Chapter 4: A change of pace.

The café's air hung thick with the aroma of roasted beans and steamed milk, a comforting blanket of warmth against the chill creeping through the glass doors. Evan sat hunched over his usual table in the corner, fingers tracing absent circles around the rim of his half-empty coffee cup. The ceramic was chipped at the edge - a small imperfection he'd come to recognize over countless mornings in this same spot.

"You look terrible."

The voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. Diane stood before him, one hand pushing a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear while the other rested on her hip. The silver rings she always wore caught the morning light as she moved, scattering tiny reflections across the table's scratched surface.

Evan blinked up at her, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. He pushed them back up with one finger, the motion automatic after years of repetition. "Ahaha, nothing gets past you right, Diane?" His laugh sounded hollow even to his own ears, the forced cheerfulness cracking at the edges. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the familiar tension coiled there. "Oh, sit."

"Don't mind if I do." Diane dropped into the chair opposite him with the easy confidence of someone who owned every room she entered. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying him with the same critical eye she reserved for poorly edited manuscripts. "So what's up with you, crocodile?"

The question hung between them, heavier than it should have been. Evan felt his fingers tighten around his cup. "Ah, well you know... stress, lack of sleep—" The words tasted stale in his mouth, a well-worn excuse he'd used too many times before.

Diane's hand shot up, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Okay—first of all," she began, ticking points off on her fingers, "you're a librarian. All you do is scan books and shush teenagers." Her perfectly manicured nail tapped against the table with each word. "Secondly—" another tap, "you work a basic nine-to-seven. So what's really up?"

Evan's smile turned sheepish, the expression pulling uncomfortably at his face. "Ahaha—well you really are sharp." He grasped for the nearest diversion, the same way he might reach for a familiar book on a high shelf. "Oh, but how's that novel of yours coming along?"

Diane's gaze hardened into something between exasperation and reluctant amusement. For a moment, Evan could see the calculations running behind her dark eyes - whether to press the issue or let it drop. With a sigh that seemed to deflate her slightly, she chose the latter. "In a stump right now," she admitted, tapping her nails against the table in a restless rhythm. "Why do you think I start talking to people?" Her eyes flicked back to his face, the concern returning like a tide. "Anyways, you look stressed as hell. Why not visit that art museum again? The one in Mordain District?"

Evan opened his mouth, the automatic refusal already forming on his lips, but Diane steamrolled ahead, her voice taking on that particular tone she used when she'd already decided how a conversation would go. "Close the library for one day. If not, just give the key to one of the staff and take it back before closing." She leaned forward, her perfume - something floral and expensive - briefly overpowering the coffee scent between them. "There's a new exhibition—some historians found the last remaining statue fragments of Lusol's founder."

Evan felt his fingers still against the warm ceramic. The protest died in his throat, replaced by a flicker of something he couldn't quite name. "Oh? I guess I could..."

"Good." Diane stood abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping against the tile floor. The satisfied smirk on her face suggested she'd known exactly how this would play out. "At least you're looking forward to something else for a change rather than just the moment you clock out." She flashed him a quick grin, already turning away. "I'm going now. See ya." With a careless wave, she was gone, her figure weaving effortlessly through the morning crowd until she disappeared out the café door.

The museum's grand façade loomed before him, its marble steps worn smooth by generations of visitors. Evan stood at the base, staring up at the banner that flapped gently in the afternoon breeze: 'Messenger Exhibition - Lost Fragments of History Reclaimed'. The words seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, though he couldn't say why.

The ticket booth's glass partition was cool against his fingertips as he paid. The attendant's bored expression didn't change as she handed him a folded map and waved him through. Inside, the air was several degrees cooler, carrying the faint scent of polish and something older, more elusive - the smell of time itself, perhaps.

Evan unfolded the map with careful fingers, the paper crisp and slightly waxy beneath his touch. His eyes traced the path to the exhibition hall, following the dotted line past Renaissance paintings and pre-war artifacts. The museum was quieter than he expected, the occasional murmur of conversation or squeak of shoes on polished floors only emphasizing the silence between them.

When he finally reached the exhibition hall, the crowd parted just enough to reveal the centerpiece - the reconstructed statue standing proud under carefully arranged lights. Two figures, a man and a woman, their forms pieced together from countless fragments. The missing pieces had been filled with gold, the kintsugi effect making the cracks glitter like veins of precious metal under the gallery lights.

The man's features were sharp - high cheekbones, a strong jaw, eyes carved with a warrior's intensity. Beside him stood a woman of softer beauty, her curly hair cascading over armored shoulders in delicate waves. Evan found himself drawn to her face, to the particular curve of her lips that seemed on the verge of speaking even in stone.

He bent to read the plaque at the base, his shadow falling across the engraved words:

"The messenger who sent a message to the demon who ravaged the world and birthed it anew with his confidant, the lady who stood by the light and helped against the fruits of evil of the devil and the fair lady."

—Messenger Who Repelled The Demons

The words settled heavily in his chest. He was still staring at the woman's face, trying to place why it seemed so familiar, when a voice spoke beside him.

"She looks quite similar to the Fair Lady."

Evan turned, startled, to find the red-haired man from that morning standing closer than expected. Up close, he could see the faint freckles scattered across the man's nose, the way his long lashes caught the light when he blinked.

"Excuse me?" Evan's voice came out softer than intended.

The man - Karun - seemed to snap out of his own thoughts. "Oh, I wasn't talking to you." He shifted slightly, the movement awkward. "It's a habit. A bad one."

