always follow your partners beyond the dance?”

“Not without an invitation,” Gops said at last, his voice carrying a weight that was both respectful and daring.

Maria’s lips curved into the faintest smile, a glimmer of amusement softening her otherwise measured composure. She turned toward the hearth, letting the glow of the fire bathe her pale face in warm light. “Then perhaps you are wiser than most,” she replied, her tone smooth, almost testing him.

Gops’ eyes swept briefly over the chamber’s features, such as the drawn curtains, the heavy carved bed draped in crimson silk, and the faint scent of roses clinging to the air. He returned his gaze to hers, unflinching. “I believe this is no idle parlour, for you would not have brought me here by mistake.”

Maria studied him in silence, her fingers trailing idly along the carved mantle as if marking time. “You presume much,” she muttered with a tinge of curiosity.

“I observe,” Gops corrected softly, taking a measured step closer as his tone matched the huntress’ nature. “You told me that yourself.”

Maria hummed softly through her nose as her gaze lingered on the flame, her voice softer now, though no less deliberate. “I did not even wish to attend the ball tonight,” she confessed, the admission low but steady. “Cainhurst’s revelries are all but the same. Posturing. Pride. The endless theatre of vanity. I would sooner have locked myself away here, content with silence.” The huntress looked at him, her green eyes catching his brown ones with unflinching sharpness. “And yet, had I done so, I would never have found myself with your intrigue.”

Gops let out a slow breath, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Then perhaps I should tread lightly,” he said, voice low.

Maria’s smirk deepened by a fraction, her pale features softening. “Perhaps,” she murmured.

The fire popped in the hearth, filling the silence between them with a brief crackle of flame, while the weight of her words lingered. Gops crossed the chamber with unhurried steps, coming to stand beside her at the hearth. The firelight bathed them both in shades of gold and amber, its warmth brushing their faces as the wood crackled in steady rhythm. The cleric slid his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers, his coat falling back from his sides as his eyes sought hers; those sharp, luminous features softened now in the glow.

“Unlike yourself,” Gops murmured, his voice low and steady, “I quite enjoy these occasions… though not for the reasons one might expect.” The flames danced across his brown eyes as he leaned slightly toward the heat, his words spoken with an ease that filled the quiet chamber. “Rare are such nights when I can simply melt into the crowd. Not with a mark to hunt, nor a blade to draw. Only to merely exist among them. To indulge in something frivolous, if only for a time. Even so, no one ever truly gets the jump on me.”

Maria let her lips curve into the faintest smile, her tone lilting, playful yet edged with irony. “So then… was our dance just another indulgence? A passing experiment, meant to remind yourself of human nature?”

Gops tilted his head toward her, meeting her eyes with a quiet certainty. “At first, perhaps,” he admitted. A pause stretched, filled only by the soft cackle of the hearth, before his voice lowered. “But not once we began.”

“I thought Church assassins such as yourself were not meant to be so easily swayed,” Maria said, her tone edged with curiosity more than accusation.

“No… we are not,” Gops murmured, his voice low, measured. His eyes found hers again, as though that were explanation enough. A faint breath lingered on his lips before he added, “Yet, I was rather surprised to see you accept my hand.”

“You have Adeline to thank for that,” Maria replied, her smirk softening into something almost conspiratorial.

“You did not have to listen to her,” Gops pressed gently, his scarred brow arching with quiet intrigue.

“No… I did not.” The huntress’ voice lowered as she shifted, turning fully toward him. Her green eyes locked with his, their gleam sharpened by the firelight. “Perhaps I, too, sought to fulfil an indulgence. At first.”

Maria’s boots clicked lightly against the marble as she stepped closer, her presence commanding, her height casting a subtle shadow over him. The distance between them shrank to mere inches, until Gops found his back pressed to the cold stone wall. Yet even cornered, the assassin’s gaze remained steady and unfaltering, refusing to break from hers.

“Why… have you brought me here?” the cleric whispered, the words nearly carried away by the mingling of their breaths.

“Much like yourself,” Maria murmured, her voice soft but deliberate, “rare are the moments one may indulge in something frivolous. Without a blade to unsheathe. Without blood. Merely… to exist.” Her words fell like an echo of his own, turned back upon him with unnerving precision.

Gops tilted his head, curiosity flashing in the faint furrow of his brow. The hearthlight flickered against them, drawing shadows that seemed to bend closer with the intimacy of the moment, recalling the final glow of their shared candle. “Even if it be with an assassin? A killer?” His voice strained faintly, betraying the discipline he struggled to maintain in such closeness.

Maria lowered her head, her lips descending to hover just above the black strands brushing his ear. Her breath lingered there, hot and deliberate.

“Oh, good cleric…” she whispered, her words carrying the weight of a confession and a dare. “You think I am unaware? It takes one… to know one.”

The words lingered, suspended in the hush between them, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearth. Gops drew a slow breath, steadying himself, though the effort betrayed him in the faint tightening of his clean-shaven jaw. He had endured the closeness of prey and the intimacy of a kill a hundred times before, yet never like this.

Maria’s hand rose at last, her gloved fingers brushing against the lapel of his coat. The touch was featherlight, deliberate, tracing the fine seam as if testing the strength of the fabric, or the restraint of the man beneath it. Gops’ eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion but in the quiet, unspoken surrender of one who had ceased resisting. His own hand shifted from his pocket, brushing against her wrist, just enough to feel the warmth beneath her glove. The faintest pressure. A silent answer.

“Then you brought me here… not by chance,” the cleric murmured, voice hushed and edged with that calm steel he wore like armour.

Maria leaned back just enough for their eyes to meet once more. The green of hers seemed brighter in the firelight, a flame answering his own. “No,” she admitted. “Not by chance.”

The space between them seemed to vanish in that moment. Their shared breath hung heavier, each second taut, expectant, as though the room itself were holding them in place, waiting for one of them to break the silence with something other than words.

“Maria…” Gops breathed, her name barely more than a whisper, yet weighted with the tension neither of them had dared voice until now. His eyes clung to hers, unwavering, as though afraid that if he blinked, the moment would dissolve.

Maria closed the distance with deliberate ease, her lips brushing against his in a kiss that silenced him, quieting not only his words but the guarded composure Gops had carried since their dance. What began as a featherlight press deepened swiftly, each second unravelling the restraint that had bound them since the hall. Her lips were soft, pink, and lightly glossy, wetting the kiss in a way that left a delicate trace whenever they parted for a breath, a faint string of moisture hanging between them that hinted at the intensity of the contact.

Gops’ hands found her waist, firm and instinctive, drawing the huntress against him until there was no space left to yield. Maria’s palm spread gently across his chest, feeling the steadiness of the heartbeat beneath layers of cloth and resolve. Her other hand rose to the back of his head, sliding into his dark hair until her fingers tangled in the strands. She cradled him there, holding the cleric as though he were something far more fragile than steel and blood would ever suggest. The heat of her breath mingled with his as the huntress exhaled against him, the fire at the hearth seeming only a pale echo of the warmth that now bound them together.

Without a word, Maria hummed softly, a sound low and teasing against the quiet of her chambers. Her hand, resting lightly on his chest, inched downward until it met one of his palms. Fingers entwined, she led him gently, taking deliberate steps backward, guiding him away from the warm glow of the hearth toward the bed draped in heavy velvet sheets. Gops followed without resistance, his gaze locked on hers, drinking in every curve and shadow of her features as they approached the side of the bed near the polished bedside table.

With a delicate press of her palms against his shoulders, Maria nudged the Church assassin to sit at the edge, the weight of expectation suspended between them. The huntress paused only briefly before lifting her dress just enough to swing her legs over the bed, straddling his lap with fluid, unhurried grace. Gops tilted his head, meeting her unwavering green eyes as if answering an unspoken question, his hands resting lightly at his sides, tense yet yielding. Maria’s fingertips traced the sleeves of his coat, featherlight, as though memorising the fabric against her touch. Slowly and deliberately, she drew the coat off him.

As the garment fell, one of her gloved hands brushed against a familiar object tucked within the inner pocket. The huntress’ pale lashes fluttered in quiet amusement as she drew out the candlestick they had held during their waltz. Holding it up, Maria raised a single brow at him, her lips curling in a subtle, knowing smile.

“In case I did not see you again for the rest of the night,” Gops said softly, his words a mixture of practicality and intimacy, the candlestick a tangible token of their shared moment, a bridge between the memory of the dance and the quiet, suspended closeness of now.

Maria’s gaze softened, the candlelight from the hearth casting a warm glow across the curve of her cheek as she considered him, the air between them thick with unspoken desire and curiosity. The huntress turned the candlestick in her hand once, the gleam of its brass catching the firelight before she set it carefully upon the bedside table. The faint clink of metal on wood lingered in the air, though not long enough to draw their eyes from one another. Maria then turned her attention back on the cleric, leaning forward slowly, her knees pressing gently into his sides, her body close enough that her breath warmed the space between them.

“Something to remember me by?” Maria teased, her voice a quiet murmur, though her green eyes searched his with something sharper, something curious.

“Is that so bad?” Gops uttered back. “You said it yourself… I have but reached the tip of the iceberg with you.”

“Shh…” Maria hushed, her gloved finger pressing lightly to his lips, silencing him with a touch more tender than stern. Then, with deliberate grace, she leaned further forward, coaxing him down until Gops’ back sank against the velvet sheets. “Do not think of what may lurk beneath the ice… not here… not now. Tonight, we live the moment.”

The mattress cradled the Church assassin, softer than any surface his body had known in years, yet none of its comfort could compare to the weight above him. His focus narrowed to her alone, the huntress straddling him, her gaze fixed and unrelenting, her warmth pressing down against his chest. Without a word, Gops yielded, his answer carried not in speech but in action. He parted his lips beneath her finger and closed his teeth around the fabric of her glove in a slow, deliberate bite.

A huff of amusement stirred in Maria’s chest, slipping free as a brief grin. She drew her hand back, tugging free of the glove with his help until the fabric slackened and slipped away, left clutched between his teeth. Her now-bare hand glowed pale in the firelight, the tone of her skin revealed as the huntress shook the glove free and discarded it with a flick of her wrist. The warmth of her palm pressed to the cleric’s jaw, firm yet caressing, her thumb tracing the faint line of stubble along his cheek. “Good cleric,” she murmured, though whether the words carried reproach or affection, even she did not seem sure.

Maria lowered herself, her lips brushing against his once more, softer at first, as though savouring the heat of him before yielding to hunger. Her mouth moved against his with growing insistence, and when his lips parted for her, she pressed deeper still. Their breaths tangled as she pushed her tongue past the barrier of his teeth, sliding into him. Gops answered in kind, his restraint dissolving into urgency. Their tongues met and wove together, a duel and a dance alike, wet and unrelenting, each kiss deeper than the last. His hands, once still at his sides, gripped her waist firmly, pulling her closer, until there was no room left between them; no space but the heat of their mouths and the fire in their blood.

The hearth whispered behind them, forgotten, as Maria pressed herself closer, her lips still wet from their last kiss. When at last she drew back for air, her gaze lowered not to his mouth, but to the line beneath the right sleeve of his shirt. Her fingers traced over the fabric, lingering at the seam, where she knew the cleric carried more than thread and skin beneath.

“You, boy, come to my bed armed?” the huntress breathed, her voice velvet-soft but edged with amusement. Her fingertips toyed along the hidden mechanism, the faintest brush enough to remind them both of what lay concealed there. “Even now, when you lie beneath me?”

Gops’s chest rose beneath her, steady despite the weight of her touch. His brown eyes locked on her green ones, unflinching, though his silence spoke louder than any defence. He may have brought his hidden blade, but in this moment, the Church assassin had allowed her closer than any enemy, closer than death itself.

Maria’s lips curved faintly, a hunter’s smile softened by something gentler. She lifted her hand away from the sleeve, choosing not to test the device, and instead pressed her palm flat against his chest once more, directly over his heart. “Hm… perhaps that is proof enough,” she murmured, leaning down until her words brushed against his lips.

Her mouth claimed his again, hungrier this time, as though the acknowledgement of his danger had only stoked her desire. Gops answered her with equal fervour, his hand sliding up her back, gripping the nape of her neck as though he feared she might slip away. Steel lay hidden at his wrist, but for the first time, it felt unnecessary. The only sharpness between them now was the bite of their kisses, the clash of breath and want in the firelit dark.

Maria deepened the kiss until it became something rawer, unrestrained, her tongue gliding against his in a rhythm that mirrored the slow sway of their dance hours earlier. Only now, there was no audience nor pretence, only hunger. Her hips pressed down against the cleric’s lap with a subtle, deliberate weight, drawing from him a low sound he had not meant to release. The huntress’ hand, once settled over his heart, slipped lower, fingers teasing along the buttons of his vest before undoing the first with patient care. Gops’s breath hitched, though he did not stop her; instead, his own hands roamed higher, finding the curve of her waist and then the line of her back, tracing the ridges of her corset as if memorising every contour.

Maria broke the kiss only when the need for air demanded it, her lips glistening as she drew back. A thin strand of warmth lingered between them, separating only when she let her tongue brush faintly over her lower lip. She gazed down at him, cheeks faintly flushed, her pale lashes lowered in thought before she murmured, “You are far too composed for a man undone.”

“Assassins are taught restraint,” Gops replied, his voice thickening as his hand slid from her waist to her thigh, where her dress had parted just enough to tempt. “But even I… have limits.”

The honesty in his tone stirred her more than any practised word could have. Smiling faintly, Maria leaned back just enough to grasp at the folds of her gown, lifting the hem higher until her legs framed him fully. She pressed herself closer, the velvet sheets beneath them whispering with their every shift. The huntress’ free hand returned to the task of his vest, tugging it open at last to expose the linen beneath. Gops seized the moment to reclaim her lips, kissing her with a fervour that left no room for hesitation. One hand tangled in her pale hair, pulling her closer, while the other slid along her hip with a steadiness that betrayed how much he wanted, and how much he struggled not to take more than she offered.

Maria’s breath spilled hot against his mouth as she finally pulled back again, her voice a low whisper meant only for him. “Then let go, good cleric… Tonight, no one will know restraint.”

And with that vow, she leaned into him once more, her lips and hands alike intent on unravelling every last thread of his composure. Maria’s tongue moved with unhurried precision, tasting him, coaxing him, until the kiss grew hungrier and wetter. Her lips, still slick with the faint sheen of pink gloss, smeared against his, the shine only deepened by their mingling.

Gops’s hand slipped from her waist to her thigh, fingers pressing into the layered silk of her dress, feeling the warmth of her body through the fabric. He drew in a sharp breath as Maria deepened the kiss further, her tongue curling against his with bold dominance, as though she had chosen him not simply as her partner but as her possession, if only for tonight.

She adjusted herself in his lap, straddling him more firmly, and the faint creak of the velvet sheets beneath them filled the silence alongside their muffled breaths and the wet sounds of their mouths meeting. When she finally tore her lips from his, the gloss left behind painted his own, shining faintly in the firelight. A string of saliva lingered between them, trembling before it snapped, leaving his lips parted and his chest rising faster beneath her palm.

Maria’s smile was subtle, but sharp all the same. She brushed her thumb across his dampened lower lip, as though admiring her own mark upon him. “You wear honesty better than any mask,” she murmured, her voice low, velvety, carrying both mockery and something dangerously close to fondness.

Gops swallowed, his breath catching, though he did not look away. “And you…” His voice cracked faintly with the weight of the moment, steadied only when he drew her closer by the hip. “…are far less merciful than you seem.”

Maria answered him not with words but another kiss, fiercer than the last, claiming and devouring as her gloved hand slid across his chest until it hooked around the hidden blade still strapped beneath his sleeve. She did not draw attention to it; instead, the huntress lingered there deliberately, as if to remind him she knew exactly what kind of man he was. And yet, her tongue slid into his mouth again, unbothered. Unafraid.

The huntress’ hand would then glide toward his stomach, only for a moment, teasing the border of his shirt before slipping beneath. Her fingers traced across the hardened lines of muscle, warm against his skin, pulling a sharp breath from Gops’s lips. She pushed higher, palms spread over his chest now bare beneath the fabric, until at last she swept the linen upward and off him in one smooth motion. The firelight caught him fully, with his tanned skin aglow in shifting orange and gold, the lean strength of his upper frame revealed in its entirety. Scars etched pale against darker flesh, stories written in silence, each one a testament to battles fought and survived. Maria’s gaze drank him in, her lashes low as her lips parted just faintly, as though the sight of him was something she had long imagined but never fully allowed herself to claim.

Her hands moved with reverence, gliding across his shoulders and down his arms, until she guided them to her waist. Without his prompting, she shifted closer, pressing her body flush against his, the silk of her dress now the last barrier between them. Gops’s grip tightened at her hips, sliding over the fabric as if memorising the shape of her, then inching lower, gathering the hem of her dress with deliberate slowness. The dress lifted higher in his hands until her thighs were bare to the firelight, pale and smooth, the warmth of her skin spilling over him as she shifted further onto his lap. Maria straightened for a moment, her fingers tugging free the fastenings of her bodice. The silk loosened and fell away, exposing the sculpted grace of her collarbone, the pale expanse of her shoulders, until the garment slid down entirely.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to hold still. Gops, who had faced men, beasts, and the risk of death without a tremor, now found his breath faltering at the sight of her revealed in full. His hand rose instinctively, cupping her waist and trailing upward with a reverence that belied the hunger burning in his brown eyes. The cleric drew her down again, skin to skin, their bodies meeting with nothing left to separate them but heat and need.

Gops’s hands roamed freely now, exploring the warmth of Maria’s back, the smooth curve of her spine beneath the firelight, until they cupped her hips again, anchoring her to him. Maria leaned into his touch, pressing her generous chest fully against his, her nipples brushing the hardened plane of his abdomen with every subtle shift. The contrast of soft against firm, pale against tanned, ignited a new rhythm between them.

Her lips left his only to trail down his jaw, nipping lightly at the curve of his neck before returning, tongue and teeth working in tandem to tease and claim. Gops responded in kind, one hand sliding along her thigh, gliding upward until it rested against the soft underside just beneath the hem of her dress, fingertips brushing the warmth there as he cupped and squeezed gently. Maria shivered against him, pressing herself closer, the silk of her gown now pooled around her waist.

The firelight glinted across every motion, illuminating the subtle sheen of sweat on her skin, the flush that crept along her collarbone, shoulders, and the delicate hollow of her toned stomach. Her hands moved to his chest again, nails raking lightly over muscle as if to memorise the feel of him. Gops leaned back slightly, allowing her to shift atop him fully, the heat of her body radiating against the fabric of his trousers, every inch of contact sending shivers through them both.

Maria lifted herself slightly, letting the gown that pooled around her waist slip entirely off. Bare and glowing in the firelight, she descended onto Gops’ lap, the warmth of her body pressing against his. He raised his arms instinctively, one still armed with the leather braces of his hidden blade, as they came to rest against her ample chest, cupping her with gentle firmness. A soft moan of pleasure escaped Maria’s lips at his touch, her nipples hardening beneath his palms while her own moved across his chest before pressing closer.

Unable to resist, Maria leaned forward, her lips capturing his in a fierce, lingering kiss. She trailed slowly from his lips down his jaw, along the column of his neck, and down his chest, before her kisses eventually hovered over the waistband of his trousers. Teasing and deliberate, the huntress' hands slowly reached for his belt and deftly unbuckled it. The warmth of her breath lingered there, close to the fabric, as if testing the anticipation between them. The moment she freed him, Gops gently brought one of his hands down, tangling his fingers into her smooth, pale hair, feeling the silk-like strands slip between his grasp.

Maria’s green eyes lifted to meet his, daring and bright, and in that glance lay every unspoken thought and desire. Gops’ heartbeat thudded in his chest, the anticipation and intensity building as they shared the warmth and closeness, each touch, each hum of pleasure pulling them further into one another. Their breaths mingled, shallow and ragged, as they lost themselves entirely in the firelit stillness of the room.

Every subtle suckle, every brush of lips against skin, and every soft sigh bound them tighter in that suspended, intimate space, where nothing else existed but the firelight, their bodies, and the undeniable infatuation between them.

Chapter Text

The night stretched on until only a fragile sliver of time separated it from dawn. The revelry within the castle had long since dwindled, its echoing laughter and music replaced by the quiet hush of snowfall settling over the grounds. Most guests had already departed for Yharnam, their carriages vanishing into the night one after another, leaving the courtyard strangely still.

Through the tall double doors stepped Gops and Maria, the weight of sleepless hours hidden beneath the neatness of their formal attire. They had redressed themselves with care, yet no adjustment could quite disguise the few unruly strands of hair that defied their composure. Such details that had been invisible to anyone but them, and for that very reason, each glance they exchanged carried a private, knowing amusement. A smirk lingered between the assassin and the huntress, subtle and fleeting, as they crossed the frosted stones toward the line of stables.

Gops walked with his hands buried in his trouser pockets, his stride measured, his gaze occasionally slipping toward her with quiet satisfaction. Maria kept her pace beside him, gloved hands clasped lightly at her abdomen, her poise unbroken save for the faint curve of her lips. Together they cut a composed figure, though the night’s intimacy lingered between them like an unspoken warmth beneath the cold air. As they approached, a coachman detached himself from the shadows of the stables and bowed low before Maria.

“Master Gehrman wished me to inform you he had been urgently summoned to Byrgenwerth,” the man relayed, voice formal in the stillness. “He departed early to answer their call.”

Maria exhaled softly through her nose, the faintest narrowing of her pale brow betraying her thought. What business could the provost possibly demand of her mentor at such an hour, and on this night of all nights? The question turned in her mind, but she gave no voice to it. Instead, she inclined her head in acknowledgment, a curt nod of gratitude marking the end of the message.

“I may accompany you,” came Gops’s voice at her side, quiet yet firm, spoken after a measured pause.

Maria’s lips curved a fraction further as she cast him a sidelong look. “Please,” she said, her tone softened with a playful edge, “you do not need to trouble yourself with me travelling alone.”

“I am aware, but I must also return to Yharnam,” Gops replied, stepping nearer, the snow crunching softly beneath his dress shoes. The cleric’s voice lowered, meant for her alone amid the drifting silence. “And truthfully…” his gaze held hers, steady and unguarded, “I do not believe myself ready to part ways just yet.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corners of Maria’s mouth, the gloss that once shone upon her lips long since worn away, along with the faint traces of powder she had applied earlier that evening. What remained was her unadorned self, being as pale, striking, and unyielding as ever. Although she did not voice it aloud, the look in her eyes betrayed the truth that she also shared the cleric’s reluctance to part.

“Very well,” the huntress murmured, her tone edged with wry amusement, though softened beneath it. “Shall we?”

“After you, my lady,” Gops returned smoothly, stepping ahead toward the waiting carriage. He turned with quiet formality, one arm extended, palm open in invitation.

Maria dipped her head in acknowledgment, the smallest nod, before placing her gloved hand in his. The warmth of his grasp anchored her as she ascended the carriage steps with unhurried grace. Her dress shifted with the movement, brushing against him as she climbed inside, leaving in its wake a subtle trace of her scent, like crushed roses tempered by steel. Gops lingered only a heartbeat longer before following, pulling the door shut behind him. The muffled click sealed them in from the cold world outside, leaving only the muted patter of snow on the roof and the steady creak of wood as the carriage shifted beneath their weight.

Inside, the lantern’s glow painted the space in dim gold, shadows swaying across the velvet interior as the horses stirred restlessly at their harnesses. Maria settled onto the cushioned seat, sliding a little to the side. When Gops joined her, he did not sit across, but rather beside her, close enough that the edges of their clothing brushed together with every subtle movement.

Neither commented on the closeness, yet the silence carried its own weight. Gops rested his hands loosely within his lap, posture straight, though the faintest curl of a smile betrayed the rigid formality he tried to maintain. Maria’s gaze lingered on him briefly, pale lashes low, before she turned toward the small window, the night sky and falling snow reflected in her green eyes. Still, her shoulder remained near his, unshifting, as if the distance between them had already been decided.

Outside, the driver cracked the reins. The wheels lurched forward with a soft groan, and the carriage began its slow passage through the snow-veiled night toward Yharnam. The horses settled into their rhythm, hooves muffled by snow, the steady sway of the carriage lending the interior a quiet, dreamlike cadence. The lantern above flickered in time with the rocking, shadows spilling and drawing back again as if they, too, moved with the pair inside.

“So…” Gops finally muttered, his voice breaking the long quiet of the carriage.

Maria’s lips curved faintly, her green eyes turning toward him. “So…” she murmured back, the pleasant lilt of her tone carrying the suggestion she had been waiting for him to speak first.

“When we return to Yharnam,” Gops asked, steady though his gaze lingered on her, “what will be next for you?”

“You know as well as I,” she answered softly, her voice touched with resignation. “Spend the day in readiness for nightfall, and when night falls, so begins another hunt. Such is our way.”

“I feel you,” Gops replied. “Though my hours differ. My work is most often during the day, with nights reserved for preparation or surveillance.”

Maria tilted her head, studying him with renewed interest. “How long have you been in the profession?” she asked, the closeness of their shoulders giving the question a strangely intimate weight.

“All my life I have been in training,” he admitted without hesitation, “but this year marks my first working alone.”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “My, you are younger than I thought.”

“Is that a bother?” Gops countered lightly, his tone mirroring her amusement.

“You believe I would be bothered?” she teased, one brow lifting as her voice dipped slyly. “After you ruined my bedsheets?”

“I think you should blame yourself,” Gops returned smoothly, eyes narrowing with a playfulness of his own. “I could tell by your grip alone that you are every bit the huntress you claim.”

Maria’s smirk widened, her chuckle low and unguarded. “And I have every reason to believe you are a capable assassin, given your rather… admirable endurance.”

The gentle laughter lingered between them, soft but dangerous, like the kind of spark that could so easily catch flame if given the chance. The chuckles between them soon ebbed into a comfortable quiet, broken only by the muffled rhythm of hooves against snow outside. Maria leaned ever so slightly back against the cushion, though her shoulder remained pressed to his, as if neither wished to lose that nearness.

“You bear scars,” Gops said slowly, his voice steady though quieter than before. “But not all of them… come from beasts.”

Maria shifted her gaze, her green pupils sliding to meet his, weighing his words as though she could measure how much truth he already knew. When she spoke, her tone was gentler, shaded with something close to acknowledgment. “I suppose you would recognise them. You bear some of the same kind yourself.”

Her eyes lingered on the faint line across his left brow, and though she noticed the others across his form, she left them unspoken, respecting the silence around them.

“When I asked if you were willing to indulge an assassin such as I, a killer…” Gops began, careful to keep his tone free of intrusion. “You told me it took one to know one. I imagine those marks have something to do with that.”

Maria gave a small nod, her voice quiet yet steady. “You would be right.”

“Do they still hurt?” Gops asked then, his words carrying more meaning than the surface suggested. It was not her skin he asked after, but the memories that lived beneath it.

The huntress caught his intent at once. For a moment, she hesitated before replying almost in a whisper, though her gaze remained unbroken and resolute. “Sometimes, I wish I could say no.”

Her breath softened, but Maria's eyes sharpened again as she added, “Do not mistake me, Gops… What we shared was no attempt to use you as a salve for old wounds.”

“You do not need to explain,” the cleric murmured, turning slightly toward her as his arm rose in a quiet, instinctive gesture. “I know. Yharnam is bleak enough as it is. Who are we, if not allowed to seek comfort in the things that still remind us we are human?”

Maria’s eyes lingered on him, silence stretching in the space between their words. For a long breath, she held herself still, weighing what she saw reflected in his gaze, being the absence of judgment, the rare warmth of understanding. Then, with the faintest sigh, the huntress leaned ever so slightly toward him, her shoulder brushing against his arm. It was not as bold nor overt compared to what they did within her chambers, yet it was deliberate all the same. A gesture that was neither armour nor weapon, only a quiet surrender of distance. Gops stilled at first, only to then tilt his head just enough to acknowledge her closeness. Maria’s half-lidded eyes remained forward, but the smallest curl touched her lips, subtle and fleeting, as if the gesture had spoken more than words ever could.

The huntress remained silent for a time, yet her thoughts were far from still. The assassin’s words lingered in her, not only for their honesty but for the restraint behind them. So many she had known would either pry too deeply or shrink away entirely, but the cleric understood the balance between the two. He did not cheapen her scars with pity, nor glorify them with empty praise. He merely acknowledged them, and by doing so, acknowledged her. Maria found herself grateful for it, more than she would ever voice aloud.

Beside her, Gops carried his own quiet revelation. He had expected, perhaps, that the first hunter’s protégé would see him for what most did, a killer shaped by the Church, another tool to be used and discarded when convenient. Yet Maria did not look at him as a weapon, nor solely as a servant. She met his gaze with the steadiness of someone who saw more: a man tempered by duty, yes, but still human beneath it. That recognition stirred something in him that he had thought long buried, a sense of worth beyond the blade he carried.

Just as Maria’s pale lashes began to lower, her ears caught the faint, unnatural rhythm of weight shifting atop the carriage roof. Subtle, but distinct from the settling of snow or sway of wheels. Instinct, honed through countless hunts, seized the huntress before thought could. With a sudden shove, she hurled Gops against the far wall of the carriage, her own form sliding low toward the opposite side. The decision proved mercifully swift as a blade punched down through the roof between them, its steel gleaming pale in the dim light. The weapon was long, narrow, and unmistakable. An eastern katana, its point quivering where it had pierced the wood.

Gops’ eyes widened only a fraction before training overtook shock. With practised precision, he slid a ring over his smallest finger, which was linked to a hidden cable beneath his right sleeve. One sharp pull and the mechanism snapped, springing the assassin’s blade outward with a click. With a fluid thrust, he drove his arm upward, striking not blindly, but where calculation told him the attacker’s foot might be. His palm cracked the roof, as steel punched through timber, but the blade withdrew clean.

The Church assassin tightened his jaws before recalibrating in an instant. When the katana retracted, the cleric shifted his angle and struck again, faster and harder. The blade bit. A ragged cry burst from above, muffled but fierce, and when Gops ripped his weapon free, its edge gleamed red.

“Jump!” Maria barked, her voice sharp as a command. Without hesitation, she vaulted out the carriage door, her dress flaring in the snowy wind. Gops followed close behind, tumbling into the frost-bitten earth. The pair rolled hard across the cold ground before bracing themselves upright, breath steaming in the night.

The carriage, now unpiloted, careened forward with a splintering crash, vanishing into the skeletal trees of Hemwick forest. Hooves shrieked, harnesses snapping, before silence reclaimed the clearing. From above, another body fell. Their assailant tumbled from the roof, hitting the earth hard, one leg collapsing beneath him in a spray of blood. The katana slipped from his grip, half-buried in the snow.

Maria gathered herself, brushing dirt from her ruined dress, though her stance was sharp, coiled, ready. She had no weapon at hand, but her poise alone made her seem no less dangerous as she fixed her green eyes upon the writhing figure before them. However, before they could close the distance to their wounded assailant, the forest itself seemed to stir. Branches snapped, undergrowth shuddered, and from the thicket burst a rider astride a black steed. The horse vaulted the bushes in a single violent bound, hooves striking the road as it charged into the wreckage of the carriage. The beast balked at the chaos, rearing back with a shrill whine while the rider was thrown, tumbling hard into the dirt before rolling to his knees.

His garb was unmistakable, adorning a light-coloured shirt with a darker vest drawn tight across his chest, being the plain attire of a Byrgenwerth scholar. No crest, no sigil of allegiance, only the austere uniform of the college. Maria’s eyes narrowed, while Gops’ gaze sharpened like a drawn blade. They both recalled that the first hunter had been summoned urgently to the college prior to their departure in Cainhurst. If this was no coincidence, then the timing was deliberate.

The fallen scholar struggled upright, clutching close a locked chest, its gilt edges dented but unbroken. Gops’ pulse spiked at once, for he recognised that chest as surely as one recognises a weapon drawn against their throat. The reliquary that bore the fabled Old Blood. In a single motion, the assassin shifted his stance, hidden blade extended beneath his sleeve, still wet with another man’s blood. Maria mirrored him, shoulders squared, her dress torn and dirtied yet lending her a grim poise of its own.

“Drop the box and surrender yourself!” Gops’ voice rang sharp and unyielding, echoing through the trees.

The scholar gave no reply. His eyes flashed with desperate resolve as he clutched the chest tighter, before he took off in a sprint.

Maria moved first, calling upon the art of Quickening as her form blurred, collapsing into streaks of silvery afterimage. In a heartbeat, she reappeared beside the half-buried katana. The huntress’ fingers closed around its hilt, wrenching the blade free of the earth. The weapon hummed faintly in her grip, foreign but eager; however, as she prepared to launch forward once more, the thicket erupted again. Another horse leapt through, thundering into the road. This rider was no scholar, but Cainhurst’s own. A royal guard, his half-cloak snapping in the wind, while his Chikage came down in a deadly arc toward the huntress’ head.

Maria twisted the borrowed katana upward, steel shrieking against steel as she barely parried the strike. Sparks lit her face before the rider surged past, the momentum of his mount carrying him onward. However, the guard had not accounted for the Church assassin. Already airborne, Gops’ body spun mid-leap, his foot colliding with brutal force against the guard’s chest. The armoured knight was torn from his saddle, hurled to the ground where he crashed amidst the leaves with a jarring thud, his Chikage clattering away.

Maria darted after the fleeing scholar, skirts tearing at the seams as she forced her legs into motion. Yet her pursuit faltered almost at once. The Cainhurst knight had already recovered, his armour clattering as he sprang upright with startling speed. His gauntlet closed around the hilt of his fallen Chikage, and with a savage twist, he swung the blade back into guard. In the next heartbeat, steel met steel.

The katana in Maria’s grip shrieked against the cursed blade as sparks leapt between them. She snarled behind clenched teeth, fury welling in her chest, not at the guard, but at the scholar vanishing into the treeline with the chest. Every clash, and every parry, was time slipping through her fingers. Gops lunged to follow the scholar, but the armoured knight read their intent. With a violent turn of his wrist, he disengaged from Maria, pivoting to strike at the assassin with such swiftness that even Gops was forced back a pace. The knight pressed the assault, weaving between them with unnerving precision.

Their surprise was not unfounded, since few could withstand the storm of Maria’s hunter’s strength, let alone being paired with Gops’ merciless precision, but the royal guard met them blow for blow. His Chikage carved arcs of gleaming light through the air, parrying Gops’ hidden blade one instant, then matching Maria’s furious swings the next.

Armed only with his hidden blade, bereft of his wider arsenal, Gops’ jaw clenched as he could do little more than strike opportunistically. The Cainhurst knight forced him onto the defensive, denying him even a moment to slip past. Maria, however, ceased restraining herself. Cainhurst’s betrayal was no longer a suspicion, and for that treachery, the huntress would not temper her strength.

Maria’s strikes grew heavier, each blow reverberating up the armoured knight’s arms, her pale features sharpened with grim resolve. The royal guard staggered under her increasing ferocity, his footing slipping in the dirt. Then, in one decisive clash, Maria twisted her body low and ripped his Chikage clean from his grasp, the weapon spinning through the air before embedding into the mud.

Without hesitation, the huntress drove forward. Her knee bent deep, momentum coiled like a spring, before she unleashed it all in a brutal kick. Maria's heel struck square into the knight’s chestplate. The impact cracked like thunder, launching the armoured Cainhurst guard off his feet. He crashed into the earth with such force that the soil trembled, sliding across the ground in a spray of dirt and leaves.

Gops wasted no time, for he sprang forward, raising his hand high with the full intent of plunging his hidden blade into the Cainhurst knight’s exposed throat; yet the guard was no ordinary foe. Even dazed, he twisted his torso sharply, his gauntleted hand producing a small glass phial. With a violent motion, the armoured knight hurled it into the assassin’s path. The bottle shattered against Gops’ chest with a hollow crack, releasing a bloom of pale violet vapour that spread like smoke.

The effect was immediate. Mid-leap, Gops recoiled as though struck by an unseen force. His blade faltered, his body twisting off-course before he crashed heavily to the ground, skidding past the guard in a tumble. The mist clung to his skin, seeping into the very pores beneath his coat, and where it touched, sensation seemed to vanish. His vision swam, his limbs sluggish. A strange, alien numbness gnawed at him, a void where the edge of pain should have been. Shards of glass peppered his sleeves, leaving shallow cuts, yet the cleric felt nothing of them.

The Cainhurst knight staggered upright, one knee sinking into the dirt, his hand clawing for his fallen Chikage. Though unsteady from Maria’s earlier assault, the defiance in his movements promised he was not yet finished. Maria surged forward, blade ready to end him, yet a sound halted her. A chorus of howls split the quiet dawn, rolling through the trees with dreadful clarity. The beasts that lurked within Hemwick’s woods had been stirred by the clash. The knight’s expressionless helm looked toward the treeline, while Maria’s narrowed as she turned to Gops instead, who struggled to lift himself from the ground, still reeling from the mist’s foreign touch.

The huntress’ decision was instant, as she could not leave him vulnerable. The first of the lycanthropes burst from the thicket, claws raking bark from the trees as they lunged. Maria’s form blurred, dissolving into the ethereal shimmer of her Quickening. She reappeared behind one of the beasts in the same breath, katana biting deep into its spine. Another creature lunged, and another vanished beneath the graceful violence of her movements. Though the weapon in her hand was not her own, her mastery as a huntress carried her. Maria moved with lethal precision, weaving between claw and fang with the familiarity of long practice, punishing every overreach with merciless counters. The clearing soon filled with the wet sound of tearing flesh and the stench of blood. By the time the last beast fell, its body crumpling atop the growing pile of corpses, the huntress stood alone amidst the carnage, her breath heavy but her composure unbroken.

Blood coated the borrowed blade. More stained the shredded fabric of her dress, which now clung to her in tatters. As dawn’s first light filtered through the canopy, Maria let the weapon fall from her grasp, its tip sinking into the dirt. The royal guard was nowhere to be seen, yet that no longer mattered to Maria, as she turned at once to Gops. The cleric had managed to prop himself on one arm, his expression tight with concentration as he forced his body to obey. Maria knelt beside him, laying a bloodied hand across his back, the other moving with care to check the damage.

“Are you sound?” the huntress asked, her voice low and edged with worry.

“I am fine…” Gops muttered, though his breath was uneven. With a flick of his wrist, he retracted his hidden blade back into concealment, the mechanism clicking faintly beneath his right sleeve. The cleric’s gaze drifted to his hands, strangely distant from his own senses. “That… thing he threw at me,” he said slowly, “I could barely feel anything. As though my nerves themselves had been stolen. I was… numb to pain.”

Gops’ vision steadied at last, the haze peeling away like smoke lifted from glass, before letting out a measured breath. “The effect does not seem to last long, though…” His voice was level, yet there lingered a faint edge, as though he spoke to reassure himself as much as her.

“At least that is one worry out of the way…” Maria answered, though the words lacked her usual bite. Beneath her hunter’s composure, concern traced every movement of her hands as she steadied him.

The huntress had one knee planted firmly in the earth, his weight eased against the other, and though blood streaked her fingers, she lifted them without hesitation. Her thumb and forefinger brushed along his jaw, tilting his face just enough for her to inspect the tanned skin beneath his neck. She searched there with a practised eye, as though she might find some wound his numbed flesh had hidden. Gops’ gaze wandered past her shoulder, to the dark tangle of slain beasts lying in a heap, their snarls now silenced, their blood seeping into the hungry soil. The assassin had heard them closing in, felt their presence pressing like wolves on a wounded stag, but it was she who had carved through the threat. When at last the cleric’s eyes returned to her, Maria’s caught his. Emerald green, sharp as blades, yet softened by what she tried so hard to bury.

A moment passed, quiet and unspoken. Gops’ lips parted, voice low enough that it might have been mistaken for a prayer. “I owe you…”

“Hush…” Maria whispered, almost chiding but not quite. Her hand slipped from his jaw to rest against his cheek, the pad of her thumb brushing faintly at his skin as though to anchor him there. The calloused huntress' hand, still slick with dried blood, cupped him with surprising gentleness.

Their eyes held, as Gops remained steady while Maria’s was fierce yet uncertain, until the stillness fractured. The drum of hooves reached them, low at first but swelling swiftly. Maria’s head tilted, her ears pricking at once; her hunter’s senses sharpened, though her body betrayed no panic. Instead, her chin lifted slightly, nostrils flaring faintly as she caught the faintest trace on the wind.

The huntress exhaled, shoulders easing. “It is them,” she murmured, her tone cooling again into composure. “Gehrman… and the Vicar.”

The woods stirred in anticipation as the rhythm of the horses grew louder, drawing nearer through the thinning dark. Whatever fragile solace the two had stolen in those brief breaths was already fading, replaced once more with the weight of the world pressing in on them.

The thunder of hooves dwindled into a steady trot, then ceased altogether as the Workshop master and the vicar dismounted in haste. Their boots struck the earth with urgency, the air still thick with the scent of beasts and blood. By then, Maria had already helped Gops rise to his feet; though he leaned faintly into her for balance, both stood straight as their leaders approached.

“You two! Are you sound?” Gehrman called, his voice clipped, breath uneven from the relentless ride across the city. His usual poise carried a strain, his grey hair dampened by the sweat of exertion. Beside him, Laurence followed at pace, his robes dishevelled, though both still bore the same formal dress they had worn at Cainhurst’s ill-fated ball.

“We stand,” Maria answered, her tone steady though her dress was torn and streaked with gore. She lowered her gaze briefly before adding, quieter, “The Old Blood, however…”

“No…” Laurence’s voice broke sharply, his stride quickening until he nearly overtook the old hunter. His eyes, bright with a kind of terror, darted between them, yet the fear was not for his own life. It was for what had slipped beyond their grasp. “No, it cannot be!”

“It is lost to us,” Gops said simply, his words falling heavy into the dawn air.

Laurence staggered as though the weight of them struck him. “By the Great Ones…” he whispered, his shoulders bowing as he raised a trembling hand to his brow. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as despair warred with fury.

Maria’s gaze turned to her mentor, her voice sharpened by frustration. “How could this happen? Cainhurst…?”

The first hunter’s expression was grim, his tone levelled by the burden of truth. “We have all been fooled. From the very beginning, it seems. By the time Master Willem’s urgent summons reached me, it was already too late. Laurence and I rode hard, but the damage was done.”

“Vile monstrosities,” Laurence spat, his grief hardening into venom. His hands curled into fists, his words shaking with rage. “That scholar was no ally. He was a spy, and when the royal guards came, Cainhurst’s true intentions laid waste to the college. They seized the blood as they fled, leaving ruin in their wake.”

Gehrman’s voice was lower, calmer, yet it carried no less weight. “We managed to strike one of them down, but it cost us dearly. Many of the college’s prospectors fell… those who had no chance against their steel.”

“They took advantage of our trust,” Gops murmured, his tone cold, deliberate. His brown eyes were cast to the side, as though replaying the scene again in silence. “And on a night when all were most vulnerable… when we celebrated, unarmed, and unsuspecting, they enacted their betrayal.”

Laurence’s head snapped up, fury burning through his defeated posture. “They will pay,” the vicar hissed, every syllable laced with venom. “These fiendish creatures will pay dearly. Let Cainhurst learn the price of treachery. Let them rue the night the Church brands them as enemy.”

The woods of Hemwick held their silence at his words, the faint light of dawn glimmering cold upon steel and blood. What had been lost this night could not be reclaimed.

Chapter Text

Her pale lashes stirred, trembling like snowflakes caught in the wind, as a tide of memory washed across the old huntress’ mind. Maria’s green eyes glimmered anew beneath the shafts of light spilling through the great clockface above. Seated in her high, ornate chair, the huntress appeared for a fleeting moment less like the weary warden of the Astral Clocktower, and more like the woman she had once been, alive with recollection. In her gloved hand rested the candlestick, its silver stem dulled by age yet still etched with intricate engravings. She marvelled at it, the token retrieved from the Waking World by the Church assassin who now sat before her. Gops rested lower, upon the steps that ascended toward the clock’s looming gears, his posture poised but his gaze searching. He waited, as though his breath itself hung upon the chance that this relic had succeeded in reviving a piece of her memory, and perhaps her recognition of him.

Maria’s lips parted, her voice soft but certain. “Gops…”

The cleric’s eyes widened at the sound of his name spoken with such familiarity. The word lingered between them, heavy and luminous. Then the old huntress’ head tilted, her pale hair brushing her shoulder as the corner of her mouth curved with faint amusement. “With a stubble now.”

The assassin’s composure cracked, if not a little. A chuckle escaped him, low, genuine, and unguarded. He bowed his head, shoulders bending as if the sound embarrassed him, or as if joy itself was something he had long forgotten how to wear. The brim of his plumed cap shadowed his expression until he raised his face again, meeting her gaze. His elbows rested upon his knees, his weapons shifting faintly at his sides with every subtle motion, the faint clink of steel the only reminder of the life he still lived beyond this realm.

“It is possible after all,” Gops murmured, wonder threading through his tone. The realisation glowed in his eyes, having witnessed proof that certain tokens of the Waking World could piece together what time and the Nightmare had eroded. “How much do you remember?”

Maria turned her gaze downward once more, her thumb gliding gently over the candlestick’s engravings through the thin leather of her glove. When she spoke, it was with the hush of reverie. “All that occurred the night we met. I… had already suspected Cainhurst’s hostility toward Yharnam, yet I had not grasped the depth of their treachery… until you placed this in my hand.”

“Indeed,” Gops answered, his voice weighted with memory. His own gaze drifted as if the sight of her now had summoned back that night in all its clarity. “That evening took a turn for the worst… and birthed the Vilebloods.”

