The sun sagged low over the border, a burning disc sinking toward the treeline. Its harsh, metallic light turned everything sharp—the asphalt, the steel barricades, the glass panes of customs booths. Kazou Kuroda felt it on his face, a cold weight despite its heat. Or maybe the weight he felt came from the rifle in his bag.

  Not a weapon he wanted.

  A weapon he needed.

  Casimir was alive. Casimir was out there. And Kazou had no more illusions about how far the boy—no, the demon—would go.

  He walked briskly, shoulders slightly hunched, a man trying to pass unnoticed, though he knew very well he couldn’t. Not anymore. His name was plastered over European news networks like graffiti.

  DR. KAZOU KURODA IS STILL AT LARGE.

  SCIENTIST WANTED IN CONNECTION WITH SERIAL KILLINGS.

  APPROACH WITH CAUTION.

  He moved through the checkpoint with careful, quiet steps, keeping his breathing steady as his shoes clicked on the cold pavement. Cars idled in lines, engines rumbling, drivers drumming along with their radios with anxious rhythms on their steering wheels.

  Kazou scanned the scene with quick, trained glances.

  Two officers are by the pedestrian gate.

  One older, short-tempered, bored.

  One younger, sharp, anxious, trigger-happy.

  Of course, it was the younger one who noticed him first.

  The guard’s head jerked up. His eyes narrowed.

  Kazou lowered his gaze. Just keep walking. Act normal. You’ve done this before.

  “Hey!”

  Kazou didn’t stop—he merely slowed.

  “You there! Stop!”

  Kazou exhaled once through his nose and halted, turning with a controlled neutrality.

  The younger officer stalked toward him, a sneer already forming.

  “You, Kuroda? Ain't ya'?”

  Kazou kept his expression flat.

  “I’m crossing into the Netherlands.”

  “Didn’t ask that,” the younger guard said. “Asked if you’re the freak all over the TV or newspapers.”

  The older guard finally looked over, frowning with recognition and disgust.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s him.”

  Kazou’s pulse thudded—shit—but his face remained unreadable.

  “That is a different man,” Kazou said. “Not me.”

  “Don’t talk,” the younger officer snapped. “Of course, we'd recognize a foreign rat like you.”

  Kazou’s jaw tightened. Only barely.

  The older officer stepped closer.

  “You’ll answer for what you did, dude. You think we don’t watch the news? Cold-blooded, slicing people up—what kind of monster are you?”

  Kazou’s fingers twitched on the strap of his bag.

  Monster.

  The irony stung. Because that was exactly who Kazou was trying to stop...

  He’d been called many things in his life, but that one—this time—wasn’t meant for him. It belonged to someone else. The devil in disguise. Someone walking around, the world unaware.

  Kazou’s mind snapped into focus.

  I need to act. If they radio in my name, I’m done. I won’t make it ten steps.

  Suddenly, a third voice cut in, sharp and bored at the same time.

  “Alright, knock it off. You’re wasting your damn time.”

  Kazou turned.

  A tall, lanky man stood a few meters away, hands in the pockets of a worn red dress shirt. His hair was dirty-light brown, and falling in his eyes. He looked like a man who spent half his life outdoors and the other half reading newspapers he didn’t pay for. Not threatening. Almost innocent.

  But his presence shifted the air. His annoyed charisma. Effortless confidence.

  The guards straightened instinctively.

  “Sir?” the older guard asked, unsure of his authority but somehow intimidated.

  “Unless you plan on letting that smuggler drive straight past you,” the newcomer said, jerking his chin toward a silver sedan creeping toward the wrong lane, “maybe stop harassing pedestrians and do your job.”

  The younger guard blinked. “Smuggler?”

  The older guard cursed under his breath. “Shit—not again.”

  “Go! Go!” the stranger said. “Unless you want to explain to your boss how you let a drug mule cross while you bullied a foreign tourist!”

  That did it.

  The guards exchanged a look, then ran for the sedan.

  The moment they were out of earshot, the lanky stranger grabbed Kazou’s sleeve with surprising strength.

  “Run.”

  Kazou didn’t hesitate.

  They bolted over the guardrail and into the woods, branches whipping their arms, dry leaves crunching beneath their feet. The forest swallowed them whole within seconds. Kazou’s breath came sharp and fast, his pulse still hammering from the near-arrest.

  The stranger’s pace was fast but steady, weaving through undergrowth with ease.