Evan laughed awkwardly, the sound too loud in the quiet gallery. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the familiar prickle of embarrassment. "Oh, no worries. I don't mind at all."

Karun's gaze sharpened as he took Evan in, those unusual pink eyes scanning him from head to toe in a way that should have felt intrusive but somehow didn't. "Now that I get a good look at you—you're that guy who frequents Old Lavender. Work at that library, right?" When Evan nodded, he continued, "What brings you here? If I may ask."

The question was polite enough, but something in Karun's tone suggested genuine curiosity rather than empty small talk. Evan found himself answering more honestly than he'd planned. "Just taking a day off." He gestured vaguely toward the statue. "It's kinda selfish, closing the library just because I wanted to see a statue—"

"I don't care." Karun's blunt interruption made Evan's mouth snap shut. The man seemed to realize how his words sounded and amended, "I mean—everyone should have the right to be selfish sometimes." His delivery was so deadpan it took Evan a moment to realize it wasn't meant to be harsh.

The laugh that burst from Evan's chest was genuine, startling several nearby patrons who turned to glare. "Ahaha—well, we've only met twice, but you really remind me of my sister. Sounds rude but means well."

Karun's lips quivered in what might have been a smile. "Glad I don't seem like a complete asshole to you."

"So," Evan ventured, "are you here for the exhibition too?"

"Yeah." Karun's gaze drifted back to the statue, his expression unreadable. "Research for a book I'm writing. I heard rumors this exhibition had some epic romance between the founders." He tilted his head, studying the figures critically. "But looking at it... feels pretty empty." His blunt assessment drew scandalized looks from nearby visitors, who quickly shuffled away as if afraid his cynicism might be contagious.

Evan blinked. "Oh, so you're not a lawyer?"

"Can't a man have hobbies?" Karun deadpanned. The ensuing silence stretched until he added flatly, "That was another joke."

"Oh!" Evan's delayed realization made Karun's mouth twitch again.

The red-haired man brushed a long strand of hair from his face - a habitual gesture, Evan noted - before turning those unsettling pink irises on him. "What about you? You don't strike me as someone who loves their job either."

Evan hesitated. The question was too close to the thoughts he'd been avoiding all morning. "Oh, uh... I like painting."

Karun snorted, the sound undignified but honest. "Seems we're both working jobs we don't like." He studied Evan's face with unsettling focus. "Like my friend said to me once—you look terrible."

"Pft—oh, sorry!" Evan covered his mouth, cheeks flushing at his own outburst. The laughter felt foreign but welcome, like stretching a muscle he hadn't used in years.

Karun's smirk was fleeting but genuine. "Hah. At least that got a laugh out of you." He fished in his pocket, producing a slightly crumpled business card. "That same friend told me to try a change of pace. That's how I got into writing." He pressed the card into Evan's hand, his fingers surprisingly warm against Evan's palm. "Might work for you too. Who knows—you might look better than 'terrible.'"

Evan accepted it, turning the card over to read the embossed lettering: Karun Williams, Attorney at Law. "Evan Luelle," he offered with a small smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." With a final nod, Karun turned and disappeared into the gallery's shadows, his red hair the last thing to vanish around a corner.

Time had slipped through his fingers like sand. Evan found himself in the storage room of Black Lotus, the musty air thick with the scent of aged paper and the faint metallic tang of old paint tubes. The single overhead bulb flickered intermittently, casting long shadows that danced across the boxes stacked against the walls.

On his phone screen, a recorded lecture played at low volume. The historian's voice was dry and measured as he discussed the famous mural *The Fruits of Evil*. Evan had heard variations of this lecture countless times before, each one twisting the same basic facts into slightly different shapes.

"...as you may know, the story goes..." The tour guide's voice grated against his nerves, the cadence too polished, too sure of itself. Evan paused the video, freezing on an image of the full mural—the Fair Lady and the Devil rendered in vivid pigments that had somehow survived centuries. His fingers clenched around the phone until the plastic casing creaked in protest. How many versions of this story existed? How many lies had been layered over the truth until the original was unrecognizable? The myths about his kind—vampires as night-prowling monsters, repelled by garlic, absent from mirrors—none of it was true. He bled red like any human, walked in sunlight without burning, saw his reflection clear as day in every mirror he passed. Was it such a crime to believe his life held the same value as theirs? Like them, he live a simple-

The thought coiled bitter in his throat. These two figures—this so-called Devil and Fair Lady—were the reason his kind survived. The reason he existed. And yet...

"A change of pace." Karun's words echoed in the quiet, pulling him back to the present. Evan's gaze drifted to a long-forgotten box in the corner, its lid coated in a thick layer of dust that shimmered in the flickering light. He crossed the room in three strides, his fingers leaving trails in the dust as he threw it open.

Inside lay the remnants of another life—unused sketchbooks with their spines still crisp, tubes of paint hardened and cracked with age, brushes whose bristles had stiffened into unnatural angles. A lifetime ago, these tools had been extensions of his hands, as natural to him as breathing.

"I guess I should replace these," he murmured to the empty room, something uncoiling in his chest as he lifted a sketchbook and flipped through its blank pages. For the first time in years, the urge to create stirred beneath his skin, faint but undeniable.

A sharp knock shattered the moment. His assistant's voice through the door was muffled but urgent: "We've caught one of the Salvation Hunters that's been sniping at us."

Evan closed the box with deliberate care, the lid settling back into place with a soft thud that sent up a small cloud of dust. When he spoke, slipping his mask on, his voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "I'll be there.”

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