Maria nodded faintly, though her mind drifted deeper, sifting through fragments of that night. She recalled the waltz, the gentle cadence of their steps, the brief illusion of elegance that had existed before blood and betrayal swept it away. She remembered, too, the time they shared after the dance, the intimacy that followed after, a memory private yet undeniable. The reminisce softened the old huntress’ expression, her green eyes brightening with a light that defied the weight of what followed.

Her lips parted, ready to speak of those recollections, but then her gaze caught upon him. The darkened garb the assassin wore bore slashes across its chest, twin rents in the fabric that marred his otherwise austere attire. The sight stalled her words, as a shadow of suspicion passed through Maria’s mind, her thoughts sharpening with an instinct born of countless hunts. Setting her sheathed Rakuyo aside upon the arm of her chair, Maria rose with deliberate grace and descended to him. The sweep of her hunter’s coat flared as she lowered herself to sit beside him upon the stair. She leaned in, close enough that the faint brush of leather against cloth whispered of her nearness.

Gops had not spoken, as he did not need to, for his silence acknowledged what her eyes had already discerned. The wounds, long since closed beneath his skin thanks to his blood vial, still lived on in the scars of his attire. One gash across the chest, another lower along the abdomen, their edges stiff with dried blood. Maria’s hand lifted, hesitant yet steady, her gloved fingers grazing over the torn cloth. The faint rasp of leather against blood-stiffened fabric sounded between them. Her thumb traced the outline of one cut, measuring its depth, its angle. She had seen such marks before, and she knew what kind of blade left wounds like these, as well as how close the assassin had come to being cut down. The old huntress’ breath left her softly, a sound that was neither word nor sigh, but something caught between.

“Are they still around?” Maria’s voice carried the weight of certainty; she already knew what kind of hands had left those lacerations, belonging only to a Vileblood.

“No,” Gops answered at first, but his tone faltered, dipping low as though confessing a secret. “At least… that is what I used to believe.”

The lady’s pale brows knit together, the faintest crease of suspicion lining her otherwise serene features.

“Do you recall Master Logarius?” the cleric inquired.

Maria tilted her head, lips pressing together as her eyes searched his face for the memory he offered. Finally, she shook her head slowly. “The name stirs something faint, yet… I believe my recollection halts short of him.”

“Worry not,” Gops replied, his voice hushed, as much to soothe her as to steady himself. Just the fact that she remembered him at all, of their meeting on that long, eventful night, was enough to provide at least some warmth to his worn heart, even as he spoke of blood and ruin. “Laurence… he formed a covenant. The Executioners, forged for one purpose only, and that was to hunt Vilebloods. Once he had gathered enough manpower, he ordered Logarius to lead a full assault on Cainhurst. The Vilebloods may have been nearly wiped away… but so too were the nobles of the castle. Yet another massacre. I say nearly, however, for some slipped through the Executioners’ grasp. Those few remain hidden in the castle still.”

Maria’s gaze dipped, shadows passing over her expression. Though she loathed Cainhurst for their treachery, having long since turned her back on their vanity, there was still a shard of pity in her heart for the nobles who had been swept up and crushed in the tide of hatred. “Typical of Laurence… No better than Byrgenwerth during the hamlet,” she murmured, her tone laced with her foreign accent. “Even then, I knew his fire burned too hot. Too easily fanned into vengeance.”

Gops inclined his head in agreement, though a heaviness lingered in his eyes. The guilt was his, too, though his hand had not been on the sword that day.

“What of the monarch?” Maria asked, her voice quieter now, as though bracing herself.

“The king was struck down,” Gops said, his words heavy, while his eyes hardened. “But the queen… she endured. She was discovered to possess immortality. The scholar’s betrayal, the Old Blood he placed in her hands that night, corrupted the holy medium, yes… but it also mingled with her Pthumerian lineage. That marriage of curse and heritage birthed something unholy, for her flesh became eternal.”

“At first,” Maria murmured, her pale lashes lowering faintly, “I believed myself, along with a mere handful of others, to be the only ones cursed with such a power.”

“Of immortality?” Gops pressed, though the edge in his voice betrayed his unease at the thought.

Maria gave a faint, knowing shake of her head. “Unlikely. I meant only the endurance of a dreadfully long life… outlasting even the eldest of Hunters. I believe Annalise alone was eternal, for her bloodline sat nearer the Pthumerians than mine,” she paused, her tone softening into reflection, “Still, even if my heritage only brushed distantly with hers, I did not escape unmarked. From it, I inherited sanguimancy… and pyromancy both.”

“Well, I am grateful that the Vilebloods only gained the former,” Gops muttered, dry humour flickering in his tone as his gaze briefly dipped to the scorched memory her words conjured. “Otherwise, I would be sitting here singed black as well as cut open.”

A faint smirk ghosted across Maria’s lips, her eyes narrowing with a sharpness that softened only at the edges. “And just what were you doing in Cainhurst?” she asked, her tone walking a line between mockery and genuine concern, though her gaze lingered on the torn lacerations marring his chest and abdomen.

Gops let a breath slip through his nose, deep and deliberate, as if tempering his words. He leaned forward, elbows sinking against his knees, and Maria quietly drew back her hand from the rent fabric, though her eyes never left the torn slashes in his garb.

“There has been a murder, Maria. A grim one.” His voice lowered, shaded with weight. “A lady’s body buried purposefully beneath the stone before Oedon Chapel… with only her arm left to breach the surface.”

Maria’s breath hitched, her expression tightening, the flicker of a frown ghosting across her lips. “That is… disturbing, indeed.”

“I wish it ended there,” Gops continued, his voice tightening further, as though speaking the truth bound him more than the silence ever did. “From what I uncovered, she had strayed into the wrong crowd in Yharnam. Individuals, desperate ones, sought to erase every thread of her existence. Her home was ransacked with crucial evidence destroyed… yet from what little survived, I learned she was Cainhurst-born, and that her brother still lingers within the castle walls.”

Maria’s green eyes sharpened, the weight of familiarity and dread mingling in their depths.

“But when I found him,” Gops went on, his jaw tightening, “his words, his cooperation, were cut short. We were attacked, not by brigands nor beasts.” His gaze lifted to hers, steady and grim. “By one of them. A Vileblood.”

“I… understand why you would be targeted,” Maria said at length, her voice quiet yet firm. “But are you certain the noble himself was attacked?”

“I saw it with my own eyes,” Gops replied, his tone edged with frustration as his gaze fell to the cracks in the floorboards beneath their feet. “And that is what unsettles me. We all believed the Vilebloods to have been extinguished during the siege, yet one suddenly emerges, striking, not at me directly, but to erase the very lead I had uncovered in this murder…” The assassin’s words trailed, his scarred brow furrowing as the thought fully formed. “Shit.”

Maria studied him closely, silent and patient, her eyes lingering as if she might draw the conclusion straight from his troubled expression.

“Just like that man,” Gops muttered at last, the memory sharp in his voice. “The one who burned the victim’s documents in her own home, only to be shot down right before me by another hand.”

“You think this… mysterious Vileblood lies at the heart of it?” Maria asked, her voice low and probing, though it carried no disbelief.

“Or at the very least, he plays a part,” Gops answered. His words came quieter now, more measured, as though speaking them aloud lent them gravity. “These events… they happened one after the other. It cannot be mere coincidence.”

Maria gave a long pause, her silence heavy, her expression unreadable. Her eyes shifted briefly away before finding his again, sharper now, narrowing with something more personal than suspicion. “Are you… certain you are ready?”

The cleric faltered, her words cutting closer than she could know. It was as though she had plucked the thought directly from Gops’ mind, for even now it strayed back to Cainhurst, with the crow-feathered Vileblood, the clash of steel, and the chilling certainty that he had survived by fortune alone.

“No…” The word left him in a breath, heavy and unguarded. “No, I do not think so.” His jaw tightened, his gaze falling, then rising again with a bleak honesty. “Few can keep up with my blade, and I speak not from arrogance, but experience. Yet he…” his voice lowered further, edged with a bitter truth, “He knows that. He could have butchered me if he wished it, yet he chose to let me live.”

Silence hung for a heartbeat, broken only by the quiet shift of fabric as Maria leaned slightly closer, searching his face with an intensity that left no space for deception.

“But…” Gops went on, after a pause that lingered too long. “It is also why I cannot abandon this case. A man like that, free to wander unseen… no good can come of it.”

Maria did not look away. The silence between them was heavy, though not uncomfortable, as it carried the weight of unspoken truths. She could see the weariness hidden behind his determination, the quiet admission of doubt that few men, let alone assassins of the Church, would ever dare to voice.

“You told me, when last we spoke, that people mistrusted you,” Maria said slowly, her tone carrying more curiosity than reproach, “and yet you still mean to carry on with this ordeal? For their sakes?”

“It is my job to take care of such things,” Gops replied. His voice came out firmer than he intended, almost clipped, and his gaze shifted away as his brows drew together. “I am not exactly a people person.”

Maria let a quiet huff slip from her nose, tilting her head slightly as though to study him from another angle, seeing past the wall he was trying to raise. “The Gops I remember seemed otherwise,” she murmured, the faint softness within her distinct accent hinting at the memory of their first meeting.

Gops’ reply came lower, almost to himself. “That was a different era…”

Maria leaned just slightly closer, unwilling to let him vanish behind distance or time. “Same glint in your eye, though,” she countered, her gaze unwavering.

For a moment, he searched her expression, uncertain how much of himself she truly saw. Then, with a pause that carried more weight than his words alone, he admitted quietly, “Well… quite frankly, you do not see me as a freak.”

The words settled between them, heavier than the assassin meant them to be. Maria felt something in her chest stir, a gratitude that he trusted her with such vulnerability, and sorrow that others had driven him to carry that wound so quietly. She reached no further than a faint smile, but her voice softened into something more intimate, meant only for him.

“No,” she said firmly, almost gently. “Never that.”

Gops found himself at an impasse, for the closeness between them had become undeniable. Warmer now than the last time they spoke in the Nightmare, the tips of their caps nearly brushed, a fragile barrier between two lives caught in separate times. Maria lifted her free gloved hand, the other still steady around the candlestick, and with a quiet certainty tipped the cleric’s stubbled chin upward. Her green eyes narrowed, steady and unyielding, as the old huntress peered into the weary depths of his brown ones.

“When was the last time you slept?” the lady asked, her tone laced not with doubt, but with the confidence of one who already knew the answer, as the dark hollows beneath the cleric’s eyes betrayed him.

“Maria…” Gops murmured, trying to nudge the question aside, his gaze sliding away. However, the old huntress’ grip held firm, forefinger and thumb guiding his chin back to her. Maria’s gaze never wavered.

“How long?” she pressed, softer now, but no less resolute.

The assassin relented with a sigh. “Two days…”

Maria shook her head, shifting with a grace that belied the weight of her hunting garb. She drew one leg up, resting her thigh against the step where she sat, and set the candlestick down upon the floorboards just beneath her laced boot. Then she patted her lap gently, the gesture simple, but leaving little room for argument. “Come.”

“It is… likely dawn in Yharnam by now,” Gops muttered, still grasping at the excuse, even as fatigue dragged at him.

“Time flows differently here, does it not?” Maria countered, her voice softening. “A few minutes there, a few hours here. And what use is a fatigued assassin, hm?”

Their eyes met as the silence between them filled with the weight of things unspoken. Gops did not mean to distance himself, for he simply had forgotten how not to. Decades of loss and killings had worn down his compassion, dulled the ease with which he once lived. But here, now, with her alive before him once more, the cleric yielded. Gops shifted, sliding from her side with the stiffness of a man who had forgotten what it meant to be cared for. His left gauntlet scraped softly against the wooden step as he lowered himself, moving almost reluctantly before surrendering to gravity. His torso leaned, then eased down, until his head came to rest upon the leather of her lap.

Maria adjusted with practised grace, her posture straightening to cradle his weight without strain. Her hand lifted with tender precision, plucking the plumed cap from his head. For a moment, she paused, as though weighing the years pressed into the feathered relic as it bore the same design as her own, before setting it aside upon the stair. The assassin’s hair spilled loose across her thighs, dark strands broken with the faint silver of age. He looked, for once, less like the Church’s weapon, and more like the tired man beneath.

“Not for long… alright?” Gops murmured, his voice roughened by exhaustion. Even in yielding, he feared losing himself, feared sinking into comfort and not resurfacing.

“Shh… I promise,” Maria soothed, brushing her thumb gently at his temple as though she could smooth away his unease. “Now shut your eyes…”

Gops gave her one last look. His lids were heavy, but his gaze softened at her words. How many times had the Doll whispered those same syllables in the Dream; however, hearing them from Maria herself, her voice, along with her presence, awoke something long-buried in the cleric. It was no wonder, he thought, that the patients of the research hall revered her so dearly in her final years. Maria had always been a caretaker, whether she admitted it or not.

At last, the resistance left him. Gops’ eyelids drooped, then sealed shut, and the tension seeped from his face as his breathing deepened. His chest rose, fell, rose again in a gentle rhythm, unbroken and unburdened by the hunt or its nightmares. The hard lines around his mouth softened; the furrow in his scarred brow eased until he looked almost younger, the years stripped away in sleep, as he was within her memory of their first night.

Maria sat still, reverent in her watch. One hand hovered, then lowered to rest across his chest, her gloved palm rising and falling with each measured breath. The other drifted into his hair, fingers sliding carefully through the dark strands, combing them back in long, slow strokes. Each motion was unhurried and deliberate, as though the old huntress feared she might wake him, or lose him, if she faltered.

The sound of his breath filled the warm hush of the Astral Clocktower. Maria tilted her head slightly, studying the rare serenity in Gops’ features, and a small, unbidden smile curved her lips. Her fingers lingered at his forehead, tracing the faint scar on his left brow, before resuming their gentle path through his hair.

“I've got you, Gops…” Maria whispered, a vow breathed so softly it belonged only to the two of them.

And for that fleeting span of time, she meant to keep it.

Chapter Text

Back in the Waking World, Yharnam stirred restlessly into its new day. The narrow streets filled once more with the shuffle of boots and the clamour of voices, as the tide of citizens surged toward the Grand Cathedral. The steps groaned beneath queues that wound endlessly forward, such as patients clutching their wounds and ailments, the sick pleading for ministrations, and townsfolk with grievances and reports to deliver into the Church’s keeping. As always, the weight of faith pressed against the stone walls, demanding entry, and demanding cure.

Above the throng, in the upper chambers where the air was hushed and sacred, Vicar Amelia convened a gathering in her private study. The chamber, lined with shelves of illuminated texts and heavy draperies of scarlet and gold, carried the solemn hush of a confessional. Gathered around her were the pillars of the Church’s power: Captain Walkinshaw of the Church Hunters, stern in his military posture; Brother Bruce, the Church assassins’ trusted intelligencer, one-armed yet not any less sharp and deliberate in his bearing; Doctor Iosefka, whose calm composure and warm smile carried only sincerity; and, rarest of all, Headmistress Audrey of the Choir.

To see a Choir member beyond the cloisters of their orphanage or the research hall was unusual, and to sit in the presence of their leader was rarer still. Audrey herself bore the dignity of years gracefully. Her skin, pale as bleached parchment, was lined delicately by age, though her bearing betrayed no frailty. Strands of grey threaded through her raven hair, catching the light like threads of silver. The Choir’s white garb draped her form, though it was half-veiled by a pale cloak that marked her station beyond question as the emblem of the Choir’s headmistress, elevated even among the Healing Church’s elite.

The chamber echoed with low voices, the careful weaving of plans and directives, until the sound of heavy double doors broke the rhythm. The hinges creaked, spilling a shaft of cold daylight into the Vicar’s study, as the figure they awaited had arrived.

Gops entered with the quiet weight of one who had been summoned, not invited. The Church assassin wore only his fitted dark-grey undershirt, the fabric stretched close across the breadth of his shoulders. His right sleeve had been tugged down to hide the mechanism bound to his forearm beneath, while the left was rolled back above the elbow. Resting over his chest was the Church Hunter badge, the metal that wrought in the likeness of a sword’s hilt, with its crossguard adorned at the centre by a small blue gem. It hung from a sturdy, metal-lined necklace, the faint clink of chain links following his every step.

Though stripped of his heavier coat, the infamous left gauntlet, and the plumed cap, Gops still carried the marks of his office. The dark trousers of his assassin’s garb were strapped with two belts wound tight around each leg, each one laden with pouches and ammunition. Across his waist sat the heavier belt, weighed down with his primary arms and tools: the gleaming hilt of his silver sword, the polished steel of a repeating pistol holstered at its side, and other instruments of his bloody profession concealed in leather sheaths and compartments. Only Ludwig’s rifle was absent; whenever Gops dressed down into this ‘casual’ attire, he never bore the weight of that long firearm despite being foldable, a choice that made his silhouette seem leaner, yet no less dangerous.

The gathered leaders turned as one, the quiet gravity of their discourse now tethered to the assassin who had finally crossed the threshold.

Taking a few measured steps forward as the great doors closed with a muted thud behind him, Gops approached the circle of gathered figures. The air within the study was thick with the perfume of burning incense and the unspoken weight of authority. The assassin lowered his head in a brief bow, his hands folding loosely at his front as he performed a Church bow, though his eyes flickered most directly toward the two figures who towered over him in rank, being Vicar Amelia and Headmistress Audrey.

“Safety and peace,” Gops intoned, his voice even but edged with a faint rasp.

It was Walkinshaw who broke the silence first, his tone biting. “Slept in a little too late, have we?” The man stood with arms crossed and jaw tight, his disdain for the assassin never hidden, sharpened further now by the delay.

Gops did not hesitate since his reply came flat, dry, and almost mocking in its delivery. “What gave it away?” His scarred brow knit faintly as he glanced sidelong at the captain, letting the sarcasm hang in the air. Yet beneath the barbed tone lay an unintentional truth, for he had managed some hours of rest for the first time in days, though bought not by weariness alone, but through the private solace found in the Hunter’s Nightmare.

Before Walkinshaw could sharpen his tongue further, Amelia’s voice cut across the chamber. Firm, commanding, yet tempered with restraint, it stilled the space. “Mister Al-Dhar.” She did not raise her tone, but all ears bent toward her at once. “Good. You are finally here. Doctor Iosefka has informed us of the events at Lindsey’s residence, and that you ventured to Cainhurst during the night?”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Gops answered simply, his voice lowered as his gaze shifted back to the vicar.

Amelia inclined her head, acknowledgment flickering across her features. “And have you managed to learn anything from Gabriel?” she pressed, her curiosity sharpened by the assassin’s reputation for discretion. The vicar knew well the weight of the doctor’s report, yet she sought Gops’ own accounting.

“I have, though not much,” Gops said. His tone steadied, carrying a quiet gravity as he continued. “He told me Lindsey was his half-sibling. Not only Cainhurst-born, but blood-kin to the old king himself. Her lineage was buried in secrecy after the siege, with the nobles believing her to have perished while Cainhurst fell to ruin.”

A ripple of unease stirred through the chamber, with exchanged glances confirming the shock of revelation. It was Headmistress Audrey who gave voice to the thought, her voice soft yet resonant, carrying the weight of her years. “A direct descendant of King Morcant…” She folded her arms across her robes, one gloved hand lifting so that her chin could rest upon her knuckles. Her eyes narrowed, thoughtful, yet unshaken. “A very big name, following a bigger scandal, indeed.”

“That… certainly complicates matters,” Brother Bruce said at length, his tone measured, though a flicker of unease betrayed his usual composure. His gaze darted toward the vicar, then returned to Gops. “Could her hidden royalty have made her a target, even so long after the siege?”

“Or given her reason to vanish into Yharnam,” Doctor Iosefka suggested, her voice calm, gentle, but laced with intelligence. “A courtesan’s life would provide both coin and cover… a low profile, maintained in plain sight.”

“An avenue we cannot overlook,” Amelia affirmed, her eyes sharpening as they returned to Gops. “Then tell me… why did you not bring Gabriel before us? His recount does not cross him off our suspect list.”

“Why, that is an excellent question,” Walkinshaw interjected with the faintest sneer, his arms crossing tighter as though savouring the chance to wound the assassin with a barb. His raised brow carried the tone of a man convinced of his opponent’s failure.

“I was getting to that,” Gops snapped back with edged words, his attention narrowing briefly on the captain with cold dismissal before turning firmly once more to Amelia. He straightened slightly, meeting her gaze without wavering. “Before I could glean more from Gabriel, he was incapacitated with a shot to the chest.” He let the pause draw, the tension coil, before delivering the last words with weight. “…By a Vileblood.”

“A Vileblood?” Bruce repeated, the word slipping unbidden from his lips. The usually composed intelligencer sounded almost uncertain, as though he himself struggled to believe what he had just heard.

Walkingshaw’s expression hardened immediately. “That is not possible,” he said, the dismissal ringing sharp. His arms crossed tighter over his chest, boots shifting against the stone floor with the scrape of irritation. “The Executioners wiped out those fiends long ago. Not a soul has been seen since.”

“I know what I saw,” Gops replied, his voice carrying the quiet weight of conviction. His gaze, unwavering, met the captain’s in defiance.

“And you did not stop it?” Walkingshaw pressed, his brow furrowing deeply. He spat the words with venom, stripping away even the dignity of personhood in his phrasing. To him, a Vileblood was nothing more than a thing.

Gops did not flinch beneath the accusation. “We crossed swords,” he admitted while his voice remained steady, though the memory lingered sharp in his chest. “But not for long. Our duel ended prematurely once the rest of Cainhurst’s knights turned their attention upon us.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he fixed them on Walkingshaw, keeping the man’s disdain from unbalancing his tone. What the assassin withheld, the truth of how swiftly he had been outmatched, remained his burden alone.

With a slow breath drawn through his nose, Gops turned his attention back to the rest of the chamber. “Worst of all, I believe this was no mere survivor of Cainhurst’s fall,” he continued, “Do you recall the former Crow? The one who preceded Eileen?”

The room stiffened, before Bruce leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp. “What of him?”

“I do not think he went missing at all, as we believed…” Gops said, his words slow and heavy. “When I glimpsed the Vileblood in the shadows, he was clad in the crowfeather garb of a Hunter of Hunters.”

At once, Amelia’s composure fractured, as she sank into the great chair behind her desk, her figure folding with the weight of revelation. Her wide eyes shimmered in the dim lamplight, horror breaking through her usually iron restraint. Slowly, as though her body had suddenly grown too heavy, she rested one elbow upon the table, her hand rising to cradle her blonde brow. Her voice was barely a whisper, hushed with disbelief. “By the blood…”

“He wielded a repeating pistol of the Church as well,” Gops pressed on, his tone grim. “If there is one thing I know of killers, it is that they cherish their trophies. That pistol, that garb… none of it was happenstance. They were meant to send a message.”

A sharp inhale escaped Iosefka, her gloved hands curling before her as though to steady herself. Her voice, usually calm and sure, faltered. “This is… much worse than I thought. Someone capable of killing even a Crow?”

“And this someone,” Audrey added quietly, her words cutting through the room like glass, “is tethered to the monster who killed that girl.” Her eyes shifted toward Amelia, her expression unreadable, though the headmistress’ tone bore the weight of accusation and grim foresight alike. “Both he and the sharpshooter Doctor Iosefka described… they snuffed out the very leads Mister Al-Dhar pursued. It is clear enough now.” She straightened, folding her arms. “The puppeteer wishes to be seen, yet only at their own sadistic pace.”

“We will not grant that psychopath such a luxury,” Amelia said at last, her voice a low thunder rolling through the chamber.

Gops caught the change in her tone, with the bitterness that slipped past her usual composure. The revelation of the crowfeathered Vileblood struck something personal within the vicar, that much was certain; yet the assassin held his silence, keeping his expression unreadable. He neither pressed nor betrayed that he had noticed, choosing instead to wait, still as stone, for her next word.

“Audrey,” Amelia spoke again after a long, thoughtful pause. “You have graced us with your presence to share the results of the autopsy, yes?”

The headmistress inclined her head. “Indeed, Your Excellency.” Her gaze swept the chamber, pausing upon each soul gathered, finally lingering on Gops as though to draw him directly into the gravity of her words. “Lindsey’s body bore bruises and contusions, many from her struggle with Jozef. Yet there were others that came following the incident. What was most striking is that she was not slain by blade or firearm. Her end was suffocation. The body bore every sign of it. Panic. Strain. The marks of her fight for air,” Audrey’s voice quieted, the weight of it pressing the silence down thicker. “We believe she was buried alive beneath the stone.”

“Gods…” Iosefka whispered, her gloved fingers rising swiftly to cover her lips, her eyes glistening at the image painted before them.

Gops shifted where he stood, one palm falling against the worn leather of his hip belt. The faint metallic clink of his scabbard rang out, while his other hand pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly as though the image of the victim’s final moments burned far too vividly.

“Sounds an awful lot like Mensis,” Walkinshaw muttered darkly, his arms folding as his voice dropped near a growl. “Those degenerates who abducted our people with large burlap sacks, like the one we found the girl in, prying them open like cattle in their attempt to play God.”

Audrey inclined her head. “It may be a stretch, given that the unseen village was annihilated in the wake of the Blood Moon ritual,” she conceded. Her eyes narrowed faintly, betraying unease. “But in light of the Vileblood’s sudden return… it is a connection we cannot ignore.”

The chamber fell to thought, silence settling like ash. Amelia’s sharp blue eyes moved from one speaker to the next, reading them, weighing their words against her own tangled storm of possibilities. At last, her gaze settled upon the one-armed White Church hunter. It was as if she bought herself a breath more time to think, cloaking her pause in command.

“Brother Bruce,” she said softly, but with an edge of steel. “Please inform Mister Al-Dhar of Jozef’s whereabouts.”

Bruce inclined his head, his one hand resting on the table before him. “Of course, Your Excellency.” His eye shifted toward the assassin. “While you and Doctor Iosefka followed the trail at Lindsey’s residence yesterday, I kept to Old Yharnam in search of Jozef. Just before dawn, I caught sight of him stumbling through the lower city. Drunk, or worse. Before I could close the distance, he slipped into an alley and vanished. I scoured the street, but found nothing. I believe there is a hidden entrance nearby… Some sanctuary he has taken to ground in.”

“It is about time I paid him a visit,” Gops said, the words carrying a hard finality. He gave a sharp nod, then turned to Amelia. “But there is another person of interest. Arianna, a courtesan at The Parlour here in the ward. From a letter Iosefka uncovered, it appears she was close to Lindsey. Her name may lead us to her employer, perhaps even to the root of her debts.”

“It is settled then,” Amelia said at last, her tone resolute, the words leaving no room for doubt. Rising from her seat, the vicar’s long robes whispered across the stone floor, her figure tall and commanding in the chamber’s pale lanternlight. A plan had taken shape, sharpened in her mind like a blade.

“Captain Walkinshaw,” she turned, her voice cutting across the silence, “assign Church hunters to the eastern wing. Keep every watchful eye upon the entrance to Yahar’Gul. If there is even the faintest chance that remnants of Mensis stir again, we shall not grant them the shadows to fester.”

Walkinshaw’s jaw tightened, the lines of his face as hard as the armour he bore. He bowed his head, fist pressed briefly to his chest. “At once, Your Excellency.”

Amelia’s gaze shifted, cold and unwavering, to the White Church hunter. “Brother Bruce. Hold your post in Old Yharnam. If Jozef dares to crawl back toward the main city before Mister Al-Dhar can personally deal with him… you will not let him slip away. Alert the clergy and arrest him.”

Bruce inclined his head, his one hand braced against the chair he had risen from. “Post haste, Your Excellency.” Without another word, he turned and strode from the chamber, his steps brisk, echoing against the vaulted stone until the sound faded into the corridors beyond.

The vicar lingered a moment in silence, her hands clasped before her as though in prayer, her blue eyes bright with a fierce inward flame as she turned toward the assassin and the doctor.

“Mister Al-Dhar. Doctor Iosefka.” Her words carried the weight of command, but softened with an edge of concern. “Your path is clear. I want you to follow Arianna’s lead first. If our enemy seeks to sever every thread that bound Lindsey, then those closest to her are in peril. Ensure her safety, and pry the truth from her employer. Their knowledge may yet light the path through this darkness.”

Amelia’s gaze hardened again, and the brief warmth was swept away. “When that is done, you shall seek Jozef and apprehend him. Should he be guilty of this bloodied game… we will know.”

Gops inclined his head, the gesture sharp, disciplined. “Understood.”

A hush settled in the chamber, the air dense with intent. Then Amelia’s voice cut through once more, sharp and unyielding.

“One more thing,” Amelia’s voice rang, deliberate and edged with iron. The chamber seemed to hold its breath as her blue eyes fixed firmly upon the assassin. “The sharpshooter who calls herself Deathwish. Should she cross your path again, you will uncover what you can… and see to it that she meets her end.”

The words hung heavy in the vaulted room, weighty as the judgment itself.

Gops lifted his stubbled chin slightly, his tone low but edged with care. “Your Excellency?”

Amelia’s gaze did not falter. “She has already revealed her allegiance to Lindsey’s murderer. Before your very eyes, she killed a man without hesitation, only to then set her sights upon both you and Doctor Iosefka. If the killer cloaks himself behind loyal acolytes, then their removal will leave him bare, and force him into the open.”

Her final words struck with the force of a gavel, echoing across stone and shadow. “Mister Al-Dhar.”

The assassin straightened, his spine taut, his laced boots planted squarely against the cold floor. Gops had been awaiting this moment, the formal weight of a decree, and the burden of a sacred task.

“Church Assassin. I hereby assign you your contract,” Amelia intoned, her words intent and ritualistic, as though the chamber itself bore witness to the covenant being spoken. “Deathwish is to be sought out and eliminated for her treachery against Yharnam and her people. Learn her secrets, pry from her what truths she conceals, and when she has no more to yield, you will deliver the Healing Church’s judgment in accordance with your tenets.”

Gops inclined his head, every motion solemn, deliberate. His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of an oath. “It shall be so.”

At his side, Iosefka dipped into a proper bow, her movement quiet and reverent.

Amelia raised her hand in benediction, her words low and final, spoken like a prayer that sealed the chamber and its duties alike.

“May the good blood guide your way.”

Chapter Text

The pale daylight seeped through the thick veil of clouds that brooded over Yharnam, casting the city in a washed and weary glow. Hooves clattered against the cobblestones until the carriage drew to a gradual halt along a side street of Cathedral Ward, not far from the road that wound toward Oedon Chapel. Situated within the very corner of the street loomed The Parlour, a grand yet discreet façade veiling Yharnam’s most reputed house of courtesans, its lanterns faintly aglow even beneath the dim day.

The horses snorted, restless, and the coachman gave the reins a firm pull. From within, the first to emerge was the Church assassin. Gops descended with measured grace, the full weight of his attire once more upon him, alongside the rest of his gear. The cuts and slashes his garb had once suffered were mended by fresh cloth and seamless stitch, and he adjusted his plumed cap with a practised touch, ensuring it sat firm atop his head while dark locks framed his face beneath its shadow. The echo of his boot upon the stone was sharp, and decisive.

Out of courtesy born from habit more than ceremony, he extended his hand behind him. A moment later, Iosefka’s pale figure stepped from the carriage, the white of her heel striking the cobblestone with a crisp click. Her long dress draped to veil her stride, yet the subtle height of her heels betrayed her gait. Clad as ever in the White Church huntress’ attire, she seemed at once composed and delicate, though the faint glint of steel and purpose clung to her no less than to him.

Together, the assassin and doctor offered a brief word of thanks to the coachman, who tipped his hat before steering the carriage back down the street. When its wheels finally vanished into the narrow curve of the ward, the two clerics turned their gaze upon the building before them. Before either of them could advance, a sudden patter of hurried footsteps rose from the narrow stairway beside The Parlour, the one that wound upward toward the next street. Both Gops and Iosefka halted, instinct guiding their eyes toward the corner. The assassin’s left hand, clad in its clawed gauntlet, slid onto the hilt of his silver sword, ready to unsheathe should the city’s shadows conceal more than weary townsfolk.

“Come out,” Gops called, his voice firm, carrying just enough steel to leave no doubt that hiding further would be unwise.

For a moment, silence held. Then the shape of a woman emerged cautiously from the stone passage, her form easing into view. Her clothing was a fine blue dress, a short cape draped neatly over her shoulders. Blonde hair, drawn back into a tidy bun, caught what little daylight pressed through the clouds. However, it was not her grace nor her clothing that held Gops’ attention, as it was the red jewel brooch at her throat, gleaming against the pale cloth that wrapped her neck. To any other, it might seem a trinket of beauty. To the assassin, it was unmistakable that it was a refined blood gem, the kind Hunters fastened into their weapons.

His hand slipped away from the sword hilt. “Viola?” the assassin muttered, recognition dulling his edge.

“Hello, Mister Al-Dhar,” the woman greeted, her tone polite yet measured, as though weighing whether to stay or flee. Her eyes darted about the street before she gave a brief, acknowledging nod to the doctor. “Doctor Iosefka.”

“How do you do?” Iosefka replied warmly, her voice carrying the soft assurance of familiarity, for she had tended to Viola more than once in her clinic.

Gops’ question cut more bluntly. “Why did you hide?”

Viola, choosing first to answer the doctor, offered a polite smile. “I’m well, thank you.” Only then did she meet the assassin’s steady brown gaze. “And… I did not know who lingered in the street until you spoke. Forgive me. One cannot be too careful, especially when the night has only just passed.”

His brow lowered, though his face betrayed little else. The doctor, sensing the heaviness of his silence, stepped in to smooth the moment. “Please forgive us. We’ve been rather on edge this morning. How is Gascoigne faring?”

The woman’s expression softened. “Oh, there is no need to worry. He is faring well, thank you. I will be sure to pass along your regards, since he must be reaching home by now.”

“Then please, we shall not keep you,” Iosefka said with a small nod, her words both courtesy and dismissal.

“Farewell, and do take care,” Viola answered, dipping into a slight bow before gliding past them. Her footsteps faded quickly, leaving the assassin and doctor once more at the threshold of The Parlour.

The clerics exchanged a glance, the doctor’s touched with concern, while the assassin’s weighed with thought.

“Perhaps allow me to do most of the speaking in there?” Iosefka suggested, her voice even but edged with quiet caution.

Gops arched his scarred brow, the gesture sharp against the stillness of his face. “What? You did not care to know why she hid upon seeing us?”

“Dawn has only just broken,” Iosefka replied, smoothing her tone. “Everyone is still weary at this hour. Nevertheless, just… let me handle the forefront of the conversation. I only hope you have a plan for Deathwish…”

“I do not,” Gops answered, his words falling with plain finality.

“I… beg your pardon? Gops?” Iosefka pressed, the confusion threading into her usually composed cadence.

“We have yet to learn anything from Arianna,” the assassin muttered, his tone steady but thinly veiled. “I shall devise a plan once we begin speaking with her.” It sounded as though conviction held him; however, it was a front for the doctor’s ear, one meant to keep her questions from prying deeper.

Before she could reply, Gops stepped forward with the decisiveness of a blade drawn, forcing the moment to move on. He pushed open the doors of The Parlour, and together they crossed the threshold. A delicate fragrance drifted to greet them, floral and faintly sweet, a perfume unique to the brothel that clung like memory. The hall beyond glowed with soft lamplight, warm and inviting, its atmosphere designed to ease every soul who entered. For a moment, it seemed to belong to another world entirely, untouched by the bloodied stones outside.

From the upper stairwell, footsteps whispered down. A woman descended with measured grace, her dress of deep violet catching the light with each step. Pale-blonde hair, cut just beyond the shoulders, framed her poised face, while eyes of brilliant hazel held both allure and calm command. She carried herself as though the room bent subtly around her presence, and her delicate smile welcomed the two clerics who stood in her hall.

“My… an unexpected pair of visitors?” Arianna’s words floated with mild amusement. “Ordinarily, I would be delighted to receive such a kind doctor, especially when she is accompanied by the esteemed Church assassin himself…” Her lips curved faintly higher, though her tone softened into apology. “But alas, I must inform you that The Parlour is closed today.”

Iosefka stepped forward, folding her hands before her as her voice took on its gentle, professional cadence. “Pardon us, madame. We do not come as guests, but as officials of the Church.”

Arianna tilted her head, her poise unbroken, though her eyes shifted ever so slightly in understanding.

“I realise it may be a sensitive matter,” Iosefka continued, her words lowering with courtesy. “Given how recent the misfortune occurred… Yet we would be most grateful if you could answer a few questions.”

“Perhaps…” Gops interjected, his voice low but insistent, “…in a more secluded place.”

Arianna studied the pair in silence for a moment, her hazel eyes flickering between them, weighing something unseen. Then, with a graceful dip of her head, she turned.

“Very well…” she said. “Please, follow me.”

Her heels tapped softly against the floorboards as she guided them past the warm glow of The Parlour’s front hall. They passed drawn curtains, empty seats still arranged in the fashion of the previous night, and the faint traces of perfume clinging to the air like ghosts of laughter. The scent of roses and incense grew subtler as they moved deeper into the brothel, replaced instead by the quiet musk of wooden corridors rarely seen by patrons. Arianna led them down a narrow hall, then up a modest set of stairs toward the back of the building. Here the lights dimmed, lanterns hung sparsely, their glow flickering against carved beams. She paused before a heavy oak door, its handle polished smooth from use, and pushed it open.

Inside lay a common room, as there were no silken lounges or gilded mirrors here, but a practical chamber reserved for the women who worked the parlour. Simple shelves lined the walls, each holding neatly stacked garments, folded shawls, and shoes placed in careful order. Chests were tucked beneath benches, and hooks along the beams carried accessories and adornments too fine for daily wear. The room smelled faintly of lavender sachets, tucked between belongings to ward away moths. It was a private space, modest but personal, the lives of the courtesans gathered here like whispers, stripped of the glamour worn for patrons. Arianna stepped inside first, moving toward one of the shelves. She turned, hands lightly clasped at her waist, her composure intact though her eyes betrayed a careful alertness.

“Here, we will not be disturbed,” she assured softly.

Gops followed without a word, his boots echoing low against the wooden floor, while Iosefka lingered a moment at the doorway, casting a glance down the quiet hall before gently shutting them in. The doctor folded her hands before her once more, her tone poised, while Gops let the silence stretch, studying Arianna with the same unreadable weight he gave to every soul who crossed his path.

“This is about Lindsey, isn’t it?” Arianna’s voice was calm, yet the faint crease at her blonde brow betrayed the heaviness of her guess. She had already understood their intent from the moment they entered, but now she sought confirmation.

“Indeed, madame,” Iosefka replied gently, her words carrying that careful respect she so often employed in delicate matters. “Would you be inclined to tell us all you knew of her?”

Arianna drew a soft breath through her nose, her gaze slipping momentarily toward the floor as though she had to unearth the memory before she could speak. “She was my coworker, yes… but far more than that. From the day we met, our lives seemed to echo one another. Similar histories, similar struggles. It made us kin in a way.” A ghost of a smile tugged faintly at her lips before fading. “She became like a sister to me.”

Gops listened in silence, his scarred brow shadowed in thought beneath the brim of his tricorn cap, though his attention was never wholly fixed on the courtesan. His brown eyes strayed often to the door, to the shelves, to the small cracks in the walls where lantern-light failed to reach. He remembered Cainhurst too clearly, and how quickly a simple conversation could turn into a trap. The Church assassin would not be caught unaware again. His hand lingered near his belt, not touching the hilt of his blade, but ready all the same.

“Did you notice anything unusual about her of late?” he asked at last, his voice cutting into Arianna’s recollection. “A lapse in her routine, an unspoken worry… or perhaps a client who seemed out of place?”

“My apologies, dear,” Arianna said softly, her tone faltering for the first time. “We cannot speak about work.”

“This… is a murder case,” Gops pressed, his voice steady but direct.

“Any information you could share may prove vital in finding who did this,” Iosefka added, her words a gentler echo of the assassin’s demand.

Arianna, however, lowered her gaze, her tone hushed with the weight of something unyielding. “I mean, we cannot…” She lifted her eyes again, the flicker of defiance tempered with sorrow. “It is our sacred discretion.”

Gops’ brow furrowed as the phrase struck him with unease, for it was the very same line Lindsey herself had spoken to him. Perhaps it was nothing more than a custom of the house, but even so, it clung to the assassin’s thoughts like a thorn. His eyes flicked toward Iosefka, who met his look with the same realisation, aware that there was more here than Arianna allowed to pass. Turning fully from the door, Gops stepped closer, his sharp gaze now fixed on the courtesan. He studied her as one might study a locked chest, searching for the flaw in its craft. Amid her jewels and silken dress, one detail broke from the rest, that being an ornate cuff fastened snugly around her upper arm, the filigree of its design being hauntingly familiar.

“Lindsey wore a cuff like yours,” Gops muttered, the words heavy with suspicion.

Arianna’s lips parted slightly, though no words came forth. Her hazel eyes, so radiant a moment before, now held a guarded shadow as though she realised too late that the cuff betrayed more than she ever intended. The courtesan’s silence lingered like smoke in the air, which was an answer enough, though she never spoke it aloud. Gops let the quiet hang for a breath longer before cutting it apart with another concise inquiry.

“Do you still possess any of Lindsey’s personal belongings?”

Arianna’s hazel eyes flicked away, and her fingers tightened faintly against the fold of her dress. “No. Our employer had them removed from her shelf last night.”

Gops’ jaw set, his tone dropping to a low murmur. “Then perhaps we ought to speak with your employer.”

“I’m afraid he is not here…” Arianna answered carefully, a subtle tremor hidden beneath her poise. “All I can tell you is that he left early this morning, attending… a delicate meeting.”

“With whom?” Gops pressed, his words more demanding than questioning.

“I…” Arianna faltered, her lips parting but no words finding their way past. The thought died unfinished as a faint sound carried through the silence, that being the muffled chime of bells above the parlour’s front door. The noise was distant, yet distinct enough to echo its way down into the secluded chamber.

Gops’ keen ears twitched as his body went still, catching the sharp click of boots against polished floorboards, a cadence too deliberate, and far too telling.

“It is her,” the assassin stated flatly, certainty heavy in his voice.

Arianna’s composure fractured at once. Her step faltered back, one hand clutching her chest as the colour drained from her face. She understood the presence as well as he did. “It… it cannot be-”

“Deathwish?” Iosefka breathed, the name slipping from her lips in stunned disbelief. Her green eyes widened, bright with alarm.

Gops moved without hesitation, calm in tone though every word carried urgency. “We need to leave. Now.” He turned sharply, striding toward the narrow back door that opened into the rear lanes of the district. The assassin’s gloved hand brushed briefly over the latch, his gaze hard as steel.

“Do not speak,” he commanded, his voice quiet, controlled, but brooking no argument. “And stay close to me.”

The back door creaked open, spilling them into a narrow alley washed in the pale, ashen daylight that filtered weakly through Yharnam’s overcast sky. The cobblestones gleamed damp beneath their boots, still slick with last night’s drizzle, while the air carried the faint reek of stale ale and gutter water. Arianna clutched her skirts to keep them from dragging as she and Iosefka instinctively turned toward the main street.

“Not that way,” Gops hissed, his voice low but cutting through the muted stillness with the weight of command.

The assassin was already striding toward the alley’s dead end, where a rusted gate marked a small opening in the stone wall. From beyond it came the steady whisper of flowing water, rising faintly against the hush of the ward.

“This tunnel leads into Central Yharnam’s sewage underbelly,” he said.

Arianna froze, her face tightening in dread as the idea settled. “You cannot be serious…”

“I do not think we have a better option, madame-” Iosefka murmured, though her words faltered as the sharp rhythm of heels suddenly clattered against stone in the distance.

A single gunshot split the still air, as the sound cracked through the alley like thunder, the bullet whistling so close to Arianna’s head that it stirred a blonde strand of her hair. She gasped, stumbling, but Gops’ arm had already hooked around her waist, dragging her aside with brutal precision. The assassin’s repeating pistol was in his clawed hand before the echo of the shot had even faded. Spinning on his heel, he snapped both triggers of his firearm, the twin roars booming through the alley as smoke rolled from the barrels. Sparks bit the stone where lead struck, but their foe had already vanished behind cover at the far end.

“Go! Now!” Gops barked, sharp and uncompromising. His gaze never left the alley’s mouth, nor did the muzzle of his pistol waver.

Iosefka seized Arianna’s arm and dragged her to the gate. The hinges shrieked in protest as they forced it open, the stench of damp and sewage wafting up to meet them. Neither hesitated, as they ducked into the shadows beyond, leaving the way open for the assassin to follow.

Alone for a moment longer, Gops kept his weapon trained on the far end of the alley. From that gloom, laughter unfurled, low and mocking, while carrying a cruel melody that bounced between the walls.

“So predictable, Church assassin,” Deathwish’s voice purred, taunting him in broad daylight as though the sun itself was her stage. “I am charmed enough that you knew I’d come after the whore!”

Gops’ jaw tightened, teeth gritting as his free hand slipped to his belt with instinctive precision. His gloved fingers closed around the small pellet, cool and hard in his palm. Without hesitation, he smashed it against the cobblestones. A hiss followed, then a sudden bloom of thick grey smoke coiled upward, swallowing him whole. The acrid haze clung to his throat and bit at his eyes, but it concealed his frame in a suffocating shroud. He moved without sound, slipping back through the gate as if vanishing into the fog itself. The hinges shrieked once more, and with a harsh tug, he slammed the rusted bars shut, twisting the lock into place.