  After minutes of sprinting, they slid down behind a fallen tree, hidden under thick brush. The border patrol’s shouts were faint now, far away. Kazou stared at him, breathing hard, sweat cooling against his temples as the forest settled into a tense quiet once more.

  Kazou inhaled deeply, steadying himself. The stranger watched him, calm as ever.

  “You’re lucky,” he said, voice low, almost friendly. “Those two were seconds away from making your life really difficult.”

  Kazou studied him.

  “Why help me?”

  A faint smile tugged at the man’s mouth.

  “Maybe I don’t like watching people get screwed over by bad luck and worse timing.”

  Kazou narrowed his eyes. “You recognized me.”

  “Of course. Hard not to, with your face plastered everywhere.” The man shrugged. “But you don’t look like a killer.”

  Kazou’s throat tightened. “You don’t know me.”

  “No,” the stranger agreed, “but I know people. And I know fear. You’re running toward something, not away from it. Murderers don’t do that. Fleeing from Wroclaw to the Netherlands is pretty specific after all. A real killer would choose somewhere closer.”

  Kazou looked away, jaw clenched.

  The stranger tilted his head.

  “Besides… everyone deserves one person willing to bet on them.”

  Something warm flickered in his tone, dry, subtle humor, like he wasn’t sure if he believed it himself but liked the idea.

  Kazou exhaled slowly.

  “Who are you?”

  The man extended a hand, palm calloused, grip steady.

  “Zawisza.” A genuine, unforced smile. “Wolfgang Zawisza. Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Kuroda.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  And for the first time all day, Kazou felt something like relief.

  Wolfgang Zawisza.

  The two shook hands.

  Birds rustled somewhere deeper in the woods; a branch snapped far off—probably a deer, or perhaps another patrol unit circling the area. But Zawisza didn’t seem concerned. He simply stood there: tall, lanky, half-smirking, half-serious, looking as though he’d just pulled someone out of a burning building and was now asking if they wanted a cigarette.

  Kazou swallowed.

  “Mr. Zawisza… Why help me?”

  Zawisza didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he crouched, checked the dirt, and brushed aside foliage to reveal any sign of their path. He worked with the efficient calm of someone who had been in trouble far too many times and had somehow survived each encounter without losing his sense of humor.

  “Why help you?” Zawisza finally echoed. “Because I’ve seen a lot of men lie. Murderers, thieves, cowards—you name it.” He stood, brushing dirt off his hands, and then nodded toward Kazou with a faint, oddly warm grin. “You don’t look like any of them.”

  Kazou blinked. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Mm.” Zawisza tilted his head. “True. But I have instincts. Pretty good ones, too. And my instincts say you’re not the real demon they’re hunting."

  Kazou stiffened.

  “You know the news reports.”

  “Everyone knows,” Zawisza replied with a shrug. “Hell, people in the cafés are probably gossiping about you right now between bites of their apple strudel. ‘Oh, that crazy Japanese guy murdered three people, pass the sugar, honey.” He mimicked a thick fake Silesian accent, then grinned at Kazou’s unimpressed stare. “People love a scandal.”

  Kazou ran a hand through his hair.

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Not trying to. Helping would require paperwork and effort. I hate paperwork.” He smiled. “But saving your ass? That I can do.”

  It was bizarre, surreal, and almost ridiculous for Kazou to trust a stranger in this situation. Yet something about Zawisza felt grounded, stable, real. The kind of man who drifted through chaos but kept his goodness like a quiet ember inside him, the sort of man who didn’t belong anywhere and yet fit everywhere.

  Kazou exhaled hard. “So what now?”

  “Now,” Zawisza said, “we move. Before Tweedledee and Tweedledumbass realize there is no illegal car crossing and go back to yelling slurs at pedestrians.”

  He motioned for Kazou to follow him deeper into the woods. Kazou hesitated for one more second, only one, then stepped after him.

  They moved quickly but quietly. Zawisza slipped between trees like he had memorized the forest, like the roots whispered directions only to him. Kazou kept pace, though his heartbeat roared like a drum against his ribs.

  “The Netherlands is over that ridge,” Zawisza murmured after a moment. “Two, maybe three kilometers. You look fit; we’ll make it.” His tone shifted slightly, a glint of sincerity softening his words. “You're not safe here. Trust me.”

