The Uninvited Guest

"Look, the church," Azarias paused, the smirk vanishing as quickly as it appeared. His eyes flicked to the side, lips twitching with thought. "Fu—" He cut himself off, setting the telephone back into its cradle with a soft clink, the sound slicing through the room's eerie stillness.

"First Henri, now that guy…" he muttered, chuckling under his breath. He dragged his hands down his face in a slow, deliberate motion—equal parts exhaustion and amusement, the kind that seeps in when things grow too tangled to untie.

He rubbed his eyes, barely registering the array of monitors flashing rapid data across their screens.

A long sigh escaped him. "I'll need something to—" He stopped mid-sentence, eyes drifting upward as if trying to recall something lost.

"Where's that Valentina girl again?" His voice carried the curiosity of someone talking about a misplaced chess piece.

"She's held up by the Sentinels," the woman standing across from him replied, her voice trembling beneath its attempt at steadiness.

She stood stiffly, as if holding herself upright required effort.

Her eyes darted toward the door—expecting something, anything, to crash through.

Azarias raised an eyebrow but didn't comment on her tension. "How smart is she?" He leaned back in his chair, his gaze sharp and predatory. "I'm feeling the need for chess."

"She's the head of the financial department," the woman answered. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "I'd dare say she's one of the smartest they have."

Azarias stood with fluid grace, his casual poise belying the weight of his presence.

He strolled toward the spiral staircase behind him, hand resting on the cold railing.

The woman flinched but didn't respond. Her attention was fixed on the door behind her. The air felt thick—cloying, electric with dread. Something terrible lingered on the other side. She could feel it.

"You can leave," Azarias said, slicing through the silence.

Her breath caught. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He waved a hand dismissively. "Go. You're free to leave."

Relief flashed across her face—brief, fleeting.

"More have been murdered," he added casually, like announcing a game.

"M-murdered?" she stammered, body stiffening. The word hit like a knife.

Azarias tilted his head, lips curling into a soft, almost mocking smile. "But murder's such a harsh word, don't you think?" His chuckle was childlike and chilling. "It makes everything sound so… final."

"Yes," she murmured, staring at the floor.

Azarias wandered toward the bookshelves, fingers gliding over the meticulously arranged spines. He stopped at one—a red-covered volume with bold lettering:

The 21 Districts and Versions of Kol-nic.

"Do you know," Azarias said, voice thoughtful, "you all are using a divergent version of Kol-nic?" He pulled the book free and flipped through the pages, the rustling paper breaking the stillness.

"N-no, sir," she stuttered, fear bleeding into every word.

"It's close," he mused, scanning rapidly, "but far enough to cause… misunderstandings. A few thousand years ago, you wouldn't even be able to communicate with a citizen here."

He paused. "Language is delicate. A thousand years is a long time."

She didn't speak. Couldn't.

"Do you understand?" he asked, finally looking up. His eyes were cold, his tone gentle—but his words struck like hammers.

"I… I don't," she admitted, voice breaking under the weight of his gaze.

"Even if you could understand, dialects exist—subtle, district-based shifts. They're not new languages, just… different enough."

"Huh?" The woman blinked, struggling to follow.

Azarias gave her a knowing smile. "Alright, that settles it. I want to play chess." He spun on the staircase's rail like a man with no worries. His fingers danced along the polished brass as he descended, light and carefree.

"We should take the elevator, don't you think?" he said over his shoulder. "I always forget the layout of this place."

The woman nodded stiffly. Her legs felt like lead as she followed. Her skirt rustled with every step, heels clicking sharply on the marble floor—yet it felt like walking through a dream. Or a nightmare.

Azarias opened the door to a sight that hit them like a violent gust of wind. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of iron and decay. It clung to their skin, as if death itself had seeped into the walls.

Blood was everywhere. Dark crimson pools spread across the floor like thick syrup, seeping through the cracks in the tile. The room was no longer just an office space; it had become a slaughterhouse.

Desks were overturned, chairs toppled, and papers scattered, some soaked through with blood, sticking to the floor like grotesque imprints of lives cut short.

Everyone was dead.

The once-bustling space was now filled with the lifeless bodies of workers, slumped over their desks or lying in grotesque, unnatural positions on the floor.

Some were still in their chairs, their faces frozen in horror, eyes wide open as if they had seen death coming but had no time to react.

Others had tried to escape—their bodies contorted mid-motion, fingers reaching out towards the door as if salvation was just beyond their grasp.

But they had never made it. Blood dripped from the edges of the desks, pooling beneath them, soaking the soles of his shoes as he stepped forward without a flicker of emotion.

The woman behind him, Anna, let out a blood-curdling scream, her hand flying to her mouth as she stumbled back.

Her eyes darted around the room, wide with panic, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Tears welled in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks as she shook her head in disbelief.

"They… they weren't dead when I came in!" she sobbed, her voice raw with panic and horror. "They weren't dead!"

Azarias stood calmly amidst the chaos, his gaze drifting lazily over the bodies. His expression didn't change—didn't even flicker. It was as if the massacre around him was nothing more than a mildly interesting painting.

"Where's Valentina?" he asked again, his voice completely devoid of emotion.

The woman was too hysterical to respond at first, her hands covering her face as she sobbed.

"Valentina…" Azarias repeated, his voice like ice. "Is she still in the cells?"

She tried to respond but only managed a garbled sob.

Azarias sighed. "You're sure she's still there?" he asked, more to himself than her, as he stepped over the blood-soaked floor with careless ease.

The deep red liquid stained his boots, but he didn't seem to notice—or care.

The elevator dinged, its doors sliding open, revealing a tall figure that seemed to block the entire entrance.

The man was at least two feet taller than Azarias, his long black cape flowing like shadow, a wide-brimmed hat casting most of his face in darkness.

"Out," Azarias commanded simply, his voice calm but with an authority that brooked no argument.

The man hesitated for only a split second before stepping aside, his massive form brushing past the woman, who recoiled violently at his touch. Her body trembled uncontrollably, the last of her composure crumbling.

"The Pope is going to kill me," Azarias said, stepping inside with a hint of amusement. "I won't be allowed out anymore."

His feet tapped against the elevator floor, his mind elsewhere, his body fidgeting slightly. He clicked his heels against the metal floor in rhythmic motions, like an impatient child. But there was something darker in the way he moved, something that spoke of barely contained chaos.

She jumped, eyes wide, barely registering the sound.

"What's your name?" he asked, as if it had just occurred to him to ask.

"Anna," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Alright, Anna," he said, his tone unsettlingly calm. "Close your eyes and mouth. I don't care how—just do it."

Without hesitation, she squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her mouth closed, her heart racing in terror.

Azarias muttered something under his breath, the words low and unintelligible. The elevator hadn't moved yet, but the air inside felt suffocating. She could feel it—the tension, the dread. The walls felt like they were closing in, the darkness thick and oppressive.

The man who was in the elevator shuffled towards the door opposite Azarias's room, his footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway.

As he reached for the handle, Azarias's finger hovered over the elevator button, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

The moment the man's hand touched the cold metal, Azarias pressed the button.

And then… silence.

A heavy silence, like the calm before the storm.

Anna didn't dare open her eyes.

People laughing?