The Church assassin knew it was no true barrier, for it would delay Deathwish by minutes at best, but even a minute’s lead was something worth bleeding for. The pistol found its holster beside his blade as he broke into a sprint, boots splashing into the ankle-deep runoff that churned beneath the city. The air was damp and foul, each breath a mingling of rot and iron. Stone walls blurred as he turned corner after corner, shadows chasing his wake.

At last, the pale glow of the sewer’s lower grates thinned the dark, and he caught sight of the two women scrambling ahead. Iosefka turned at the sound of his approach, her relief flickering like a lantern in stormlight.

“Gops-” the doctor breathed, her voice breaking with both urgency and reprieve.

“Keep going,” the assassin cut her short, his tone cold steel even as he drew breath. “Take Arianna to your clinic and do not wait for me. I will deal with Deathwish here.”

Iosefka faltered mid-step, her green eyes flashing in protest. “She is here for Arianna, not you! What if she finds another path and bypasses you entirely?”

“That is exactly why I brought us here,” Gops answered back, though his voice never rose above its calm cadence. “This route is the only way she can follow into Central Yharnam without crossing the Great Bridge. If I am to face her, the environment shall be one I can control.”

Realisation struck her, the memory of her earlier question from the morning, when she had asked what occupied his thoughts. The doctor’s breath caught. “So… you always had a plan.”

Gops only gave the faintest nod, then motioned with a sharp flick of his hand. “Keep running. Climb every ladder you find, and the streets will meet you soon enough. Go.”

Without another word, the doctor seized Arianna by the wrist, and together they splashed through the mire, vanishing into the veins of the underbelly. Their footfalls faded, leaving only the echo of dripping water and the distant rumble of the city above.

Gops slowed, drawing his repeating pistol once more with the clawed grip of his left hand. The weapon rose, steady and unwavering, its barrels aimed toward the tunnel’s gaping maw behind him. Darkness pressed at its edge, heavy and patient, as though it held its breath. He stood ankle-deep in black waters, cloak stirring faintly with the draft that whispered down the passage, waiting and ready for the adversary to emerge from shadow into his crosshairs.

A faint glow stirred in the black throat of the tunnel. At first, it looked like nothing more than a trick of his eyes, a shimmer against damp stone. However, the glow grew, flaring brighter, until it hurled itself forward in a vicious arc. Gops’ eyes widened once he realised that a Molotov was thrown right at him. The cleric sprang back, boots thrashing against the water as the bottle shattered against the current. Fire erupted in a violent bloom, its roar filling the cavern. Flames licked across the sewage, riding the slick of alcohol as though the very water itself had been set ablaze. Smoke curled upward in choking coils, acrid and stinging.

The assassin’s free hand darted up, pulling the cloth mask over his mouth and nose. The reek of rot and burning pitch was smothered, though never fully banished. His right hand then unsheathed his silver sword in one fluid motion, steel catching what little light the fire dared lend to the darkness.

Before Gops could adopt a combative stance, a groan rose from beneath. He looked down just long enough to see the dirty water breaking around pale shapes that surrounded his boots. Bloated, rotten, half-eaten corpses stirred as if drawn back into miserable half-life by the heat and the smoke. Their jaws hung slack, their eyes clouded, their limbs twitching with dreadful hunger. It was no surprise to the Church assassin, for these sewers had long been known to nest such bodies, abandoned to rot until they clawed their way into restless, undead mockeries of men.

The cleric’s gaze then snapped upward the moment Deathwish emerged from the tunnel’s shadow, her rifle already braced at her shoulder. The pale light leaking from the sewer grates kissed her silhouette, the gleam of her scope glinting like the eye of some cruel predator. She moved with deadly confidence, her aim locked upon the assassin before he had even finished adjusting his stance.

Her weapon fired, yet Gops moved in the same heartbeat, plunging his sword downward. The silver blade pierced one of the shambling corpses at his feet, skewering it clean through. With a sharp tug, he heaved the reanimated husk upward and into his path just as the bullet struck. The shot tore through wasted flesh and brittle bone, blasting half the creature’s torso away, but it never reached the cleric.

The assassin kicked, his boot slamming into the impaled corpse. The weight of the body tore free from his blade as it launched forward, flung through the searing firelight between him and the sharpshooter. Deathwish fired again, yet it was too late as the shambler’s bulk slammed into her, the ruined torso knocking her rifle clean from her grasp. The weapon clattered into the sewage with a hollow splash, swept a few paces away by the current.

Deathwish’s hand shot beneath her trenchcoat, fingers curling around the grip of a hidden sidearm. With mechanical precision, she drew and fired in the same heartbeat. Gops had no time to anticipate the second weapon, as the report cracked through the sewer, the bullet striking his repeating pistol with flawless accuracy. The firearm was torn from his clawed grip, spinning off into the shallow water with a splash. A grimace hardened the assassin’s face, but he wasted no breath cursing beneath his mask. His hand darted behind his waist instead, unhooking Ludwig’s rifle in one fluid motion. The barrel flipped into place as he lunged, seizing the fleeting window while Deathwish cracked open the barrel of her pistol to reload.

However, she was faster than expected. The chamber snapped shut, and as the assassin’s silver blade swept down in a swift arc, she dipped low, so close that the edge sliced a few strands of her black hair from her head. Rolling past him, she vaulted over the bobbing husk of a sewer corpse and landed neatly beside the weapon the cleric had lost.

Her lips curled wide as she stooped, fingers closing around the repeating pistol. “You, dear, are beginning to bother me.”

Both barrels rose, her own sidearm in one hand, his stolen weapon in the other. The sewers cracked with thunder as she loosed a storm of lead, three shots roaring out in unison.

Gops raised his silver sword on instinct, the blade intercepting one round with a screeching deflection, but the others found flesh. The impact tore through his dark attire, biting deep into his abdomen. Pain lanced through his core, forcing him a step back, then another, breath hissing between his teeth before the sewer itself betrayed him. Out of the fetid water, a half-rotted corpse clawed at his boot, skeletal fingers digging into the leather as its slack jaw gnawed upward. Gops staggered, struggling to shake it free as blood seeped warm beneath his garments.

Deathwish straightened, cocking her head as though in mock sympathy. She offered him a sharp little salute with the pistol she had stolen. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a contract of my own to fulfil.”

Her coat flared as she turned and sprinted, boots splashing through the shallow muck. The pale glow of the sewer’s end guided her toward a ladder leading up into the streets above.

Gops rammed the barrel of Ludwig’s rifle straight between the corpse’s jaws and pulled the trigger. The explosion tore the creature’s skull apart, a spray of rot and blackened water showering upward as the body slackened and slid from his boot. The recoil jolted through his frame, a sharp spike of agony ripping across his wounded abdomen.

“Gah- Fuck…” he grunted, staggering.

There was no time to linger on the pain. With his right hand, the assassin shoved his silver blade back into its scabbard, then reached into a front pouch. His fingers closed around the smooth metal of a blood vial’s needle. A swift plunge into his right thigh and the substance burned through his veins, hot as fire, flooding him with raw vitality. He clenched his jaw beneath the mask, exhaling a muffled hiss, before surging forward, every stride fueled by the sharpened edge of adrenaline.

The chase drove them deeper into the sewage underbelly, leading into a wide cavern of stone and shadow, where narrow canals opened to shafts of pale daylight above. Wooden beams spanned the walls like ribs, slick with dripping moss. Gops sprinted through the gloom, Ludwig’s rifle gripped in his clawed left hand, his eyes locked on the sharpshooter scrambling up a ladder bolted into the wall.

The Church assassin’s pace never faltered. As he ran, Gops flicked serrated throwing knives from his belt, striking each lantern that burned along the canal. Glass shattered, and flames hissed into darkness one after another until the chamber drowned in gloom, before the cleric snapped his rifle up and fired. The blast thundered, scattering shot across the stone. Sparks erupted around Deathwish’s shoulders, forcing her to cling tighter to the rungs.

Another pump, another shot. The second burst of bullets chewed into the wall, the ladder vibrating under the impact. Deathwish’s grip faltered, as she slipped with a sharp cry, slamming into the shallow water below.

The sharpshooter rolled onto her front, spitting filth, her usual mocking poise stripped raw by fury. Her snarl echoed in the dark. “Smug bastard!”

Both pistols gleamed in her hands, her own, as well as the assassin’s stolen one. She fired blindly into the gloom, muzzle flashes strobing in the damp air. Bullets shrieked and sparked against stone, ricocheting through the walls; however, the darkness had swallowed the assassin whole. Gops pressed his back against the curve of an archway, shadows cloaking his frame as bullets whined past. The ripple of the water betrayed his movements, but nothing else.

From across the canal, Deathwish’s voice cut through the darkness, sharp and venomous. “You think you’re clever, shattering all the lamps? I can still hear you!”

The echoes carried her words, bouncing down the tunnel in fractured, mocking fragments; however, Gops did not answer. Instead, he bent low, one knee sinking into the brackish water with practised silence. Ludwig’s rifle rested steady in his clawed hand while the other reached for a throwing knife at his belt. The assassin moved with predatory restraint, every motion measured, and every breath quiet. Yet the water betrayed him, for every shift of his boots threatened ripples that could be loud enough to give him away.

The Church assassin flipped the knife in his grasp, gripping its serrated edge between gloved fingers. His gaze, sharpened by the Old Blood’s gift, cut through the gloom far better than Deathwish’s ever could. Across the canal, stacked crates sagged under their own weight, swollen and weakened by damp rot. With a flick of his wrist, the knife spun through the darkness and bit into the corner of one.

The pile collapsed, splashing loudly into the shallow water, to which Deathwish reacted instantly. She caught the sound, but more importantly, the metallic ring of steel striking wood prior. She understood the ploy before the splash had even finished echoing. In turn, her arm snapped toward the other end from where the disturbance occurred, and she fired without hesitation.

The crack of her pistol reverberated through the sewers, stone dust exploding beside Gops’ head as the shot chipped the wall. The cleric had already rolled back into the shadows of the archway, his body low and hidden, while being taken aback by the sharpshooter’s skill, even if it was for a brief moment.

“I hope you weren’t putting all your faith in that cheap trick,” Deathwish taunted, her pistols still sweeping through the dark. Only slivers of pallid daylight bled into the chamber, faint beams glancing off the oily water.

Gops’ voice finally came, low and dry, his words carrying just enough to reach her. “No. Though, I did put my faith in those rats waking up.”

For the first time, Deathwish’s mask of confidence cracked. Her eyes flicked wide as she understood that the Church assassin had turned her own method against her. Their first encounter replayed in her mind, how she had trapped him in an alley with a beast. Now he had trapped her, hemmed in by the things that slithered and fed in the dark.

The sounds came next. Splashes, skittering claws, wet squeals. Many of them. Closing in.

Deathwish whirled, firing into the nearest noise. Her muzzle flash lit the gloom just long enough to reveal what stalked her. A massive, twisted rat, with its fur slick and patchy from beasthood, and its teeth glimmering like jagged daggers. The bullet tore through its skull, dropping it with a convulsion into the water, yet more followed. Dozens of yellow eyes gleamed in the dark, reflecting the pale light from above.

“Bloody bastard…” the sharpshooter hissed through gritted teeth, snapping her wrists as she broke open both pistols to reload, cartridges tumbling into the water. She slammed them shut and fired again, desperately trying to thin the tide of enlarged rats now converging on her position, every shot drawing more shrieks, more splashes, and more hunger.

Gops seized the moment he had so carefully engineered, for the chaos had become his ally. From the shadows of his archway, he broke cover and slid low across the slick stones, water rippling in his wake. He pressed himself against the next arch, only to then dart again. Each movement brought him closer, with each shift masked by the cacophony of gunfire and squeals as Deathwish frantically fought the swarm.

The Church assassin’s mind never lost count. Every shot she fired was etched into his memory, and every rat’s dying screech marked off like tally strokes. He knew exactly how many remained, how many shells she had left, and how many steps still lay between them. Even while moving with a predator’s precision, his thoughts were cold and mathematical, a mark of an assassin’s discipline honed by years beneath the Healing Church’s banner.

The sharpshooter was blind to his advance. Each muzzle flash lit the tunnel in a burst of pale fire, illuminating the sewage-stained stone, the glint of water, and briefly, the silhouette of a figure drawing nearer. With every flicker, she saw him clearer: the mask, the clawed gauntlet, the looming shape of her predator. Her heartbeat quickened. She had mocked him once, toyed with him as if he were prey, but only now did she understand. The Church assassin had earned his reputation not by rumour, but by mastery.

A knot of fear twisted in her chest. Each rat she felled seemed to push him closer. Each flash reminded her of the inevitability of his approach. Then the last squeal echoed as the last body hit the water. The sewers fell quiet, save for her heavy breaths and the soft click of her pistols opening for a reload.

Gops’ mental tally ended there, and the opening was now his. In one smooth motion, he flipped Ludwig’s rifle downward and secured it against the latch behind his waist belt, freeing his left arm. A sharp flex of his wrist made steel sing, his hidden blade snapping forward from beneath the gauntlet, a fang of cold iron gleaming faintly in the dark, before he sprang. Boots struck water, sending a spray up as his weight carried him across the distance. Deathwish looked up too late, her hands still fumbling with cartridges as the shadow of her pursuer descended upon her.

Steel met flesh.

The gauntlet blade plunged through the side of her neck with a wet, muffled crunch. Deathwish’s cry caught in her throat, reduced to a gurgle as blood spilled hot across his clawed glove. Gops’ hand clamped beneath her jaw, forcing her head back while his full weight drove her into the shallow, filthy water. Pinned beneath him, choking, the sharpshooter’s limbs thrashed against the inevitable. The pale light filtering from the sewer grates above shimmered faintly across the ripples spreading outward from her struggle, until they slowly began to fade.

In that instant, his blade buried deep and the flesh giving way beneath his grasp, Gops felt the shift. His vision blurred, the walls of the sewer melting into an unfamiliar haze. His consciousness did not remain his own, as it soon merged with hers, drawn into that strange communion he had known ever since his tether to the Hunter’s Dream. The connection had carved something into him that he utilised in all of his assassinations. An arcane faculty to trespass into the dying memories of those slain by his hidden blade, in order to pull from them fragments of truth better left unspoken.

The memory flickered into being.

A younger-looking Deathwish knelt in a dim chamber. The silhouette of a cloaked figure towered before her, a hand extended like the benediction of a priest. She bent low, pressing her lips to the back of his palm with ceremony, as though pledging more than service. The man’s voice reverberated through the chamber, heavy and deliberate.

“Welcome, Claire Brookes.”

The vision rippled away, replaced by another. She sat at a desk, the faint glow of a candle spilling over scattered letters and sealed envelopes. A parchment thick with names lay before her, and she traced them with a steady hand. From the shadows behind, that same voice came again, colder this time, weighted with command.

“See to it that you reach The Parlour before the Church assassin does. The Tax Collector will handle Mister Smith.”

The final fragment bled through like ink across water. The cloaked figure reappeared once more, yet this time he was not alone. Beside him stood the crow-feathered Vileblood, expressionless behind his closed helm, yet ever watchful as a sentinel. Deathwish's own voice rose now, quiet and sardonic, echoing from the depths of memory.

“The Blood Mason and his Bloody Crow. Quite a ring to it…”

Then the haze fractured.

The blur gave way to stone, water, and darkness once more. Gops’ eyes fluttered open, breath steadying as the weight of visions slipped from him. Beneath his grasp, the sharpshooter lay still, her life long since gone. The assassin drew his blade free from the wound with deliberate care, crimson rivulets trailing down the steel before it slid back into the concealment of his gauntlet.

He shifted, planting one boot into the shallow water, while his other knee remained pressed against the corpse’s torso. From a pouch at his belt, he retrieved a folded square of white cloth, creased with meticulous care. Slowly, almost reverently, he dabbed and wiped the blood from her ruined throat. The handkerchief bloomed red as he pressed it into the wound, a ritual not of mercy, but of confirmation.

The kill was clean, and the Church assassin's contract was fulfilled. The cleric lingered only a moment longer, his brown eyes fixed on the pale, lifeless face. Then, with a low murmur meant only for her and the dead silence of the sewers, Gops spoke.

“At last, you have earned your own death-wish… Claire.”

Chapter Text

Yharnam lingered in the muted hush of its afternoon hours. Even then, the streets around Iosefka’s clinic lay strangely still, as though the city itself held its breath. Within the upper levels, in the physician’s private study, two women sought refuge. Arianna sat delicately upon a chair by the desk, her courtesan’s poise slightly betrayed by damp hems clinging to her legs. Across from her, Iosefka paced the room, wringing her hands, the silk of her white gown still darkened by the foul waters of the sewers through which they had fled.

The silence fractured at the sound of the study doors creaking open. A figure filled the threshold, being broad, bloodied, and unmistakable. Iosefka gasped, relief flooding her voice before her reason could catch it. Gops stood there, clad in his trademark garb, the fabric torn with bullet holes, though the flesh beneath was unmarred, healed by the work of blood vials. The claws of his left gauntlet were darkened with dried crimson stains, and beneath his forearm, the sheath of a hidden blade glimmered faintly through grime. With his gloved hand, the cleric tugged down the soiled mask from his face, exhaling the breath of a man who had wrestled death and returned.

“She will trouble you no longer,” the Church assassin said, his voice low and final.

Arianna rose at once, instinct guiding her to acknowledge the cleric, though her eyes lingered warily on the crimson residue across his frame. Iosefka, less restrained, hurried forward, her physician’s reflexes drowning out every other thought. “Good heavens, bullet holes-” she stammered, her green eyes searching over the rent cloth.

“Nothing a little blood could not mend,” Gops replied with a weary huff. “Though it was the last of my vials.”

“Then come,” Iosefka urged softly, ushering him into the chamber as she swung the door shut. Moving toward her shelves, where glass and steel gleamed beneath lamplight, she set about retrieving fresh phials of the blessed, healing blood.

“Thank you… I am in your debt,” Arianna whispered, her voice soft but steady as she stepped toward the assassin.

Gops inclined his head, the faintest shadow of weariness tugging at his features beneath the brim of his tricorn cap. “Perhaps we can attempt that conversation again,” the cleric murmured, his tone measured, “this time without interruption. Beginning with Mister Smith… and this ‘Tax Collector.’”

Arianna’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise betraying her composure. That he had pieced together so much on his own, likely gleaned from the sharpshooter whose life he had ended, made her breath catch for an instant. A quiet exhale slipped through her nose as she brushed a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear, resuming her poise.

“Mister Eugene Smith is, indeed, our employer,” she confessed. “While I manage the house and its presentation, he keeps the books. Client records, finances, all of it.”

“I imagine he would not leave such records lying about in the parlour,” Gops said.

“Quite right. None are permitted to see them without his presence,” Arianna confirmed. “As for this Tax Collector… I know neither his true name, nor his business, nor his purpose. Only that he is a close associate of Mister Smith.”

Gops gave a slow nod. “So I see…”

It was then that Iosefka returned, her steps soft upon the wooden floor. In her hands glinted three slender metal syringes, each fitted with a sliver of glass that revealed the liquid within, two filled with the familiar crimson, and one, distinct, of pale gold.

“Here,” the doctor said, extending them toward the assassin. “I have taken the liberty of preparing something stronger. This one is mine, refined far beyond what you will find elsewhere.”

Gops held her gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between them, before he slipped the needles into his belt with deliberate care before inclining his head. “I will be sure to put it to good use.”

“Hopefully not too soon,” Iosefka answered, her tone softer now. Her eyes drifted to Arianna. “Madame, should your residence be compromised, I would gladly petition the Healing Church to grant you shelter.”

The courtesan’s lips curved faintly, though her reply carried a tired weight. “A very generous offer, Doctor, but unnecessary. I have a private dwelling of my own elsewhere. With all that has transpired, I would rather remain hidden there for a time, if I may.”

“As long as you are not seen,” Gops muttered, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“You have my word,” Arianna assured.

The assassin shifted, his gaze returning to Iosefka, the gravity of his duty pressing back into his voice. “Then Old Yharnam shall be our next stop.”

“Let us not delay any further,” Iosefka affirmed.

Time passed beneath a sky that never brightened. The clouds hung heavy over Yharnam, and beneath their cover, Gops and Iosefka made their descent through the lower streets of Cathedral Ward. Their steps were measured, careful, ensuring neither watchful eyes nor lurking shadows trailed them. At last, they slipped into the silent cathedral whose sanctity had long since withered, the place that concealed the hidden way into Old Yharnam. Down creaking rafters and weathered ladders, they descended, their passage swallowed by the dark. Gops reached for the hand lantern hanging by his belt and flicked it open, the small flame burning defiantly against the gloom. He did not need its light, for his senses had long been sharpened beyond such mortal crutches, but Iosefka did, and he wordlessly kept their path lit for her.

The quiet pressed heavily around them until the doctor finally broke it. “So,” she said, her voice hushed, “how was it you uncovered Mister Smith… and this so-called Tax Collector? Did Deathwish- or Claire, I should say… Did she yield?”

Gops paused at the foot of a rafter, pinching the brim of his plumed tricorn cap between the tips of his clawed fingers before settling it firmly back upon his head. His voice was low when it came. “She did not. Nor did I need her to.”

Iosefka raised a brow, the unspoken question clear.

“It is something I discovered not long after I became moon-scented,” the assassin continued at length. “When I take a life… if I will it so, I can glimpse into their memories. See the pieces they carried with them.”

The doctor faltered in her step, surprise flashing across her face. “That… I did not expect.”

“Few would,” Gops muttered, lowering his voice even further as his eyes swept the shadows, though he knew well they were far removed from prying ears. “Only Bruce, and the heads of the Church, know of this. And now… you.”

“I did not mean to pry,” Iosefka said quickly, almost apologetically.

The assassin shook his head. “No. You told me once that the Dream fascinated you. Consider this my thanks. For Arianna, and for today.”

The doctor’s expression softened. “I am glad to be of some service. Though you should give yourself more credit. What you did today made an impression on her.”

Right as they reached another ladder, Gops gestured for her to descend first. Iosefka obeyed, steadying herself rung by rung until she landed upon the lower floor. She looked up just in time to see the assassin slide down the rails with effortless ease, avoiding the steps altogether. His boots struck the ground softly, his gaze meeting hers with practised calm.

“I am only doing my job,” he said flatly.

Iosefka folded her arms lightly, green eyes studying him. “I may be a doctor, but I am not oblivious to such peculiarities. There were… easier ways you could have dealt with Claire. Crueller, swifter ways. Yet you endured for Arianna's safety, even at risk to yourself.” She allowed herself a small, almost proud smile. “That is not the mark of a man who endangers others. Quite the opposite of what the Captain spat about you.”

A flicker of amusement, tinged with weariness, touched Gops’ face, though it faded quickly. “I am not surprised Walkinshaw wasted no time dressing me down in my absence. What did he say this time?”

“It was before you arrived this morning,” Iosefka admitted. “He called your methods ‘a danger to Yharnam.’ Claimed you risked the lives of others to reach your quarry.” She shook her head slightly, still in disbelief after what she had witnessed. “If only he had seen you today.”

“That,” Gops said with a faint scoff, a ghost of irony tugging at his mouth, “is the paradox, Iosefka. My work is meant to be unseen, and unheard. Much like myself.”

Their words dwindled into silence as the descent ended at last. The final ladder gave way to an abandoned hall, its stones damp with age and neglect. In the centre flickered the pale glow of a Hunter’s lantern, its light clinging desperately to the dark. To its left loomed the sealed double doors, the threshold into Old Yharnam. Standing vigil beside them was a lone figure, robed in the white garb of the Church. His frame was lean but sturdy, his right sleeve pinned neatly against his side where an arm once had been. The White Church hunter inclined his head in greeting, bowing lightly toward Iosefka before addressing Gops.

“Ah, you arrive at last,” Bruce said, his voice calm but weary with the long watch. “Jozef has not passed through. That means he still lingers within Old Yharnam.”

“Understood.” Gops’ reply was clipped, businesslike. His brown eyes fixed on the great doors before turning back to Bruce. “Where was it you lost sight of him, when you first tailed him?”

“Lloyd Street, if you recall,” Bruce answered promptly.

“The lower echelon,” Gops murmured, sifting through memory. He rarely trod the ruins of that forsaken district, but the name alone conjured a dim map in his mind.

With a brief nod exchanged between the two, Gops stepped forward. Planting both hands upon the ancient wood, he pressed his weight against the doors. They groaned as they yielded, opening wide with slow resistance, until the maw of Old Yharnam yawned before them.

The air that spilled through was thick with ash and char, choking with the scent of ruin. Streets stretched into shadow, littered with pyres and the twisted remnants of crucifixes where beasts had been strung and burned. Corpses lay in heaps, some still human in shape, others unrecognisable beneath the grotesque swelling of the scourge. Though the flames upon the bonfires smouldered low, their smoke drifted heavy across the streets like a curtain, veiling what stalked beyond. From the distance came the guttural chorus of growls and howls, bestial voices echoing through the hollow bones of the city.

“Perhaps you should handle this one…” Iosefka murmured, her voice quiet but edged with unease as she peered past his shoulder.

“Probably for the best…” Gops’ words came with a steady calm, though his eyes softened when they met hers. “Do not worry. With any luck, I will be back before curfew. But, knowing Jozef, I cannot promise it. Should things complicate, expect me by dawn.”

Her lips pressed faintly, as if she resisted the urge to say more. “I understand… Please, do be careful.” The words left her softly, almost reluctant, as though she wished the parting were not necessary.

“I will,” he assured her, before turning to Bruce. “Before you go.”

From one of the pouches at his belt, Gops withdrew a folded handkerchief, pale linen stiff with dried blood. He extended it to the one-armed hunter, a grim token, yet proof of his work completed.

“You may inform Her Excellency the deed is done,” the assassin said evenly. “I will return with a full report.”

Bruce accepted the stained cloth with solemn care, his single hand closing firmly around it. A rare smirk flickered across his lips. “Ah… Too long since we received some good news.”

“Safety and peace,” Gops murmured, his customary farewell, before turning his gaze once more to the ruins that waited beyond the threshold.

The parting words hung faintly in the stale air before he was finally alone. Alone with Old Yharnam.

Gops slipped into the city’s carcass with the quiet of a shadow, his footfalls muted against stone long blackened by ash. He had walked these streets before, more than once, and the memory of them came back not as images but as sensations, such as the acrid bite of smoke, the weight of silence punctured by bestial howls, and the sense of eyes watching from ruin and rafters. The cleric moved with practised ease, careful to skirt the main thoroughfares where prowling beasts hunted and to remain beyond the sightlines of the retired hunter who still haunted the clocktower above like a vulture.

In his clawed left hand, he kept Ludwig’s rifle unfolded, the weapon angled low but ready, while Gops’ other arms of death slept sheathed at his side. His path was deliberate, weaving through obscure alleyways and sunken passages until at last the city fell away beneath him and he reached the lower quarter.

The street Bruce had spoken of stretched out before him, being empty, forgotten, and suffocated in filth. Rubbish choked the alleyway, the rot of old Yharnamites lingering still in stains upon the stone. Gops walked its length in silence, eyes narrowed, his mind measuring the geometry of every shadow. At the far end lay nothing but a dead wall, yet instinct told him otherwise. The Church assassin ran gloved fingertips along the brickwork, feeling for imperfections, his lantern light grazing the crumbling mortar, until he felt a subtle shift beneath his touch. A loose brick.

Folding Ludwig’s rifle with a flick of his wrist, he secured it against the back of his waist belt. Then, with the precision of a surgeon, he worked his clawed fingertips beneath the edge of the brick and pried it free. Within the hollow, a small iron switch gleamed faintly, its mechanism tethered to unseen gears behind the wall. Reaching in and pressing the contraption, a low groan echoed through the alley as stone shifted. Dust shivered loose, and the wall beside him trembled, only to then swing ajar on hidden hinges, revealing a narrow stair of only a few steps. At its foot stood a wooden door, weathered but sturdy, with a hand-painted sign nailed above its frame.

Loose Kegs.

Gops exhaled through his nose, the faintest curl of irony tugging at his mouth. “Very subtle.”

The door creaked inward with a faint jingle, the sound far too quaint for a place hidden behind stone and shadow. Gops stepped across the threshold, his eyes narrowing as he drank in the room. Wooden walls darkened by age enclosed a modest bar; scattered stools leaned at crooked angles, a pool table lay abandoned beneath a haze of dust, darts clung askew to a board, and empty bottles cluttered the corners like forgotten trophies. The air smelled of stale drink and charred wood, an echo of Yharnam’s taverns before the scourge. Yet beneath it all lingered something older, the ghost of the Oto Workshop, being smaller, stripped of weapons, its kegs no longer brimmed with powder but with spirits.

“Who the hell invited ye?”

The voice cracked the stillness, raspy and aged, yet iron-bound. From the shadows stepped a woman clad simply in a shirt and trousers. Her hair was a full crown of grey, her face crosshatched with scars that whispered of old battles. In her hands, she cradled a cane, holding it not as a support but as though it were a rifle. With a flick of hidden gears, the end snapped open, revealing the dark eye of a concealed barrel.

Gops raised both arms slowly, almost mockingly, his tone dry when he answered. “Only my pal, Jozef.”

Her lips curled with scorn. “Even at the lowest depths of drink, he’d sooner plant my boot up his arse than invite ye here.” The makeshift rifle stayed trained on him, unwavering.

“A lovely sentiment,” Gops murmured, unfazed, “but believe me when I say I want as little trouble as you do. I am only here to ask him a few questions.”

By the counter, a man hunched on a stool with his back to them. He did not stir until that moment, when he glanced sidelong at the woman and gave the faintest, reluctant nod. She clicked her weapon shut, the hidden barrel folding neatly away as the cane resumed its guise. Planting its end against the floor, she leaned on it with a weary weight.

“Well, he ain’t here,” she said flatly. “So ye can bugger off.”

Gops’ eyes narrowed, the faintest twitch tugging the corner of his mouth. He moved forward, steps deliberate, his voice low and edged. “I am here on Healing Church business. If you would rather not cooperate, I can just as easily walk back and tell them about this little hideaway. Somehow, I doubt legalities are your strong suit.”

The woman exhaled slowly, a sound more tired than intimidated. She laid her cane against the counter, then pressed both scarred palms upon its wood and leaned forward, staring him down with her one good eye.

“And I told ye…” she growled, “he ain’t here.”

Gops did not stop, since his boots clicked against the floorboards, slow and steady, each step peeling the silence tighter around the room. The woman’s glare followed him, but she did not lift her weapon.

“Curious,” he said, his tone measured, almost conversational. “You hide yourselves beneath Yharnam’s bones, disguise your little den behind gears and brickwork, keep watch with contraptions that masquerade as canes… Hell, this place is called Loose Kegs. Yet you expect me to believe Jozef is not here?”

He reached the bar, planting his right gloved hand upon the counter beside her.

“I am not buying it,” the cleric whispered.

The lady’s jaw tightened. “Nothing more than a damned fool, aren’t ye?”

“Perhaps…” He tilted his head, studying her with eyes that betrayed no warmth. “But I am also an assassin, and assassins sniff out lies the way beasts sniff out blood.” His clawed hand flexed faintly, the metal tips glinting. “So I shall ask again. Nicely. Where is Jozef?”

The woman’s lips parted as if to spit a retort, but the man at the counter shifted first. He turned slowly on his stool, revealing a gaunt, brown-eyed face framed by a tangle of long, dark curly hair with streaks of grey. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up to the elbow, baring forearms corded with wiry muscle and dusted in dark hair. His trousers, black and worn from long years of use, tucked neatly into the scarred leather of his boots. The man’s voice was hoarse, his words reluctant, but they cut through the tension like a knife.

“He’s here.”

The woman’s head snapped toward him, anger flashing across her scarred features. “Damnit, ye don’t just-”

“It’s fine, Edna,” the man murmured again, his voice low, calm, almost lazy as his palm toyed with the dregs of his drink. “Besides, he’s right about one thing. Them dogs can sniff out bullshit a mile away… especially Church dogs.”

Edna let out a sharp scoff, half at her companion’s remark, half in raw disdain aimed at the assassin standing across the tabletop.

“So… it is you,” Gops said, his tone almost casual as he shifted his gaze from the man to the woman. “I never thought I would have the chance to catch up with you lot again.” His eyes traced the burn marks etched into her skin. “The scars were a bit of a dead giveaway.”

Edna’s frown deepened, unamused and clearly unsettled.

“And I already know you, too, Alan. Old Hunter of the glory days,” the cleric added, his voice settling into the calm, measured cadence of one who sizes up a long-time opponent. “Even after all these years, the only neat part about you is your moustache.”

Alan tilted his cup, finishing the last of his drink with a practised smack of his lips. “Have your fill,” the former Keg said. “’Cause you ain’t gon’ see it any clearer with black eyes.”

Gops let the humour die on his tongue, lowering his mock enthusiasm as he got to the point. “Listen. I do not want to be here. You do not want me here. I only want Jozef. After that, we leave. No trouble, no theatrics.”

“That’s too fuckin’ bad,” Alan said, his tone flat, almost bored. “Last we did anything for the Church left a whole city scorched. All for nothin’.”

Gops’ eyes narrowed, his scarred brow furrowing as his patience frayed. “Are you going to help, or just rehearse old grudges?”

Alan’s lips twisted in a half-smile. He pushed back from the stool, rising to his full height. From the corner of the bar, barely visible in the dim light, he lifted the haft of a hunter axe from the floor, tapping it sharply against the boards. “What are you gon’ do?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Butter me up with them knives?”

Gops’ eyes flicked toward the trick weapon, then back to the man. A slow exhale left him, a faint edge of insult in his tone. “Can Powder Kegs do anything else besides drink and fight?”

The insult barely left Gops’ lips before Alan’s moustache twitched in fury. The former Keg’s hand shot forward, faster than his staggering gait suggested, and the knuckles of his fist crashed against Gops’ jaw with a crack that echoed through the hollow barroom. The assassin staggered half a step, head snapping with the blow, but his balance held, for he did not fall. Instead, the cleric straightened, slowly dragging his gloved thumb across his lip as though testing for blood that was not there. His scarred brow arched, not in anger, but in faint, amused disbelief.

It was then that the axe came down in a savage arc. Gops sidestepped, slipped inside its reach, and drove a sharp elbow into Alan’s ribs. The strike landed clean, but Alan barely flinched. A grunt, perhaps, but no more than one might give at a bothersome shove.

“Pathetic,” Alan rasped through his teeth, swinging the axe sideways. The assassin ducked low, his hand snapping out to shove the weapon wide, wood and steel clanging off a table. He rose smoothly, forcing a knee into Alan’s stomach. The impact forced air from the man’s chest, but Alan only bared his teeth, laughter bursting out alongside the pain.

“Oh come on,” he growled, yanking the axe back.

Gops’ fists and knees struck with practised precision at his temple, ribs, and gut. Each blow found its mark, but Alan absorbed them as though he were built of stone and scar tissue. The man had survived the Powder Kegs’ own creations, the scourge of fire and blood, and whatever remained of him was far beyond the measure of even a common beast hunter. Another swing came, before Gops caught the haft, twisted, and shoved; however, Alan hardly budged. Instead, old Keg wrenched the weapon back with raw strength, pulling the assassin closer before ramming his forehead against him. Bone cracked against bone, sending Gops staggering back with his vision swimming.

Alan grinned wide, moustache wet with spit and blood. “What’s the matter, dog? Not gon’ bare them fangs?”

Still, Gops’ hands stayed empty, with his expression a calm mask of discipline even as bruises began to darken beneath his tanned skin. The assassin circled, light on his feet, while Alan advanced with the strength of a true Old Hunter, the lumbering power of a beast in man’s flesh. Each time Gops struck, Alan endured. Each time Alan struck, the assassin felt the weight of a brute’s fury, crushing, relentless, and ever closer to breaking through restraint.

Edna leaned forward on her cane, the gears within whirring faintly, with her good eye flashing between the two men. “Alan, he’ll kill ye if you push ‘em. Stop this!”

Nevertheless, Alan only roared, rushing forth with unrelenting haste. “Not till the fuckin’ dog bites back!”

The assassin’s back slammed the wall, splinters biting into the cloth of his attire as Alan’s forearm crushed into his throat. Breath fled his lungs in a rasp, vision blurring with pressure and pain. Blood streamed hot from his nose, running over his lips as his jaw clenched against the strain.

“Fuckin’ shit!” Alan spat, his voice raw with fury. “Think we haven’t heard of you and that bitch doctor prancin’ around the big city catchin’ yer tails? Worthless sacks of shit, you clerics!”

Gops’ eyes burned, half-lidded but seething. His words were dragged between his teeth.
“Do not… call her that.”

Alan sneered, pressing harder. “Didn’t realise you were the bitch of the bitch.”

A headbutt cracked against Gops’ skull, knocking his plumed tricorn loose. It clattered to the floorboards as the assassin’s head dropped forward, dazed and bloodied. Alan gave him no chance to recover, wrenching him free from the wall and flinging him across the bar. Gops struck the pool table, wood shattering beneath the impact, before crashing to the ground in a heap. Alan seized him by the boot. With terrifying strength, the former Powder Keg swung him bodily, slamming him against wall, floor, and timber in savage succession. Each blow rattled through the assassin’s frame, blood flecking his lips as his body was whipped around like a doll in the hands of a giant. Finally, Alan hurled him face-down against the ground, where he lay limp and battered, his breath ragged.

Dragging him back by the leg, Alan hauled him toward the counter like a hunter bringing in his kill. “Look at you now,” he spat, breath steaming with exertion. “The Church’s best mutt, broken at my feet.”

However, Edna’s eyes widened, her face paling as she caught something Alan missed. A harsh rasp of steel on wood grated through the air. Alan tugged again, only to find resistance, with his prize refusing to move.

He looked back, only to realise Gops was not finished.

The assassin’s left gauntlet had dug into the floorboards, the clawed talons screeching as they raked deep furrows through the wood in defiance. The assassin’s body remained low, shoulders trembling under the strain, yet he refused to be dragged further. Blood smeared his lips, his breath harsh and wet, but his eyes remained alive and unyielding. Alan snarled, jerking harder on the boot, but the assassin’s arms held fast, muscles straining against the pull. The wood groaned around the steel claws, refusing to let go. Slowly, with a guttural exhale, Gops lifted his head, his scarred brow shadowed by the loose and messy strands of his dark hair, peppered with grey strands.

Alan released his leg with a growl, only to seize Gops by the waist. With monstrous strength, he tore him free of the gouged floorboards and heaved him across the room. The assassin’s body struck the wall with a crack, rattling the timbers and shuddering the lantern light, while dust rained down from the rafters. For a moment, the cleric sagged there, blood trailing from his mouth, his ribs aching with every shallow breath. Slowly, he pushed off from the wall, finding his stance again. His gloved hand came up to wipe the red from his lips, smearing it across the stubble of his jaw. His brown eyes narrowed, hard and cold.

It was then when metal hissed, as Gops’ left gauntlet split open with a flick of his wrist, the concealed blade sliding forth with a wicked gleam, born from its sheath beneath his forearm. From his right sleeve, another fang of steel emerged, sliding from the hidden mechanism buried under the cloth, jutting cleanly past his glove’s slit and extending from his palm. He rarely drew both, and rarely needed to; however, now, the Church’s hound had bared his fangs in full. Gops would not hold back any longer.

Alan bellowed, hefting his axe to charge, but Gops surged with renewed ferocity. He pivoted aside at the last instant, swift as a shadow, and his left blade drove home, stabbing deep into the old hunter’s right shoulder. Before Alan could roar, the second fang swept low, slicing across his thigh.

The axe slipped from Alan’s grasp, crashing to the floorboards with a heavy clang; yet Gops did not relent. The left blade retracted with a metallic snap, the gauntlet folding closed. In its place, his clawed hand clenched into a brutal fist. The cleric swung hard, the steel protrusions on his knuckles tearing into Alan’s scarred face. Blood sprayed from the impact, the old Powder Keg staggering back with a grunt, his grin finally faltering. The room, thick with smoke and dust, now rang with the sound of steel and bone meeting in earnest.

Alan reeled back, clutching his bleeding shoulder, but the assassin pressed forward like a shadow that refused to be shaken. Gops did not give him space to recover, as his right blade flashed upward, nicking across Alan’s forearm as the man tried to raise a guard, then slashed low again at his side. The old Keg snarled in pain, stumbling, his strength still monstrous but his movements faltering under the precision of the Church assassin. Another strike followed when Gops’ left gauntlet blade thrust in, burying itself into Alan’s gut before tearing free. The Powder Keg wheezed, the wind driven from his lungs, his body buckling.

Gops followed through with merciless efficiency. He retracted his left blade once more before his gauntleted fist crashed into Alan’s jaw, the steel protrusions tearing fresh gashes through scarred flesh. A second strike drove into his ribs, forcing him down to a knee. A third hammered his temple, sending blood spraying against the counter’s edge. Alan tried to rise, attempting to reach for the axe that lay discarded on the floor, but Gops was faster. The cleric’s boot slammed down atop the haft, pinning it in place, while both blades crossed beneath the hunter’s chin, bloodied steel pressing at his throat.

Alan’s chest heaved, blood dripping freely from his wounds. His wild grin had twisted into a grimace, sweat beading in the lines of his scarred face. The Church assassin, though bloodied and battered himself, loomed steady above him, breathing harsh but unwavering, his eyes sharp as cut glass. The restraint was gone, and the Church’s hound had sunk his teeth deep, and he would not let go.

“He’s had enough!” Edna’s voice finally cut through the tense silence that hung over the bar. Though moments ago she had treated the cleric with sharp disrespect, the sheer brutality of the fight and the sudden downfall of the old Keg rekindled the instinctive intimidation she felt toward the Church assassin.

Gops looked up, huffing through his nose, letting no words escape. With a practised flick of his wrist, he tugged on the cable coiled around the rings of his smaller finger. The mechanisms beneath his forearm clicked and shifted, and both blades slid smoothly back into their concealed housings. Rising, he stood tall, bloodied and bruised yet unbroken, looming over the wounded Alan, who groaned weakly on the floor. Then, a sudden echo of footsteps drew both Gops’ and Edna’s attention toward the upper floor. A look passed between them, sharp and knowing, before the door behind the counter creaked open.

Jozef appeared at last, his hair dishevelled and eyes wide, but clear-headed, bearing no trace of a drunken haze. The Keg froze, taking in the scene: Alan sprawled across the floor, slashed and bloodied; Gops standing over him, battered but unbowed; and the chaos of overturned furniture and splintered wood around them.

“Jozef…” Gops panted, his breath harsh but steady. “You are coming with me. To the Healing Church.”

The man’s gaze flicked first to Alan, then to Edna, who remained frozen, her cane clutched tightly. Finally, his eyes met Gops’. He exhaled slowly, a mixture of resignation and wary calculation lining his features.

“This the kind of treatment I should expect with ye?” he muttered.

“First. He started it,” Gops replied, each word deliberate. “Second. Nothing will happen if you merely comply.”

Jozef’s shoulders slumped slightly. “No matter…” His voice was low, carrying the weight of years spent on the run, of schemes and skirmishes that had left them both tired and worn. “Ye and I… we’ve been at it for years. I’m through fightin’.”

“That makes two of us,” Gops said, his tone flat yet resolute.

“What is it that ye want from me, mate…?” Jozef asked at last, his voice weary, like someone too tired to pretend anymore.

Gops furrowed his brow, arms crossing over his chest, since the man’s ignorance caught him off guard. “I have questions to ask… about the murder.”

Jozef blinked. “Murder-?” His gaze snapped toward the assassin, sharp and startled. “What murder?”

“Lindsey. The girl you were beating in a drunken stupor just days ago,” Gops said coldly, his voice flat with accusation.

Jozef’s pupils dilated, the colour draining from his face. Horror flickered across his features, mirrored in Edna’s stiffening frame and even Alan’s grimace from where he sat bleeding on the floor.

“What…? No…. No, no, no- I was here-” Jozef stammered, hands half-raising in denial.

“It does not look good when a girl you were slapping around ends up dead two nights later,” Gops pressed, his scarred brow tightening.

“Lindsey’s… dead?” Jozef’s eyes wavered to the floor, then darted back to Gops, frantic and desperate. “Gops- I’m a walkin’ pile o’ shite, I’ll own that, but I didn’t do it. I swear it on me blood, I was here the whole time. You gotta believe me.”

“He was here…” Alan groaned, moustache twitching as he clutched at the gash in his side. His voice rasped, but the words carried weight, addressing the cleric properly, especially since their fight. “That’s the fuckin’ truth, assassin.”

“See?” Jozef added quickly, grasping at the lifeline.

Edna’s voice finally cut through the haze. “We’d done our fair share of killin’ that day,” she muttered, her tone low, bitter. “No Keg in their right mind would’ve had the urge to kill again.” She meant Old Yharnam, as the smoke and fire still haunted her voice.

Gops’ eyes narrowed. “Alan spoke of my investigation,” he said slowly, trying to unravel the knot. “Yet you… did not even know about the murder?”

“Gah… fuckin’ hell…” Alan’s groan shifted into a growl, the words spilling hot with frustration. “Aye, we knew you were on some wild goose chase, but not for a fuckin’ murder!”

All eyes turned toward him. Even Gops paused, caught off guard by the old Keg’s sudden outburst.

“Jozef’s been hidin’ in Yharnam ‘cause Edna’s sister’s been missin’ for goddamn weeks, and none o’ you cleric fucks gave a shit to lift a finger.” Alan’s bloodshot gaze burned toward Gops, searing with venom. “And now… Now! You’ve the nerve to crawl out from yer gilded pews only when some other girl turns up dead?”

