The Saint in the Dark Elias looked at Jennifer with a rare sense of empathy. He saw the way her hands still trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer exhaustion of holding a life together that she had every right to let slip away. "That’s enough, Jennifer," he said softly, his voice a necessary anchor. "We don't want to waste your effort, or the effort of those who stayed behind to save him. Wake up and let him go, Operative."
Jennifer took a shuddering breath, locking eyes with Elias for a long moment before turning back to the broken man on the desk. Alphonse looked up at her, his spirit shattered.
"Well, Mr. Alphonse," Jennifer said, her voice regained its icy professional edge. "We need answers. And don't you dare assume that surviving this is your path to forgiveness." "I understand," Alphonse whispered. "Ask what you will. If you wish to kill me afterward, I will not resist." "I won't allow that," Jennifer snapped. "Don't destroy the only thing your family died to protect. You will live in this torment, the weight of your guilt will be your shadow. Live, and fix what you broke. No more cowardice."
Elias watched her in silence. Despite her youth, Jennifer possessed a wisdom that surpassed many of the philosophers Elias had studied. She was indeed a "Saint in the Dark," choosing the harder path of redemption over the easy release of vengeance.
The Facade of the Founder "I have been hunting the Organization for years," Elias said, stepping forward. "But the core remains a mystery. Tell us, Alphonse—who is the Founder? And who are the members?"
Alphonse coughed, a dry, painful sound. "To ensure security, all instructions are exchanged through encrypted messages carried by 'Vassals' like the one you killed. None of them can speak; the poison in their veins ensures their silence. I was a fool to think I was becoming a 'Founder.' There is only one true Master. We only meet on the day of the sacrifice at the designated site. We are forbidden from sharing identities or contact information. Even our names are stripped away."
"But I know his face," Alphonse continued, a shiver running through his frame. "I know the man who took my family. He wears a mask of false humility—a 'Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.' He has long golden hair and innocent blue eyes that look like they could never harbor a dark thought. His voice is calm, soothing... a terrifying proof that humans are never what they appear to be."
"When he is angry," Alphonse whispered, "the air doesn't just grow cold—it dies. He is a sorcerer, but unlike the Vassals who command Water, he commands the element of Fire. But it is a cold, black flame. When he calls upon his power, his eyes turn entirely black, as if he is drawing strength from a void outside our world. The very atmosphere becomes heavy with the presence of something... unholy."
The Transmitter and the Trap Jennifer leaned against the desk, processing the information. "Since the ritual failed today, does the Founder or the Entity know what happened here?"
"They know the preparation isn't complete," Alphonse replied. "But the Master must proceed with the ritual here to maintain his image of absolute power before the members. If they don't hear from the Vassal, they will send more agents—hit squads to secure the site and eliminate any 'problems.' You must communicate with them. The only way is through the transmitter the Vassal carried."
Elias moved to the corpse of the red-eyed man. He searched the cold pockets of the tactical vest until his fingers brushed against a cold, metallic object. He pulled out a device that looked like nothing he had ever seen—a strange, jagged piece of technology that seemed to pulse with a faint, internal light.
"It’s a strange design," Elias muttered, turning the device over in his hands. "It looks custom-made, perhaps even partially organic. I’ll have to figure out how it works before the next wave arrives."
"And the knife?" Jennifer asked, pointing to the serpent-hilted blade on the floor. "The Vassal gave it to me," Alphonse said, his eyes filled with dread. "He said it was 'specifically for the preparations.' It is more than a weapon; it is a key to the 'Flesh Cage'."
Elias looked at the transmitter and then at the knife. The pieces were falling into place, but the picture they formed was a nightmare. They had one week, a broken traitor, and a device that broadcasted directly into the heart of a cult led by a golden-haired demon.