  Kazou frowned. “And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You hid me. You interfered with the border patrol. If they realize—”

  “They won’t,” Zawisza cut in, smiling as if the sun itself had cracked through the branches. “I’ve handled worse. I’ll be fine.”

  Kazou stared at him, baffled. “Why are you so… calm?”

  Zawisza shrugged lightly, running a hand through his messy brown hair.

  “Because panic is useless. Anger is exhausting. And helping people? Well…” He glanced back at Kazou with a flicker of warmth—genuine, simple, human. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  Kazou didn’t know what to do with that answer. He almost felt ashamed of the rifle in his bag.

  They continued on, weaving through trees until the sound of distant traffic hinted that the border was close. The sun angled low, turning the forest gold. Kazou’s breath softened; his heartbeat settled. The adrenaline dulled into something steadier—focus, determination.

  The forest around them was eerily quiet, save for the sound of their footsteps pressing through the underbrush. Zawisza walked with a deliberate pace beside him, occasionally glancing sideways at Kazuo as though trying to gauge him in a way that felt almost too perceptive.

  "So," he started, his voice casual, but with an edge of curiosity, "what's in the bag? I can't help but notice the way you're clutching it like it's your lifeline."

  Kazou's hand instinctively shifted, tightening around the strap, but he quickly relaxed it. His mind raced, panic flickering through him.

  What the hell do I say?

  It was a simple question, but in that moment, the bag felt like a symbol of everything he couldn't explain.

  "I-I don't know," Kazou stuttered, the words leaving his lips before he could think. He hated how weak he sounded, how unsure.

  Just lie. Just say it's nothing. But even as the thought flashed through his mind, he realized how futile that would be. There was no hiding the bag now. Not from Zawisza.

  "It's... nothing important," he added.

  Zawisza shot him a sharp look, the same sharpness that had stopped the border patrol in their tracks. He wasn't buying it. Without warning, Zawisza reached out and grabbed the bag, his fingers digging into the fabric without waiting for Kazou's consent.

  Kazou tensed, his stomach dropping, but he didn't pull away. Zawisza yanked the bag a little, lifting it up, then pressed a finger against the side, feeling the heavy shape inside.

  "That's definitely something," Zawisza muttered, his tone shifting to one of amused disbelief. "Why are you carrying this thing around? I mean, this feels like a rifle." His voice was dripping with incredulity, as though he couldn't quite wrap his head around it.

  Kazuo froze, his heart pounding. Zawisza's fingers traced the outline of the rifle inside the bag. Kazuo went still, his mind scrambling for an excuse, a reason, anything that would make sense of it all.

  "I... l..." Kazuo's voice trailed off, his mind a jumbled mess of conflicting thoughts. He couldn't lie anymore. Not about this. Not to Zawisza. He sighed heavily, his breath shaky, feeling the weight of the rifle against his side. It was too heavy to carry emotionally now, as much as physically. "I'm trying to redo my biggest mistake," he muttered, the words feeling foreign in his mouth.

  He could barely even bring himself to speak them aloud.

  Zawisza took his hands off the bag, turning toward Kazou.

  His eyes widened, the casual mask he'd worn earlier slipping for a fraction of a second. For just a moment, there was something in his gaze that hinted at understanding, at recognition-before it disappeared as quickly as it came. It was replaced by a quiet intensity.

  "Redo your mistake?" Zawisza repeated, his voice softer now, "What kind of mistake could make you carry this around, risking your life, your freedom?"

  Kazou swallowed hard, avoiding Zawisza's piercing gaze. His words were thick in his throat, his chest tight with emotion he couldn't quite release. The rifle felt heavier now than it had when he first picked it up.

  "I... I created something... someone..." His voice faltered, the words unspeakably difficult to utter. "I didn't mean to. It was an accident, but I-/ created a demob." He exhaled sharply, his hands shaking at his sides. "And now I need to stop it. Before it's too late."

  Zawisza's face went completely still. For a long moment, he didn't say anything; he stared at Kazuo, his expression unreadable. Kazou felt exposed, as though the walls had come down completely and there was nowhere to hide. His secret, his shame-it was all out there, raw and unsheltered.

  "You created a demon?" Zawisza asked.

  Kazou nodded, his throat closing up. The guilt, the terror, the years of chasing his creation-all of it came rushing back to him, almost overwhelming. He had wanted to forget, but how could he, when Casimir was still out there, a twisted reflection of everything Kazuo had failed to control? His creation was a mirror of his own hubris, a reflection of his sins, and it would never be stopped unless Kazou found him first.