Edna lowered her gaze at that, her scarred face growing grim. The admission hung heavy in the stale air, smothering the room into silence. Even Gops faltered, his mind turning over the truth Alan had flung in his face. He opened his mouth to respond, but the soft ring of the bar’s front doorbell cut him off. Every head turned, while the former Kegs shared quick, uneasy glances; however, Gops’ eyes sharpened, piercing the entrance, waiting.

“Evening, fellas’,” came a smooth, confident drawl, a stranger’s voice.

A man strolled into Loose Kegs as if he owned the place, with his shirt neatly tucked, beret tilted just so, trousers pressed, and polished dress shoes tapping across the warped boards. An over-shoulder satchel swayed at his side, yet he did not even look at them, for he was too busy coaxing a spark from his lighter to the cigarette already dangling from his lips.

“I got a bulgin’ coin purse for anyone who can tell me about a girl named L-”

The sentence died in his throat as his eyes lifted at last, landing directly on Gops. The air tightened while silence swelled, deafening. The man froze, cigarette still burning in his mouth, and across the room, Gops’ jaw locked, his teeth grinding. The cleric’s gut told him the truth, even before the words could form. This was him. The man Arianna had spoken of this morning.

The Church assassin’s gaze narrowed to a razor’s edge.

The man’s stare lingered a heartbeat too long on Gops, and then instinct flared in his eyes. Without a word, he spun on his heel, cigarette bouncing from his lips as his shoes scraped hard against the floorboards, lunging for the door. The bell above the entrance had not even finished ringing before Gops surged forward in swift pursuit, his boots striking the timber like rolling thunder. The assassin closed the distance in an instant, his clawed gauntlet snatching the back of the stranger’s collar just as his hand touched the doorframe. The man choked as he was yanked backward, his satchel swinging wildly. He twisted, kicking out, but Gops slammed him against the wooden paneling beside the door with a bone-jarring thud. The impact rattled the frame, dust raining down from the old beams.

“Fuck! That ain’t necessary!” the man exclaimed, voice cracking between panic and desperation. His hands clawed at Gops’ iron grip, nails scraping leather, but the assassin held fast, his bruised face set in cold resolve.

“Running the moment you see me does little to prove your innocence,” Gops growled, his voice low and sharp as a blade’s edge. His other hand pressed firmly against the man’s chest, pinning him to the wall, the faint outline of the retracted hidden blade still felt beneath the glove.

The stranger writhed, but the assassin’s weight crushed any hope of escape. Edna and Alan watched from the counter in heavy silence, while Jozef stood half-shadowed by the doorway to the backroom, his expression unreadable save for a furrowed brow. The cigarette, still burning between the man’s teeth, had fallen to the floor, its ember smouldering against the warped boards.

“Alright, alright- Let us… let us talk, eh?” he squirmed against the wall, chest heaving under Gops’ palm.

His protests filled the bar, but no one moved to intervene. It was then that Jozef, standing in the half-shadow near the backroom door, made his choice. His eyes darted from Alan’s bloodied frame, to Edna’s tense silence, to the assassin pinning the newcomer like a nailed beast. A flicker of panic crossed his face, the kind that had nothing to do with guilt, but everything to do with fear of a noose. Without a word, Jozef slipped backward into the dark corridor. His boots struck the steps with hurried weight as he fled through the back of the bar, vanishing before anyone could call him to account.

“Damnit…” Gops murmured under his breath, jaw tightening at the sound of retreating steps; however, he did not move, for he had a more certain lead caught in his hand. The cleric’s gaze locked coldly on the man before him. “Sure, Mister ‘Tax Collector’. We can talk. In the Healing Church.”

“Fuck’s sakes, man-” the stranger cursed, thrashing again, but the assassin cut him short.

With a firm shove, Gops spun him away from the wall and drove him forward, the clawed gauntlet still hooked like an iron leash into the back of his collar, while the other hand retrieved his plumed tricorn off the ground. The man stumbled toward the door, his beret nearly toppling from his head, satchel thumping against his hip.

“Come,” Gops commanded, his tone as unyielding as stone. “You are under arrest.”

The bells over the doorway jangled once more as the assassin marched his captive out into the smoke-veiled streets of Old Yharnam, leaving behind Edna’s grim silence and Alan’s pained groans.

The bells of the Grand Cathedral tolled faintly in the distance, swallowed by the cacophony of growls and distant gunfire as the hunt raged through the city. Gops’ boots struck firmly against the final steps, his captive stumbling ahead of him like a pet on a leash. A quick glance at his pocket watch revealed there were still a few hours until dawn would cut the night short, but the assassin’s focus shifted at once when he spotted the gathering at the cathedral’s entrance.

Clerics, both White and Black Church hunters, all clustered together beneath the looming doors. Torches burned low, their flames licking weakly at the smoke, throwing jittering shadows across the stone. The way they huddled, the grim unease in their posture, spoke of something ill. Gops’ eyes narrowed. Without a word, he pulled the captive to a halt by the nearest lamppost. Drawing rope from the back of his belt, he bound the man’s wrists against the iron shaft with swift, practised knots.

“Move, and you will regret I ever spared your life,” Gops threatened, giving the rope a final tug before turning his back on him.

The captive muttered a curse but dared not pull against the rope.

The assassin climbed further, each step heavy with unease as he neared the band of clerics. Then he saw it, the smear of blood over the cobbles, spattered in a crude trail. The stench of iron thickened the closer he came, and one Black Church hunter doubled over, retching into the street. Another covered his mouth with a trembling hand, unable to bear the sight. Gops pressed on. His expression darkened, eyes narrowing as he shouldered through the cluster. No hesitation, no pause, only the inevitability of what he knew he would find.

And then he saw.

The corpse lay sprawled on the cold stones before the cathedral doors, unearthed from the very earth as if clawed free from a shallow grave. The body’s ruin was a mirror to Lindsey’s, the same obscene burial beneath the stone, the same posture, and the arm stretched rigidly skyward in frozen plea.

But what froze the blood in the assassin’s veins was not the grotesque familiarity of the death. It was her face. The features were unmistakable, pale even in the flickering torchlight, hair dishevelled, the lips parted in eternal silence.

“Iosefka…” The name escaped Gops in a hushed, horrified breath. His lips parted wider, but no further words came, only the taut silence of disbelief gripping his throat.

For the first time in years, the assassin’s steady composure faltered, his gaze fixed unblinking on the woman he thought alive not hours before.

Chapter Text

Gops jolted awake, the sudden tilt of his head breaking him from the thin veil of sleep that threatened to take him. His vision blurred a moment before settling on the damp stone before him, the weight beneath his eyes pulling his face into something hollow and severe. The bruises from his fight in Old Yharnam still ached deep in the bone, but no pain matched the sickness that gnawed at his heart since the night’s discovery. The tunnels beneath the Grand Cathedral were cold, built for confinement, not comfort. Their stones seemed to drink the torchlight, swallowing all but the faintest glow. Here, where Yharnam’s condemned were usually forgotten, the assassin leaned against the wall with his arms folded tight across his chest, as though bracing himself against a storm only he could feel.

Iosefka’s face haunted him. Her body, discarded like a grotesque message on the Cathedral’s doorstep, played over and over whenever he blinked. For the first time in years, grief clawed its way past the armour he wore around his heart. It was the same sharp void Maria’s death had carved in him long ago, yet now it burned with a different edge. Bitterness. Anger. Whoever the killer was, they had chosen this strike not for blood alone, but for cruelty.

The sound of boots broke the silence, their echo carrying down from the stairwell above. Slow, weighted steps. Gops recognised them before he saw the man. Bruce emerged from the shadows with a sigh that belonged to a man far older than his years. His one arm still bore the weight of duty, though even that seemed close to buckling tonight.

“Her Excellency is currently meeting with the Headmistress…” Bruce’s voice was quiet, almost reverent in the hush of the tunnel.

Gops lifted his gaze, dark with unrest. “I thought she went back to the cathedral with you.” His tone was iron, but the frustration edged it raw.

“Al-Dhar,” Bruce tempered his voice, knowing well the storm he was speaking into. “Curfew had not yet taken effect. Iosefka herself insisted she return to her clinic. No one could have foreseen she’d be the target…”

Gops’ jaw tightened. He lowered his head, dragging a hand across his brow before pinching the bridge of his nose. The gesture was less fatigue than an effort to steady the fire simmering within him. “What of the others?” the assassin asked, voice dry as sand.

Bruce exhaled through his nose, his words weighed with the heaviness of loss. “The blood you saw on the cathedral steps… it belonged to five Black Church hunters. None of them survived. Whoever did this made certain their work stayed hidden until the body was meant to be found.”

The silence that followed pressed hard against the walls. The distant drip of water echoed faintly, but it was Gops’ stillness that filled the space, like a bowstring drawn taut, waiting to snap.

“The Blood Mason… that is what he calls himself,” Gops said at last, his voice low and bitter, as though the very name curdled on his tongue.

Bruce’s brow furrowed, his one good hand tightening into a fist at his side. “Is that what you discovered in Deathwish’s memories?”

“Her real name was Claire,” Gops replied, his eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the damp stones of the tunnel. “But yes… and I am certain the deaths of every cleric were by the hand of the Bloody Crow.”

“The Vileblood you encountered,” Bruce murmured, not as a question, but as a grim acknowledgement.

Gops gave a slow, reluctant nod. The images returned to him with merciless clarity, with how the cobbled street was slick with blood. Clerics he had known, brothers and sisters who had marched beneath the Healing Church’s banner, dragged away as mangled corpses. Some had been torn apart, their heads and limbs absent as if they were left behind as trophies. Others bore slashes too precise to be mistaken for beast claws. These were the marks of a duelist, a predator of unmatched skill.

The assassin’s mind drifted unwillingly back to Cainhurst. The frozen halls, the echoes of steel, and the brief clash that had left him on his knees. The Bloody Crow had been swift, efficient, utterly merciless. Gops had not just been beaten, he had been made to feel small. Powerless. And now, the enemy had reached into the heart of Yharnam itself, dragging his failure behind him like a shadow.

His chest grew heavy, his breath drawing shorter. Could it have been… fear?

“Al-Dhar.”

The name cut through the fog like a blade. Bruce’s voice, steady and grave, pulled him back. Gops blinked twice, focusing again on the dim torchlight of the tunnel. He did not answer. The weight in his gaze was enough, his brown eyes ringed in exhaustion and shadow.

Bruce did not press him. Instead, he lifted his bearded chin toward the iron door at the end of the hall, its frame swallowed in shadow. “I received word that the Captain has placed our prisoner in the interrogation cell.”

A long silence stretched between them. At last, Gops pushed himself off the wall, his coat brushing the damp stone as he straightened. The stiffness in his movements betrayed his weariness, but the spark in his eyes remained.

“About time,” he muttered.

The pair of clerics strode down the narrow hall, their boots echoing against damp stone, until Bruce produced a ring of iron keys. The locks groaned with a metallic click as he opened the door at the far end. Inside, the interrogation chamber was a suffocating box of stale air and shadow. A table of implements, bearing iron pliers, knives, ropes, and other less recognisable devices, rested beneath the torchlight, alongside the tools laid out. At the centre, bound to a wooden chair with wrists lashed tight, sat the man known only as the Tax Collector.

The sound of a meaty crack cut the air as Captain Walkinshaw’s gauntleted fist struck the prisoner’s cheek. The man’s head snapped to the side, blood flecking his lip, the echo still hanging heavy as Gops and Bruce entered.

“Captain Walkinshaw!” Bruce barked, his voice sharp with surprise, while tempered enough to address his superior. “Her Excellency expressly ordered Al-Dhar to conduct this interrogation. Violence has no sanction, not until guilt is proven.”

Walkinshaw turned with deliberate calm, withdrawing his fist as though he had never struck at all. His voice was low, tempered, but carried a biting edge. “Greetings, Brother.” His gaze slid to Gops. “Assassin.”

“Walkinshaw,” Gops returned, flat and disinterested.

“I am merely reminding our guest,” the captain muttered, brushing the prisoner’s blood from his knuckles, “that scum does not receive respect in the Healing Church.” Walkinshaw stepped aside with a sneer, allowing the others into the room as the heavy door shut behind them.

Gops advanced, his boots slow and deliberate, until he stood before the captive. The man slouched, bound tight against the chair, his eyes half-lidded with a tired defiance; whereas beneath the shadow of the assassin’s tricorn brim, his stare was unyielding.

“I want answers,” Gops said, his voice iron. “Starting with your real name.”

The prisoner let a wry smile crease his bloodied lip. “Evening, Mister Al-Dhar,” he croaked, his tone deliberately casual despite the copper taste in his mouth. “Or morning, is it? Hard to count the clocktower’s bells with the ones tolling in my skull… or was that just your bald friend here knocking ‘em loose?”

“You have yet to see the worst of me,” Walkinshaw growled, crossing his armoured arms.

“Enough,” Gops snapped, his voice a low growl that silenced both of them. He leaned in closer to the captive, his words sharp as blades. “Doctor Iosefka is dead. Five of our Church hunters, butchered.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” the Tax Collector replied, calm and steady, as though rehearsed. “You and I both know I couldn’t have. You were with me when it happened.”

“That does not absolve you,” Gops countered, his tone tightening. “You conveniently lured Mister Smith away from The Parlour just before Claire struck at Arianna, Iosefka, and myself. And afterward, trying to bribe the Kegs for information on Lindsey? Do not pretend it was chance.”

The prisoner lifted his chin, eyes glinting. “Mate, you’re looking at this all wrong. We’re not enemies here. My lads and I want to get to the bottom of this, same as you.”

“Your lads?” Gops’ eyes narrowed. “This investigation falls under the Healing Church’s authority. Alone.”

The man’s smirk returned, faint but deliberate. “I am a humble contractor. Someone pays me to dig quiet, I dig quiet. That is all.”

“Hired by whom?” Gops pressed, his words dropping like stones. “The Blood Mason?”

“The blood what?” the man stammered, though it carried more play than sincerity.

“Do not play the fool,” Gops hissed, his brow lowering like storm clouds. “Claire herself tied your alias to the Blood Mason. I know what you are.”

The captive paused, then leaned back against the chair with a sigh, feigning weariness. “Ah… now that you mention it, the name does ring a bell.” His lips curled as if mocking the weight of it. “These people love their masks. Blood-this, bloody-that. Blood, blood, blood in the city of blood. All starts to blur after a while, doesn’t it?”

“Will you get to the point?” Walkinshaw’s voice cut through the chamber, hard as steel. He stepped forward with a thin patience, the iron of his boots ringing against the floor as he loomed just behind the assassin. “This imbecile toys with us while serving murderers.”

“Actually,” the captive rasped, lips curling despite the dried blood, “I am a private contractor. Bosses aplenty-”

“Shut up!” Walkinshaw snapped, his patience snapping with it. He cast a sharp look at Gops, his face red with restrained fury. “Do you not care to know what befell Doctor Iosefka? Our fallen Brothers and Sisters? Standing around trading riddles will yield us nothing.”

“Let me handle this,” Gops grunted, voice low and edged with warning. His eyes did not waver from the prisoner’s, though irritation coiled beneath his words. He folded his arms, letting silence bear its weight before speaking again. “Your ‘lads’. Tell me where they are.”

The man gave a half-hearted shrug, his rope-bound wrists flexing against the chair. “Look, mate, I would like to help. I would. But I cannot tell you that. Last I saw ‘em, we split, and I went to find out about Lind-” His words caught mid-breath, too quick, too loose. His eyes darted.

Gops seized upon it instantly. His voice lowered, sharpened. “That brings me to the question that matters most. What business did you have with Lindsey? Was the Tax Collector collecting her debts?”

The captive scoffed. “That is just a name those folks slapped on me, yeah? I didn’t bloody choose it. Wouldn’t be much of a ‘private’ contractor if I shouted my trade in the streets, would I? My lads could be anywhere.”

“Take your best guess,” Walkinshaw muttered, the accusation heavy in his tone.

“They didn’t kill your lackeys either, if that’s what you’re clawing at,” the prisoner bit back, his snark thinly veiled beneath tension.

“Knock it off,” Gops cut between them, his voice sharp as he reclaimed the chamber’s silence. His stare locked with the captive’s, unblinking. “What could you possibly want from an innocent girl like Lindsey?”

“Innocent?” The Tax Collector’s lip curled before his tongue could stop itself. “She was a fucking thief. Why else do you think she’d be in debt?”

Gops’ brow furrowed. His words pressed like a blade against the man’s throat. “What did she steal?”

“Hell, I didn’t bother to know. Wasn’t me she stole from,” the man said, turning his head aside.

“It was from your boss, correct?” Gops countered at once.

The prisoner’s smirk faltered. He leaned back, feigning composure though his eyes betrayed unease. “Mister Al-Dhar, you’re going to get me in trouble, mate. I cannot answer any more of your questions.” He exhaled sharply, voice dipping into mock civility. “Courtesy of my profession’s policy.”

“I have had enough of this,” Walkinshaw muttered, his patience spent. With a sudden surge, he seized Gops by the shoulder and shoved him aside. The assassin staggered back a step, caught off-guard by the captain’s force.

“Out of my way!” Walkinshaw barked. “I will show you how it is done.”

He set one gauntleted hand on the backrest of the prisoner’s chair, the other curling into a stone-hard fist. Without hesitation, the angry captain drove it deep into the Tax Collector’s gut.

“Gah! Ach- What the fuck-!” the captive wheezed, doubled over as much as the bindings would allow.

“Captain-!” Bruce’s voice rose, alarmed.

“I am teaching this ignorant cur that the Healing Church is not to be trifled with!” Walkinshaw cut him off, his temper flaring. His fist swung again, striking across the man’s jaw with a crack of knuckle against bone.

“Argh!” the captive spat blood, his head lolling to the side.

Gops’ eyes narrowed sharply, before he surged forward, seizing Walkinshaw’s shoulder with both hands and wrenching him back from the chair. “What the hell do you think you are doing?” His voice thundered low but dangerous. “How is he supposed to talk if you are too busy breaking his jaw?”

Walkinshaw spun, his goatee twisting with scorn. Without answering, he shoved Gops square in the chest, a heavy, deliberate push meant as much for challenge as retaliation. The two men collided, grappling violently. Walkinshaw’s hands clawed for Gops’ throat, but the assassin shifted, twisting the larger man’s weight against him. With a sharp pivot, Gops forced him back against the cold stone wall, pinning him there as he drew back a fist, wound tight to strike, right as the door unlocked with a heavy click.

“What is going on here?”

Vicar Amelia’s voice cut through the chamber like a tolling bell, her breath cold as if she had frozen the room itself.

Bruce turned first, his eyes widening as he recognised the figures stepping through the threshold. “Your Excellency… Headmistress Audrey- and…” His words faltered, his mouth dry. “Doctor…?”

Gops’ fist lingered suspended in the air, his grip loosening on Walkinshaw’s collar. The captain too stilled, both men caught mid-grapple as their gazes lifted to the doorway. Two shadows stretched long across the floor, but it was the third figure that drew every ounce of breath from the assassin’s lungs. Fair features, her auburn hair pulled in a high ponytail, her green eyes steady even beneath the chamber’s dim light.

Even bruised and sleepless, Gops felt his chest cave in at the sight.

“…Iosefka?” he whispered, the word barely more than a breath.

Even the Tax Collector, slumped and half-conscious in his bindings, lifted his swollen face at the sight of the doctor. His bloodied lips parted in delirious confusion. “Fucking hell… am I dead?” he muttered, as if she were some ghost.

Audrey’s sharp voice cut the haze. “Your Excellency, I believe it imperative we see to the captive from here.” Her gaze flicked coldly across the ruined man and then toward the clerics present in the room before their arrival, her disapproval unspoken yet plain.

“Evidently,” Amelia replied, her composure unshaken. She turned, her white cloak swaying in the chamber’s still air. “Doctor Iosefka, please accompany Mister Al-Dhar and update him on everything, on your way out. Captain Walkinshaw, resume your patrol of the ward. Brother Bruce shall remain with us.”

The command brooked no argument.

For a fleeting moment, silence lingered, the only things echoing being the faint drip of water through stone and the captive’s ragged wheeze. Then, one by one, the clerics obeyed. Walkinshaw’s gauntleted hands clenched before he gave a curt nod and stepped past Gops, his boots thundering against the flagstones. Bruce lowered his head in quiet assent, his remaining arm folding against his chest in acknowledgement. Gops, though, lingered. His eyes held on the doctor, drinking in her form as though a breath of proof might cause her to vanish again. The Church assassin soon bowed with the others, but it was stiff and delayed, an echo of a motion, not his will. When he rose, she was already watching him.

“Iosefka…” the assassin murmured once more, testing the name on his tongue, half in disbelief.

She pursed her lips momentarily before her voice softly echoed, firm though not unkind. “Shall we?”

The Astral Clocktower tolled the first hour of dawn, its heavy chimes spilling through the vaulted emptiness of the Grand Cathedral. The sound reverberated across pillars and arches, a solemn hymn of awakening as Gops and Iosefka emerged from the narrow tunnel of the dungeons. They stepped into the main hall, its vastness illuminated by a faint blush of morning filtering through curtained glass. Clerics busied themselves in quiet routine, such as preparing sickbeds, laying out blood vials in careful rows, tending to the weak who had sought the Church’s mercy overnight. The air smelled of incense, wax, and copper; however, Gops’ gait was uneven, his boots falling slightly out of rhythm. He walked beside the doctor, though his eyes betrayed him, as he darted, measured, and glanced at her as if every step threatened to dispel her like a mirage. Iosefka, for her part, held her composure with the same poise she had always carried, though her silence was not unknowing. At last, she spoke.

“It seems I have caused a bit of a stir,” Iosefka said softly, her voice threading through the echo of the tolls. “Even I was… unsettled… to hear my own name spoken after that discovery.”

Gops lifted a scarred brow beneath the brim of his tricorn. His voice was low, a growl softened by hesitation. “So the body… was not you…”

“No.” The doctor's reply was firm, though her gaze turned away, toward the flicker of candles lining the nave. There was something withheld there, something unspoken. “Yet you saw it yourself. The uncanny resemblance. The same hair, the same features. She was dressed exactly as I do too, yet it had been the White Church attire of one of the fallen clerics… The Choir is scouring the records, searching for who she might have been. As for the others…” Her breath hitched, and for the first time, her composure faltered. “I cannot fathom the horror that befell them.”

“Iosefka-” Gops began, his voice rough.

“She looked like me,” the doctor pressed on, almost shuddering. “Exactly like me. Even the way her hair was bound. To see what the killer had intended for me… Laid out on a slab, lifeless…” Her words cracked as though the weight of them was too great.

“Iosefka.” This time, the assassin stopped, raising a hand and letting his gloved fingers brush her shoulder. She halted with him, the cathedral’s bustle drifting past as though in another world. His words were simple, yet heavy with the strain of a man who had faced death too often. “I am just glad you are not dead.”

Iosefka's eyes lingered on him, wide, searching. Then she nodded faintly, a trace of warmth returning to her voice. “Me too. Forgive me, Gops. It is all… bizarre. Eerie, beyond words.”

“I know.” His jaw tightened, the shadow of his plume hiding the furrow of his brow. “This was bolder than Lindsey’s death. A message. Left at our very doorstep.”

“That is not all,” she whispered. Her lips pursed, her expression sinking further into unease. “There was another.”

The assassin froze. “…Another body?”

“Indeed… Found in the western wing. Just beyond the cavern leading into Hemwick Forest.” Iosefka affirmed.

For a moment, Gops closed his eyes, lowering his head as though to gather his strength. His breath left him in a steady stream through his nose, measured and grim. When he looked up again, his voice was iron.

“It is what we feared, then.” His scarred brow shadowed his gaze. “Yharnam has a serial killer.”

“Gods…” Iosefka murmured, her voice low, as though the word had escaped her without thought.

A silence stretched between them, long and heavy, until Gops finally spoke. “Did the Headmistress uncover anything else from the autopsy?”

“They are still conducting further tests, wanting to be thorough,” the doctor replied, her hands folding before her as her eyes clouded with thought. “But one thing she did mention was that both bodies bore a silver cuff around the bicep, just above the arm, where it broke the surface when the rest lay buried.”

“Then we can mark that as the killer’s signature,” Gops muttered, his voice edged with bitterness. “It also means every victim was already bound to the Blood Mason, under his grasp… or control. That cuff is no mere ornament. It is a sealed contract.”

Iosefka’s eyes widened as realisation struck. “Arianna wore one.”

“I knew we should not have let her off so easily…” Gops growled under his breath, his gloved hands pressing to his hips. The faint clink of sheathed steel followed his restless pacing, boots tapping sharply against the stone as frustration coiled in his chest.

Iosefka only nodded, troubled, her gaze drifting before she forced it back to the assassin. “Gops… what in the heavens happened in that room?”

He paused, lips pressed thin, before answering. “We thought you had died.”

“But to beat that man senselessly?” Iosefka asked, disbelief breaking into her tone.

“That was not me,” Gops said sharply, meeting her green eyes with all the weight of his conviction.

“The captain, I know…” she conceded, though the unease in her voice remained. “But even so, both you and I know the prisoner will pin every blame on you. He knows you are onto him, and he will have no trouble dressing his wounds as yours when he speaks to the vicar. To them, it will be your failure, and your lack of control.”

Gops drew in a slow breath through his nose, silence pressing down on him like the vaulted ceiling above. A wry huff slipped from him at last, as though he almost found the irony cruel. For all his skill in killing, for all the ways he could think up to end a life, he had little defence against the image others painted of him. Nevertheless, beneath his brooding, the Church assassin could not help but recognise something in Iosefka that struck him. Her clarity, her sharpness of thought, her ability to piece together the dangers he overlooked. It stirred in him an admiration of respect, though Gops would never speak it aloud.

“I will… keep that in mind,” the assassin muttered, before he would eventually focus back on the matter at hand. “What of the Tax Collector’s belongings? Anything consequential?”

“That is what the Headmistress intends to discuss with him,” Iosefka replied, her tone measured. “Until we receive word from her, or the final report from the Choir’s autopsy… I suppose all we can do is wait.”

“I suppose so,” Gops muttered, the words carrying a heaviness that lingered in the space between them.

A silence followed, softer this time, and Iosefka let it stretch. She could not ignore the thought pressing at her conscience, that she had perhaps been too critical of the assassin. He bore enough weight on his shoulders without her voice added to it, and though her instinctive sharpness had come from grief and fear, it was not entirely fair to him. Hours ago, the doctor had been mourned as a corpse, her likeness unearthed at the Grand Cathedral’s doors. That kind of horror still clung to her, raw and unsettling; yet part of her sought now, in her own quiet way, to show that she did not dismiss the man so easily.

Iosefka’s eyes softened when they traced the bruises darkening his face, the dried blood stiffening his dark attire, the red flecks lodged between the ridges of his clawed gauntlet. “I know the captain did not do that to you… he bore no blood,” she murmured. “Was it Jozef?”

“Not him,” Gops replied curtly. “Alan. Alan Jones. Before you ask- No, I did not kill him, and yes… he started it.”

“The Powder Keg of old?” Iosefka breathed, surprised. “Was he not the first to be recruited by Oto?” Her voice faltered at the tail end of her thought, realising what her words implied. “And listen… I was not going to ask that.”

“Never hurts to be clear,” Gops said, dismissing it with a grunt. “But indeed. It seems the surviving Kegs are held up in a little hideout of their own. Until now, I believed Jozef to be the only one left breathing. I do not count Djura and his companion, since they seem to be enjoying retirement well enough.”

The words had barely left the assassin before a sharp pang ached through his side. Gops winced, his hand instinctively clutching at his waist as the dull throb bloomed into something fiercer. His breath hitched as he steadied himself, the mask of his composure cracking for just a moment. He had ridden too long on adrenaline, first being in Old Yharnam, then in the wake of this morning’s revelations. His mind might have been made of iron, but his body was still a vessel of blood and bone, and even the Old Blood that flowed in his veins could not erase his limits.

“Now it is kicking in…” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Old Hunters really do have the strength of beasts.”

“Please,” Iosefka urged, her voice quick with concern as she stepped closer to him. “We have time before any update arrives. Let me tend to your wounds.”

“No… it is alright,” Gops breathed, shaking his head.

“This is not a matter of question,” Iosefka’s tone sharpened, firmer now, as she searched his drawn, shadowed face. “You need rest. Look at the darkness beneath your eyes-”

“No, I meant-” Gops interrupted, lifting his gaze back to hers. “I can catch up on some sleep in the Dream. It also accelerates the healing process.”

Iosefka opened her mouth just slightly, searching for another retort, another reason to sway him, yet nothing came. Her lips closed softly, and a faint breath slipped through her nose, something that felt almost like an apology in itself. The doctor believed she had pressed him too hard earlier, and perhaps in doing so, had only driven the assassin further into his distance. A part of her, buried beneath her composure, wished she could reach for his arm, not simply to treat his wounds, but to anchor him here, with her; however, the words stayed unspoken.

Instead, Iosefka inclined her head in quiet concession. “If that truly is the case… then I suppose it may be beneficial.”

“It will be. Besides…” Gops trailed off, as if his mind was already wandering elsewhere. His gaze seemed to lose itself, drifting as though caught by a thought far beyond their dim-lit hall. Resting in the Dream would mend his body well enough, but there was another realm, another sanctuary where time bled similarly. There, if fate was merciful, he might once more find the one presence that had haunted him with longing since their parting.

“…It will only feel like a few minutes passed here, anyway,” Gops added quickly, almost as if to mask the longing behind his reasoning.

Before Iosefka could summon another word, Gops turned away, his heavy steps carrying him toward the nearest Hunter’s lantern, bearing a faint, ethereal glow that only he could perceive, standing atop the stone just inside the cathedral’s grand doorway.

“Safety and peace, Iosefka,” the assassin wished, his customary farewell spoken over his shoulder.

The doctor remained where she stood, watching the assassin recede into shadow, her breath catching as though she had run out of language altogether. Whatever words she might have offered, whether it was of caution, care, or even quiet companionship, dissolved before they could leave her tongue. Iosefka only gazed after him in silence.

The weight in her chest lingered long after his figure vanished, though whether it was relief at his survival, admiration for his resilience, or something more the doctor dared not name, she left unanswered even within herself.

Chapter Text

Within Yharnam’s earlier years, one morning bore a bloody scene in Cathedral Ward, only hours after the ringing of the last hunt had faded into silence. The cobblestones were awash in crimson, streaks and spatters where blood had seeped between the cracks. A White Church hunter lay slumped against a wall, his once-pale attire now drenched and stiffened with gore. His chest and arms were riddled with stabs and lacerations, and a vicious chunk was torn clean from his neck, as if something had bitten through with beastly savagery.

The street had been emptied of common folk, sealed under the stern watch of Black Church hunters posted at every corner. They stood guard like statues, trick weapons in hand, grim faces turned from the sight. Other White Church hunters moved in pairs about the scene, crouching low to collect blood samples, searching through drains and gutters for anything the cobblestones might yield. Overseeing it all stood Ludwig himself, the original Holy Blade and captain of the Healing Church, his towering presence unmistakable even among men and women hardened by years of the hunt. The young beast hunter who had discovered the body stood before him, answering questions with a nervous tone, sweat beading at his brow under the weight of Ludwig’s scrutiny.

From the far end of the street, another figure appeared. His gait was measured, his frame leaner than it would one day become, his face free of any notoriety and shadow of age. Gops Al-Dhar, then still a younger assassin of the Church, wore his tailor-made garb: the long, dark coat with a black cloth draped over his shoulders, trailing behind him in two narrow slivers. Embroidered across the cloth were the sigils of the Healing Church, faintly visible against the muted greys that blended almost seamlessly with the black fabric. A plumed tricorn shaded his clean-shaven features, his hair jet black beneath it.

As the Church assassin approached the cordon, one of the Black Church hunters stepped forward to bar his way. The man raised a gloved hand and pressed it firmly against the belts that ran over Gops’ chest, preventing him from passing.

“Hold. This street is restricted by order of the Healing Church,” the uniformed cleric said, his tone clipped with authority. “Only authorised beast hunters are allowed beyond this point.” His eyes narrowed, clearly not recognising the man before him.

“No, I am not a hunter,” Gops replied, raising a gloved hand toward his chest, though the motion faltered as his fingers brushed bare fabric. His lips tightened into a faint grimace as he left behind the token that would have saved him from the questioning. “I am with the Healing Church.”

“Your badge, please?” the Black Church hunter cut in, voice sharp and unimpressed by excuses.

“I… left it behind. I was called rather abruptly,” Gops admitted plainly, his voice steady, though the weight of his mistake pressed like lead in his chest.

The Black Church hunter’s brows lifted slightly, though the rest of his face remained unimpressed. “Well, until you prove otherwise, you have no business here.”

The assassin’s jaw tensed. For a heartbeat, he considered simply stepping past, but instead his voice hardened, his scarred brow furrowing as he inclined his head toward the gleam of silver his hip, hidden within its scabbard. “Is the blade not obvious enough?”

The Black Church hunter’s eyes flicked down to the sheathed silver sword, then back up to the young man’s steady gaze. The faintest shift of doubt passed through his stance.

“You should be more aware of your superiors,” came a voice from behind the Black Church hunter, being feminine, yet carrying a tempered strength.

The uniformed cleric’s hand hesitated at once, his head snapping back, while Gops himself turned slightly, his gaze shifting over his shoulder. He recognised the accent almost at an instant, foreign yet precise, before the figure revealed herself fully to be none other than the first hunter’s protégé.

Maria approached with the calm, measured stride of one who had nothing to prove, yet everything about her presence commanded attention. Tall and assured, she was clad in her full hunting attire, the finely crafted leather of her coat, lined with subtle detail that marked her as no ordinary hunter. A plumed tricorn rested atop her pale-blonde hair, tied neatly into a ponytail with black ribbon bound at the nape, alongside a few loose bangs brushing lightly against her fair cheeks. Her Rakuyo hung sheathed in her left hand, the slender dagger conjoined with the longer blade, while her right hand rested easily at her side, the Evelyn secured at the belt crossing her hips. The huntress’ green eyes flicked between two men, sharp and unyielding, and when they settled on Gops, they softened just slightly with recognition, familiarity shading her sternness. Then she turned her attention squarely upon the Black Church hunter.

“For even I know that you speak to a Church assassin,” the huntress picked up where she left off, her tone sharp as steel, leaving no room for doubt.

The uniformed cleric stiffened, his composure faltering, though he tried to mask it with a quick straightening of posture. The presence of Maria alone was enough to unnerve him, and paired with the sudden weight of the title she had spoken, he realised the misstep he had made. His gloved hand dropped away from Gops’ chest as he bowed his head slightly.

“Beg pardon,” he said, forcing his voice steady. “I am only doing my duty. Please proceed.”

The Black Church hunter stepped aside quickly, leaving the narrow passage open. Gops adjusted the fall of his dark coat below his waist belt and moved forward, though he slowed a fraction as Maria drew alongside him.

“My thanks,” Gops murmured, pitched low so no ears but hers could catch it.

“I would say we are even,” Maria replied in kind, her voice a whisper spun of iron and velvet. The faintest curl of her lips followed. “You saved me from meddling with my own ilk that night… and now I save you from yours.”

A soft scoff slipped through the assassin’s nose, though his gaze lingered on her longer than perhaps it should have. Brown eyes met green, an old tether sparking quietly to life. “We have not seen each other since Cainhurst,” the cleric said, voice hushed, “though I am glad to know I am something other than a passing memory.”

Maria’s eyes flicked back to him, their colour striking even beneath the shadow of her tricorn. “You? A passing memory? Hardly…” She turned her head, breaking the moment as she led the way forward onto the bloodied street. Still, amusement hummed faintly in her throat, as mutual, unspoken, and shared as it was. The huntress had told herself, more than once, that she ought to forget the assassin; yet Cainhurst lingered. The press of his hand at her back in the ballroom, the heat of his breath when the dance had ended, the warmth of his embrace beneath the sheets, the night that should have been folly, and yet was anything but. Even if Maria wished to sever him from memory, she could not.

And fate, it seemed, was cruel. Byrgenwerth’s attack had cut their night short, and now here they were again, the morning stinking of blood. “Although,” Maria said, her voice low with a half-hidden sigh, “I would much rather fate not keep throwing us together only to be cut short with spilled blood.”

Gops allowed himself a chuckle, small and dry, as he inclined his head. “Never a dull moment in Yharnam…”

The assassin turned again, meeting her gaze for the briefest instant, as if her words struck something deeper than he would allow to show. “Were you the one who discovered the body this morning?”

“No,” Maria answered evenly. “It was my hunting partner.”

The assassin’s brow twitched upward at the word, a subtle reaction but one not lost beneath the shadow of his hat. He said nothing of it, though the scarred line across his face pulled tighter as if it betrayed his thoughts.

“One of Gehrman’s new students,” Maria clarified, the faintest tug of amusement pulling at her tone, as if she had heard the question the cleric had not voiced. “His first hunt was put under my supervision. We stumbled across the scene at the break of dawn. He is answering Ludwig’s inquiries as we speak.”

“Good,” Gops murmured, so faintly it could have passed for breath.

“Come again?” Maria’s brow lifted, sharp and deliberate.

“Pardon?” Gops straightened the moment, voice firm, as though he had never let slip a word.

Maria, of course, had heard him clearly. Her ears were too keen, and her instincts were too honed to miss it; however, instead of pressing, she let a small smirk trace her lips, choosing to indulge in his fleeting lapse rather than draw it into the light. The assassin’s guardedness, his little cracks, always amused her more than she cared to admit. Before she could speak further, a deep and commanding voice, with the resonance of authority, rose from ahead.

“Ah, Al-Dhar.”

The call belonged to none other than Vicar Laurence, his tone carrying the weight of both expectation and grim necessity. It almost sounded as though he had been waiting for the assassin’s arrival.

Gops immediately bowed low in the practised manner of the Church. “Your Excellency.”

Beside him, Maria dipped her head, her respect quieter, briefer, though no less formal. She noted the vicar’s presence with a glance, with his gold-threaded vestments, richer than those of the Choir, gleaming faintly beneath the pallid light. His hair, long and black with strands of silver seeping through, cascaded to his shoulders, lending him the air of both priest and monarch.

Before them lay the broken form of a White Church hunter, slumped against the stone wall, his pale garb drenched with blood until it looked almost crimson. The ground was a canvas of streaks and spatters, thick with the copper stink of death. Gops’ brow furrowed as he took it in. The wounds were brutal, the corpse bearing slashes, punctures, and the ragged void where flesh had once been at the throat. It was savagery, but not the blind savagery of a beast. This had been deliberate. Human hands had done this. That, perhaps, was why the Church assassin had been summoned.

Gops stepped forward, the faint clink of steel whispering with his every motion, and lowered himself to a crouch before the corpse. His clawed gauntlet rested lightly upon the scabbard of his silver sword, while his free elbow propped against his knee. For a moment, his expression softened, shadowed with recognition.

“You have left us too soon, Brother,” Gops murmured, the words escaping more like a prayer than a statement. His voice carried neither flourish nor sentiment, yet something deeper lingered beneath, being an assassin’s farewell, quiet and final.

Laurence’s voice cut through the silence, low and edged with restrained fury. “What can you tell us about the incident?” He stood behind the kneeling assassin, tall and solemn, while Maria lingered just at his side, her eyes sweeping the street with the practised vigilance of a hunter.

Though the vicar’s grief weighed heavy in his tone, there was no mistaking what lay beneath: the demand for answers, and the simmering anger for the one who dared strike against the Church. Gops leaned closer, his gloved fingertips hovering just above the blood-soaked stones, careful not to disturb the evidence. His eyes traced the trails, the patterns, the rhythm of violence written in crimson across the cobblestones, and the body itself.

“Well,” the assassin began, voice steady and almost clinical, “I can say for certain that this was no work of a beast. Not even one mid-transition with their mind half-lost, bearing saws and cleavers.”

“How can you be certain?” Laurence’s voice cut from behind, measured but taut, his arms folding across his golden vestments.

“The cuts are too precise,” Maria answered before Gops could. She stepped closer, her voice calm but certain, born from years of hunting through nights darker than most dared endure. “Strikes to the joints. The dominant arm severed of its strength before the kill was delivered. No man lost to beasthood is so deliberate.”

“You said it,” Gops confirmed, a faint flicker of approval touching his gaze as it met hers. The huntress’ sharp eye was something he had always respected, even if he would not say as much aloud in the moment, as his attention returned to the corpse. “Furthermore, these lacerations are clean. Deep. The mark of a sharp blade, wielded by someone who knows what it means to kill, and intends nothing else.”

Laurence’s brows furrowed as his gaze dropped to the ruined throat. “Which makes the neck wound all the more peculiar…”

“Indeed…” Gops’ voice lowered as he bent again, his gloved hand tilting the corpse’s chin ever so slightly to study the torn flesh. His scarred brow drew tight in thought. “Unlike the cuts, this one is messy. Rushed… or perhaps, inexperienced.”

“It is a bite mark,” Maria interjected, her boots crunching against dried blood as she stepped nearer. She stood behind the assassin, green eyes narrowing as she studied the wound with hunter’s precision. “Again, not of a beast. A man’s teeth. I have seen enough maulings to know the difference. The jugular’s absence confirms the deliberateness.”

“Despite how clumsily it was torn out…” Gops agreed, his voice trailing into thought. His brown eyes lingered on the mangled flesh, his mind weighing possibilities. “I would be tempted to call it a collected trophy. Killers have left worse to prove their mark. Yet something does not add up…”

Laurence’s head tilted. “Is that so?”

“Usually, killers would do such things to either further their sadistic collection of trophies, or leave behind a signature. Typical of serial killers. That would have been plausible had the killer struck first,” Gops rose smoothly back to his full height, dusting his glove against his coat. His eyes lifted, brown irises catching the pale daylight as they swept the walls. “But the blood tells me otherwise.” He gestured with a tilt of his chin toward a jagged spray on the nearby wall. “See there? Serrated. Our Brother wielded a threaded cane, I would wager.”

Laurence’s brow arched. “Ludwig mentioned only a firearm on the body. One of our repeating pistols. Nothing more.”

“Then he lost it in the fight.” Gops stepped closer to the wall, his clawed gauntlet brushing against air just shy of the stain. “The rhythm of this pattern is wrong for the victim’s wounds, and the only trick weapon favoured by clerics outside the Church’s armoury is the threaded cane.”

Maria’s eyes followed where his hand gestured. Her lips pressed faintly, unreadable, though her gaze sharpened. She approached, boots slow and deliberate, and bent her head just near enough to catch the faint scent still clinging to the stain. She inhaled, careful, and then her eyes flickered in recognition.

“This is the only blood here that does not belong to the victim,” the huntress said, straightening once more. Her voice was quiet, yet certain. “The others all carry his scent. I know it well enough. But this… this does not.”

“Well, that just confirms it,” Gops said at last, his voice low, edged with certainty. Maria’s instincts as a hunter mirrored his own methods, her eye for detail sharp enough to cut through the haze of blood and grief clouding the scene. Drawing in a breath, the assassin turned his gaze toward the vicar.

“Our Brother struck first. The wounds make it clear. Whoever killed him was a swordsman of great skill, and the only time his blood was drawn was that single instant where the killer was caught off guard.”

The Church assassin crouched again, clawed fingertips hovering over the dark stain smeared across the wall. His movements grew slower, more deliberate, as though he could see the fight playing itself again before his eyes. The clash of steel, the staggered breath of the dying, the single misstep that had cost a man his life.

“The killer was not waiting for him,” Gops murmured, tracing invisible paths in the air. “He was here, unsuspecting, for his own reasons. But when the fight broke out…”

His voice trailed off. Gops’ eyes sharpened suddenly, a flicker of recognition sparking within them. Moving with purpose, he dragged a stack of barrels aside, each scrape echoing harshly against the cobblestone. Behind them, half-hidden, lay the truth of his deduction: the Church hunter’s threaded cane, serrated whip coiled and bloodied. Lifting the weapon in his gauntleted grip, Gops rose to his feet, holding it aloft for both Maria and Laurence to see, his tone calm but resolute. “Our Brother was disarmed swiftly, and from that moment on, he never stood a chance.”

Laurence’s eyes hardened as he exchanged a glance with Maria, the weight of Gops’ discovery leaving little room for doubt. Even the huntress found herself quietly impressed at how precisely his instincts aligned with reality.

“For a cleric to draw steel first against another man…” Gops’ words fell softer, almost to himself. “…it must have been someone who did not belong here.”

“He saw an enemy,” Laurence said grimly.

“Cainhurst,” Maria finished, her voice cold, certain. She let her green eyes linger on the corpse, memory and recognition colliding like two blades meeting mid-swing. “Yes… It makes sense now. His wounds bear the mark of their discipline… defensive techniques, the kind only a knight would know.”

“Bloodthirsty fiends, more like,” Laurence hissed, pacing a slow, simmering circle as though caged by his own fury. His gilded vestments caught the dim light of dawn filtering between Cathedral Ward’s towering spires, but the expression twisting his face was anything but holy. “No doubt the flesh torn from his neck has something to do with their majesty’s unending lust for power. This-” he gestured sharply toward the mutilated corpse “...is no simple murder. It is a provocation. An invocation of challenge.”

His voice lowered, sharp and cutting. “If they dare set foot in Yharnam and slaughter one of our own, then I am obliged to answer their declaration of war.”

Maria’s green eyes flicked briefly toward Gops, who already stood with arms folded, brow raised beneath the shadow of his plumed tricorn.

“You speak of something akin to the Hunter of Hunters?” the assassin asked, his tone unreadable, though something in it hinted at quiet intrigue.

“Yes,” Laurence said, his dark gaze meeting Gops’ with renewed fire. “But there will be more. Cainhurst means to bleed Yharnam dry, and I shall answer them in kind.” He stopped pacing, the decision clearly forming in his mind as he spoke it aloud. “I will dedicate a workshop to their eradication if I must. A legion of able-bodied warriors, hunters with one purpose only. To seek out those vile monstrosities. To hunt those… wretched Vilebloods. Every last one of them.”

He spat the final words, and for a fleeting instant, the veneer of Yharnam’s most pious vicar cracked to reveal something more visceral, something personal. It was an oath born not just of duty, but of hatred. Maria felt the weight of those words like a stone pressing on her chest as her jaw tightened, though she kept her silence, concealing the faint sting of hearing the name of her home, her blood, spoken with such venom. Laurence breathed once, sharply, before collecting himself, smoothing his robes as though restoring his holy composure. When he turned back to Gops, his expression was almost serene.

“Fine work, Al-Dhar,” the vicar said, though the heat in his eyes had not wholly cooled. “Your father, blood bless him, ought to be proud.”

Gops inclined his head, accepting the words without comment. If the praise carried any sting, he did not show it. Laurence turned away, already summoning his attendants and White Church hunters with a wave of his hand. Orders began spilling from him in crisp, decisive commands about securing the street, delivering the corpse to the Healing Church for full rites, and preparing reports for the Choir.

At last, the vicar spared one final glance over his shoulder, addressing the assassin once more.

“Keep it up.”

Gops gave a single, sharp nod. “Always, Your Excellency.”

With that, the vicar swept away, leaving Gops and Maria standing side by side amid the cooling blood and the fading echoes of Laurence’s fury, both knowing that this murder had set something far larger into motion.

The hours passed, and silence reclaimed the streets as Laurence and his entourage vanished into the pale Yharnam mist, returning to the Grand Cathedral. The distant toll of the clocktower's bells marked the morning hour, though the air still reeked of iron and death. Gops and Maria lingered after the others had gone, their boots crunching softly over damp stone as they moved beyond the alley where the murder had taken place. They stopped side by side beneath the ashen light that pressed down through the clouds, speaking nothing at first. Gops offered a small nod in acknowledgment to the last of the departing clerics, and soon there was only the soft whisper of the wind and the faint smell of blood between them.

Maria exhaled slowly, her breath a pale wisp in the chill air. Though her shoulders eased, her thoughts clearly had not. “Laurence grows bold with his words,” she said at last, her voice calm but edged with quiet unease.

“That is one way to put it,” Gops replied, his voice a low rasp, head tilting slightly as though considering something only half spoken.

Her lips curved faintly, but not in amusement. “First the war against the scourge, and now this…”

“I am sorry,” Gops murmured, almost too softly.

Maria turned her head just enough to catch him with a questioning glance, one pale brow arching. “Whatever for?”

“I saw it in your eyes when we learned who was behind this,” he said, his brown gaze steady and sincere. “Are you… alright?”

For a moment, Maria’s lashes lowered, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, quieter, almost as if she allowed herself this honesty only in his presence. “I gave up the castle long ago, Gops. The night of their betrayal was my final thread being cut away.”

The assassin nodded faintly, so slight it could have been mistaken for nothing more than a shift of the wind, then held her gaze. “At least you are here. With us,” he said, his tone carrying a quiet earnestness. “I am grateful for that. I do not think I would have been able to piece together the scene half as quickly without your help.”

This time, Maria’s lips curved more genuinely, a soft huff of air slipping through her nose. “You are not bad yourself,” she said, her tone lighter and almost teasing, though her eyes lingered on him a fraction longer than necessary. “Not bad at all, for someone still rather new to all this.”

“I have been studying most of my life,” Gops replied, the edge of defensiveness in his voice betraying the young cleric beneath the assassin’s discipline. “And this is my first year… alone, by the way. No supervision needed, unlike your novice.”

Maria hummed, an amused sound that seemed to smooth the sharpness of the morning. Her green eyes narrowed, not in judgment, but in something warmer, something rare. “At least he did not forget his badge, hm?” she asked, the faintest smirk curling her lips.

“I was getting treated in the cathedral, mind you,” Gops said, just barely sounding as though he felt the need to defend himself. “I must have left it behind when I received the summons.”

Maria’s smirk softened into a quiet smile as she turned her gaze forward again, letting a beat of silence pass between them. “Convenient excuse,” she said at last, her voice gentler than before, the teasing tone just enough to make her words feel personal.

Gops allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward as he glanced away, and for a fleeting moment, the heaviness of the morning lifted. It was only the smallest reprieve, but enough that the hunt felt less lonely, for both of them.

The Church assassin let the moment drag, holding it between them like a fragile thread. The cleric’s mouth parted once, twice, only to close again each time, words failing him. His hesitation was uncharacteristic, almost human in a way Maria rarely saw from him, and it was precisely that hesitation that kept her rooted where she stood. She did not look at him directly, but she could sense it, the weight of whatever thought he wrestled with. Perhaps, deep down, the huntress did not want to part ways either.

At last, the cleric found his voice.

“Maria?”

“Yes, Gops?” The huntress’ reply was smooth, almost too smooth, as if to mask the quiet anticipation that bloomed in her chest.

The assassin pressed his lips together before glancing aside, his expression momentarily troubled as he searched for the right words. “Are there… other duties you must tend to? Before dusk?”

“Oh… well…” Maria straightened slightly, her pale brows arching in thought. Inside, she felt a strange relief at being asked, for even the most oblivious fool could guess what the assassin was truly seeking. Still, the taller woman kept her expression unreadable, savouring the rare chance to hold him in suspense. “I do have to see to the novice in the Workshop.”

“Truly?” Gops asked, his scarred brow lifting, his tone betraying a faint disappointment.

“To make sure he made it back in one piece,” Maria explained, the corner of her lips tilting upward just so. “And, more importantly, deliver Gehrman my report.”

Maria had deliberately left her first answer incomplete to see how he would react, and, to her quiet amusement, the cleric had not disappointed. Normally, she was never one to be coy or vague, for clarity was her way; however, something about the Church assassin coaxed out a playfulness she rarely allowed herself.

“However,” the huntress continued, her voice softer, more deliberate now, “after that… I will not be terribly occupied until the hunt begins again.”

Gops’ eyes lit with something almost boyish, the faint glint of hope shining through his usually steeled composure. “Then, perhaps…” His voice trailed, his words suddenly more careful, more personal. “We could… kill some time together before then. Just the two of us.”

Maria’s brows rose at the suggestion, a small curl forming on one end of her lips, not a smirk nor a smile, but something caught between the two. There was both delight and a challenge in it.

“Just something to take our minds off Yharnam, if only for a little while,” Gops added, as though the idea needed further justification. “Like… how things were in Cainhurst.”

Maria’s expression softened, though her green eyes gleamed as memory stirred. Cainhurst, and the night that had changed far more than either of them had likely intended.

“I would like that,” said the huntress, her voice quieter now, more deliberate. Then, after a beat, she added, almost under her breath, “Hopefully without any… interruptions.”

Gops let out a short huff through his nose, the sound soft but genuine, as the faintest dimple tugged at one corner of his lips. A heat crept into his clean-shaven cheeks, so slight it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, though he was sure the huntress could see it if she wanted to. For a fleeting moment, he almost forgot to speak, and had to remind himself not to leave the silence too long lest he make a fool of himself.

“It is settled, then,” the cleric said at last, his voice steady again.

“Where are we to meet?” Maria asked almost immediately, her tone light yet carrying an edge of earnestness. She had not intended to sound so quick to answer, but it slipped out before she could stop herself. Normally, her free hours were spent sharpening her Rakuyo, honing her aim, or drilling the new recruits under the first hunter’s watchful eye; yet something about the Church assassin’s presence made her willing, and even eager, to leave her schedule open.

“The gate nearest Oedon Chapel,” Gops replied, his hand brushing against the hilt of his silver sword as if out of habit. “From there, I can take us to a place I have in mind.”

Maria’s brows arched, her lips curving just faintly. “Since when do you entertain surprises?” she teased, the faint lilt in her voice enough to suggest her amusement.

Gops only scoffed, the sound warm, amused. “It is a bit hard to describe,” he admitted with a shrug. “Besides… I would rather you see it for yourself when we get there.”

“Very well, then.” Maria inclined her head, finally relenting, though her eyes lingered on him with quiet curiosity. “Does a quarter to three work for you?”

Gops reached into his coat, retrieving the silver pocket watch tucked neatly into his trousers. Its cover clicked open, catching the dim morning light, before he glanced up to meet Maria’s green eyes once more. “I will see you then.”

“Keep yourself out of trouble until then… Gops,” Maria murmured, her foreign tone softer now, carrying something almost playful beneath its calm surface.

“Likewise, Maria,” Gops murmured in return.

With that, the pair parted ways, their boots carrying them in opposite directions through the mist-veiled streets. Yet, despite the distance growing between them, anticipation hung in the air like the faint ringing of a distant bell.

An unspoken promise of the hours to come.

Chapter Text

Yharnam sank into its pale afternoon, the sun barely a ghost behind the clouds, its light filtering weakly over the slanted rooftops and slick cobblestones. The streets, so often crowded with voices and rattling wheels, had begun their slow retreat into silence. Vendors shuttered their stalls, stray dogs slunk into alleys, and the watchful few still abroad kept a hurried pace, mindful of the curfew that would soon descend with nightfall. Nevertheless, soft yet deliberate footsteps rose from the steps of Oedon Chapel, their echoes weaving up through the narrowing streets.

Maria wore the dark trousers of her hunting attire, practical and close-fitting, though her upper half was left in a softer state of dress. A buttoned shirt tucked was neatly into her waistband, its loose sleeves ending in ruffles that framed her wrists. The jabot at her throat swayed gently with every stride, her green pendant glinting faintly in the fading light. Beneath it hung her hunter’s badge, a token shaped after the first hunter’s trick weapon, strung on a thin leather cord. It swung lightly against her chest with her steps, a small but unmistakable mark of her station, one that any citizen of Yharnam would recognise.

The huntress’ head was bare, free from her plumed tricorn, though her pale-blonde hair was still drawn back into its usual ponytail, the familiar black ribbon tied at the nape. Two leather belts crossed her hips, one bearing the longer blade of her Rakuyo, the other its companion dagger, kept apart, their twin hilts lying quiet at her sides. Their weight gave her silhouette a certain sharpness, a promise of motion if ever danger called. It was a casual ensemble by Maria’s standards, but never unprepared. In Yharnam, even under the timid sun, one could never be sure when the hunt might find them.

“Afternoon, my lady.”

The voice carried down from above, calm but unmistakable. Maria’s head tilted back, her pale brows lifting as she found him perched on the tower’s edge, one knee bent, the other foot braced on the stone like a sentinel.

“To you as well,” she called back, the corner of her mouth curling with quiet amusement. “And what might you be doing up there?”

From where Maria stood, she could make out little of the Church assassin, the distance and the angle kept his figure half-shrouded, yet she noted at once that he, too, had left his plumed tricorn behind. The assassin raised one bare hand and motioned for her to join him.

“Making sure we are clear,” Gops replied simply, his tone clipped but unhurried. “Come. There is only a few minutes before the next pair of Church hunters take their post at the gate.”

Maria let out a faint huff, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. It was not directed at the cleric but at some errant thought that brushed against her mind, one she quickly dismissed. Shoulders loosening, she nodded, indulging him if only for her own quiet amusement, and set to climbing. Her laced boots struck the metal rungs in a steady rhythm, the sound ringing softly against the stone walls until she reached the top.

From the tower’s vantage, the huntress could take him in fully at last. Gops was dressed much as she expected, wearing the dark trousers of his assassin’s attire, each thigh strapped with twin belts heavy with pouches and ammunition. A wider belt crossed his waist, holding the sheathed silver sword that gleamed faintly in the light, and the holstered repeating pistol at his side. His upper half was bare of his coat, clad only in a fitted, dark-grey undershirt tucked neatly into his waistband. The fabric traced the lean, defined lines of his chest and shoulders, the left sleeve rolled to the elbow while the right arm remained covered, bearing the hidden blade beneath, ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

Over his chest hung his Church hunter badge, a sigil shaped like a sword’s hilt, with a small blue gem set into its centre. It swung gently on its chain as the assassin shifted, catching the pale afternoon light like a watchful eye. Gops’ gaze lingered a moment too long, tracing the figure of the huntress now standing beside him. He caught himself before the thought could wander further and pulled his focus back to the present.

“Follow me,” he said at last, his voice clipped back into its usual evenness.

“And where exactly are we going?” Maria asked, her tone softened with curiosity, the hint of a chuckle slipping out as she stepped after him.

“Like I told you this morning,” Gops replied, already moving to the far edge of the tower. “I would much rather you see it for yourself.”

With that, the cleric vaulted cleanly over the ledge, dropping to the neighbouring rooftop with a muted thud. Maria blinked, the sudden movement catching her off guard, but she followed with practised ease. She crossed the roof at a measured pace and leapt down after him, her boots striking the tiles with a dull clatter. She asked nothing further, letting the assassin’s silence guide her curiosity. Their weapons knocked softly against their belts as they moved, metal clinking in time with their strides. Together they hopped narrow gaps between buildings, ascended ladders wedged between spires, and climbed toward the upper reaches of Cathedral Ward’s skyline. The rooftops stretched on like a labyrinth, narrowing and slanting the higher they went, until the city below began to feel like a different world altogether.

At last, Maria climbed another ladder and found herself standing on one of the taller structures in the district. The wind tugged faintly at her hair as she glanced down, following the dizzying drop to the streets far below, before quickly pulling her gaze away. Gops stood waiting for her, his posture casual but purposeful as he turned to face her.

“Just one final leap,” the cleric said, nodding toward the edge.

Maria stepped closer, following his gesture. The next rooftop was a little lower, but the street yawning far below made the gap seem wider than it truly was. She caught herself taking an unconscious step back, her eyes fixed on the edge, her mouth half open but without words.

“Something the matter?” Gops asked, noting her pause, being surprised to witness hesitation from her of all people.

“No… just-” Maria began, only to stop herself. A sigh escaped her as she shook her head, abandoning the pretence. “Do we truly need to cross here?”

“Why, yes,” Gops replied without hesitation. “The roof cannot be reached from inside the building.” He regarded her a moment longer, his brow rising slightly as realisation dawned. “Hold on… are you-”

“Yes,” Maria cut in sharply, unwilling to let either of them finish the thought aloud.

Gops let a soft huff escape through his nose, straightening to his full height as his gaze stayed locked on hers. “Huh,” he murmured, a note of dry amusement creeping into his tone. “You slay beasts night after night, but heights-?”

“Gops.” Maria’s voice cut in, firm and warning.

He lifted a hand in a gesture of surrender, a quick smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “I meant no offence!” he paused, choosing his words with care, “I was only surprised. Not that it is a fault.”

The cleric stepped closer, closing the space between them. The wind tugged at his dark hair as he raised his hand, the calluses and faint scars across his palm catching the light. He offered it to her, steady and open.

“I ask only that you trust me,” the assassin said, his voice quiet but certain.

“Gops, I cannot-” the huntress uttered.

“You needn’t do anything,” he cut in, his tone soft but insistent. “Just keep your eyes on me. That is all.”

Maria hesitated, her lips pressed into a thin line. The edge of the rooftop seemed to loom closer, the gap below stretching wider the longer she stared at it. She shut her eyes, forcing a slow breath past her lips before looking back to him, and there it was. That look. The warmth in his brown eyes was the same she had seen the night they had shared their waltz in Cainhurst, a light she could never expect from a Church assassin. It was enough to quiet the part of her that second-guessed, enough to make her trust him, if only for this moment. Wordlessly, Maria placed her hand in his. Her pale fingers slid against the tanned skin of his hand, warm and alive, and the cleric closed his grip gently but firmly around hers.

Gops gave a single nod, no words wasted, and pivoted on his heel. Then he jumped, taking her with him.

The air rushed past the huntress’ ears in a brief, deafening roar. Maria let out a startled sound, half yelp and half laugh, before clamping her jaw shut. She did not dare to look down, her eyes locking instead on the dark strands of Gops’ hair as they streamed behind him in the wind. His hand was like iron around hers, pulling her forward, guiding her weight until they hit the other side.

They landed hard but sure, Gops absorbing the impact with practised ease. Maria staggered a step, the ground feeling almost too solid beneath her boots after the breathless moment of flight. Gops chuckled low in his throat, still holding her hand as he reached up with the other to tap her shoulder.

“See?” the assassin said, his breath calm, almost teasing. “Not so bad, was it?”

Maria let out a sharp exhale, somewhere between a sigh and a contemplative laugh. “You could have given me a warning…”

“That would only have made you hesitate tenfold,” Gops said smoothly, his quick reply disarming in its truth.

Maria shot him a look, but her lips curved despite herself. Straightening her posture to stand tall beside the cleric, the huntress gave him a long, deliberate stare.

“Next time,” she said, voice firm, “I will decide where to go.”

A slow smile spread across the assassin’s face, one brow lifting, the scar over it shifting faintly with the motion. “So…” he said, voice carrying a hint of amusement, “there will be a next time?”

Maria’s own words caught in her throat, as though they had slipped free before she’d meant to speak them. She opened her mouth to correct herself, to say something, anything; but the thought scattered when a sudden warmth touched her face. The clouds had thinned at last, allowing the dying sun to break through. Orange light spilled across the rooftops, and for a moment, Maria could only stand there, her lashes lowering against the sudden brilliance. She raised a hand instinctively, shielding her eyes, as though the light itself had taken her by surprise.

When she finally let her gaze settle forward, her breath stilled.

From this height, Yharnam stretched endlessly before her. Rows of crooked rooftops and spiralling spires carved a jagged horizon, all of them bathed in the molten glow of sunset. The city’s usual grey pallor seemed to melt away, every shadow softened by gold and copper, every brick and slate lined in fire. Maria’s lips parted slightly as she stared, wordless. Sunset was a rare enough thing in Yharnam, rarer still with skies clear enough to reveal it in its fullness. The huntress had seen the city drenched in blood, fog, and rain, but never like this.

Beside her, Gops let the silence linger, content to watch; but his gaze eventually drifted from the city to the taller woman, and it stayed there. The sunlight seemed to catch her as deliberately as it caught the rooftops, spilling down her pale face, turning her hair to strands of bright gold. Her green eyes shone with an unguarded brightness he had not seen before; neither in the hunt, nor even in Cainhurst. Something inside him stirred, unbidden, as he watched her take it in.

“How is that for a surprise?” Gops asked at last, his voice low, careful not to disturb the moment more than necessary.

“It…” Maria began, her voice catching once before she found it again. She did not look at him, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. “It never occurred to me just how… peaceful Yharnam can look. As though the city had never been plagued at all.”

Her words came softer now, almost reverent.

“It makes the hunt…” The huntress trailed off, then turned her head, her gaze finally finding the cleric’s. The light shifted with her movement, glinting off the edge of her badge and pendant, while the warm hues caught within her hair.

“It makes everything seem worth it.”

“I thought it might be something you would have wanted to see,” Gops said, his voice carrying a quiet sincerity. He let his gaze drift away from her and toward one of the chimneys that jutted from the rooftop, the bricks catching the warm light. “Or… needed to see. I sometimes find myself here whenever I am in doubt.”

The Church assassin crossed the roof with measured steps and came to lean against the chimney, its rough surface pressing against his back. After a brief pause, he slid down into a seated position, his movements unhurried. The scabbard of his silver sword shifted with a muted clatter, settling against the tiles as he drew his knees up and rested his forearms casually atop them. Maria watched him for a beat before stepping closer, her boots whispering against the rooftop until she stood within his reach. The sun caught in her hair again, outlining her profile as she looked down at him.

“In doubt of what?” the huntress asked, her tone soft but edged with curiosity.

“Anything,” Gops replied simply, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Everything, sometimes.”

Maria only nodded, the truth in his words settling comfortably between them. She found herself quietly grateful that the cleric had brought her here, not merely to pass the time until the next hunt, but to give her something worth pausing for. Something meaningful. The huntress stepped closer and lowered herself onto the tiles beside the assassin. The scabbard of her blade clinked against the rooftop as she leaned back against the chimney, settling into place. One leg folded beneath her while the other drew up, her forearm resting lazily on her knee. For a time, neither of them spoke. They simply sat there, side by side, letting the city sprawl out before them as the last of the day’s warmth bled across the sky.

“Has Laurence mentioned anything of his plan yet?” Maria asked at last, her voice breaking the quiet. Her mind had drifted back to the morning, to Laurence’s bitter promise about Cainhurst following the murder of a cleric.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Gops replied, his tone even. “I have not seen him since dawn, though I doubt he is sitting idle.” He glanced toward her, the corner of his mouth ticking in something like a wry smile. “How fares your novice?”

“He is a novice. Not mine,” Maria corrected, though a faint huff of amusement escaped her at the memory of their earlier conversation about the young hunter under her watch. “But he is faring well enough. What good would a Hunter be if he cannot stomach the sight of a corpse? No offence toward your fellow.”

“None taken,” Gops said easily. “We did not know each other personally, though it is my job to know everyone.”

“That a fact?” Maria asked, one brow arching with mild intrigue. “Am I included in this study of yours?”

The question caught him slightly off guard, though Gops recovered quickly, realising she already knew the answer. Still, he allowed himself the courtesy of humouring her curiosity.

“I know most in Yharnam,” Gops said, leaning back a little against the chimney. “But I did not need an excuse to look into you.”

Maria’s pale brows lifted higher, her surprise light but genuine, though there was no trace of displeasure in her expression. “Is that so?”

“You may not think of yourself as such, but you are a pillar of the Hunter’s Workshop, and by extension, of Yharnam itself,” Gops explained, his voice calm but weighted with quiet respect. “It would be negligent of me not to know who you are, when I am obliged to know the rest.”

“Stature was one of many reasons I left the castle behind,” Maria said thoughtfully, her eyes returning to the horizon. “And yet, it seems it is not something I can escape. Not even here.”

“Except that here,” Gops said, the faintest curl of a smile tugging at his lips, carving a small dimple into his otherwise composed, clean-shaven face, “it is a mark of admiration. Not the two-faced politics you left behind in Cainhurst.”

Maria gave him a slow, acknowledging look, yet her gaze lingered, longer than she meant it to. She caught herself tracing the other details the sun revealed about him, with how the warm light made his tanned skin glow with a kind of bronze warmth, how it turned the edges of his dark hair to a soft, earthen brown, and how his deep-set eyes seemed to radiate an unspoken heat whenever they found her.

“Well then,” she said at last, her voice level but curious, “enlighten me. What do you know?”

“For starters,” Gops said, his tone deliberately casual, though his gaze did not waver, “I know you possess royal blood. And that, despite it, you live like a solitary. Keeping that truth hidden, even from your own kin.”

Maria’s lips curved ever so slightly at his observation, but her voice was soft, steady. “Distantly, I am indeed a descendant of Annalise. I do not crave solitude, Gops, though perhaps I pretend to. What I feel is the weight of responsibility. The burden of blood.”

Her green eyes rose to meet his, the warm light catching them and turning them to polished glass. “Blood that carries a terrible, destructive power.”

Gops tilted his head, his brows knitting. “What do you mean?”

“You are familiar with the Pthumerians, are you not? I have seen some work under the Church.”

“Indeed,” Gops said, shifting slightly where he sat. “Though their history is not something I am well-versed in.”

Maria nodded once. “They were the precursors to Cainhurst. Long ago, when the Pthumerians still lived in harmony with their Gods, they were granted great power. The Old Lords, we call them now.” Her voice had a quiet cadence, like she was reciting some forbidden truth. “Some bore pyromancy. Others, sanguimancy. A rare few mastered both.”

“The Old Blood…” Gops murmured, the connection forming in his mind.

“Came from an Old Lord,” Maria confirmed. “Yharnam, the Pthumerian monarch. Queen of Blood.”

Her gaze wandered briefly over the horizon, as if seeing beyond Yharnam into something far more ancient. “It was her blood that was found deep within the labyrinths, following a miscarriage. A child she was said to have conceived with one of the Great Ones.”

“The same blood administered to us…” Gops said, though his voice held no question, only grim understanding.

“Yes,” Maria replied. “It is what grants hunters our longevity, our inhuman strength, and our resistance to disease. Though it is bound by contract. Hunter or cleric, both of us swore to it.” She gave a small shrug. “Your common Yharnamite receives only a diluted strain, manufactured by your scholars for its healing property. Enough to keep the sick alive, though never enough to grant them what we are.”

“Yet it does not cure the scourge,” Gops said, his jaw tightening slightly. “Though Laurence and the Choir would have us believe they are on the brink of finding the answer.”

Maria’s expression softened with something unreadable, in pity, perhaps. “Maybe they are.” Her voice dropped to something quieter, more measured. “Evidence suggests that Pthumerians mingled with humankind long before Laurence ever discovered the queen’s blood. A rare few children were born who carried both human and Pthumerian blood. Annalise is one of those rare survivors. Now… she is the last.”

The huntress turned her face toward the cleric then, her voice low but unflinching. “You would be terrified if you knew the power she truly possesses, Gops, as I was, the first time I discovered to have inherited it. I have seen what my blood is capable of, and what it can destroy.”

“It is the fishing hamlet you speak of… yes?” Gops asked at last, his voice careful, as though treading near a wound. “The scars you bear… your knowledge of the Great Ones-”

Maria’s pale-blonde lashes lowered, her silence answering the question for him. A faint, almost weary huff escaped her nose, as though to banish the thought before it could dig its claws too deep. “From that day onward,” she said quietly, “I vowed to never again wield blood blades, unless all else fails.”

The air between them stilled, the weight of her words settling over the rooftop like a shroud. Maria’s gaze drifted back to the horizon, to the last vestiges of sunlight melting behind Yharnam’s jagged skyline. “I suppose,” she murmured, “I only wished to be… human. Not burdened with so many kinds of blood in my veins.”

Gops remained still for a moment, then leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms against his knees. “You know,” he said softly, “my old man used to tell me that fate rarely calls at a moment of our choosing.” He glanced sidelong at her, his expression uncharacteristically warm. “With the power you carry, Maria, it is a miracle that such blood still beats a heart of good.”

Maria exhaled through her nose, a breath that might have been a laugh or simply an acknowledgment of the words’ bittersweet truth. “I am far from good, Gops,” she said, though her tone was neither bitter nor dismissive, as it was simply honest. There was even a quiet gratitude there, buried beneath her sigh. “Your father sounds like a wise man.”

“He was more enigmatic, really, but he had his moments.” A faint smile tugged at Gops’ lips, softening the usual expressions of his features.

Maria tilted her head slightly, her voice gentler now. “May I ask what became of him? I recall Laurence mentioning your father this morning. He seemed to regard him… quite highly.”

Gops’ smile thinned, though his expression did not darken, as it only grew distant. “He was a Church assassin before me, though I remember little beyond the stories.” He let out a low breath. “He died on duty when I was seven years old.”

Maria’s brows knit faintly, her voice dropping to something softer, more intimate. “I am sorry.”

“It is no bother,” Gops replied, meeting her eyes briefly before letting his gaze fall. “I know a great deal about you. It is only fair you know this much about me. My father was a legendary assassin. Everyone in the Church respected him, even Laurence. That is achievement enough.”

The cleric then gave a faint shrug, as though to shake off the weight of memory. “But everyone serves their time, and his ended during a contract gone wrong, when one of our own compromised the Church. Of course, the betrayer paid for it with his life following the incident. But… what was taken that night,” Gops said, his voice quiet, “could never be reclaimed.”

Maria let out a slow, soft sigh, her green eyes glinting with sympathy as she regarded the man beside her. “Laurence was right about one thing,” she said gently. “He ought to be proud.”

Gops pursed his lips at that, lowering his gaze, letting the silence linger for just a beat before his tone shifted, lighter now. “He ought to,” he said, and with a small, almost boyish smirk, he raised a hand to his chest, lifting the Church hunter badge that hung from the thin chain around his neck. “Especially since I did not forget it this time.”

Maria let out a soft huff of amusement, recalling the morning’s exchange with a flicker of mirth. Her eyes lingered on the badge now, the way the fading light caught its edges. “May I?”

Gops arched his scarred brow but nodded, a wordless why not. “Only,” he added, a glimmer of teasing in his voice, “if I have yours in return.”

Maria’s lips curved faintly at his request, almost amused. Without hesitation, she reached up and untied the thin leather cord beneath her jabot. The small yet integral token, a hunter’s badge fashioned after the first hunter’s trick weapon, slipped free and came to rest in her palm. She did not clutch it for long, as she then held it out toward him with an open hand.

Gops accepted it with an incline of his head, turning the token over between his fingers, studying the craftsmanship. The badge caught the last gold of the sun as he held it closer, its metal gleaming faintly. “I have seen a few of these before,” he admitted, “but rarely in such condition. You have taken care of it.”

Maria allowed herself a small huff of amusement. “It was given by none other than Gehrman. I would be a poor hunter if I could not keep track of something so small.”

Gops’ lips curved faintly at that, though he kept his eyes on the token a moment longer before extending it back toward her. “Fitting,” he said quietly. “You wear it well.”

Maria reclaimed it with a small nod and let the leather cord coil loosely in her palm rather than tying it back around her neck just yet. Her green eyes shifted toward the badge that still rested against Gops’ chest. “And yours?” she asked, tilting her chin toward it.

Gops raised a brow, but after a moment, he unclasped the thin chain and let the badge slip into his hand. Its surface caught the last gold of the sun, the engraved sword hilt and its small blue gem flashing briefly before being muted again by the dusk.

The huntress turned it once between her fingers, inspecting it as he had done with hers. “The engravings are different from the ones I have seen on the other clerics.”

“It is,” Gops said, resting his elbows on his knees. “This one marks me as an assassin. It is both a shield and a target, depending on who sees it.”

Maria glanced at him sidelong, catching the shadow of meaning behind those words, then looked back at the medallion before handing it back. “And you wear that burden well.”

Gops accepted it with a faint nod, slipping the chain back around his neck. For a while, silence fell between them again, though it was not the heavy kind, but rather a companionable stillness. The wind swept over the rooftop, carrying with it the smell of smoke from faraway chimneys.

Maria leaned back against the chimney, stretching one leg out in front of her, letting her hand rest near the hilt of her sheathed blade. “Strange, is it not?” she murmured after a time.

Gops tilted his head toward her, curious. “What is?”

“That we spend every night wading through blood, watching the city rot, and yet…” Her gaze drifted across the skyline, now bathed in dusky orange and violet. “Moments like this make it all seem… not so hopeless.”

Gops followed her gaze, the fading light reflected in his dark eyes. “Perhaps that is why they matter,” he said quietly.

Maria’s lips tugged upward, not quite a smile but close. “Careful, Gops,” she said, her voice low, teasing just enough to break the solemn air. “You sound dangerously close to sentimental.”

He huffed softly through his nose, a faint smirk curving at the corner of his mouth. “Do not tell anyone. I have a reputation to build.”

The huntress let out a soft chuckle at that, her eyes still on the horizon. The two of them sat there in silence again, but this time it was an easy quiet. It was the kind shared between individuals who had survived the same night, breathed the same ash-choked air, and lived to see the sun set on Yharnam’s rooftops.

The wind pulled gently at Maria’s pale hair, drawing a few loose strands across her cheek. Without thought, she lifted her hand to tuck them back, but the motion faltered when she realised Gops was watching her. Not in the careless way comrades glance at one another in passing, but in the way a man watches when he knows he should look away and cannot. Her green eyes met his brown, and for a long moment they held one another’s gaze. No words. Just the weight of it, with the city sprawling below, the fading sun above, and two individuals caught in the narrow space between.

Maria felt her chest tighten, not with fear, but with something she had not permitted herself in years. Anticipation, being a danger all its own. She shifted slightly, leaning just a fraction closer, though she told herself it was to hear him better should he speak; however, Gops did not speak. His breath left him slow, his lips parting as though he might, but the words never came. Instead, his hand twitched faintly against his knee, as if fighting the urge to close the distance. Maria’s lashes lowered, and when she looked at him again, her composure slipped. She let out a quiet, almost imperceptible breath that sounded like surrender.

That was enough.

Gops leaned forward first, the space between them folding in a heartbeat. Maria met him halfway, her own restraint breaking like glass, and their lips touched, a kiss soft at first, but quickly deepening as if both had been waiting far too long. They had kissed before, once, behind the heavy curtains of Cainhurst’s private chambers. They had shared a night together, a night of desperate heat and silent longing, but this was different. This was slower, hungrier, and yet more fragile. Not born of impulse or secrecy, but of something rawer, and more intimate. The world fell away. The spires stabbing at the horizon, and the smell of smoke from the chimneys, all dissolved into the quiet heat of that moment.

When they finally drew back, it was not with haste but with a reluctant stillness, their foreheads brushing as though neither wished to break the fragile connection. The huntress opened her eyes slowly, meeting his once more.

“Maria…” Gops murmured, his voice low, unguarded. “I… want to keep seeing you.”

Maria’s eyes widened at his request, catching onto the meaning of its intent and what it meant, yet she only breathed against his lips with greater, more desperate need.

“Please do…” she whispered, and before another thought could intervene, Maria caught his lips again, this time with a fervour that banished hesitation, her hand clutching the fabric over his chest where his badge lay.

The kiss deepened, and the city below, for one fleeting moment, seemed almost peaceful.

Chapter Text

Maria’s eyes fluttered open, as though she were being roused from some quiet dream, though she knew well it was no dream at all, but another string of memories unravelled and sewn before her mind’s eye. The echo of them faded slowly, like the dying chime of bells, until the present returned to her: the silent vastness of the Astral Clocktower, the wooden steps beneath her, the light that pierced through the holes in the colossal clockface and struck against her back in narrow, angled shafts. Dust drifted in those rays like pale motes of snow, the entire chamber suspended in its own otherworldly stillness. And there, lying across her lap, was Gops.

The Church assassin’s chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, slumbering off the wounds carved into him in the Waking World. He was still fully garbed in the dark trappings of his attire, leathers and silver buckles dulled by travel and stained blood, his weapons strapped to his hips as though he refused to part with them even in sleep. Only his plumed cap had been set aside, leaving his hair, dark with streaks of silver, to spill freely across the leather of her thighs, catching the fractured light. Maria’s gaze softened at the sight, her lips pressing together in silence. She had drifted so far into the past that she almost had not noticed how tightly her hand had curled around the hunter’s badge that hung from his chest. She had inspected it while he slept, turning it gently in her gloved fingers, and in doing so, had unlocked another memory, one she had not thought she still possessed.

Now, with the memory still vivid, the old huntress’ hand moved to him instead.

Maria’s gloved fingers combed slowly through his hair, as though taking inventory of every change the years had carved into him. His hair had grown longer, less tamed, and now bore streaks of grey that had not been there before. His jawline, once always smooth, was now shadowed with a rough stubble, likewise peppered with silver. Fine lines had begun to appear near the corners of his eyes and mouth, not of age but of strain, of sleepless nights, of battles waged in silence. The old huntress’ thumb brushed over the scar that cut through the cleric’s left brow. She had always known it, had always seen it on him since the first night they met; however, she had never once heard the story of how he came by it, lest it was yet another memory veiled by the Nightmare. That thought pressed on her chest now, heavier than she expected. Maria wondered if the scar had been from a hunt, a contract, or something far more personal, something he never spoke of because it was his alone to keep.

For a long moment, the lady simply sat there, her heart wrestling with memory and guilt, with the quiet relief of being near him once more. She had left the Waking World that night in the Clocktower and, subsequently, had left him. Slowly, almost reverently, Maria slipped one hand beneath the back of his head and the other across his chest, drawing him up toward her. Gops stirred faintly but did not wake, his weight warm and solid against her as she held him within breathing distance, before the old huntress pressed her lips to the scar on his brow. The kiss was soft, not the kind that begged for more but one that sought to mend, to tell a story that words could not bear. When she drew back, the lady did not let him go, for her grip held him upright and close, his face still within reach of hers. Maria’s expression softened into something distant and unguarded, her green eyes tracing the details of his face as though reacquainting herself with them after too many years apart, gazing upon the assassin who looked so strangely at peace in this nightmare realm.

“Fool of a man,” she whispered, though there was no venom in her voice. Only tenderness, a tone she had not worn in years. “No better than I…”

Her thumb brushed across his cheekbone, and for a moment she simply kept him there, suspended between waking and sleeping, unwilling to let him slip back into the dream, or away from her. The light from the Nightmare sun caught in the angles of his face, lending him an almost serene quality, and Maria allowed herself to linger, breathing him in. For all the grief that haunted this place, she could not remember the last time she had felt so unwilling to move.

Maria’s gaze drifted over the rest of him, tracing the bruises that marred the cleric's tanned skin, evidence of whatever battle he had endured in the Waking World. She remembered how he had returned to the Nightmare battered, speaking little, only asking for rest before collapsing into her care, and the lady had not pressed him for answers. For what felt like hours, Maria had remained there on the clocktower steps, keeping watch over him as though her silent presence could shield him from whatever hardships awaited him outside this realm. Yet as the old huntress sat there now, the memory of the rooftops still warm in her mind, she felt an ache stir within her chest, a longing so sharp it almost startled her.

Her gloved hand traced a slow line along the side of his face. Then, quietly, as though moved by something she could not resist, the lady bent forward. Maria pressed her lips first to the bruises along his cheekbone, a soft, careful touch, then to the line of his jaw. She let her lips linger each time, her breath ghosting against his tanned skin as though her very presence might will the hurt away. Somewhere along the trail, her restraint faltered, and before she could think better of it, she found her lips brushing against his. It was featherlight and tentative, almost a question, yet she lingered. The gesture deepened only slightly, not with hunger but with meaning, as though she poured into that single act all the words she could not speak: her apology for leaving him, her yearning for the past, her gratitude that he was still here.

That was when his eyelids fluttered.

Gops blinked, groggy at first, but the haze of sleep dissipated quickly as he became aware of where he was, and what he was feeling. His lashes lifted fully, and his eyes widened in muted surprise to find Maria’s lips already on his. A low hum rumbled from his chest, not of protest but of acknowledgment, startled though he was. Maria drew back, just enough for her breath to mingle with his. The old huntress’ face was calm, her expression soft and certain, utterly unrepentant. When she smiled, it was faint, but it reached her green eyes.

“Maria…?” Gops breathed, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

Yet she offered no answer, nor any words at all. Maria’s lips only descended once more, catching his in a longer, deeper kiss. This one was not tentative but sure, carrying with it the weight of years they had lost, and the things left unsaid. Gops let out a breath against her mouth, surprised again, but this time, he did not hesitate. His gloved hand came up to cup the side of her neck, his thumb brushing over the sharp edge of her jaw. Whatever question the assassin might have asked faded from his mind as he leaned into her, returning her advance with a fervour that spoke of his own buried longing. His hand pressed more firmly against her, pulling her just slightly closer, as though to assure himself this moment was real.

For the first time in decades, they kissed as if time itself had not passed

When their lips finally parted, they lingered close enough that their foreheads almost touched. The air between them was warm with their mingled breath, their hearts still racing though their bodies had stilled. Gops opened his eyes first, finding Maria’s green ones already on him, and for the first time since waking, he felt whole. The dull ache in his body was gone, soothed partly by the Dream prior to his arrival in the Nightmare, but mostly by her. The lady’s care, her presence, the quiet hours she had spent watching over him… all of it weighed more than medicine or miracle.

Gops searched for words and found none, so Maria broke the silence for him.

“Why did you not tell me?” she asked at last, her voice so soft it barely rose above a whisper. The old huntress kept him held there, one arm supporting his back, the other still resting lightly over his chest.

The cleric’s brows drew together, puzzled. “About what?”

“Clearly…” Maria’s lips curved faintly, just enough to suggest she found some bittersweet humour in her own words. “We were more than mere friends.”

Gops huffed a short laugh through his nose, his scarred brow lifting as though to challenge her. “You call Cainhurst friendly?” he asked, half amused, half incredulous, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth as he recalled their first meeting, and what followed that night.

“You know very well what I speak of,” Maria countered gently, though her tone carried just enough steel to make him drop the jest. “Your badge… it stirred something. It made me remember the first morning we met after Cainhurst.”

Gops’ expression shifted, the realisation dawning slowly across his features. Though his recollection of that day had been blurred by time and by blood, he could feel the memory taking shape, the fragments of it piecing together under her words.

“That morning…” he said, almost to himself. “When we inspected a crime scene? A murder, I believe.”

“And,” Maria added, her voice dipping a shade warmer, “later that afternoon as well.”

The weight of her meaning was not lost on him.

“Oh…” Gops breathed, a quiet, knowing sound, and his gaze softened as the memory fully returned. He could see it now: the rooftops bathed in amber light, the warmth of her touch with his, the silent moment before their affections became known.

After letting the moment hang between them, Gops drew in a slow breath and let it go through his nose. His thoughts were deliberate, his words carefully chosen when he finally spoke.

“I… did not want it to feel forced.”

His brown eyes found her green ones, and for a heartbeat, he seemed almost younger again, as if the man he once was was peering through the cracks of the assassin he had become. “I did not want you to feel forced… to be involved with me.”

Maria’s fingers flexed lightly over his chest, as though to keep him there a moment longer. “Gops…” she breathed, her voice quiet but unwavering, “Having witnessed the woman I was back then… I am certain you are among the very few things I have never regretted.”

The words were simple, yet they struck him deeper than any wound could have. Silence fell, but it was not heavy. It was the kind of silence that spoke volumes, as though the Nightmare itself was holding its breath for them. Gops found no answer, only a faint sound caught in his throat before he cleared it with a soft cough. With some effort, he shifted in order to sit up properly, his body reminding him of where the pain had been, though the ache was now absent. Maria’s brows knit together in subtle protest, but she stilled when her keen eye caught something she had missed before; the bruises, the cuts, the swelling that had marred his face were gone.

“Your wounds…” Maria uttered.

Gops only gave a small, wry smile, the expression almost boyish despite the years between them. “Thanks to you,” he said simply.

The answer, as unadorned as it was, warmed something in Maria’s chest. She huffed softly through her nose, neither denying nor acknowledging the credit, before she let him finish sitting upright. He settled beside her on the steps, shoulders brushing in quiet familiarity.

“Care to share what happened?” she asked, her tone light but her eyes sharp, ever the hunter seeking the thread of a story.

Gops exhaled, his lips curling into a humourless smirk. “It has been a bit of a whirl in Yharnam.” He tilted his head just enough to meet her gaze. “Alan Jones happened.”

Maria blinked, the name stirring some distant recollection. “Alan? From Oto’s crew?” Her lips curled into something caught between intrigue and faint disbelief. “I am surprised he managed to live this long.”

“So am I,” Gops admitted with a short, dry chuckle. “Only he and Edna remain, from what I have seen. There are other Kegs, but they came after Oto’s demise.”

Maria’s expression grew thoughtful, her gloved fingers absently brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. “Did they have something to do with the murder?”

“I used to believe so,” Gops said, his voice gaining a hard edge as he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “But I am damn near certain they were not involved.”

Maria gave a single nod, her mind clearly working behind her gaze. “Then who?”

“Some man stuck his nose where it did not belong, calling himself a private contractor. I say bullshit,” Gops replied, his tone turning dry again. “I managed to catch him, but I was met with something even worse upon my arrival back in the Church.”

Maria stayed still, letting him take his time.

“Several clerics cut down,” the assassin continued, “in the same manner you may recall in your memory, as a matter of fact. The same precision, the same intent.” His jaw tensed, and for a moment, the calm he had worn since waking threatened to break. “And there were two more corpses… buried beneath the stone.”

Maria’s pale brows drew together, a soft exhale escaping her lips as the weight of his words settled over her. “That means…”

“A serial killer,” Gops confirmed, his voice grim. “He calls himself the Blood Mason. I only learned that name after putting down one of his associates, and the Vileblood working alongside him… they refer to him as the Bloody Crow.”

The Church assassin leaned back slightly, resting his weight against the stair behind him, his elbows propped casually, but his expression was anything but relaxed. His lips pressed into a tight line, and he shook his head. “There are no more Executioners left. We thought them unnecessary after we believed the Vilebloods had been wiped out in the siege. I do not believe even our current Hunter of Hunters would be any better, for it was the Bloody Crow who killed the last one.”

Maria’s gaze softened, though there was no mistaking the sharp perception behind her eyes. “That leaves only you,” she said quietly, as though voicing the conclusion he had not wanted to admit aloud.

“Even then…” Gops hesitated, his clawed fingers curling slightly as though grasping at words he did not want to say, for when they came, they were quiet. “I know men and Hunters inside and out, even a thing or two about beasts, but not Vilebloods. I barely held my own when I crossed blades with him in Cainhurst.”

The old huntress drew in a slow breath, letting it out in a soft sigh through her nose. Her lips pressed together, thoughtful, contemplative. “I have trained in Cainhurst’s discipline,” she said finally.

That earned the faintest ghost of a smile from Gops, though it was tinged with memory. “I can tell,” he said. “Your swordplay is unlike anything I have ever seen. Reminds me of how you made short work of that knight who attacked us on the night of Cainhurst's betrayal.” His faint smirk faded as reality returned. “But… it is not like I can take you back to the Waking World.”