  Zawisza let out a breath, his gaze now a little softer, more sympathetic than before.

  "I don't know what kind of demon you're talking about, but I get it." He took a step closer to Kazou, his eyes narrowing in thought. "No one thinks they're making a demon, do they? Not at first. It always starts with some good intention, some hope. And then... things get out of hand."

  Kazou's chest tightened, the familiar weight of his failure pressing on him again. He didn't answer right away. The silence between them felt as heavy as the rifle at his side.

  "I don't think you get it... I doubt you understand the scale of it. You look like someone who’s never made an awful mistake,” Kazou said, voice low.

  Zawisza rubbed the back of his neck, a slow, weary gesture. Then he pushed a loose strand of brown hair from his face, letting out a dry, almost amused breath.

  “Yeah,” he murmured quietly. “I’ve made an awful mistake before.”

  Kazou stopped walking.

  The forest seemed to hold its breath, the wind no longer rustling the leaves, as though nature itself leaned in to listen. Kazou’s stomach tightened, dread rising like cold water in his chest.

  He shouldn’t have said what he said earlier.

  Zawisza stood with one shoulder against a birch tree, the gold of the setting sun cutting across half his face. His expression was soft, strangely soft.

  He reached up, patting the pocket of his shirt.

  A small, quiet smile spread across his lips, warm, bittersweet, worn thin at the edges like a photograph handled too many times.

  “You wanna know the worst mistake I ever made?” Zawisza asked, eyes narrowing slightly with that bitter-sweetness.

  Kazou didn’t answer. He stood frozen.

  Zawisza inhaled once… then looked up at him with the same gentle smile.

  “I let my wife and child die.”

  The world stopped.

  Kazou’s mouth opened.

  Nothing came out.

  His vision tunneled for a moment, his pulse hammering painfully in his skull. It felt like the ground tilted. His face drained of every drop of color. He couldn’t even hear the wind anymore.

  He could only hear Zawisza’s voice echoing:

  I let my wife and child die.

  Kazou stared at him, horrified.

  “You… wh—” His words broke apart. “H-how?”

  Zawisza chuckled.

  "No, I didn't kill them..."

  Actually chuckled.

  "Uh-" Kazou stammered.

  “Why the face?” he asked lightly, tapping Kazou’s shoulder with a casual finger. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or two.”

  Kazou blinked rapidly, breath stuttering.

  “B-but—how can you—how can you say it like that? How can you just—just—” He gestured helplessly. “They were your family.”

  Zawisza let out a slow breath through his nose, his smile softening, not happy, not sad, not quite resigned… something gentler.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I regret it every day of my life. Believe me.” His eyes flickered downward, at the forest floor, then lifted again with a faint upturn of the lips. “But you can’t change the past. It’s a locked door. Staring at it won’t make it open.”

  Kazou swallowed, feeling something twist painfully in his chest.

  Zawisza stepped past him, patting his arm once more.

  “You have to keep moving forward,” he said. “Or your past will eat you alive.”

  Kazou stood for a moment, rooted to the earth.

  He’d expected Zawisza to be simple, carefree, untouched by the brutalities of life.

  But now…

  Now he saw the truth: Zawisza’s warmth wasn’t na?veté.

  Kazou followed him again, quietly, their footsteps soft against the forest floor. They didn’t speak for a while.

  The trees began to thin.

  The air shifted.

  Eventually, they stepped out into a wide clearing.

  The sun hung low, huge, molten, sinking behind the distant ridgeline. The whole sky burned orange and pink, streaked with lavender clouds. The tall grass shimmered with the fading light, bending gently in the breeze like an ocean of copper waves.

  Kazou stopped walking.

  Zawisza stood beside him, hands in his pockets.

  A faint smile tugged at his lips.

  “Pretty sunset,” he said quietly.

  Kazou nodded.

  But he wasn’t looking at the sky.

  He was looking at Wolfgang Zawisza.

  At a man who had lost everything and yet somehow still carried a strange, stubborn kindness. A man who had every reason to hate the world but chose—every morning—to meet it with a tired smile.

  Zawisza took a deep breath of the cooling evening air.

  “Come on,” he murmured. “Let's take a break.”

  Kazou nodded again, but slower this time.

  And for the first time since Wroc?aw…

  He didn’t feel completely alone.