“No,” Maria agreed, her tone calm but steady. “But you can take my knowledge.”

Gops’ eyes snapped to hers, his brows knitting slightly as the meaning struck him.

“I am well-versed in their techniques. Their stances, their arts, the way they think,” Maria continued, her voice gaining a certain resolve. “I can teach you how to break them.”

Gops nodded slowly, the weight of the conversation sinking into him like a stone into still water. There was a faint heat in his chest, not from embarrassment, but from the strange vulnerability he felt in asking for her help. It was not often that he admitted to needing anyone; yet with Maria, it never felt like weakness.

“Thank you,” he murmured at last, his voice quiet but steady.

“It is no bother, really,” Maria replied, her tone soft but tinged with something lighter. The corner of her lips curled upward. “It is not like I have anywhere else to be.”

That coaxed a faint chuckle out of the Church assassin, the first since he had awakened. He lowered his gaze briefly, letting the humour settle in his chest before releasing it in a slow exhale. Maria, too, shared the moment, her pale lashes lowering as a rare smile graced her lips, though hers faded first.

“Funny…” she murmured after a pause, her voice contemplative. “In that memory, the sun was something I longed to see. Now? I wish to see anything but.”

Her words hung between them, soft but heavy, as she turned her face upward toward the endless light that bled through the gaps of the colossal clockface above them. The pale rays of the Nightmare’s cruel sun fell over her hair, giving her a faint, spectral glow. Gops followed her gaze, considering her words in silence.

“All these years in solitude…” the cleric said finally, his voice carrying a quiet gravity. “It must have been maddening.”

“You do not have the faintest idea,” Maria replied with a small nod, her eyes still fixed on the light; however, she then turned to him again, and this time there was something different in her expression, something softer, and more alive. “I lost my sense of self long ago, kept breathing in this realm for one purpose only. It was a hollow existence. But then…” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “…you returned. If anything, I should be the one thanking you.”

Gops tilted his head slightly, his brown eyes meeting hers with an unguarded warmth. A more genuine smile tugged at his lips, quiet but sincere.

“I meant it,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “When I told you I wished to keep seeing you on that rooftop, and I plan on keeping my word.”

Maria’s chest tightened at the sound of it, at the truth she heard ringing in his voice. For a long moment, she did not speak. The stillness between them was not awkward but full of memories, longing, and everything else they had not said in years. The sun’s light, cruel and unchanging though it was, wrapped around them like a veil, gilding their faces in pale gold. Finally, Maria let out a soft breath, her lips curling into something small but unshakably sincere.

“Then keep seeing me, Gops,” she said quietly.

Her words were neither a plea nor a command, but a vow. Gops nodded, as if sealing that promise with his silence. The faint smile remained on his lips, tempered by something weightier, a resolve that had not been there before. Side by side, they sat in the pale glow of the Astral Clocktower, the endless toll of the Nightmare’s bells somewhere far above, far away. For once, the weight of the hunt did not press down on them, and neither spoke.

The silence became its own kind of comfort.

And in that quiet, something began to mend.

Chapter Text

Yharnam had reached its sombre midday, the streets outside the Grand Cathedral echoing with the low murmur of carriages and distant bell tolls. Within its hallowed halls, pale light filtered through the tall stained-glass windows, washing the marble floor and curtained alcoves in a muted glow. The usual gathering of Yharnamites filled the pews, some kneeling in prayer, others waiting for their turn to receive treatment from the clerics. The scent of incense and medicine hung in the air, heavy but strangely calming. Near the altar stood Iosefka, her gloved hands folded neatly in front of her, deep in discussion with a figure clad in the white garb of the Choir, Elhain Venderkwast. The scholar’s head was free of the blindfold cap, her pale hair being bound back into a neat ponytail, while her bearing was as sharp and precise as her voice. Their quiet exchange was interrupted by the measured sound of boots approaching, firm but unhurried.

“Madam Venderkwast?” Gops’ voice broke the air, carrying both the weight of greeting and the tone of inquiry.

The Choir member turned, her glacial blue eyes meeting the assassin’s warm brown ones. Unlike the strict formality the assassin displayed with most of the Healing Church hierarchy, there was something unspoken between them, a casualness born not of disrespect but of familiarity, the ghost of shared campaigns and late-night briefings.

“Ah, there you are,” Elhain said at last, a faint hint of relief softening her otherwise cool tone. “We were just speaking of you.”

Iosefka’s eyes widened slightly at his arrival. “Mister Al-Dhar,” she greeted, taking a step forward as if to confirm he truly stood before her. He looked different than he had just hours ago, or so it felt. The bruises that had darkened his cheek and jaw were gone, the cuts vanished, the tired heaviness in his posture replaced by quiet resolve.

“You have healed,” the doctor remarked, the surprise tinged in her voice.

“Courtesy of the Dream,” Gops replied evenly, leaving the words to hang in the air like a quiet admission. He then turned his focus back to the scholar. “How went the autopsy?”

Elhain’s gaze sharpened, her hands folding neatly behind her back as she gave her report. “We have, indeed, uncovered the identities of the victims. Edith Brown and Christine Cooper. They both suffocated to death when they were buried beneath the stone.”

The name struck Gops like a blow. His brow furrowed, a flicker of recognition and dread passing across his face. “Wait… Edith Brown? That is-”

Elhain’s chin inclined slightly. “Edna’s sister. Correct…”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the faint chant of prayers deeper in the cathedral. Gops said nothing for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes shut as though holding back a storm that threatened to spill out. His chest rose and fell once, a quiet breath hissing through his nostrils. He remembered the Powder Kegs mentioning they sent Jozef to the Healing Church first, trying to file a missing person report before resorting to searching on their own. As misguided as their antics often were, the assassin could not deny that they were justified. The Church, for all its rituals and order, had a system full of cracks that people like Edith had a way of falling through.

“Damn it…” Gops breathed at last, his voice low and sharp, almost more growl than word. “How could she have been caught up in this mess?”

“I desire the same answer as you do,” Elhain replied evenly, though there was a note of empathy beneath her usual clinical tone. Then, as if remembering something, she produced a folded parchment from within her pale sleeve. “A letter arrived this morning. Specifically addressed to you.”

The scholar’s gloved hand extended toward him, with the seal already broken. Gops’ scarred brow arched slightly at that, but he accepted the envelope without comment, his clawed gauntlet rasping softly as he held it steady while his other hand drew the letter free. He unfolded the page, scanning the words with a speed that suggested he had expected nothing of consequence, until his brows pinched together, confusion cutting across his features.

“Of course it is from Mister Baker…” Gops muttered under his breath, a scoff escaping him. “No doubt another noise complaint.” His tone dripped with irritation, but his eyes lingered on one line longer than the rest. “…His residential address has changed, though. Right across the Parlour, actually.”

“This was Edith’s residence,” Elhain clarified. “The property has since been purchased by the new owner.”

“She was still missing until now,” Gops said, his tone sharpening. “How in hell could he have claimed the residence?”

“The captain’s official report stated the house was empty,” Elhain answered. “Stripped bare, as if no one had ever lived there. The case was closed just last week, with the conclusion that the woman had left Yharnam entirely.”

Gops’ jaw tightened, his voice cutting like a blade as he spat the name. “Fucking Walkinshaw.”

“Mister Al-Dhar…” Iosefka interjected carefully, stepping just close enough for her voice to soften without losing its urgency. “Her Excellency is conversing with the captain as we speak. Surely we will get an explanation soon.”

Gops tilted his head back slightly, closing his eyes as though summoning every ounce of control he had left. The thought of the Church captain declaring Edith’s case closed, washing his hands of her fate so easily, threatened to stoke a rage that would not easily be put down.

“Good,” he muttered finally, though the word sounded like a promise rather than relief. The Church assassin pinched the bridge of his nose with his gloved hand, the leather creasing as he pressed down against the weariness gathering behind his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, yet focused. “What of the other woman? Christine.”

The question hung in the air. Elhain and Iosefka exchanged a brief glance, the kind of wordless exchange that carried both uncertainty and shared understanding, before their gazes returned to him.

“We know only her residence in Central Yharnam,” Elhain replied at last. Her tone was clipped, businesslike, though the faintest tremor lingered beneath the surface. “She has no known kin. No one to notice if she vanished. The question is… where to look first?”

“Indeed…” Iosefka murmured, her voice softer, though edged with unease. She turned toward Gops, elaborating in her clear, careful way. “After Lindsey was murdered, her home was stripped bare. People were sent to scour away any traces of her ties to us. If that pattern continues, the same may already be happening to the other victims.”

Gops stood silent, arms folding across his chest as his mind traced through the possibilities. Two paths lay before him, neither certain, both perilous. Edith’s home, or Baker’s as it now stood, was here, close by in the Cathedral Ward. If the Blood Mason’s associates were combing through it even now, the assassin might catch them in the act. Yet there was risk in going too late, risk that their work would already be done. Christine’s residence, by contrast, lay deeper in the tangled heart of Central Yharnam. Untouched, perhaps, but not for long. If Gops delayed, he might lose the chance to see the truth with his own eyes before the Blood Mason’s men wiped it away. Worse still, there lingered the gnawing, disquieting thought that Christine had been chosen for a reason, for her resemblance to Iosefka was too uncanny to dismiss as chance. It was a gamble either way, and the Church assassin knew it. His jaw tightened, then loosened as he exhaled through his nose and straightened.

“I think it best we go to Edith’s home,” Gops said finally, his voice low but firm. “Or Mister Baker’s, now. As much as he gets on my nerves, his complaints usually find their way to the Church, not to me personally. For him to write to me suggests something amiss… and it is something I cannot ignore. I will not have him stumbling into trouble he does not understand, not with his luck.”

He turned his gaze toward the two clerics, the lines of his scarred face hardening with resolve. “If the Blood Mason’s people are there, then now may be our chance to catch them in the act.”

Both Iosefka and Elhain shared a mutual nod, but before they could voice their agreement, their attention was drawn to the sound of measured steps descending from the upper level. The Vicar herself had entered the Grand Cathedral’s main hall, her tall frame draped in white, her presence commanding silence even amidst the murmur of the gathered Yharnamites. Both clerics bowed deeply, hands clasped in reverence. Gops followed suit, though his bow was half as precise, his posture more pragmatic than ceremonial.

“Your Excellency,” the assassin greeted.

“Mister Al-Dhar,” Amelia replied, her voice even and graceful, though her eyes were sharp, unwavering. “I wish to speak with you for a moment. Privately.”

There was no hesitation in Gops’ nod, though his thoughts flickered with speculation. He excused himself with a glance toward the two other clerics, then followed as Amelia guided him toward a quieter corner of the cathedral, the echo of their steps swallowed by the vaulted chamber. Once there, the assassin inclined his head, signalling he was prepared to listen.

“Following this morning’s ordeal, I came to a decision,” Amelia began, her tone cool, deliberate. “I have released this ‘Tax Collector’ from custody.”

Gops’ eyes widened, disbelief breaking through his professional calm. “Beg pardon-?”

“Let me finish.” Amelia’s voice cut neatly across his protest, not sharp but commanding enough to halt him. She had clearly anticipated his reaction. “We lack the evidence to officially hold him, but more than that, I believe his release may serve us better than his imprisonment.”

Gops raised his scarred brow, silent but sceptical.

“I believe your claim that he is working under the Blood Mason,” Amelia continued. “Your knowledge of Claire’s memories support it. Yet without hard proof, we are limited. By setting him free, we place him in a false sense of confidence. That confidence, in turn, leaves him vulnerable to your observation. Should he truly be involved, you will catch him red-handed.”

“I… understand,” Gops said after a beat, the surprise lingering in his voice. He had not expected this kind of tactical foresight from the Vicar, nor the implicit trust she extended to him. “What of Walkinshaw?”

“I have already spoken to him regarding his premature closure of Edith’s case.” Amelia’s answer was flat, efficient. “There will be no further mishandling. For now, we must work with what remains before us and prevent another such mistake.”

Gops inclined his head, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed his dissatisfaction. He would have preferred harsher consequences for the captain, but his focus could not afford to be mired in that feud. “Very well. I intend to move on to Edith’s residence, which is Mister Baker’s now. He sent me a letter this morning, and its urgency cannot be ignored.”

“I will leave the rest to you, Gops,” Amelia said with a nod, her tone granting both authority and trust.

The Church assassin turned to depart but hesitated, half-turning back to her as another thought pressed forward. “One more thing, if I may, Your Excellency.”

Amelia inclined her head, inviting him to continue.

“I know it is early to draw conclusions,” Gops said carefully, “but I do not believe the Kegs had any hand in this. If anything, they have endured enough already, especially for what they did for Laurence that night.” His voice hardened slightly, carrying the weight of memory. “I ask only that you give some thought to… a possibility of reinstatement. For their sake.”

Amelia stood in silence for a long moment, her tall frame shadowed against the pale glow filtering through the cathedral curtains. At last, she inclined her head. “I will keep that in mind.”

Her voice, calm and resolute, carried the final benediction. “May the good blood guide your way.”

“Safety and peace, Your Excellency,” Gops returned, his words clipped in the assassin’s customary farewell.

With that, he turned toward the cathedral doors, his purpose set, the weight of both duty and memory pressing on his shoulders.

Though a short span had passed since they left the Grand Cathedral, it did not take long for Gops and Iosefka to reach the narrow street that led to their destination. The air was damp, the stones slick with the faint drizzle that clung to Yharnam’s rooftops, and the silence of the ward was broken only by the distant echo of carts and the baying of hounds behind shuttered windows.

Iosefka was dressed in her White Church huntress garb, the pale dress swaying about her heels with each step. At her hip hung a repeating pistol, and in her gloved hand, she held her threaded cane, not stiffly, but with the casual readiness of someone who knew danger was never far in this city. Gops walked at her side, armed with all his gear. His sheathed silver blade clinked against the other tools strapped to his belt, while Ludwig’s rifle rested comfortably in his clawed hand. The weight of steel and powder was familiar to him, almost reassuring.

Their destination loomed ahead: a tall brick residence, its façade neat, almost ordinary. This was the property that once belonged to Edith Brown, now transferred to Mister Baker, and it sat directly across from the Parlour. That alone made the cleric’s jaw tighten. Too much coincidence, given the close proximity. He studied the exterior with an assassin’s caution. No broken shutters, no doors splintered open, no signs of a raid or hurried search. Perfectly still. Too still. Adjusting the plumed tricorn upon his head, Gops lifted a gloved hand and rapped thrice upon the door.

“Mister Baker? It is I,” he called, voice clipped and even.

From within came the shuffle of movement, footsteps and the scrape of furniture, as if it were someone fumbling in haste. Gops arched his scarred brow and cast a glance at Iosefka. She caught his look, her own lips pressing thin beneath her veil.

“Mister Baker,” Gops repeated, sharper this time, his tone carrying the weight of command.

“Healing Church,” Iosefka added firmly, her voice resonant against the wood, hoping the authority of the name would stir a response.

However, instead of an answer, the noises inside faded into silence. Gops’ eyes narrowed as he reached for the handle, twisting it only to find it locked. The assassin’s instincts flared, prickling the back of his neck. Without hesitation, he leaned close, pressing his ear against the wood; yet, what he caught turned his blood cold, as he heard muffled grunts, faint and strangled. Urgency lit his face. In a single fluid motion, he flicked out the gauntlet blade from his arm and drove it into the wood by the lock. The steel bit deep, and with the leverage of his clawed arm, he wrenched hard before slamming his shoulder into the frame. The lock gave with a harsh crack, and the door swung inward with a jolt.

“Gops-!” Iosefka gasped, startled by the sudden force, but she knew him too well to think it rash. He would not have broken through unless he had heard something dire.

They stormed inside, boots striking the wood, only to be met with a sight that froze Iosefka mid-step. Mister Baker sat bound to a chair in the middle of his quarters, ropes cinched so tightly around his chest and limbs that the veins in his hands had risen dark against the strain. His mouth was gagged with a wad of cloth, damp from his breath, and his eyes bulged wide, half-frantic and half-desperate, as they fixed upon the clerics who had broken into his home. Relief warred with terror in his face.

“Planes above-” Iosefka’s breath hitched, gloved hand pressed over her mouth.

Gops wasted no time as he surged forward, the gauntlet blade still gleaming beneath his palm, and with a precise slash, he severed the knot at the back of the Yharnamite’s head. The gag fell limp into Baker’s lap, and the Yharnamite immediately sucked in a rattling breath.

“Ah-! Church assassin-” Baker gasped, his words tumbling out in broken bursts. “He took my boy!”

Gops’ scarred brow furrowed. “Who what-?”

“Stevenson!” the old man barked, voice raw with panic. “He told me he’d kill ’im if I didn’t call ye. Strapped me in this godsdamned chair, beat me senseless, then off he went! With my boy!”

“Who is ‘he’?” Iosefka demanded, dropping to one knee beside the chair. Her threaded cane gleamed as she lifted the sharp edge beneath the ropes, working to slice them apart with steady, surgical movements.

“I don’t bloody know!” Baker snapped, spittle flecking his beard as fear clawed its way through his words. “He just showed up outta nowhere and asked for the assassin! Said he wanted ye!” His eyes darted back up, locking on Gops, burning with desperate accusation. “He said- He said to meet him at the abandoned homestead, south borough of the ward. That’s where he took Stevenson!”

The air thickened and Gops’ jaw tightened, his pulse quickening beneath his composed exterior. He did not hesitate.

“Iosefka,” he said firmly, his tone carrying no room for argument, “free Mister Baker. I am going there now.”

Before the doctor could so much as rise to her feet, the Church assassin had already turned on his heel. The ends of his coat barely swept the floor, boots striking with urgency as he darted through the threshold and out into the street. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving only the echo of his departure, and Iosefka’s breath caught between protest and worry, as Gops disappeared into the labyrinth of Cathedral Ward, bound for the south borough.

The homestead loomed in ruin, its timbers groaning as black smoke curled from shattered windows on the upper floor. Gops halted at the threshold only long enough to take in the sight, his jaw tightening before he drove his shoulder into the doors. They burst inward with a splintering crack, the air rushing against him with the stench of soot and burning timber. Inside, the fire was alive, cackling along the rafters, gnawing its way through the walls. The assassin wasted no time as he tore up the staircase two steps at a time, the twin slivers of embroidered cloth that flowed behind his figure snapping in the draft of the flames. At the landing, he dragged up a mask over his mouth, the acrid smoke clawing at his throat even through the fabric. The fire spread fast, devouring the stead with a hunger that threatened to trap them both within minutes.

Then came a child’s cry, piercing and panicked.

“Stevenson!” Gops bellowed, voice straining over the roar of fire. His ears caught the echo, but the sound warped in the heat, bouncing off the walls, impossible to place.

The cleric pressed on regardless, forcing himself through the haze. Door by door, he kicked through the rooms, his blade hand tight at his side as the fire crept closer, licking at the floorboards. The cries grew louder, more desperate, until at last he smashed through one final door and the sound rang sharp and clear. The room was an inferno, with smoke churned thick as tar, and flames lashing across the ceiling. In the corner, a closet shook, its wood groaning as something inside pressed against it. Relief surged through him, and Gops lunged, ripping the door from its hinges with brutal force; however, it was not the boy.

A boot crashed into his chest, the impact like a hammer blow. Gops staggered back, slammed hard against the flaming doorframe. His side flared in pain as he sucked air through gritted teeth.

“So pathetically predictable,” a voice jeered, metallic and distorted, reverberating as though funnelled through iron.

The figure emerged from the closet, every step a grinding of steel. He was a monstrous silhouette, clad in iron plates hammered crudely into armour. A grotesque cone-shaped helm shielded his head, its visor slitted and blackened with soot, impervious to flame. Twin flamethrowers hung heavy in his hands, their nozzles already coughing sparks, while belts of explosives crisscrossed his chest like trophies. Gops slid his silver sword free from its scabbard with a hiss, the blade gleaming in the dim hellfire, and with his other hand, he cocked Ludwig’s rifle, the mechanism clicking as he levelled it. His breath rasped against the cloth mask, fury sharpening his tone into a snarl.

“Where is the boy?!”

“You can find him in hell!” the ironclad figure roared, his arm snapping up as a torrent of fire burst forth.

The room ignited in an instant, the flames fanning outward like a beast unchained. Gops hurled himself sideways, boots skidding across the burning floorboards as the heat scorched the air where he had stood. He rolled hard and came up on one knee, his rifle raised. The crack of Ludwig’s rifle split the roar of the fire, thunderous in the confined space. Smoke split with the flash of gunpowder, and the buckshot hammered into the figure’s chest; yet the iron plates clanged dully and drank the blow without so much as staggering him. Sparks leapt off the metal, the pellets embedding uselessly against the crude armor.

The helm tilted back, laughter rattling out from behind the slit visor. “HAH! You goin’ to make me a fine sum of riches, fool!”

Gops’s eyes narrowed, the silver sword sliding into a low guard as he steadied his stance. “What are you talking about?”

“Blood Mason!” the armoured brute bellowed, spreading his arms wide as though to welcome the flames crawling over the walls. “He’s offered a handsome bounty for yer head, assassin! Doesn’t like you meddlin’ in his business!”

The assassin’s brow furrowed beneath his hat. “Did he leave out the part that I cannot die?” His voice was edged with disbelief, though he kept his aim trained.

“Oh, we know.” The man’s laughter was guttural, distorted by the helmet until it seemed less human, more the unhinged shriek of a demon. “He’s offered a fortune for EACH time you die by our hands! UNENDING WEALTH! HAHA!”

With that, the pyromaniac surged forward, the floor trembling under his plated boots. His every step was ponderous, slow, yet unstoppable, an avalanche of steel. One arm came up, and the flamethrower belched a storm of fire, a wide, suffocating wave meant to drown the assassin in searing heat. Gops dropped low, narrowly ducking beneath the sweep of flame. His sword lashed out in a swift arc, aimed at the joint of the man’s knee where the plates met. Silver rang against steel, though it was a futile strike. The edge scraped uselessly across the thick calf plating, sparking but failing to pierce.

A grunt of frustration slipped from the assassin’s throat before pain thundered through his ribs. The iron brute’s gauntleted fist slammed into his chest with crushing force. Gops felt the air leave his lungs as his body was hurled backward, crashing through a section of wall already weakened by fire. Splinters burst outward, flame licking greedily at the gap as he tumbled across the floor. His coat caught in places, glowing embers eating through the fabric, and he rolled hard to smother the flames before they consumed him.

Somewhere through the roar of fire came the faint, terrified cry of a boy.

“Stevenson-” Gops rasped, forcing air back into his lungs as he staggered upright, eyes darting through the haze.

The pyromaniac’s heavy steps pounded closer, the ironclad form forcing its way through the hole in the wall like a juggernaut. Sparks cascaded from his armour where the flames clawed uselessly, his cone-helm tilting toward the assassin with mocking certainty. Gops adjusted, slipping the silver blade back into its sheath in one smooth motion. The sword would not break this shell, not with time against him and the boy still in danger. Instead, he drew Ludwig’s rifle fully to his right hand, the weight solid, familiar. With his left, he tugged free the repeating pistol, its polished barrels glinting red in the firelight.

The assassin’s breath steadied behind his mask. He had faced worse odds.

Iron could turn a blade and scatter a single shot. But iron could only withstand so much, and every armour had its weakness. He levelled both weapons, narrowing his gaze to one target alone: the chest, where the plates were crudely riveted together. He would hammer that point again and again until it broke. The pyromaniac lumbered forward, each step shaking the scorched floorboards. His flamethrower hissed, pressure building as he aimed to wash the room with more flames.

Gops, however, did not wait. He squeezed the trigger of his repeating pistol once, twice, and thrice. The cylindrical mechanisms of the firearm spun as sharp cracks rang out over the roar of the blaze, sparks spraying as each shot slammed into the centre of the brute’s chest. The plates dented beneath the onslaught, and though the iron-clad foe barely staggered, Gops saw the rivets groaning under strain. He followed up with Ludwig’s rifle, the weapon roaring like thunder. The blast struck square against the weakened spot, shoving the armoured figure back a step, yet it was still not enough. Gops lunged forward, driving his boot against the battered plate with all his weight.

“GAH!” The pyromaniac reeled, balance broken, before his hulking form crashed backward through another flaming wall. The timbers gave way with a scream, smoke and sparks bursting into the hall beyond.

And then, there he was. A small figure, huddled near a toppled cabinet, eyes wide with terror.

“There you are!” Gops exclaimed, voice sharp through the crackle of flames. “Stay down!”

The child whimpered but obeyed, curling tighter against the scorched wood; however, the pyromaniac was not finished. With a guttural roar, he dragged himself back to his feet, fire licking across his cone-helm as he raised both weapons to bear. Gops darted between him and the boy, weapons still raised, mind splitting between two imperatives, being to hold off the iron-clad madman and carve a path for the child to escape the inferno.

Another surge of fire spat from the flamethrower, forcing Gops to vault aside, shielding the boy with his body as heat seared the wall behind them. He rolled to his feet, twin barrels already aligned, and fired again into the weak point, the plates screaming as they buckled further.

“Move!” Gops growled, shoving the boy toward the nearest gap in the broken wall while holstering Ludwig’s rifle on the back part of his waist belt. “Run when I say!”

The child shook, unable to move, and Gops cursed beneath his breath. There would be no clean separation, for he would have to fight and shepherd the boy at once. The pyromaniac advanced again, his laughter echoing, promising fire and ruin. The assassin, heart pounding, settled into the rhythm of a desperate dance: shots and strikes against the iron shell, every move angled to keep the child shielded and alive, even as the building itself threatened to collapse around them.

The pyromaniac bore down on them like a living furnace, iron-shod boots pounding the boards. Gops reacted in a flash, seizing Stevenson by the collar and dragging the boy into a desperate dive, rolling them both clear of the charge. The assassin twisted mid-motion, the repeating pistol snapping up in his grasp. Another thunderous shot rang out, the twin bullets hammering into the brute’s chest. The iron plates buckled, denting further beneath the focused punishment, but still the aggressor pressed on. A rasping laugh rattled beneath the cone-shaped helm as the pyromaniac clawed at his belt. Fingers closed around a bundle of dynamite, and in one motion, he scraped the fuse across the licking fire around them. Sparks spat to life. With a savage glee, he hurled it toward them.

Gops’ eyes flared, for there was no time to throw it back. Instead, he hauled Stevenson tight against his chest, coiling his body around the boy just as the dynamite erupted. The explosion tore the air apart, slamming the assassin forward in a storm of smoke, flame, and splintered timber. His coat blackened, scorched to ash-grey tatters, his ribs rattling from the force.

The floor gave way beneath him.

With a guttural grunt, Gops’ repeating pistol slipped from his grasp as he plummeted half a story down. Reflex alone saved them, as his clawed gauntlet bit deep into a beam of shattered flooring, metal screeching against wood as he hung suspended above the inferno below. In his other arm, Stevenson dangled, his small hands locked in a death-grip around the assassin’s sleeve, shoes swaying just above the roaring tongues of fire as the boy screamed, terror-stricken.

“Agh-! I have you!” Gops snarled through clenched teeth, his shoulders burning with strain as heat licked at them from below.

“Ahh!” the pyromaniac roared with delight, his laughter echoing through the inferno as he loomed over the assassin and child dangling from the ruined floorboards.

He slung the remaining flamethrower at the other side of his hip, then reached back across his massive shoulders. From the crisscrossed belts came the glint of steel, a double-barreled shotgun, its twin muzzles gaping wide like the eyes of a predator. The helm muffled his laughter, but the malice rang clear as he levelled the weapon.

Gops risked a glance upward, his breath catching, only to then mutter through gritted teeth, “How the fuck does he carry all that?”

There was no time for clever answers, nor did the cleric expect any. He shifted Stevenson in a brutal, desperate heave, releasing the boy’s hand just long enough to snatch him at the waist and curl him against his chest. The assassin bent forward, making his own body the only shield.

The first blast came.

The buckshot slammed into his back, shredding through his coat with the sound of tearing cloth and puncturing flesh beneath with a spew of blood. Pain flared like lightning, and a ragged cry tore itself from Gops’ throat. His gauntlet claws bit deeper into the wood, the only thing keeping both himself and the child from falling into the blaze below.

The second barrel roared.

This time, the shot was hammered into his right shoulder. The force jolted him sideways, nearly ripping his grip from the splintered beam. Gops hissed, his voice guttural with agony, every muscle screaming with strain, but still he did not loosen his hold on the boy trembling in his arms. Stevenson whimpered, his face buried into the assassin’s chest, spared from the sight and the fire.

“Stubborn lil’ shit, ain’t ya?” the pyromaniac bellowed with savage glee. He snapped open the shotgun with a metallic clack, feeding fresh shells into the chamber with methodical ease. “Let’s see how long ya last!”

Gops’ vision swam. His blood was hot, trickling beneath his coat, his grip trembling with fatigue. He knew the next volley might rip him free, casting both into the fire; however, salvation struck before the trigger could be pulled.

From the smoke, a shadow flickered, and with it, the hiss of steel cutting air. A serrated whip lashed out and coiled around the pyromaniac’s wrist, just where the crude iron plates left a seam of unarmored flesh, before the barbs tore into fabric and skin alike. The brute snarled, staggering as the whip tightened. A vicious tug jerked his arm sideways, forcing the shotgun loose, clattering onto the floor with a hollow thud. Gops, panting heavily, twisted his head. Through the smoke and firelight, he glimpsed pale white garb, glinting silver under the glow of flame, for it was none other than Iosefka, her stance taut, threaded cane coiled and ready in its whip-form.

With renewed hope burning in his veins, Gops summoned the last of his adrenaline to hurl Stevenson upward. The boy landed hard on the floorboards above, scrambling to his knees. However, the effort tore through what remained of Gops’ hold as the beam cracked under his gauntlets, splinters raining into the inferno below. For a fleeting moment, the assassin’s weight began to drag him down; yet small, desperate hands seized him. Stevenson, trembling but resolute, clutched at the iron of Gops’ gauntlet. The boy’s face was pale, streaked with soot, but his jaw was set, eyes blazing with fear and courage both.

The assassin let out a breathless huff, equal parts shock and pride. He knew the boy could not bear his full weight for long, but instinct guided his body. Gops swung his other arm up, his gloved fingers scraping across the edge of the splintered floor until they latched onto the wood with a firm grip. With Stevenson tugging, straining, the Church assassin heaved himself over the lip, collapsing onto his back beside the child.

“Gah-!” Gops groaned, then rolled his head toward Stevenson. A tired smile cut across his soot-streaked face. “Thanks, kid.”

Before the moment could linger, a sharp crack split the din. A gunshot, clear and precise, rang out from the doctor’s repeating pistol. Both turned to see Iosefka standing her ground, her shots keeping the pyromaniac at bay as his burning silhouette pressed toward her. Adrenaline surged again, hot and urgent. Gops gritted his teeth, reaching into his pouch with quick precision. His fingers closed around the cool glass of a blood vial before he jabbed the needle into his thigh, the thick crimson liquid flooding his veins, knitting torn flesh, dulling the agony of buckshot buried in his back and shoulder. Steam rose from beneath his coat, where wounds sealed, leaving only the ghost of the pain.

There was no time to falter, as the assassin pushed himself upright, scooping his pistol from the charred floor, and snapped a command toward Stevenson. “Stay close and run when I tell you to. Got it?”

The boy hesitated only a heartbeat before nodding. Whatever fear had shadowed him before was gone, replaced by a newfound trust born of fire and blood. Together they sprinted through the smouldering chamber toward the fight. Iosefka’s form cut through the smoke, her whip lashing out with serrated precision, snapping against plates and flame-throwers alike. Each crack forced the brute to stagger, his armour rattling under her assault, her pistol barking in rhythm to keep him reeling.

Seizing the moment, Gops lunged. He vaulted up the monster’s back, the heels of his boots scraping iron as he climbed like a predator. His pistol was already levelled when he straddled the man’s shoulders. Both barrels aligned with the chestplate, just above the furnace-like glow of his core.

The shot thundered point-blank.

Steel shrieked, shards of iron splitting away as the armour crumpled inward. At last, the bullets found flesh. Blood misted through the cracks, and the pyromaniac’s bellow shook the rafters, deeper and louder than before.

“AHH!” he roared, flames gushing from his gauntlets in wild, uncontrolled bursts, the chamber drowning once more in heat and fire.

The pyromaniac thrashed, his bellowing rage filling the chamber as fire belched in sweeping arcs from his gauntlets. The heat seared the air, smoke rolling thick and suffocating. Gops clung to the armoured back, the repeating pistol clattering empty to the floor as he drew in a ragged breath. He had struck true, but the brute was not done yet.

“Gops!” Iosefka shouted from below, whip snapping around one leg to wrench the brute sideways, slowing his rampage. Her pale dress was marred with ash, but her eyes were fixed, sharp, unwavering.

“Take the boy!” Gops barked over the roar of flames. He outstretched his clawed fingers, steel talons glinting orange in the inferno. “Get him out of here! I got this!”

For a heartbeat, she hesitated before the doctor’s gaze met his, reading the grim resolve behind his bloodied and charred face. Then, without another word, she darted toward Stevenson. The boy resisted, eyes wide with fear of leaving the assassin behind, but Iosefka seized his hand and pulled him toward the nearest unburnt passage. “Come, child! Quickly!”

The brute staggered under their distraction, chestplate torn open to expose raw, bleeding flesh beneath, allowing Gops to seize the chance. With a savage growl, he jabbed his claws into the gap, tearing wider until blood gushed freely, iron clattering away in shards. The pyromaniac reeled, his flames sputtering wild, his voice breaking into a guttural roar.

“Gah- Argh-! ARGH!” he bellowed again, spitting blood as he swung blindly, smashing holes in the walls, sending timbers crashing down around them.

Gops ducked low, boots grinding against the brute’s hunched shoulder, before his left arm snapped forward in a clean, decisive motion. From beneath the folds of his gauntlet, the hidden blade hissed free, gleaming silver against the firelight.

“Burn in your own hell,” he growled.

The blade plunged into the gap at the base of the man’s helm, driving deep through exposed flesh and sinew. It split his throat with brutal precision, cutting through arteries and spine alike. The pyromaniac convulsed, fire gushing once more from his gauntlets before sputtering into nothing. A strangled gurgle escaped his ruined neck as his knees buckled beneath him. For a moment, the chamber was filled only with the groan of collapsing beams and the hiss of dying flames.

Gops’ vision smeared, the world dilating into that familiar haze that always came before a memory took hold, time stretching thin, sound muffling as if wound through wool. He saw then not the burning timbers around him but a darker room, lit by a single guttering candle. Shapes moved in and out of shadow.

The iron-clad brute stood there, helmet discarded, face half-lost in smoke and half in the candlelight, his hard features set like flint. Two other figures lingered nearby, shoulders hunched beneath heavy coats. A fourth silhouette detached itself from the gloom: a cloaked man with his hood thrown forward so that only the suggestion of his mouth could be seen when he spoke.

“Albert Roth. Bartolomeo Marvin. Eudorus Dipchev,” the hooded man intoned, his voice flat and sure as a ledger entry. “I’m sure you are all aware of our esteemed Church assassin, Gops Al-Dhar. He has become a thorn on my side, and I intend to cut it off. Rest assured… you will be paid handsomely for eliminating him.”

The iron-armoured man laughed, a brittle sound. “Do not play the fool with us. What good is that promise when the bounty can’t die? We know he cheats death.”

A rasp of amusement slipped from the hooded figure. “That is part of the arrangement, Albert.” The cloaked man’s words were bright with cruelty now. “Each time he dies by one of your hands… payment will be granted accordingly.”

The three exchanged glances, the sort of muttered calculations that make a mercenary’s mouth water. They scoffed, a unanimous sound that turned the candlelight jaundiced and mean. “Now… you have our attention,” Albert said at last, voice booming in the small room.

“Good, then,” the hooded man replied. Even with his face stilled in shadow, his tone carried a terrible clarity. “The Tax Collector has been released this morning. Once I send him to deal with the former cleric’s wife, you may begin your hunt for the assassin.”

The candle guttered. The memory thinned and dissolved like smoke.

Heat and roar returned with a cruel shove. Gops blinked, the blaze snapping back into focus. With a final shudder, the armoured brute toppled face-first into the burning wreckage, his weaponry clattering loose as the fire claimed him. Smoke swirled as Gops stood above him, chest heaving, hidden blade dripping crimson. He retracted his gauntlet blade with a sharp click, the clang of his boots heavy as he turned toward the way Iosefka and Stevenson had gone. The fight was done, yet the final words of his foe’s memories struck him with nothing but dread.

“Viola?”

Chapter Text

Gops emerged from the blaze just as the homestead surrendered to it, the roof buckling inward with a scream of timber. The air behind him swelled with fire and smoke, a guttural roar that promised nothing of the building would remain. His attire, already dark as always, was now charred, flecked with ash, and frayed with holes where buckshot had torn through. Only the familiar warmth of healing blood coursing through his veins kept him from faltering; without the vials he had driven into his flesh, he would have collapsed in the street.

“Gops! Thank goodness-” Iosefka’s voice rang out, cutting through the din. She was rushing toward him, Stevenson’s hand clutched in her own. Relief widened her pale features, but the boy tore free before she could stop him.

To Gops’ astonishment, Stevenson ran straight into him, clutching his thigh with a desperate strength, his soot-stained face buried against scorched fabric. For a moment, the assassin stood rigid, as if unaccustomed to the very idea of a child’s embrace. His breath caught, then slipped out in a surprised huff. Slowly and uncertainly, he placed a gloved hand on the boy’s back and gave a single, stiff pat. Gratitude was something Gops seldom earned in the Waking World. Fear, suspicion, obedience, yes, but never this. Never the raw, wordless thanks of a life saved, considering his main profession.

But the shadows had begun to lengthen, and the assassin’s gaze snapped to the horizon where the last light was thinning. “What are you both still doing here? Curfew will fall on the city soon,” he urged, eyes flicking to Iosefka.

The doctor’s lips tightened in a faint smile, though her eyes studied him with sharp concern. “Do not ask me. Little Steve refused to go anywhere without you.” Her expression hardened as she took in the state of the assassin’s tattered and scorched attire. “And you. Are you sound?”

“I am fine,” Gops said, though his voice bore the edge of fatigue. What pressed harder on him than pain were the memories clawing at his mind, being Albert Roth’s last recollections, the shadow of the Blood Mason lurking within them. His tone sharpened. “Iosefka. Take the boy back to Mister Baker’s and stay there for the night. Viola is in danger.”

The doctor blinked, stunned. “Viola? How could she-?”

“I saw it,” Gops cut in. “The man’s memories when I killed him. The Blood Mason has set an endless bounty on my head, with every death paid in coin. Albert and two others were charged to hunt me… but in his words, Mason also named Viola.” His scarred brow furrowed, the words dragging like lead on his tongue. “She is marked.”

“Gods…” Iosefka whispered, glancing toward the boy as if the thought of more blood within the city’s walls might smother him.

“I must get to her right now,” Gops said firmly. “Remain at Baker’s till morning.”

“You intend on going alone?” Iosefka asked, her voice low but edged with worry. The boy’s soot-marked hand was still wrapped around her sleeve, though his eyes fixed only on the assassin.

“The Hunt will be in full cry soon,” Gops replied, his words clipped with urgency. “I have to reach her before then. And worse yet, we still know nothing of why a girl bearing your likeness was marked. Until that is answered, you need to remain out of harm’s way. Not without me at least.” His gaze flicked sharply between them. “I will be back at dawn.”

For the first time since the nightmare began, the boy spoke, his small voice breaking through the tension. “Promise?”

The assassin lowered his eyes to meet Stevenson’s, the child still clinging stubbornly to his legs. He let out a quiet breath, his tone softening. “You have my word,” Gops said. “And I have never broken my word.”

It seemed to satisfy the boy, if only a little. Gops gave him a small nudge, enough to coax him toward Iosefka, who took his hand gently into her gloved palm. She lingered a moment, her green eyes studying the assassin as if she might protest again, then finally relented. “Very well. Please… see Viola safe, and yourself as well.”

Gops answered with a single nod, curt but weighted with finality. Then he turned on his heel, his boots striking hard against the cobblestones as he vanished into the smoke-smeared streets. The doctor and the boy watched after him, the sound of his retreating steps swallowed by the distant howl of beasts that stirred in Central Yharnam.

Night had fallen. The Astral Clocktower tolled its hollow hour, and the Hunt began in earnest. Yharnam shrank in on itself, doors barred and windows shuttered tight, the only signs of habitation the faint trails of incense smoke curling from lanterns that hung like weary guardians over each threshold. The cobbled streets were left to shadows and the distant, feral howls of the city’s beastly denizens. Gops had run without pause, his lungs burning as fiercely as the fires he left behind, until at last he reached the humble, familiar dwelling. The cleric rapped three times against the stout wooden door with the steel back of his clawed gauntlet. The sound rang sharp in the silence, yet nothing answered. He knocked again, harder. This time, a small voice came, drifting from the side of the house.

“Hello?”

At once, Gops recognised it. He moved with practised ease, scaling the stone wall and vaulting over the sealed gate in a single motion. His boots struck the flagstones softly as he landed inside the yard. Ahead, a faint glow leaked from a window barred against the night. Within that glow, the silhouette of a child shifted.

“Miriam?” Gops’ voice was low, and measured.

“Who is this?” the girl asked, her words muffled by glass and wood.

“Gops,” he answered. “An old friend of your father’s. From the Healing Church. Is your mother here?”

The girl’s shadow shifted again. “Oh! Hello, mister. You just missed her. She went off to look for daddy. She said he forgot his music box.”

The assassin let out a slow, heavy breath. Dread weighed his chest, but it was the peculiar mention of the box that sharpened his attention as his scarred brow lifted. “She should not be out at this hour,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “What music box?”

“The one that plays daddy’s favourite song!” Miriam chimed, her tone innocent, even cheery. “It helps him remember us, in case he forgets.”

Silence settled on the assassin. He had known Father Gascoigne for years during his tenure with the Healing Church. Never had such a detail been spoken of, not the suggestion that memory might falter, nor that a trinket could tether him back. Yet here was the proof of it, in the words of his daughter. Gops felt an unease coil within him.

“Is mum going to be alright?” Miriam’s voice cut through his brooding.

The Church assassin blinked, pulling himself back to the present. “Do not worry,” he said, his tone steadier than his heart. “I will find her, and I will see her safely home.”

“Okay.” Relief softened her voice. “Thank you, Mister Cleric!”

From behind the window’s glow, her small figure lingered a moment longer before retreating into the safety of her home. Gops turned his eyes toward the night again, knowing safety was a fragile thing in Yharnam. The assassin sifted through his memories like a scholar flipping through weathered tomes, patterns, routes, and habits. Every beast hunter he had studied, and every path he had mapped, narrowed the possibilities. Gascoigne, unlike most, was a man of brute force beneath duty. If Viola had gone in search of her husband, then her trail would inevitably cross his.

He exhaled sharply as the answer struck him.

“The aqueduct bridge…”

Without hesitation, Gops vaulted down the ladder by the home, his boots splashing into the filth of the aqueducts below. He pressed forward, swift and silent, the stench of sewage clinging to the ends of his coat as the cleric moved through narrow passages, climbed dripping stairs, and rose again into the open night air. The assassin emerged onto the stone bridge that spanned the waterway, and his intuition proved true.

There, pacing with a predator’s patience, was Father Gascoigne. He cut a grim figure against the moonlight, draped in a long hunting coat stitched with faded clerical sigils. A shawl embroidered with worn symbols of the Healing Church draped across his shoulders. His pale hair spilled from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and in his hands gleamed instruments of death, being a hunter axe in one, and a modified hunter pistol in the other.

“Gascoigne,” Gops called, his tone sharp but even as he strode closer.

The hunter turned. His pale brows furrowed before his mouth broke into a grin, sharp with the faint glimmer of a canine tooth. “Al-Dhar? Didn’t expect you tonight.”

“There is no time for pleasantries,” Gops pressed, his urgency bleeding through his practised calm. “Where is Viola?”

Gascoigne’s grin faltered. “Viola? Isn’t she home?”

“She should be. Yet she left to search for you,” Gops said. “Something about a music box.”

Gascoigne froze. His gloved hand moved instinctively to his coat pocket, finding it empty. His expression hardened, and his voice dropped lower in concern. “Did she tell you?”

“No. Your daughter did,” Gops replied flatly.

Gascoigne parted his lips to respond, but the night split with another voice, familiar and desperate.

“Gascoigne!”

Both men turned. Viola, her blonde hair catching the faint lamplight, hurried across the bridge, skirts brushing the stone as she ran. Gascoigne’s instincts overtook him; his arm swept around her shoulders the moment she reached him, pulling her close.

“Viola-? What are you doing here? The Hunt is on-”

“It’s the Collector-” she gasped, words spilling faster than breath.

Gascoigne’s eyes widened. “What? I thought we were finished with him-”

“Excuse me?” Gops cut in, confusion flashing across the narrowing of his brows beneath the brim of his tricorn.

However, before either could answer, another voice slithered down the bridge, calm and mocking.

“Now, now… we don’t much appreciate that, darling.”

From the far end of the bridge, figures emerged. The Tax Collector strolled at their head, smug in his simple attire, adorning a shirt and trousers, with a beret perched jauntily atop his head. Behind him, rough men strained to drag a cart heavy with iron cages, each one rattling faintly with unseen contents. The Collector spread his hands as if in welcome.

“We were just finalising a business transaction,” he purred, his smile cold as coin. “Shame it didn’t turn out as planned.”

Gops strode forward, past the protective embrace Gascoigne had thrown over his wife, his every step drawn taut with purpose. His face turned toward the Tax Collector, and the assassin’s glare told of one thing alone. The promise of violence. His stubbled jaw clenched, teeth grinding as though to keep his rage from spilling too soon.

The Collector’s grin only widened, the lamplight catching the gold of his tooth. “Ah, so you haven’t forgotten me, mate! Splendid. Matter o’ fact, I’d say we’ve prepared a little something special for both you and the lady tonight.” He snapped his fingers. “Boys!”

At once, his hirelings moved to the cart, heavy with cages that rattled like coffins in a storm. Locks were undone, bolts thrown aside, and then came the thunder of iron doors bursting open. A rank stench swept over the bridge as shadows lunged out; dogs, once loyal beasts, now twisted mockeries. Their bodies had grown grotesquely large, skin clinging tight against sinew warped by the scourge. Foam clung to their jaws, their eyes gleaming red with hunger and madness. They bayed as they spilled across the bridge, the clamour of claws against stone rising above the wind.

“Stay back!” Gascoigne barked, his voice firm as steel as he thrust Viola behind him. Then, axe in one hand and pistol in the other, he surged forward with a roar to meet the pack headlong.

Gops cursed under his breath, frustration flaring at the Collector’s ploy. His silver sword hissed as he drew it from its sheath, and Ludwig’s rifle was raised into his clawed hand in the same breath. He fell into step with Gascoigne, their contrasting styles bound by necessity.

The Father tore through the beasts like a storm given flesh, his axe cleaving arcs so wide they painted the cobblestones with blood. Each swing carried fury and desperate devotion, ripping hound from hound with savage precision. Gops followed close behind, filling the gaps where Gascoigne’s ferocity left openings. A stray dog lunged for Viola’s form, yet Gops was faster. His rifle cracked, silver shot tearing into its skull before his blade swept to finish the twitching carcass. Another beast darted under Gascoigne’s axe, only to meet the assassin’s steel in a clean thrust that stilled it mid-leap.

Together, they cut down the scourged hounds as though they had trained for this very moment, the frenzied rage of the hunter and the cold precision of the assassin. All the while, the Collector watched from his perch, his smugness unbroken.

“Any minute now,” the Collector muttered with smug certainty, his words rolling lazily across the blood-slick bridge.

The last of the scourged hounds fell twitching at Gascoigne’s feet, its skull crushed under the weight of his axe. For a fleeting moment, silence reigned until a new sound broke it. Low, guttural scrapes, claws dragging against stone. Both men turned their heads, brows furrowing. The noise was coming from below. From the darkness beneath the bridge, shapes emerged. Thick-furred, broad-shouldered, their limbs grotesquely long. They climbed over the railings on all fours, their yellowed eyes catching the pale moonlight, jaws lined with slavering fangs. These were no half-measures, for they were true scourge beasts, men fully given to lycanthropy.

Their growls rolled together into a chorus that made Viola clutch her arms about herself and stumble back toward the far end of the bridge. Gops’ gaze flicked past them, toward the Collector. The man barked a few sharp orders to his hirelings, sending them scattering into the shadows like rats abandoning a sinking ship. Only he remained, hands clasped behind his back, watching with the patience of a man who thought the outcome was already written. The assassin did not waste a breath on him. His eyes cut back to the beasts, silver sword raised, rifle braced in his clawed gauntlet. Gascoigne had already stepped forward, his axe gripped tight in both hands, his pale features alight with grim purpose.

The beasts lunged. Gascoigne met them first, his axe snapping open in its extended form with a metallic shriek, carving wide arcs that bought space between him and the snarling pack. He fought with the fury of a man who’d been here a hundred times before, his roars echoing the monsters he struck down.

Gops fell in beside him, not as the storm but as the scalpel. He let Gascoigne’s feral rhythm dictate the pace, slipping into the gaps and striking where the hunter could not. Each pull of his rifle was precise, silver rounds hammering into exposed joints or bursting through eyes, buying Gascoigne the heartbeat he needed to land a killing stroke. When one beast veered wide, trying to circle behind, the assassin’s blade flashed in a tight arc, severing its tendon and toppling it into Gascoigne’s reach. Together, they moved with an unspoken understanding: the hunter holding the line with brute force, the assassin weaving through with ruthless efficiency.

“Now for the grand finale,” the Tax Collector muttered, his smirk twisting as he reached into the satchel slung at his side. Fingers closed around a stoppered vial, the glass dark with a sloshing, fetid red. It was a pungent blood cocktail, the scent of it being rank even from afar.

He tossed it into the air once, almost playfully, before catching it and hurling it across the bridge with a casual flick of his wrist. The bottle shattered against Gascoigne’s coat, spraying him with the thick, clotted contents. The hunter staggered, blinking in surprise as the stench rolled off him. A pungent, irresistible lure. Every beast upon the bridge, jaws dripping and eyes fever-bright, lifted their heads to the scent. Even those that had been locked in combat with Gops froze, nostrils flaring, before turning as one toward Gascoigne.

“Oh, no…” Gops muttered, his gut tightening with grim recognition.

The horde descended on the Father. Snarls and claws closed in, a wave of fur and fangs. Yet instead of falling beneath them, Gascoigne’s fury only ignited. His roars deepened, guttural, more beast than man. Each swing of his axe cracked bone and split hide, the sheer force driving monsters back in sprays of gore. His pistol flared in his off-hand, one shot after another punctuating the rhythm of his carnage.

Still, it was too many, as they soon began tearing at his coat, before dragging at his limbs.

Gops cursed under his breath, folding Ludwig’s rifle closed and holstering it. His hand found one of the fire papers in his pouch, striking it alive until his silver sword roared to life in arcane flame. Heat licked his face, the blaze reflecting in his brown eyes as he sprinted toward the swarm. The cleric struck the flank of the pack, carving a burning line through fur and sinew. One beast had Gascoigne pinned, claws raking down his chest until Gops’ sword drove through its skull, the flame bursting from its eye sockets as it collapsed in a twitching heap.

The hunter, spared for a heartbeat, responded in kind. His pistol snapped up, barking once as it blasted another beast back just as it lunged for the assassin’s spine. Their fight became a bloody duet. Gops cut where Gascoigne could not reach, and Gascoigne swung with the wild, brutal arcs that only he could muster. Beasts fell one by one, piling into heaps, the cobblestones slick with steaming blood.

And then, silence.

The bridge was drenched in gore, bodies strewn in broken heaps. Gascoigne stood, shoulders heaving, axe dripping crimson. Gops straightened beside him, silver sword still burning faintly, the last embers flickering out as he lowered it.

At the far end of the bridge, the Tax Collector clapped slowly, mockingly, as if he had just witnessed a theatre performance. “Bravo! A magnificent display!”

“You really thought that would do the trick?” Gops husked, voice raw from smoke and strain.

“No! Hoh-hoh!” the Tax Collector burst into laughter, the sound carrying like a knife through the quiet aftermath. He steadied himself with a wheezing chuckle. “But he will.”

Gops’ scarred brow furrowed. He turned, following the man’s sly gesture, and his stomach sank.

Gascoigne hunched low, his coat still slick with the pungent cocktail’s residue. The Father’s chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, guttural growls vibrating from deep within. His face, half-shrouded beneath the brim of his hat, twisted with something primal. Not rage. Not exhaustion. Something fouler.

“Gascoigne?” Gops called, his tone wavering between concern and suspicion. “You alright there?”

“Beasts… all over…” the hunter muttered, his voice a rasping snarl as he slowly lifted his head. His pale eyes locked onto the assassin’s, burning with madness. “And you’ll be one of them…”

The words slithered under Gops’ skin, and his instincts flared. He took a step back, silver sword raised, his gloved grip tightening until the leather creaked.

“Oh no-” Viola’s gasp broke sharply against the night air. Horror dawned on her face as she realised what had taken hold. She fumbled desperately at her dress, searching her pockets with frantic hands. “No… no, no, no! Where is it?!” Her voice cracked as her panic grew. Somewhere on the blood-soaked bridge, the music box, her last tether to him, had slipped out of her reach.

Gascoigne moved before either could intervene. With a sudden burst of speed, he lunged, axe swinging in a wide, murderous arc.

“Gascoigne-!” Gops barked, springing back just in time. The blade shrieked as it cleaved through the stone where he had stood. Another swing came instantly, wild and heavy, forcing the assassin into retreat.

“Get a hold of yourself!” Gops roared, his boots scraping against the gore-slick cobbles as he parried the next strike with his burning blade. Sparks flew, and the bridge shuddered with the clash.

Yet there was no reasoning in Gascoigne’s eyes now anymore. Only hunger. Only the beast.

Gascoigne’s axe came down with a crash that nearly buckled the stone beneath them. Gops twisted aside, his silver blade flashing as it carved a shallow line across the hunter’s coat, but it barely slowed him. Gascoigne’s response was immediate, a backhanded sweep that rattled Gops’ ribs with its force and drove him stumbling toward the balustrade. The arcane fire that had cloaked the weapon had long since sputtered out, leaving only cold steel to answer the madness before him.

“Damn it!” Gops growled, regaining his footing with a roll. “It is me!”

The hunter did not pause or think. His lips peeled back in a guttural snarl as he closed the distance again, axe raised high. The blow fell like thunder, but this time Gops caught the haft with the guard of his sword, sparks flaring between them as the clash of silver and steel rang out over the bridge. Gascoigne’s strength was monstrous, forcing Gops’ boots to slide backwards from the impact. His teeth clenched as he tried to shove back, silent yet refusing to give in. They broke apart and clashed again, steel ringing, and sparks scattering. Gops struck in sharp, measured cuts, with slashes at the arms, and quick stabs at the ribs, but never with killing intent. Gascoigne moved as though possessed, each furious swing of his axe driving the assassin further to the edge.

Behind them, Viola dropped to her knees, crawling over blood-slick cobblestones. Her hands pawed through torn cloth and a mess of bestial corpses, searching with growing desperation. “Where is it?! Where is it-!”

Gascoigne roared and lunged, his axe spinning into its extended form. The hooked blade caught Gops’ shoulder and tore a shallow line through leather and flesh, sending the assassin staggering back with a grunt. The hunter then lunged, the haft of his elongated axe driving hard into Gops’ chest. The blow pierced leather and cloth, its hooked head wrenching upward as the sheer force of it lifted the assassin clear off his feet. Pain shot through him, breath tearing from his lungs as he was hurled backward.

He crashed heavily, colliding with Viola before either could react. The woman was flung aside in the chaos, her head striking stone as she crumpled into unconsciousness. The small music box she had so desperately searched for slipped once more from her fingers, clattering uselessly across the bridge. Gops, stripped of his silver sword, rolled to the ground with nothing but grit and instinct to cling to.

The thunder of boots came again. Gascoigne was closing, his frame looming with murderous intent, eyes wild and feral. Viola lay helpless behind him, and that was all the assassin needed to know.

Forcing himself upright, Gops abandoned the thought of reclaiming his weapon. Instead, he surged forward, a blur of black and silver, slamming his shoulder into the hunter’s torso. The impact staggered Gascoigne but did not topple him; the Father’s monstrous strength anchored him like a rooted beast. They locked together in a violent struggle, Gops straining to push him back, to drive him away from the unconscious woman.

Gascoigne wrenched free and swung his axe again, the weapon arcing down like the guillotine’s blade. Gops caught the haft between both hands, teeth gritted as the force of it drove him to one knee. With a desperate twist, he used Gascoigne’s own momentum against him, planting his boots to the cobbles and heaving the hunter forward. Rolling onto his back, Gops kicked upward with both feet, hurling Gascoigne bodily over himself. The axe tore free from the hunter’s grip as he crashed down beyond, but the respite was brief. Gascoigne rolled, rose with uncanny speed, and came again empty-handed now, but with all the intent of a beast that meant to rip its prey apart.

Gops ducked beneath the first wild swing, but the second came quicker, as Gascoigne’s hand shot forward and clamped tight around his throat. Before the assassin could wrench free, the Father seized him with both arms and hurled him sideways into the stone railing. The impact jarred the cleric’s spine, ribs crunching against the edge as the hunter slammed him again and again, until blood burst from his lips in sharp, ragged coughs. The copper tang filled the air, and with it came the growl in Gascoigne’s chest, a deeper madness drawn forth by the scent. He cast Gops down like a rag doll, the cobbles shuddering beneath the blow.

Dazed and choking on his own breath, Gops staggered upright, only for a thunderous blast to strike him square in the gut. The hunter’s modified pistol roared like a cannon, catching the assassin off guard as the buckshot tore through cloth and flesh. Stumbling back, pain seared through him as his vision warped at the edges. He barely caught sight of Gascoigne tossing the spent firearm aside before the bulk of the hunter barreled into him, driving him off his feet.

They smashed against the opposite rail, Gops pinned hard against cold stone as powerful hands locked once more around his throat. The pressure crushed down with lethal intent, boots dangling just above the cobbles. Gops clawed and writhed, but his own strength was nothing compared to the beast-wrought fury of the hunter. Darkness crept at the edges of his sight, a suffocating haze closing in.

Death itself did not frighten him, for he was moon-scented after all, bound beyond such fears; yet Viola’s still form sprawled across the bridge wrenched something deeper inside him. If the cleric fell here, she would be left defenceless before her husband’s frenzy. His blurred vision caught another glint: the music box lying just beyond her reach, the same trinket Miriam had spoken of.

Gops’ lungs screamed for air. His thoughts frayed. Then came the spark of decision, sharp as steel.

“...Fuck it,” the assassin rasped through broken breath.

With the last of his strength, Gops wrenched up his clawed gauntlet and drove it into Gascoigne’s face. The bladed fingers stabbed deep, steel punching into the Father’s eye sockets. Blood gushed in hot jets across his palm as the hunter reeled back, howling, the sound more beast than man. Gascoigne’s grip faltered, loosening just enough for Gops’ boots to find stone again. The assassin tore his claws free, red and ruin dripping from their tips, and used the moment to throw himself forward. With a guttural roar of his own, he slammed into the blinded hunter, driving the larger man down onto the blood-slick cobbles.

Gops straddled Gascoigne’s torso, his knees digging into the hunter’s ribs as his gauntleted fist came down once, twice, each blow landing with a sickening crunch. Steel ridges bit into already bloodied flesh, tearing skin and leaving deep furrows across Gascoigne’s face. The Father thrashed beneath him, but the assassin’s weight kept him pinned long enough for the strikes to take their toll.

Then, in the haze of violence, Gops caught himself. He felt it. The creeping edge where control blurred into slaughter. One more strike, maybe two, and his hidden blade would find its way out unbidden. For an instant, he imagined it plunging into the man’s throat, ending this struggle in clean, final certainty. His scarred brow knotted. The urge pulled at him, as tempting and easy as it was; however, memory and loyalty stayed his hand. He had shared bread with this man once, in a life held within the Healing Church’s walls, and there was Viola, unconscious at their backs, and Miriam’s small voice echoing in his mind.

It helps him remember us, should he forget.

Gops grit his teeth, forcing himself to withdraw. He drove one last heavy punch into Gascoigne’s bearded jaw to make sure the hunter stayed grounded, then leapt off his chest and hit the cobbles in a crouch. Sliding across the stone, he snatched the small music box from where it lay beside Viola’s limp form. Behind him, heavy footsteps staggered closer; yet Gops did not dare look back, for he only flicked open the lid and wound the lever with sharp, urgent motions.

A fragile melody spilled into the blood-soaked night. Simple notes, fragile as glass, yet filled with a warmth utterly at odds with the carnage around them. The tune wavered against the air, tugging at the threads of memory.

Gascoigne froze.

The hunter’s chest heaved as the sound struck him, piercing through the haze of bloodlust. His growl stuttered into a hoarse breath. He stumbled back a step, one hand clawing at his temple as if trying to hold his mind together. Silver strands of hair fell across his trembling fingers as he dropped to one knee, grunting and wracked with confused pain, before finally toppling forward onto the cobbles. His body hit hard, face down, blood pooling beneath. Eyeless, broken, yet subdued at last.

For a long moment, Gops stood frozen, the music still playing in his hand. He could scarcely believe it had worked. The sight of such a man had been brought low not by blade or bullet, but by the sound of a melody… it left him breathless in shock. A faint stir beside him pulled his attention. Viola, eyes fluttering open, pushed herself up weakly on her elbows. Her gaze swept across the bridge, lingering on her husband’s ruined form and the assassin hunched over the music box. Her lips parted, trembling, as tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

“Gascoigne…?” Viola’s voice trembled as she leaned closer, searching for any sign of breath. Her fear then sharpened into desperation. “Gascoigne!”

She scrambled to her feet, stumbling across the blood-streaked cobbles before collapsing to her knees at his side. The woman’s sobs broke in uneven gasps as she cradled his head against her lap, her hands shaking as they brushed against his ruined face. Gops staggered upright, each movement stiff and deliberate, as though his bones themselves resisted him. Pain dragged on his every step as he slowly closed the distance.

“He lives, still…” he rasped, voice frayed from blood and smoke.

Viola’s eyes snapped up to him, wide with anguish and fury. “What did you do to him?!”

“Viola…” Gops steadied his tone, though it was weary and worn thin. “You know what he became.”

“I know that!” she snapped, her voice breaking into another sob. “I know that…”

Her shoulders shook as she bent over her husband again, clutching his limp hand with both of hers. Gops’ scarred brow furrowed, his lips pressed thin. He had faced countless beasts, gutted men who deserved no mercy; however, this sight, this family breaking before him, left a hollow ache in his chest that words could not fill.

“Just…” Viola’s voice cracked, her tears streaking down her cheeks as she tried to form the plea. “Just don’t tell Eileen… Please. She’s close to us, and-”

The assassin did not need her to finish, for he already knew. Secrets had weight, and this one would crush them if it ever left the bridge. For a long, heavy moment, the only sound was her sobbing over her broken husband. Finally, Gops slowly lowered himself to one knee in front of her, setting the small music box carefully on the stones between them.

“Take care of him, Viola,” he said quietly, his voice grave. “I did what I had to… but so will she, if anyone else learns of this.”

Her eyes searched his face through the blur of tears, but she said nothing, only clutched Gascoigne tighter.

With a grunt of pain, Gops forced himself upright. He reached into his belt and pulled free a vial of blood, piercing it into the muscle of his thigh. His breath hissed between his teeth as the burning vitae surged through him, stitching wounds shut, knitting skin over torn muscle, and easing the ache of bones battered near breaking. His body steadied, but exhaustion still clung to him like a shadow. The cleric’s attire was a ruin, scorched and ashen from the fire earlier in the night, now torn and soaked with blood, some his own, some not. Still, there was no time to dwell on it. He tugged the brim of his battered tricorn down over his scarred brow, straightened his posture, and turned toward the far end of the bridge.

There was still one more person who needed dealing with.

Further down the bridge, beyond the looming shadow of the Tomb of Oedon, the Tax Collector fumbled at the iron gate. His fat fingers slipped against the cold steel as he rattled and shoved, desperate to force open the lock. When the mechanism refused to budge, panic washed over his sweat-slicked face. He froze at the sound, hearing measured, deliberate footsteps ascending the stone stairs behind him.

Slowly, the man turned, pressing his back flat against the bars as if they alone could shield him. Out of the nightly mists emerged the assassin. Gops’ figure was a grim silhouette, his coat torn with slashes and bullet holes, his chest scorched and ashened, his face smeared with blood, both his own and not. The plume of his tricorn was ragged and wilted, and yet his stride carried an unshakable weight. The silence between each step was crushed beneath the echo of his boots.

The Collector’s voice cracked with forced cheer. “Now, now- Look, mate, surely we can talk this through, eh? No need for rash decisions. With a bit o’ conversation, we might clear the air o’ any doubts.”

Gops said nothing, his eyes fixed on the man with a flat, unrelenting stare. The Church assassin moved closer, his silence louder than any threat.

The Collector swallowed hard, edging sideways along the gate in a pathetic attempt to keep distance. “You’d understand, wouldn’t you? We’re workin’ men, you and I. The same goal, aye? Gettin’ to the truth about them girls- Surely that's an interest we both share.”

Gops advanced until his shadow draped over the man, his brow furrowed, his expression carved from stone.

“W- We could come to an arrangement,” the Collector stammered, his voice trembling, the words spilling over themselves. “A shared interest, one that’d prove beneficial once-”

“Oh, shut up.” Gops’ voice cut through, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in weary disdain.

A flick of his wrists and the steel whispered free. Twin hidden blades gleamed briefly in the moonlight before they crossed in a single, decisive stroke, faster than any thought. The Collector’s words died in a wet gurgle as blood sprayed across Gops’ chest, painting the assassin in fresh crimson as the man clutched at his ruined throat. His eyes bulged, shocked more at the suddenness than the pain, as he slid down the iron bars.

Before the man could exhale his final breath, Gops drew his blades back and set his bloodied palms against the Collector’s temples. The dying man’s body twitched, crimson spilling down his chest, yet Gops shut his own eyes against the sight. The world around him blurred, dimmed, and dissolved into a lightless haze until thought itself no longer belonged to him, but to the memories of the one beneath his hands.

The haze parted.

A single candle guttered the darkness on the edge of a wooden desk, its wax spilling like blood across old parchment. Shadows crowded every corner, leaving only the faintest glimpse of books stacked high and scrolls bundled with string. At the desk sat a man, cloaked and hooded, his face entirely lost beneath the folds of black. He did not write, but simply waited, as though anticipating the intrusion.

The door creaked open. The Tax Collector shuffled forward, his usual swagger subdued to a simpering bow.

“As you predicted,” he rasped. “They could not hold me for long.”

The hooded figure tilted his head, acknowledging him with the smallest motion. Even so, his presence filled the room, pressing into the air like an unseen weight.

“So it seems,” the Blood Mason murmured. His voice was low, deliberate, each word steeped in calm authority. “The Church assassin will be preoccupied with… acquaintances of mine. Your duties, therefore, should proceed without interruption. I expect Viola’s debt to be settled, in full, tonight.”

The Collector raised his head slightly, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “What if her dullard husband gets all twitchy with his fangs?”

“I’m sure you’ll accommodate him,” the Mason replied, unbothered. “If the worst comes to pass, make it appear an accident. Your hands must remain clean. Accountability… complicates things.”

A chuckle rolled from the Collector’s throat. “Sounds like fun. And you? Any more mason work needing done?”

The hooded man leaned back in his chair, his voice no louder than before, yet it resonated as though the walls themselves carried it. “Always.”

The chamber dissolved, the candle snuffed, and the cloaked figure was no more.

Darkness gave way to the cold bite of night air, and Gops’ vision swam back into focus. He found himself once more within the Tomb of Oedon, his palms still pressed against the Tax Collector’s temples. The man’s eyes were already glassy, his throat gaping wide where the hidden blades had done their work. Blood slicked his coat, pooling darkly at his boots, and the last vestiges of breath rattled uselessly in his chest before silence claimed him. His stubbled jaw tightened, a scarred brow knitting as the assassin drew a slow breath. Then, without another look at the corpse, the cleric turned. The echo of his boots struck the muddied grounds of the tomb, each step deliberate, carrying him away from the slack-jawed body that slumped against the gate.

The Collector had been a pawn, and nothing more. The true game was waiting, and Gops knew he was already far too deep to walk away.

Chapter Text

Dawn broke upon Yharnam, gilding its rooftops in pale gold. High within the Grand Cathedral, in a council chamber reserved for the Vicar and her most trusted advisors, the morning had already begun. The long table was lined with clerics, their faces half-lit by rows of tall, elegant candles. Smoke drifted languidly into the stale air, wreathing the chamber in a haze both warm and solemn. At the table’s head sat Amelia herself, her golden locks caught in the flame’s glow, listening intently to her gathered colleagues. Among them was Captain Walkinshaw, his posture stiff and his expression dour.

The creak of the door cut their discourse short. All eyes turned to the threshold as two figures entered. The Church assassin stepped in first, his appearance drawing an immediate murmur from the chamber. His attire was ruined, having been blackened by fire, torn and frayed, soaked through with dried blood and riddled with bullet holes. Beside him walked Iosefka, composed despite the sight she presented, her gloved hands folded neatly before her white dress as she bowed in greeting.

“Mister Al-Dhar,” Amelia said, her voice touched with surprise. The others whispered among themselves, unsettled by the assassin’s uninvited appearance. Captain Walkinshaw’s stare was the sharpest of all.

“What in Oedon’s name happened last night?” Walkinshaw snapped at last, his tone edged with irritation. “First, an entire building is burnt to ash, and now word reaches us that a hunter has been blinded. Eyes gouged, and it is Gascoigne of all people!”

Gops clenched his jaw, his bloodied brow furrowing. He held his tongue at first, but the pressure of so many eyes upon him forced words from his lips.

“The fire was the work of a pyromaniac, Albert Roth, who sought a bounty on my head. He took a child hostage to draw me in.” He steadied his voice, though it was roughened from smoke and blood. “I managed to get the boy out before the building collapsed.”

“Well, that is surprising,” Walkinshaw scoffed. “My clerics reported three casualties pulled from the wreckage.”

“And what would you have had me do?” Gops’ voice sharpened, teeth gritted. “Add him to the count and make it four?”

“That is enough,” Amelia interjected firmly. She had not risen, but her tone carried the weight of command. Her blue eyes remained fixed on the assassin. “What happened to Father Gascoigne?”

Gops drew in a breath, composing himself before speaking. “Viola was targeted next, though she was not in her home during curfew. That was before I discovered her and Gascoigne to have been caught in the Tax Collector’s schemes.”

His words faltered, memory pressing heavily upon him: the fight on the bridge, Gascoigne’s frenzy, the claws he had driven into his old friend’s eyes; however, he had made a promise to Viola, and that the truth would stay buried.

“Things worsened,” he continued at last, “when scourge beasts were unleashed upon us. In the fighting, one of them tore into his eyes. He is alive, but…” He left the sentence unfinished.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the council. Some crossed themselves in Oedon’s name, others exchanged dark glances.

Amelia, with a grave expression, leaned forward slightly. “And the Tax Collector?”

Gops met Amelia’s gaze with a trace of reluctance, then spoke with quiet firmness. “He orchestrated the encounter, and when his plan unravelled, he tried to flee. I pursued him, and I killed him.”

The words ignited the chamber like a spark in dry tinder.

“What the bloody Hell?!” Walkinshaw shot up from his chair, his outrage spilling over not for the Collector’s death, but for what he saw in the assassin’s unrepentant tone: a lack of restraint.

Around the table, voices broke into a clamour. Some of the council ridiculed Gops outright, their whispers cutting sharp in the candlelit room. Others cast uneasy glances at Amelia, silently urging her to rein in the assassin. The rest sat in stunned silence, staring at him as if he were less a man and more the blade he wielded; fearsome, unpredictable, and dangerous. Amelia allowed the din to swell only a moment longer before she rapped her hand firmly against the table’s edge. The sound carried authority enough to still her colleagues. Her expression remained poised, though her eyes betrayed the weight of the balance she tried to maintain. She had always seen beyond the assassin’s methods, but convincing the others of his value was another matter entirely.

“While the council and I admire your zeal,” she said evenly, “you are not in a position to pick and choose your own targets. You should have reported your findings to us.”

Gops inclined his head, admitting to himself that his anger may have guided his hand more than reason, though his voice carried no regret. “Forgive me, Your Excellency, but when I put down Albert and discovered that the bounty was nothing more than a ploy to keep me distracted while Viola was targeted… I took action.”

The chamber fell silent once more. Even Walkinshaw, though his lip curled in disdain beneath his goatee, held his tongue. Amelia studied him, and though her posture softened slightly at his explanation, she did not let her sympathy cloud her judgment.

“Did you uncover anything of value, at least?” she pressed.

Gops’ voice then lowered to a calmer tone. “In his memory, I learned that he was, indeed, contracted by the Blood Mason. His charge was to settle Viola’s debt, and to ensure that any complication appeared an accident. Hence, the state of Gascoigne and I.”

Murmurs rippled again, while Walkinshaw leaned forward, his irritation sharpening. “And this absurd bounty? Do these degenerates not know you can return from the dead, only to cause more problems each time?”

“Captain.” Amelia’s rebuke was soft, but it cut cleanly.

Walkinshaw leaned back, muttering a terse, though his glare remained locked on the assassin.

Gops ignored it, for when he answered, his voice was flat as steel. “They know. Every death of mine by their hands will yield a reward regardless, and there are still two others out there who have taken the offer.”

It was then that Gops felt the weight of his own words falter. His tone slurred faintly at the end of the sentence, the syllables dragging as though his voice had to fight to stay steady. A dull haze swept over his vision, blurring the candlelit chamber into streaks of gold and shadow. His head grew light, an ache blooming at the base of his skull. He groaned, low and guttural, as his balance slipped away from him. The room seemed to tilt, and before he could brace himself, the assassin’s body gave out. He collapsed backward with a heavy thud, his gauntlet scraping against the stone floor as his sheathed weapons clattered beside him. The plumed tricorn slid from his head, rolling until it came to rest near the foot of the long table.

“Mister Al-Dhar-!” Amelia’s voice broke through the ringing in his ears, strained yet commanding.

“Gops!” Iosefka’s voice followed, sharp with alarm.

But their calls were distant, fading quickly into the deep hum of darkness closing in. The ceiling’s light swam away, and all sensation slipped from him as his body went still.

“Good grief,” came Walkinshaw’s voice, flat and uncaring, before even that sound faded into silence.

When his eyes next fluttered open, the world returned to him in fragments, such as the blurry shapes, faint candlelight, and the smell of dried blood and metal. Gops’ head throbbed in dull, rhythmic pulses, but with each slow breath, the haze began to recede, and clarity returned. The assassin was no longer in the council chamber. Instead, he found himself in the familiar gloom of his living quarters by the Church assassins’ bureau. He sat upon the narrow black couch pressed against the wall, the one piece of comfort in an otherwise barren room. His upper body was bare, with his coat, harness, and belts stripped away, his tanned skin traced with scars both fresh and old. Only his trousers, thigh-belts, and boots remained. His weapons were gone too; even his hidden blades had been removed.

The absence was disquieting. Gops felt exposed and naked in a way that no wound or scar could match. He never removed both blades, not even in sleep. If he ever took off the left gauntlet, the right remained armed. Now, he was unarmed and vulnerable; however, a faint drip caught his attention, the slow fall of crimson beads through a thin tube feeding into his arm. He followed the line to a glass bottle suspended nearby, then noticed the neat bandages swathing his chest and shoulder.

“Easy,” came a calm, familiar voice beside him.

The assassin turned, meeting Iosefka’s soft gaze. She pressed a steady hand to his back, firm but gentle, as though she had anticipated his instinct to rise the moment he woke. “You hit your head rather hard,” the doctor said, her tone equal parts admonishment and relief.

Gops’ voice was low and hoarse when he spoke. “How long was I out?”

“An hour,” Iosefka replied, seated on a wooden chair she had drawn from his desk. “Forgive the intrusion of your personal space, but Brother Bruce insisted on bringing you here instead of the medical ward.”

Gops’ brow furrowed faintly. “May I ask why?”

“You may thank me, to begin with.”

The voice came from the doorway, as the White Church hunter stepped in, closing the door behind him with his single arm. His boots echoed steadily against the floorboards before silence reclaimed the room.

“Had we brought you to the cathedral infirmary,” Bruce continued, “word would have spread that you were the one who crossed blades with Father Gascoigne.”

Gops’ eyes narrowed slightly, though he said nothing. His gaze flicked toward Iosefka, who merely looked away, confirming the unspoken truth.

“Do not fret,” Bruce said, reading the thought plain as daylight. “Only the doctor and I know. I made certain of that.” He stepped closer, his expression a blend of severity and reluctant concern. “The wounds on Gascoigne were unmistakable to me. Not those of a beast, but of a man trained in your art. Had the others borne my perceptiveness, they would have reached the same conclusion. The mercury poisoning you suffered, brought on by his quicksilver rounds, would have made it impossible to hide.”

“Huh,” Gops exhaled, glancing down at the pale linen that crossed his torso. The faint ache beneath the wrappings pulsed with every heartbeat.

“I took the liberty of extracting the fragments that remained lodged in your chest,” Iosefka said softly. “The poisoning, coupled with your exhaustion, is what caused your collapse.”

Bruce lowered his arm to rest by his hip. “In other words,” he said, voice firm but not unkind, “you can eat as many shells as you want, but do not try sealing off a quicksilver shot with a blood vial again.”

A faint, humourless smirk tugged at Gops’ mouth. “Noted.”

“Perhaps,” Bruce began, his voice cutting through the still air like a blade drawn half from its sheath, “you can return the favour by telling us what really happened on that bridge.”

Gops exhaled slowly, his gaze lowered, as though measuring the weight of what he was about to share. His eyes flicked briefly toward Iosefka, who still sat close by, her hands folded neatly atop her lap.

“Surely,” she said softly, meeting his look with quiet understanding, “you would not withhold something from the vicar without reason. I trust your judgment, Gops. And as a doctor, I am unparalleled in keeping confidences.”

The faintest shadow of a smile crossed his lips, brief and tired, before he gave a slow nod. “Everything I told the council was true,” he said at last. “But what I left out was that the Collector’s plan was not just to kill us. He intended to drive Gascoigne blood-drunk, and let him tear Viola and I apart in the process.”

Iosefka’s eyes widened. “What?”

“He went blood-drunk?” Bruce repeated, disbelief edging into his tone. “That cannot be right. When he was brought into the cathedral, the blood saints swore his breathing was steady. Natural. No signs of madness.”

“I know what I saw,” Gops replied grimly. “His pupils collapsed before me on that bridge. He was gone. Lost to the blood. I only survived because… because of a music box.”

Both Bruce and Iosefka looked at him, puzzled.

“It belonged to the couple,” Gops continued. His voice softened, just faintly. “When I found it, I used it. The melody seemed to reach him, and it pulled him back. Their daughter told me it was Gascoigne’s favourite song, a tune to help him remember them whenever he began to forget himself. I believe it was not the first time he lost control. But last night was far too close a call.”

Silence followed, heavy and uneasy. Bruce and Iosefka exchanged a look, an unspoken worry threading between them.

“Al-Dhar,” Bruce said finally, tone steady but reproachful, “you know what must be done when a hunter shows signs of blood drunkenness. It is to be reported immediately.”

“I know that,” Gops admitted, rubbing at the bandages over his chest as he let out a weary sigh. “But you were not there… I could not destroy that family. Not after what they already endured, and certainly not when they are close to Eileen.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “She is the hunter of hunters for a reason, and he is still a risk.”

“He regained his sanity,” Gops countered quietly. “And if there is a way to ensure it does not happen again, then have the clerics examine him. Properly. Like you were.”

Bruce’s expression darkened, though not with anger, more a flicker of something unspoken, the faint ache of old memories. “Not like me, Al-Dhar,” he said flatly. “When I lost my arm, I had to endure the Church’s scrutiny from every angle. Physically and mentally. And even then, I chose to leave the blade behind.” He paused, his one hand resting on the door handle. “Let us hope Gascoigne has the sense to do the same.”

The White Church hunter opened the door, the hinges creaking softly in the stillness. “Her Excellency asked that you report to her study once you are able,” Bruce added without turning back. “I advise you not to keep her waiting.”

With that, he departed, the echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor until only silence remained. Gops sat back against the couch, his breath slow and steady. The faint drip of the bloodline filled the space once more. Iosefka lingered beside him, watching quietly, the candlelight drawing a soft glow across her face.

Neither spoke for a while.

“I know what you are going to say,” Gops murmured at last, his voice low and rough as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The faint light of the oil lamp caught along the sharp planes beneath his stubble, the tiredness beneath his eyes, and the fresh bandages over his chest. “I ain’t making it any easier for myself.”

Iosefka let out a quiet breath through her nose, not quite a sigh nor a laugh, but more the sound of someone who understood too well. “I was going to say quite the contrary,” she said gently. “People like Walkinshaw do not make things easier. You, on the other hand… You are at least trying.”

Gops gave a dry huff of a laugh, the sound devoid of humour. “To what avail? He was right about one thing. Every time I fix one problem, I add two more to the pile. Mister Baker gave me the same rant the night I fought Jozef.”

“Well,” the doctor replied, her tone soft but deliberate, “you may have changed his opinion since then.”

That made the assassin glance up, a faint flicker of curiosity beneath the weariness.

“When I brought his son back,” Iosefka continued, “I had never seen the man smile so genuinely, and it was because of you.”

Gops’ gaze fell again, his expression darkening beneath the shadow of regret. “There were still others who perished in the fire,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause, he exhaled through his nose, slow and steady. “Forgive me. I know you mean well, Iosefka. Truly. But I have never had much luck making things right. Bruce lost his arm long ago because of me, and Gascoigne is now blind because of me. All while I sit here. An assassin pretending to be a detective because the vicar insists it will make a difference.”

“Do you honestly believe there is anyone better suited for it?” she asked softly.

The assassin looked at her then, the faintest crease forming between his brows, not in defiance, but in doubt.

“Amid all the terrible things that have happened,” Iosefka went on, her voice steady yet warm, “you seem to forget that you have saved far more than you have lost. You pulled Arianna from an attempt on her life. You took shells meant for Stevenson. You kept Viola and her family from being slaughtered. You have been making a difference, Gops, even if you refuse to see it. Because you are more than just an assassin.”

She offered a faint smile, the kind that could ease the edges of guilt, even if only for a moment. “And perhaps that is exactly what Her Excellency sees too.”

Gops said nothing for a long while. The soft drip of the blood vial echoed faintly in the silence, the crimson fluid still feeding into his veins. Finally, he lifted his gaze, the faintest light of resolve flickering behind it, uncertain but alive.

“I have not… thanked you,” he said at last, the words low and rough as though unfamiliar on his tongue. The assassin’s brown eyes drifted down to the bandages wrapped about his chest, then back toward her. “For this, and for helping Stevenson. For watching my back when I could not. I may not have the grace to say it when it matters, but… know that your efforts do not go unnoticed.”

Iosefka’s lips curved faintly, though her tone remained soft. “You do not need to thank me, Gops,” she said, shaking her head as she laid a gloved hand gently atop his bare forearm. The gesture was careful, steady, and grounding. “Those who bear the blood live long enough to lose more than they should. It helps when there are people who care, even if the years make us forget how to show it.”

For a heartbeat, Gops held her gaze, respect and gratitude flickering behind the weary hardness of his eyes. A corner of his mouth lifted into a fleeting smile before his brow creased again, and he turned his head away.

Then, with a resigned exhale, he muttered, “I heard you get in, Leon. You cannot fool me.”

“Ah, shucks-” came a voice from nowhere in particular, until a faint shimmer rippled across the far wall and a teenage boy stepped through it, brushing off dust from his sleeves.

Iosefka blinked in surprise, her brows lifting. “Oh-?” A laugh escaped her lips, light and incredulous. “I was not aware you had… company.”

“He does not live here,” Gops said flatly, running a hand down his face. “Nor should he even be here.”

“Oh, come on-” Leon huffed, the wide brim of his beret slipping low enough to shadow his eyes as he crossed his arms. “I missed out on watching you get stitched up again? I heard you passed out in the middle of an important meeting!”

“That is my cue to leave,” Gops muttered, dragging himself upright with a small grunt. He reached down to his arm, pulling the thin medicinal tube from his vein as the crimson fluid dripped its last into the empty vial.

Iosefka only shook her head with a quiet chuckle.

“And yours too,” Gops added, casting Leon a warning look before turning toward the doctor. “I should answer the vicar’s summons. Could you see that he is returned to the orphanage in one piece? I would rather not have the headmistress on my doorstep tonight, either.”

“With pleasure,” Iosefka said with a knowing smile, already rising from her seat.

Leon groaned under his breath. “Bugger…”

“Move,” Gops said with that calm, cutting tone that needed no repetition.

Gops crossed the room, each motion deliberate but measured, the stiffness of his muscles betraying the strain still gnawing at him. From the nearby coat stand, he retrieved a linen undershirt, his favoured garb whenever he was stripped of the assassin’s mantle. The dark-grey fabric was worn but sturdy, with its sleeves fitted close against his arms. He slipped it on, the movement careful not to disturb the healing wound beneath the bandages.

Then, reaching for the small leather harness resting on the table, he fixed a hidden blade to his right forearm. The sound of tightening buckles and drawn straps filled the silence as he secured it in place with practised ease. A faint click followed, the familiar weight of the mechanism settling beneath his wrist. Gops pulled the sleeve down over the device, concealing it from sight as if the weapon had never been there at all. Before stepping out, his hand brushed against the small silver chain lying upon the desk. Hanging from it was the pendant shaped like a sword’s hilt, its guard forming a subtle cross around a sapphire-blue gem set at the centre. He clasped the chain around his neck, hanging the Church hunter badge atop his shirt so it rested just over his heart, the mark of his oath, and the weight of his belonging.

Only then did he move to the door, the quiet jingle of silver accompanying his every step as he vanished into the corridor, bound for the vicar’s study.

The two White Church hunters standing guard by the double doors straightened as Gops approached, their coats catching the pale light filtering through the chapel windows. At his arrival, both men bowed in silent deference, a show of respect as well as caution, before stepping aside. With a faint creak, the assassin pushed the doors open and entered the vicar’s study. The room was awash in the dim, washed-out daylight of Yharnam’s late morning, a cold pallor that draped itself over the cobbled floors and tall, leaded glass panes. Incense smoke lingered faintly in the air, the kind used to mask the scent of parchment and wax, curling upward in thin ribbons that caught the light like ghosts of prayers. Behind her mahogany desk sat Amelia, her white robes parted just enough to reveal the subtle tarnish of age on the golden filigree.

She was finishing a letter when he entered, quill poised between her fingers in deliberate strokes that spoke of discipline honed from her few years of leadership. When the scratching of the quill ceased, she set it carefully aside, folded her hands atop the desk, and lifted her gaze.

“Mister Al-Dhar,” Amelia greeted, her tone smooth but clipped, a measured blend of priestly grace and commanding presence. “I trust you are feeling well?”

“Better now,” Gops replied, his voice still low and roughened from fatigue. “You summoned?”

“I have.” Amelia inclined her head slightly, acknowledging both his brevity and his respect for procedure. “I wished to extend our discussion from the council room. Privately, this time.”

“Of course,” Gops murmured. “Pardon my… abrupt departure, beforehand.”

The vicar’s lips glimmered in the candlelight as they twitched into what might have been a faint smile. “No one chooses to pass out, Gops. I daresay it was quite the sight, however.”

The Church assassin only exhaled softly through his nose, almost amused.

Amelia’s expression softened, though her tone remained firm. “It is difficult enough to convince the others of your noble intentions. Change rarely happens overnight. You have been given full rein over this investigation, but you must remember that even the most righteous course requires structure. Some procedures and standards cannot be abandoned even for the right reasons.”

She leaned forward slightly, fingers lacing tighter. “Albert’s death was an act of necessity, of self-defence. His intentions were clear, and his madness undeniable; but the Collector… he was a different matter. We know so little of him. No name, no origin, and if you were unable to venture into his memory, we would still be blind to his ties with the Blood Mason.”

“I understand,” Gops said, his voice level though the shadows in his tone carried the weight of what had passed. “But when Viola’s life hung in the balance, I chose her safety above all else, and that was without breaking any of the Church assassins’ tenets. The Collector played his hand through deceit, never dirtying his own fingers, only guiding others to do the harm in his stead. That made him far more dangerous.”

Amelia regarded him for a long, thoughtful moment before nodding slowly. “And that is precisely why I chose you for this task.”

Gops blinked, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “Something I have been meaning to ask for quite a while, actually,” he admitted, the words cautious, almost reluctant. “Why me?”

The vicar tilted her head, inviting him to elaborate.

“You and I both know how the others see me,” he continued. “How they talk when they think I cannot hear. To them, I am a killer. I am given a contract, I eliminate the name, and that is the end of the day. I am not one of them. Yharnamite, hunter, or barely even a cleric.”

Amelia leaned back in her chair, the dim light from the window outlining the edges of her blonde hair. Her gaze softened, though her voice carried a resolute calm. “You are not the only one who must change, Gops. I, too, live beneath the shadow of my predecessor. Laurence’s legacy is one of fire and blood, his ambition burned into the city’s memory, and into the conscience of the Church. If Yharnam is to ever heal, it must begin here.”

She pressed a hand to her chest, just above her gold pendant. “That means we must change first. You and I, who still shoulder what remains of his sins. We must show that strength can exist without cruelty, that order can exist without fear.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his again. “That is why I chose you. Because you understand what it means to bear the stain and still walk forward.”

For once, Gops said nothing. The assassin, so often composed and unreadable, stood in quiet reflection. The faint chill in the air pressed around them, and for a fleeting moment, he could almost hear the echo of Laurence’s voice in Amelia’s; bearing the same conviction, yet tempered by compassion.

Finally, the vicar exhaled and leaned forward once more. “Which is why I intend to make it official,” Amelia said. “Give me the names of those also pursuing this bounty.”

“Eudorus Dipchev,” Gops began. “And Bartolomeo Marvin.” He spoke the latter name with particular weight, his voice darkening slightly.

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “You speak his name as though I should know it, but I do not.”

“Not surprising,” Gops replied. “I knew him when he served the Healing Church in the old days, back when harrowed hunters still stalked the night alongside Church assassins. One of Laurence’s… less stable projects. Bartolomeo was dismissed after the prohibition of beast blood pellets, for he grew too dependent on them. It made him faster and stronger, but it was costing him his humanity and restraint.”

“That…” Amelia’s voice trailed off for a brief moment as she absorbed the assassin’s words. The faint light of the study glinted off her golden hair and the insignia of her office, but her expression was darkened by thought. “That will certainly make things more difficult,” she murmured at last. Her tone hardened into something more resolute, her conviction gathering like a coiled spring. “Yet it is all the more reason to go after him. Mister Al-Dhar.”

At the invocation of his formal name, Gops straightened instinctively. Posture squared, shoulders set, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. The air between them grew taut, almost ceremonial.

“Church Assassin,” Amelia began, her voice now carrying the quiet power of a sacred oath. “I hereby assign you your contract.”

The words filled the chamber, their cadence almost liturgical, as though the walls themselves bore witness to the covenant now being addressed. “Bartolomeo Marivn and Eudorus Dipchev are to be sought out and eliminated for their treachery against Yharnam and her people. You will uncover their secrets, pry from them whatever truths they conceal, and when they have no more to yield, you will deliver the Healing Church’s judgment in accordance with your tenets.”

Gops bowed his head once, his voice steady and deliberate. “It shall be so.”

“Very good,” Amelia replied, the faintest sigh leaving her lips, not of relief, but of the weary acceptance that came with giving such orders. She leaned back slightly in her chair, the candlelight painting her features in a softened gold. “Now then, as for our next course of action. Since we have little to work with regarding Christine, what we do have is Edith’s sister, Edna Brown. You mentioned encountering her in Old Yharnam, yes?”

“Indeed,” Gops confirmed. His voice lowered a fraction, carrying the weight of reluctant duty. “Though I dread to be the one to tell her what became of Edith.”

“As do I,” Amelia admitted, her tone threaded with genuine regret. A small sigh escaped her, and for a moment, the veneer of the vicar’s authority cracked, revealing the woman beneath, burdened by guilt and a desire for redemption. “But we owe her that much. It is a failure of the Healing Church… one I intend to correct, from here on.”

The assassin inclined his head. “I shall head back to Old Yharnam then. Hopefully, the Kegs will be more inclined to share anything that might lead us forward.”

Amelia nodded once before continuing. “There is also the matter of Father Gascoigne and Viola. He is to be discharged from the cathedral this afternoon. I suggest you visit them at their home following your trip to Old Yharnam. See what you can learn of their dealings with the Tax Collector, and if there is anything else they have yet to reveal.”

“Understood,” the Church assassin affirmed.

“Good,” Amelia said softly, though her tone retained its commanding edge. “I shall leave you to it, then.” She raised a hand briefly, two fingers touching the air in the shape of a benediction. “May the good blood guide your way.”

Gops bowed, his words firm but quiet. “Safety and peace, Your Excellency.”

He turned and departed, the heavy doors of the study closing behind him with a deep, resonant thud that echoed faintly through the marble hall. The sound lingered for a moment, until all that remained was the flicker of candlelight upon the vicar’s desk, and the faint, restless whisper of parchment against quill as she returned to her work.

Chapter Text

The bonfires of Old Yharnam still burned despite the pallid daylight that struggled to pierce the overcast sky. The flames crackled and hissed, feeding on heaps of charred timber and beastly remains, their smoke coiling into the air like restless spirits. The scent was suffocating, a cruel blend of oil, blood, and the rot of decay. Even beneath the veil of daylight, the city lay smothered in shadow, as though no sun could ever cleanse what had been done here. Gops and Iosefka stood before the entrance of the forsaken district, framed by the blackened stone archway that marked its threshold. The assassin’s gaze swept across the ruins before them, with fractured towers leaning against one another like dying men, bridges half-collapsed into the streets below, and banners turned to ash. For a moment, neither spoke, as the silence was broken only by the low growl of the distant fires.

“At least we do not have any beasts to worry about,” Iosefka murmured, her voice quiet but tense. Her gloved fingers rested near the grip of her weapon, a small tell of her unease. She knew of the sister city, of course, as well as the purge and the quarantine that followed, but standing here amid its bones was another matter entirely.

“For now,” Gops replied, his tone flat, though his eyes scanned the streets as though expecting otherwise. A faint sigh slipped through his teeth, the sound of a man who had long made peace with grim possibilities.

“Still,” Iosefka muttered, glancing toward the skeletal remains of a chapel overtaken by soot and age, “Old Yharnam never fails to unsettle me.”

“You said it,” Gops murmured. “Looks worse during the day, too.” He turned to her then, the dark brim of his plumed tricorn shadowing his face, the faint gleam of his Church hunter badge visible beneath his collar and over the cloth that wrapped around his shoulders. “You do not have to come with me.”

“I would rather not leave you alone unless there is no choice,” Iosefka said, her tone firm but soft beneath it. “We ought to seek out the truth together, remember?”

The Church assassin bowed in a slow nod. Small, but genuine. Words of gratitude never came easily to him, and so the gesture sufficed.

“Follow me,” Gops said at last, adjusting the strap of his belt as he turned away. “I know a quieter route. One that will keep us out of Djura’s sightlines.”

He stepped forward, his boots grinding softly against the worn cobblestones, veering off the main road toward the right of the district’s entrance. There, the ground sloped into a sunken passage, revealing a network of fractured streets that wound deeper into Old Yharnam’s forgotten layers. The air thickened as the clerics descended, colder and tainted with ash, carrying whispers that might have been the wind, or might not.

The assassin was dressed once more in full attire, the dark cloth of his coat newly mended from the previous night’s ordeal. His repeating pistol hung at his hip, polished and ready, while Ludwig’s rifle, its folded barrel locked into place, rested across the back of his belt. His gloves were secured tight, the right concealing a slender hidden blade beneath the leather, while the left bore the more prominent blade, his clawed gauntlet clad in steel and leather that was strapped firmly over his sleeve, the metal catching faint glimmers of light as he moved. Above all, the plume of his tricorn cap swayed gently with each step, a lone trace of regality against the ruin.

Beside him, Iosefka kept pace, cautious but resolute. Her White Church attire remained immaculate against the grime of the streets, a stark contrast to the city’s decay. In one hand, she gripped her repeating pistol close to her chest; in the other, her threaded cane remained half-drawn, its coil ready to snap at the first stir of movement.

As they moved deeper, the bonfires above faded into faint, distant flickers, and the silence grew heavier. The cries of beasts were gone during the day, yet an unseen tension filled the air, as though the ruins themselves waited to awaken. Through it all, Gops walked with quiet resolve. The ruin of Old Yharnam did not unsettle him. It became, in a way, familiar; a mirror to his own history, a place that remembered sin the same way he did: not in words, but in scars. When the Church assassin dropped soundlessly from the ledge onto the lowest street, the impact barely stirred the dust beneath his boots. Gops then turned, extending an arm upward just as Iosefka leapt from the crumbling parapet above. The assassin caught her mid-fall with an effortless steadiness, guiding her down until her boots touched the cobblestones with a soft thud.

“My thanks,” she murmured, regaining her balance as her gloved hand lingered briefly against his forearm.

Gops gave a short nod in acknowledgment before releasing her, the gesture precise but not unkind. Iosefka brushed the soot from her white skirts, though the air itself seemed eager to stain them again. Together, they began their quiet march through the narrow, blackened street, the ruins looming like burnt-out ribs on either side.

“I thought Djura would only be provoked by the sight of beasts being harmed?” Iosefka asked, her voice hushed, though the silence of the city was absolute.

“You are right,” Gops replied, scanning the rooftops beneath the brim of his plumed tricorn. “But I do not like the feeling of being watched. I would rather know where Djura is when he is unaware, than walk blind while he knows where I am.”

Iosefka’s lips curved faintly. “Spoken like a true assassin.”

“Instinct,” Gops returned evenly, though not dismissively. His gaze swept forward again, drawn to the distant smoke rising from a dead bonfire. After a moment, he added, his tone quieter, “You fight quite well for a healer, by the way.”

“Oh?” Iosefka hummed, brow raised beneath her hood, clearly caught off guard.

“Yesterday. When you came for Stevenson and I,” Gops clarified. “You held Albert off long enough for me to recover.”

“Oh, well… I had to do something,” she said simply, though her tone carried a trace of warmth. “But I am honoured that you think highly of my skill. I may not be a Church huntress officially, but it is still customary to learn integral techniques. As it is expected of any who wields trick weapons.”

“Fair enough,” Gops murmured, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, warm yet sharp beneath the brim of his tricorn, caught the dim light of the overcast sky.

The Church assassin’s stride slowed until it came to a halt. The narrow street before him was one he remembered well, familiar in both sight and scent, its air thick with dust and old gunpowder. He turned down a dirtied alleyway, hemmed in by two sagging buildings whose upper floors nearly leaned into one another, leaving little more than a crack of sky above. Iosefka followed close behind, her steps soft but measured, her green eyes flicking between the walls as though expecting something, or someone, to emerge from the shadows.

Gops silently ran his clawed gauntlet along the bricks of the left wall, the steel tips scraping faintly against stone as he searched by feel and memory. The noise echoed softly in the enclosed space, until at last the sound shifted, the faint clink of metal against hollow stone. His talons hooked beneath a single loose brick, prying it free with a subtle grind of mortar. Behind it lay the small, hidden switch. With a deliberate press, a muted click resounded, and the wall itself gave a low, mechanical groan. Dust sifted down as the section of masonry shifted, sliding aside with a hiss of concealed gears until an entrance was revealed beyond, a descent of narrow steps leading into the dim heart of the Powder Kegs’ current refuge.

Iosefka’s eyes widened slightly, her surprise tempered only by quiet admiration. “My…” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Here we are,” Gops said simply, giving a small nod toward the steps. His tone was calm, but the faint tension in his shoulders betrayed the weight of memory. He placed a foot on the first step, only to pause as a gloved hand came to rest upon his gauntleted forearm.

“I’m aware you know them better than I…” Iosefka began softly. Her gaze lifted to meet his, earnest beneath the shadow of her hood. “But please. Be easy on her.”

Gops’s brows drew together, his expression unreadable for a long heartbeat. Then, with a silent nod, he acknowledged her words. There was no need for promise nor protest, just quiet understanding. Releasing a low exhale, the assassin turned back toward the door and pulled it open, the hinges groaning faintly after years of disuse. Then, displaying the gentleman despite his grim veneer, he stepped aside, gesturing for Iosefka to enter first into the dim and smoke-stale interior of Loose Kegs.

The clerics stepped into the dim, dust-scented tavern, the air still carrying the faint tang of old ash and ale. The hearth at the back had long gone cold, yet a trace of heat clung stubbornly to the walls, as if the Powder Kegs’ restless spirit still lingered in the bones of the place. Gops’ eyes adjusted quickly to the low light, his gaze finding the two figures within. Alan sat perched on a stool at the counter, a tankard resting before him, while Edna stood behind the bar, a rag in hand as she wiped down a glass that was already clean.

The creak of the tavern door drew both their attention, and though the sight of Iosefka stirred mild curiosity, it was the assassin they truly saw, the figure beneath a plumed tricorn, the faint glint of metal at his wrist. Their eyes widened, and for a heartbeat, the room froze. Gops could almost hear the memory of their last meeting, such as Alan’s temper, Edna’s defiance, and the way it all ended with blood and bruises. Now, the same man they once spat words at stood again in their doorway, silent and unflinching.

This time, however, there was no hostility. Alan’s bruises, faintly yellowed with age, still lingered on his cheek. His hand hovered near the edge of the counter, half-expecting another blow. Edna’s remaining eye flicked toward the back door, as if she were calculating an escape.

“Alright,” Gops broke the silence, lifting a hand slightly in a gesture of peace. “I know. Relax. I am not here to start anything.”

The tension did not fully break, but it softened. The old Kegs exchanged a glance, wary but listening, before their eyes settled on the woman beside him.

“Doc?” Alan murmured, his voice rasped from smoke and disbelief. “You’re alive?”

“Yes,” Iosefka answered, her tone gentle, though surprise flickered faintly in her eyes. “It has been… a strange time for everyone, Mister Jones.”

“Ya don’t say,” Alan huffed, rubbing his neck. “We heard about them bodies up in the big city. One of ‘em looked an awful lot like you, apparently.”

Gops’ gaze sharpened, his tone level. “How do you even know this?”

“Jozef went back to Yharnam, remember?” Alan said, tipping his chin toward Edna. “Lookin’ for her sister, since someone’s a little too busy doin’ somethin’ else.”

The assassin’s expression hardened just slightly, a twitch at the jaw that followed the narrowing of his eyes. He exchanged a quiet, knowing look with Iosefka, who already read the thought behind it.

“Alan-” Edna began, her tone weary.

“What?” Alan retorted, though there was no bite to it, only exhaustion.

“I’m tired, mate,” Edna sighed, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Truly. I don’t want another fight, and I’m sick of trouble.” Her good eye turned to the clerics, heavy with the kind of fatigue that went deeper than the flesh. The other, clouded and glassy, caught the candlelight without life. “Well?”

“It is about your sister, actually…” Gops said quietly.

Edna’s posture shifted. Her head rose, her expression tightening with hope, as well as fear, all at once. “Edith?” she asked, her voice catching slightly. “Do you have something?”

The assassin hesitated, for there were no gentle ways to say what had to be said. His tone, when he spoke again, was low and measured, yet touched with solemn respect.

“I do not know how else to tell you this, Edna,” he said. “The other body we found…”

“Who was it?” Edna pressed.

Gops’ brows lowered, the weight of truth sinking between them. “You know who it was.”

Although no more words were spoken, the silence that followed told her everything.

Edna’s gaze fell from them all, her head lowering beneath the weight of what she could no longer bear to hear. Her hand still clutched the glass she had been polishing since the clerics arrived, fingers tightening unconsciously until the pale of her knuckles showed. She did not notice the tremor in her grip, nor the soft creak of protest from the glass under the strain. The old Keg’s jaw locked, her eyes closed, and her brows knitted deep inwards. For all her guarded expectations, this one still struck too deep. Edith had been the one flicker of warmth left in a life scorched by regret. Now, even that ember had been snuffed out.

“God fuckin’ damn it!” Alan roared, the sharp crack of his fist against the counter echoing through the empty tavern. His anger flared like oil to flame, being wild, immediate, and without direction. He turned on the clerics, his voice breaking under the force of his grief. “Of course. The righteous doctor is safe and sound.”

Iosefka’s shoulders rose with a slow, heavy breath through her nose, her expression softening with quiet sorrow. She did not answer him, nor could she, as there was truth behind his words, bitter though they were. Gops stood beside her, silent as stone.

Alan’s anger burned hotter. “Where were you when Jozef reported this weeks ago?! Where are you Church fucks when anyone EVER fuckin’ needs you, huh? Oh, some girl that means the world to the Kegs? Forget it! But said-Keg in Yharnam? Go beat the ever-livin’ fuck outta him, that’ll show ‘em, won’t it? LIKE WE AIN’T BEEN THROUGH ANY SHIT!”

The Keg rose from his stool with a sudden jolt, the wooden legs scraping harshly against the floorboards. Iosefka flinched, not out of fear for herself, but for what might happen next as she instinctively stepped behind the Church assassin; yet Gops did not move. He stood tall with a calm gaze, letting Alan’s fury crash against him like a tide against an unyielding cliff, because beneath the rage, there was truth, and Gops knew it.

“If you even gave an ounce of a shit about her-! About any of us-!” Alan began again, voice breaking as his throat tightened; however, the sound of shattering glass cut him short.

All eyes turned to Edna.

The former Keg stood trembling, the shards of glass glittering at her feet. Her hand bled freely, small rivulets of red threading through her fingers as she clenched the broken pieces still within her grasp. Edna’ eyes were shut tight, breath trembling between her lips, fighting the sob that threatened to escape. However, it was then, from her scarred and clouded eye, that a single tear slipped free. The little glint tracing the ridges of the old burn down her cheek, glistening like a dying ember in the tavern’s dim light.

No one spoke. Not Gops, Iosefka, nor even Alan, for only the faint sound of a drop of blood hitting the floor broke the silence.

“I am so sorry, Miss Brown…” Iosefka finally spoke, her voice steady yet steeped in remorse as she took a careful step forward.

“It should’ve been you.”

The words struck like a thrown bottle; sharp, sudden, and meant to wound. Edna’s single good eye lifted toward the doctor, her breath harsh as she exhaled through her nose. Iosefka faltered, taken aback, though her composure did not crack. She had stood before too many grieving souls in her time as a doctor and watched too many hearts collapse under the weight of loss. She knew better than to meet pain with reproach.

Silence lingered, heavy as dust in the dim light. Edna’s jaw clenched, her glare soon softening as she let out a long, wearied breath through her nose. “Ah, what the hell…” she muttered, her voice coarse with regret.

“No, it is alright. Truly,” Iosefka replied softly, her tone the gentlest balm. She took another step closer, then another, her movement slow and deliberate. “I am sorry we found your sister this way. I wish this had ended differently… Both Mister Al-Dhar and I do.”

The Church assassin said nothing, but his gaze flicked toward her, quiet gratitude glinting behind the sharp cut of his brown eyes. For all his skill in the art of silence, the doctor was the one who knew how to speak when words were knives.

Edna’s shoulders slumped, her anger spent, leaving behind only exhaustion and grief. “Me too,” she murmured, the fight draining from her voice.

She moved past the counter, dragging out a wooden chair that scraped softly against the floorboards before she lowered herself into it. Her hand still bled, trembling faintly, glass shards glinting beneath the skin. Iosefka knelt before her without hesitation, with respect and instinct, and took Edna’s hand in her gloved ones upon setting her cane down on the floorboards. Her touch was careful but firm as she pressed gently around the wounds, inspecting the embedded glass. The former Keg did not flinch, however, for the pain was nothing compared to the storm within.

“Edith and I weren’t really on speaking terms,” Edna said, her voice quieter now, worn to a rasp. “Though… I suppose one doesn’t value the other’s presence ‘till they’re truly gone.”

Her eye lifted, fixing on Gops. The line that followed was sharp but lacking malice, heavier with sorrow than scorn. “You wouldn’t know that, would you?”

Gops’s brows lowered, his breath slow and measured through his nose. The words found their mark, though she could not have known how deeply. He said nothing, only standing still as the brim of his tricorn cast a shadow across his eyes, but in his mind, the old pain stirred. A memory like an open wound: the fateful night, the scent of blood, the muffled sound of rain following the deafening toll of the bells, and the woman who had meant everything to him. The old huntress whose blade had ended her own life. The cleric buried the grief as any assassin would, deep enough that even he began to believe it was gone; yet Edna’s words unearthed it, raw and breathing. The difference between them, however, was cruelly simple. Gops could still see the one he had lost despite the decades of separation prior, trapped in the realm beyond the Waking World, while Edna could never share that luxury.

And somehow, that made her loss the greater of the two.

During that quiet stretch of time, Iosefka worked with delicate precision. The small clinks of glass being set aside were the only sounds that filled the tavern as she removed the shards one by one from Edna’s palm. Blood streaked faintly against her gloves, but her movements never faltered. By the time she was done, the wound had been cleansed and wrapped neatly beneath a clean white bandage.

“Why were you two not talking?” she finally asked, her voice soft, less like a question and more like an invitation.

Edna exhaled through her nose, her gaze falling to the bandaged hand. “It all seems petty now,” she began, her tone hoarse but steady. “But I just-” she paused, struggling to shape the words. “I just couldn’t live a normal life once the Powder Kegs were done for. And she… she wasn’t any better. We were both too stubborn, too broken to admit we were miserable. Couldn’t stand to see the other crumble.”

Gops, standing silently beside them, finally broke his stillness. “What was happening on her end?”

Edna’s response came slowly, weighted by guilt. “She was hookin’. To pay off debts.” The old Keg’s good eye wavered with shame, her voice thinning. “It ate me up to see her that way, same as she couldn’t stand watchin’ me drink myself to the grave. Somethin’ about Mister Smith and his fuckin’ fees.”

At the mention of the name, Gops and Iosefka exchanged a sharp, knowing glance.

“So she did work at The Parlour,” Gops murmured.

“That would explain why her residence was right across the street,” Iosefka added under her breath.

Gops turned his gaze back to Edna, his expression barely readable beneath the brim of his tricorn. “And you are certain she owed money to Mister Smith? Not someone calling himself the ‘Tax Collector’?”

“The crock o’ shit that came here a couple nights ago?” Alan cut in from the counter, his voice rough. He approached, his stance unconsciously protective as he moved to stand near Edna.

Gops gave a small nod.

“I don’t know anything about ’em,” Edna replied, shaking her head. “That night was the first I ever saw of ’em.”

“It’s alright,” Iosefka assured, her tone warm, attempting to ease the tension. “At least now we have a clearer picture of what was happening around her, and a reason to narrow our sights onto Mister Smith.”

Edna’s shoulders sagged, and her voice wavered as she asked, “Where… is she now? Edith?”

“She is currently under the Choir’s care,” Iosefka answered gently.

Edna let out a low sigh, rubbing her temple with her good hand. “I’ll have to go to the city and get her myself… Fuck me.”

“Please,” Iosefka interjected. “Allow me to petition the Church to make the funeral arrangements. You shouldn’t have to bear that burden alone.”

Edna shook her head slightly, overwhelmed by the doctor’s kindness, but still trying to keep her composure. “No, no- it’s not that. There’s… there’s somethin’ she wanted me to look after. But I can’t do that without her key.”

Gops tilted his head slightly. “What key?”

“It unlocks a chest I’ve been keepin’ here,” Edna said, glancing toward the back door of the pub. “She always kept the key with her. Said if somethin’ ever happened, I’d know what to do with what’s inside.”

Iosefka looked to Gops then, a silent nudge passing between them. The assassin’s jaw set as he gave a small nod.

“I will see what I can do,” Gops said after a moment’s thought. “If the Choir does not deem it necessary to hold as evidence, I will make sure it is returned to you.”

Edna exhaled, the faintest glimmer of relief in her weary voice. “Okay… good.”

Gops was just about to give Edna a final nod of reassurance when a faint sound reached his ears, a rhythm beneath the tavern’s quiet hum. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, and too heavy to belong to a passerby. The metallic clink of gear followed each step, sharp and precise, like clockwork against the cobbled ground outside. The assassin’s posture straightened immediately, instincts flaring to life born from his recent experiences with contracted killers. Every sound sharpened, every shadow thickened. Without a word, he raised a gloved finger to his lips, silencing the others room. Alan froze mid-breath, Edna's good eye narrowed in suspicion, and even Iosefka’s expression tensed as her hand inched toward her pistol.

The assassin glided toward the door with the soundless grace of habit, his boots finding only the patches of wood that would not creak. His repeating pistol was drawn, its polished barrels catching the dim light that filtered through the cracked windows. The faint metallic click of the chamber echoed softly as the moon-scented cleric gripped it in his clawed left hand, his other hand poised near the hilt of his blade. The noises grew louder, and whoever approached wore the kind of gear that announced itself, such as iron tools, layered leather, the faint brush of a cloak. Gops pressed an ear to the door, listening as the steps drew nearer, closer, until they stopped just on the other side.

In one smooth motion, the assassin pulled the door open and aimed.

“Fuck me-”

The startled voice belonged to none other than Jozef, who flinched back as both barrels of the pistol hovered inches from his face.

Gops exhaled sharply, lowering his firearm with a controlled breath. “Ah….” The faintest hint of relief slipped through his tone.

“Bloody hell,” the Keg muttered, his arm still bearing his saw spear. “Ya here to take me in or somethin’?”

“No,” Gops replied, his voice steady again. “And there is something you should know-”

However, the cleric did not finish. Both men froze as another sound echoed faintly down the alleyway, different footsteps this time, sharper and lighter, accompanied by the distinct chime of steel brushing against steel. Not the heavy trudge of a huntsman or the stagger of a beast, but something else. Jozef raised an eyebrow, confused; yet Gops felt his heartbeat quicken, a grim certainty dawning on him. He knew that rhythm, as well as that measured pace that only resonated malevolence.

The Church assassin brushed past the Keg, mounting the small steps to the street with his pistol drawn once more. The pallid daylight of Old Yharnam filtered through the fog, outlining two silhouettes at the far end of the alleyway. One figure stood cloaked in a hooded mantle, the light catching only the pale line of a chin beneath it. The other, more distinct, was clad in the black and purple Crowfeather garb of the hunter of hunters, though his limbs gleamed faintly with Cainhurst-forged steel: thin-plated gauntlets and greaves that caught the dull light like bloodied mirrors. The man stood cloaked in silence, his face hidden beneath the engraved, expressionless mask of his helm, with strands of false silver hair spilling from the backplate, swaying faintly with the wind.

The Blood Mason and the Bloody Crow.

Gops moved without thinking, instinct seizing him before thought could catch up. His boots shifted into a low, defensive stance; shoulders hunched, teeth gritted, eyes wide with a sharp, predatory focus. The left hand held his repeating pistol steady, aimed dead ahead, while the right hovered over the hilt of his silver sword, fingers twitching near the guard. The alleyway had gone deathly still. Only the soft whistle of the wind threaded through the space between the four of them, carrying with it the weight of tension that could ignite with a breath.

Jozef stepped out behind him, his boots crunching against the cobble. “What in hell is goin’ on?” he demanded, his voice rising with confusion and anger. Then he saw the two strangers at the far end of the alley, and fell silent, his jaw tightening into a guarded expression.

The hooded man took a step forward. “Church assassin Gops Al-Dhar,” he greeted, his tone pleasant in the way a serpent’s hiss might be to its prey. “A pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh.”

Gops’ eyes narrowed, venom sharpening his voice. “You…”

“I must say,” the Mason continued, clasping his gloved hands together with calm poise, “you were remarkably difficult to track down. But, thankfully, my associate here…” he gestured lazily to the silent figure beside him, the Bloody Crow, whose cold gaze seemed to pierce through the fog, “has a certain talent for finding those who would rather remain unseen.”

His smirk deepened. “Still, with the commotion you’ve been causing in Yharnam as of late, I simply had to see the famed bloodhound for myself.”

“You mean the Tax Collector,” Gops spat, lowering his aim just slightly.

“Indeed,” the Mason replied smoothly. “Even for an assassin of the Church, leaving him gutted in the ward was a rather bold breach of your legislative duties, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would do it all over again,” Gops growled, every word drenched in conviction. “I know he worked for you.”

“What did he say?” came a voice from behind.

Gops’ heart sank. He turned his head just as Alan stormed out from the tavern’s entrance, rage already boiling beneath his skin. Edna followed close behind, leaning heavily on her cane but determined all the same, with Iosefka hurrying out after them.

“Gops-?” Iosefka’s voice caught, her tone caught somewhere between fear and disbelief.

“That piece o’ fuckin’ shit worked for you?” Alan barked, his hunter axe gripped tight in one hand. The handle creaked beneath his strength. His moustache bristled with fury as he stepped forward, pointing the weapon toward the Mason. “You’re the fucker who killed Edith?!”

“Edith’s dead-?” Jozef stammered, disbelief flickering across his scarred face.

Gops clenched his jaw. “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath.

The Church assassin could feel it, the fragile balance snapping apart before his eyes. He stood between them now, his allies behind him and his enemies before him, and only Gops understood the stakes. The Bloody Crow was not a foe that could be reasoned with, nor one that the Kegs could ever hope to match. If the two sides clashed here, in this narrow alley lined with old decay and broken glass, it would not end in a fight.

It would end in a slaughter, and Gops knew exactly who would die first.

A low, cruel chuckle rippled from the Blood Mason’s throat as he turned away, his cloak shifting with the air like a shadow that no light could touch. “Do not take too long,” he murmured, voice smooth and venomous. “I wish to know what he is capable of.”

The Bloody Crow offered no reply, only the faint tilt of his helm. His plated hand slid to the sheath of his Chikage, an act that drew more dread than any spoken threat. The steel within breathed softly as it moved, like something alive and restless.

“Alan, let me handle this,” Gops said, stepping forward. His tone carried a rare urgency, his gloved hand pressing against the taller man’s chest. The other hand gripped his pistol, poised to fire at the slightest movement.

“Back off, mutt! This ain’t concernin’ you!” Alan’s fury overpowered reason. With a sharp swing of his free arm, he shoved Gops aside, sending the assassin stumbling hard into the brick wall. The sound echoed in the narrow alley, followed by the old Keg’s growl as he stormed toward the Vileblood, rage twisting his face.

“You think you can just cross one o’ us?! I’m gon’ rip yer-!”

The rest never came.

A faint ring of metal pierced the air, too swift to follow, and too sudden to comprehend. Then, a blur. A scarlet streak traced through the dim light like a painter’s brush dipped in blood. Alan’s words died in his throat as his body froze mid-swing. His axe halted overhead, trembling in his grip, before it slipped.

His severed arm plummeted to the ground.

The sound was grotesquely soft, a wet slap of flesh and steel hitting the cobblestones, followed by the dull thud of the axe beside it. For a heartbeat, Alan stood there, eyes wide, mouth parted in a breath that never came. Then his body gave out, collapsing in a heap. Blood spurted from the severed shoulder in rhythmic bursts, pooling rapidly beneath him.

“ALAN!” Edna’s scream tore through the still air, raw and broken. Rage overtook shock as she twisted her cane with trembling hands, gears whirring and locking into place. The head of the cane split open, revealing the dark gleam of a firearm barrel. The former Keg did not hesitate as she fired twice, the recoil jolting her arm as sparks flashed in the dim.

The Bloody Crow moved as though he had seen it all before. His Chikage flicked in a double cross as bullets met steel, deflecting in showers of orange light. Not a single shot found flesh, and in the same motion, the Vileblood’s left hand had drawn his own repeating pistol. A thunderous retort cracked through the alley, twin flashes from the muzzle streaking toward Edna.

Gops saw the Crow’s aim, and moved without thinking.

He hurled himself into the line of fire, the twin bullets striking home with brutal precision, tearing through his coat and into the muscle beneath. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, as Gops recoiled mid-leap, the air filling with the copper tang of blood. His guttural cry of pain broke the world’s stillness as he crashed onto the cobblestone.

“Gops!” Iosefka’s voice cracked through the chaos, fear splintering her composure.

“I’LL KILL YE!” Jozef roared, the snarl of a desperate man. His saw spear snapped open with a harsh shunk as he lunged forward.

“Stop!” Gops’ voice was ragged but commanding, forcing his way back up on his feet before shoving Jozef back with his free hand, his abdomen stained red from the gunshot.

The assassin could hear the Bloody Crow already moving, his impending footsteps being grace incarnate, a silent death wrapped in a hunter's garb.

Gops turned his head just enough to shout toward the youngest Keg. “Take Alan inside and keep everyone safe! If I die, you are all that is left- Now, GO!”

With the alley narrowing around him, Gops drew his silver sword with a hiss of metal, just in time to meet the Vileblood’s descending blade. The clash was blinding as silver shrieked against steel, sparks bursting like fleeting stars in the dim light. The assassin’s boots slid across the blood-slick stones as he held firm, his right arm shaking beneath the strain. Pain surged through him, sharp as fire, yet his gaze burned steady beneath the brim of his plumed tricorn.

“Jozef, please! Get Alan inside!” Iosefka cried, her voice sharp with command and desperation. She rarely called anyone by name, but urgency stripped her of formality.

With one arm around Edna’s shoulders, the doctor half-dragged and half-guided the older woman through the tavern door, while Jozef hooked his arms beneath Alan’s heavy, bleeding frame and pulled him from the alley’s carnage. The sound of their retreat, the shuffle of boots and the groan of hinges, faded beneath the ringing chaos of steel.

The duel raged on.

The Bloody Crow advanced like a shadow given flesh, every motion deliberate, efficient, and silent. He was a blur of black, purple, and silver, his Chikage flashing with a predatory gleam as he pressed the assault. Gops met him head-on, his own blade carving glimmering arcs through the murk of the alley, the clang of silver on steel punctuating each heartbeat. Sparks scattered across the cobblestones, their glow briefly illuminating the assassin’s grim determination and the Vileblood’s ghostly composure.

Gops’ breath came harsh and ragged, each inhale burning through his ribs where the Crow’s bullets had torn through; yet he refused to falter. He remembered Cainhurst, the dark hallway slick with his own blood, the bitter cold that bit through bone, and the Vileblood’s relentless precision. He had learned then that brute strength would never suffice. The Bloody Crow fought like a phantom, his technique foreign and fluid, each strike being a study in speed and control. Nevertheless, Gops adapted. Parry after parry, deflection after deflection, he weathered the storm, but he could feel his arms growing heavy, his gunshot wound slowing him. He could not last long against this opponent in open combat.

That was when the cleric shifted tactics. Timing a parry just right, Gops twisted his wrist and forced the Vileblood’s blade aside, creating the smallest of openings. Without hesitation, he turned and bolted toward the far end of the alley, his boots hammering against the cobbles. The Bloody Crow pursued in silence, since his movements were soundless but for the faint rustle of his crowfeathered cape, his steps as measured as a heartbeat. When Gops reached the dead end, a brick wall loomed before him, its base crowded with pulleys and ropes, the remnants of a supply system the Powder Kegs must have once used. The thick rope hung taut, a heavy counterweight dangling high above, waiting like a loaded trap.

In one swift motion, Gops planted a boot on a nearby bench and leapt upward, his gauntleted hand snatching the coarse rope as his silver sword flashed downward, severing the rope clean off. The counterweight crashed to the ground, sending a thunderous shock through the alley, and the sudden recoil hurled Gops skyward. His coat flared behind him, the air rushing in a torrent as he ascended. However, midway up, the cleric let go, twisting in the air before driving the claws of his left gauntlet into the rusted iron bars of a window. The steel claws shrieked but held, leaving him suspended near the top of the building.

Below, the Bloody Crow had already reacted. He too vaulted upward, cutting through the air with terrifying speed, and propelled one of the other pulleys; however, Gops was ready. As the Vileblood neared, the assassin swung his blade in a precise, downward slash. The line snapped, and the Blood Crow plummeted. For a heartbeat, his cape hung weightless in the air like a pair of black wings unfurled against the grey sky, before gravity seized him, dragging him down in a blur of feathers and leather.

Yet even in descent, the Bloody Crow was far from defeated. He struck the wall, his own clawed gauntlets digging deep into the brick, scattering mortar and dust. The impact cracked through the alley like cackles of thunder; yet he caught himself, hanging there a few meters below the cleric, his steel-plated helm tilting upward to fix Gops in an unbroken, silent stare. The wind whispered through the level beneath Old Yharnam’s skyline, stirring dust and ash. Neither man moved nor spoke. The Bloody Crow’s stillness was worse than rage as his silence was suffocating, like the calm before a storm.

The two killers hung from the side of the building, each suspended between survival and the long fall below. Gops’ left gauntlet clawed tightly around the rusted bars by a window, while his right hand clutched his silver sword. The Bloody Crow mirrored him a few meters down, one hand embedded in the masonry, the other gripping his Chikage. The air between them was tight, vibrating with tension. Dust and loose mortar rained down as they shifted, each careful movement scraping iron against stone. There was no ground to brace against, no room to dodge.

Every attack meant risking their only hold.

The Vileblood lunged first, pushing off the wall with a twist of his body that carried inhuman grace. His blade came slashing sideways, a pale flash through the dim daylight. Gops deflected it, sparks bursting as silver met steel yet again, but the shock nearly tore his left arm free from the bricks. The assassin gritted his teeth during the brace, before the Vileblood struck again, a brutal overhead slash meant to force him down. Gops shifted his weight, using the Crow’s momentum against him as he twisted his own sword upward in a sharp parry. Their blades locked, grinding together between the narrow space between them, faces inches apart, hanging side by side against the building.

With a guttural snarl, Gops kicked his boot against the wall, shoving forward. The impact jarred them both, and for the first time, the Bloody Crow slipped. His claws scraped the bricks, his body dropping a few feet before he re-anchored himself with a brutal slam of his gauntlet. Gops did not waste the chance. He pressed the advantage, slashing downward in a flurry that left streaks of silver against the adversary’s cold steel. Each strike was heavy, yet calculated, forcing the Bloody Crow to block awkwardly, his blade trapped in defensive motions that disrupted his eerie precision.

For the first time, the assassin felt the Vileblood falter.

The cleric had forced his foe out of rhythm and out of that measured, ghostly calm. The Bloody Crow was reacting now, not anticipating, as the assassin’s greater knowledge of his environment was being used to its fullest. Gops slashed once more, a decisive blow that cracked through the air and carved into the Crow’s shoulder, tearing leather and drawing a thick line of blood.

The Vileblood’s body stiffened, yet his grip on the wall only tightened.

For a moment, the only sound was the distant drip of blood and the faint hiss of the wind. Gops panted, muscles screaming while his eyes fixed on the masked man below him. The Vileblood’s head tilted up slowly. His plated helm caught the faint light from the pallid light above, blank and blood-smeared, giving him the stillness of something inhuman. Without a word, he swiftly shifted his blade in a single, controlled motion. Sliding the Chikage back into its sheath, the metal hissed like something alive as it locked into place, before the Bloody Crow drew it again.

The blade came out wreathed in deep crimson, veins of living blood snaking along the steel. The Chikage’s cursed form extended, its reach now greater with its edge dripping with the Vileblood’s own essence. Gops’ eyes widened as his instincts screamed. The blood-forged blade tore through the air, its arc longer, faster, hungrier than before. Gops barely twisted aside, feeling the hiss of the edge pass by his cheek. It struck the wall, carving a scar through solid brick and sending fragments raining into the alley below.

Although the Bloody Crow’s precision remained, the weapon itself moved like an extension of his fury, being vicious and relentless. Each swing forced Gops higher, scrambling to find new purchase along the building’s face, the stone crumbling beneath his claws. Gops then lowered his sword in an attempt to deflect, the movement honed by instinct and years of training, but the instant the two weapons met, he knew something was wrong.

The Chikage’s blood blade did not clang. It flowed.

The crimson arc passed through his silver sword as though it were smoke, the liquefied edge sliding around the parry and reforming beyond it, before it carved into his chest. Pain exploded through him, the assassin’s body convulsing as the burning sensation spread. He nearly lost his hold on the wall, yet his silver sword slipped, scraping across the bricks of the building before plummeting down on the ground.

“Agh!” he rasped through gritted teeth, clutching tighter with his clawed hand, his other arm clutching onto his chest as the Bloody Crow drew back for another swing.

Each attack came faster and hungrier, the blade’s red aura leaving streaks of burning crimson across the wall. The liquid steel defied the laws of motion, as it dripped and reshaped, extending just as it struck. The wall behind them was scarred with lines of searing blood, each strike faintly eating through the brick. Gops was forced upward, his body twisting and shifting as he clung on just to survive. The Vileblood’s expression remained hidden, yet there was a rhythm to his movements now, a dark elegance, as though this was the true dance he had been waiting for.

Gops’ chest heaved, muscles burning, his chest torn and slick with blood. He knew he could not hold much longer, since not only could he not find the chance to heal, but the next hit could cleave him from the wall entirely. As the Bloody Crow drew back his sword for one final, sweeping strike, Gops made a desperate move, releasing his clawed hand from the wall and letting himself fall, using gravity as his last ally.

The Church assassin dropped toward his enemy.

The Bloody Crow’s crimson blade slashed through the air where Gops’ head had been a heartbeat earlier, carving a molten groove into the wall; however, Gops came crashing down upon him, a black blur of motion and desperation. His clawed gauntlet struck first, raking sparks across the Crow’s helm as his knee slammed into the Vileblood’s back. The impact drove them both against the wall with a brutal crunch. The Vileblood grunted, a sound barely audible beneath the hiss of his blade, as he lost his footing for the first time. His free hand shot out, claws digging into the stone to keep his balance, but Gops was already upon him. The assassin hooked his forearm under the Crow’s throat, forcing his weight against him as the two grappled like beasts, hanging by their claws over the depth of the alley below.

The building’s old bricks cracked beneath their combined weight, yet the Bloody Crow recovered swiftly, almost too swiftly. With a sharp twist of his torso, a blur of motion, his elbow slammed into Gops’ temple with the force of a hammer. The Church assassin’s head snapped back, a flash of white pain bursting behind his eyes as his body reeled. The cleric nearly lost his hold, but his clawed gauntlet scraped and tore against the brick until it found purchase once more. Dust and old mortar rained down as he steadied himself beside the Vileblood, panting, and his teeth gritted against the dizzying ache.

However, the Bloody Crow did not relent. With one arm dug deep into the crumbling wall, the Vileblood lunged, the crimson light of his Chikage flaring as it struck forward with surgical precision. Gops barely saw the motion before the blade tore through him.

The impact hit like a thunderclap.

“G- AH!” The breath wrenched out of him, his body jerking violently as the blood-forged blade drove through his abdomen and burst from his back, the searing edge nailing him to the stone. His fingers twitched, clawing at nothing as pain engulfed his senses.

The Vileblood twisted the blade. A wet, tearing sound filled the air, accompanied by Gops’ strangled cry. The cleric’s blood ran freely down the blade, mingling with the Bloody Crow’s cursed crimson, their fluids blending together into a single, pulsing vein of life and death. The assassin’s vision blurred, every heartbeat a stab of agony. His boots dangled above the void, his body trembling from the sheer effort of staying conscious. The Vileblood leaned in slightly, watching in silence with no satisfaction nor malice, only that cold, hollow stare behind the plated helm.

Yet that stillness was his mistake.

Gops’ pain-fed haze steadied into something else, something focused, raw and unyielding. His breath hitched once, then steadied before his right hand clenched. With a sudden snarl, he swung at the foe’s head, his fist streaking through the air. The Vileblood caught it effortlessly, letting go of the Chikage’s handle before his palm closed around the strike before it could land, but that was exactly what Gops had wanted.

With a quick flick of the wrist, the hidden blade burst from beneath the assassin’s glove and plunged through the Crow’s palm, impaling straight through the thin plate of Cainhurst armour. A brief, muffled hiss of pain escaped the Vileblood’s throat as blood spattered from the sudden impact. Gops followed through immediately, dragging the Crow forward and slamming his forehead into the helm once, twice, and thrice. The third blow knocked his plumed cap off his head back while managing to draw a muted grunt from the Bloody Crow, whose free hand slipped, claws scraping desperately for purchase. Then, finally, he fell. The Vileblood slid down the wall in a rain of dust and broken stone, his metal talons carving jagged trails as he tried to slow his descent, muffled grunts marking each impact. Gops sagged against the wall, trembling, his right hidden blade retracting back into concealment with a soft click. He looked down at the blood-soaked Chikage still buried in his stomach, and with a shuddering breath, wrapped both hands around the hilt.

“Ngh-!”

With a hoarse cry, the cleric pulled. The blade tore free with a wet, tearing sound, blood gushing in its wake. His body spasmed as gravity soon claimed him. The assassin’s limp body fell from the height and crashed through the refuse bins below with a metallic groan, before slumping onto the cobblestone in a heap. His blood pooled dark beneath him, painting the stones in a silent testament to his defiance. His plumed tricorn landed softly beside his head, rolling once before settling in the dirty cobble, its dark feather bent and glistening faintly in the pallid light. Gops lay motionless beside it, every breath shallow and ragged, each one a battle unto itself. The world around him had dulled to a grey haze; sound came only as distant echoes, warped by blood loss and pain. Through the blur of his vision, he could just make out a dark shape moving amidst the drifting motes of dust.

The Vileblood descended with a quiet grace, his greaves pressing against the cobblestone with muted, deliberate steps. He approached the Chikage lying in a shallow pool of mixed blood, red and darker red, before stooping down to retrieve it. The metal groaned faintly as he wrenched it from the ground, its liquid edge reforming with a faint hiss. Gops let out a guttural groan, the sound weak and broken. He knew what was to come, expecting his vision to regain clarity yet again in the Hunter’s Dream. He half-welcomed it, to wake among the gravestones once more, to feel the cool stillness of that ethereal realm rather than the bloodied alleyway he was crippled in; yet the killing blow never came.

Instead, the Bloody Crow remained standing over him, silent and still. He turned his head slightly, tilting it as though studying the dying man before him. Then, with his free hand, the one still marked by the puncture wound through plates of his palm, he lifted it into the dim light. The gesture was not one of pain or reverence, but curiosity. A flicker of intrigue. The Church assassin’s blurred gaze followed the motion, his scarred brow furrowing weakly. The Vileblood’s clawed fingers flexed once, blood still seeping from the centre of his palm, where the assassin's hidden blade had pierced through.

Did he… recognise it?

The assassin could only wonder, a chill threading through his weakening pulse. The Bloody Crow tilted his head further, the light catching on the metal of his engraved helm. Then, to Gops’ faint astonishment, a low huff escaped from beneath the mask. It was not a sigh, nor a grunt of disdain, but something disturbingly human.

Amusement.

Without another sound, the Vileblood turned away. The blood blade of the Chikage dissolved back into its sheath with a liquid whisper as he walked past the wounded assassin, each step receding into the distance like a heartbeat fading from the world. The Bloody Crow already knew well enough what would come; that killing a man tethered to the Dream was no true victory, only delay. Therefore, in his own cruel way, the Vileblood preferred to let the Church’s hound die slowly, to feel his life seep away inch by inch, rather than grant him a clean release. Gops’ eyes fluttered as the silhouette disappeared into the misted alleyway. His pulse thundered faintly in his ears, the only sound that remained, before darkness began to claim him.

In all his years, all his contracts, and all the blood-soaked nights, the Church assassin had never met a foe like this. The Bloody Crow was unlike any he had faced, for not even the knights of Cainhurst had struck such terror into his soul, nor such respect. Only once before had he bested one of their kind.

Long ago in a different era, when his heart still remembered warmth.