"Just wait Mark… "
"Come on Ilse. I need to lock up the place. Heck, I should have done that two hours ago."
She let out a frustrated sigh, staring down the towering stack of papers as if sheer willpower could make them disappear. Ink smudged her fingertips, tracing messy patterns like battle scars from hours of writing.
"Just - the library is the only place I can get any work done! I can't--"
"Your house –"
Her lips trembled as she tried to force the words out, but they caught in her throat like a trapped breath. "I-I… I s-s…" She squeezed her eyes shut, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
"Ah." Mark said. "You could always move out. Rent a better place."
"On what? The salary of a police desk-pusher isn't going to cover the cost of getting and renovating a new place."
She clicked her pen. Clicked it, again and again. Her lower lip folded underneath her teeth.
"It's been three years -"
"No."
Mark let the issue drop. She watched the Janitor sigh, grumble, and then yawn. "I'm heading home Ilse." He tossed the keys to her. "Once you're done with whatever it is you're writing, lock the place up."
"Okay…."
"Good night Ilse."
She heard him go; the door slamming shut behind him. Silence pressed in, heavy and unnatural. She should have welcomed the silence, but every shadow seemed to stir, every creak set her on edge. At the faintest sound, she was on her feet, pulse hammering. Minutes passed in that uneasy until she forced a breath, steadied herself, and turned back to her work.
------------------------------------------------------------
… and so, in this manner, Paradis has only just begun to rebound from the debilitating losses incurred from the tragedy of the "Operation to Retake Wall Maria", which occurred nine years earlier. This was the government-organized mission where they sent 250,000 civilians to their deaths under the pretense of retaking Wall Maria. In reality, it was a way to reduce overpopulation inside Wall Rose after the fall of Shiganshina.
The greatest loss after Wall Maria's fall wasn't just the land—it was the people. In a desperate bid to reclaim it, the government sent them beyond the walls, unarmed and unprepared. They called it the Operation to Retake Wall Maria, but there was no real fight, only slaughter. The few hundreds who returned carried hollow eyes and silence, knowing the truth: this wasn't a battle, it was a sacrifice. The government called it necessary. The people called it murder.
The people did not forget. And they would never forgive.
While nobles feasted, widows begged. While merchants thrived, orphans starved. The government called it survival. The people called it betrayal.
Resentment grew in whisper-
Ilse stopped writing. She inhaled, deeply. She turned her attention to the clock, noting the time.
Maybe it was to go home
She wondered if it was a good thing that her Mom died three years before the massacre. No - no it was not. Titan would have merely killed her without hesitation, not drag her out in front of a town and –
She slapped her cheeks lightly. Forget it. It's in the past. Yes, it was in the past. It was why she could not, would not, ever return to active duty.
There was a loud bang and Ilse leapt from her chair. Already shaking.
"Who's there?"
No one responded. She hopped it was a stray cat or Mark forgetting something.
Then, a shift in the darkness. A presence.
He stepped from the shadows, slow and deliberate. The dim light caught the edges of his form, stretching his shadow long across the floor.
She froze, breath hitching.
That blue mask—grinning, hollow-eyed—stared back, cold and unfeeling.
A demon, a monster, or something worse.
She had heard the stories. Everyone had.
The Blue Spirit. A name spoken in hushed voices, feared even by the most hardened criminals. The leader of Prometheus, the gang that rose to power a couple of years ago, carving its place in the underworld through blood and fire. They said he moved like a ghost, striking without warning, leaving only ruin in his wake. Some claimed he was a man, others that he was something more—a phantom born from the city's darkness, a myth made flesh, relentless and merciless.
But no rumor, no whispered tale, no drunken bar story had prepared her for this.
For the suffocating presence of him.
His dark robes shifted like liquid night, his movements soundless.
Then the figure stood in front of her, eerily unmoving.
She swallowed the saliva in her throat and did her best to appear unfazed.
But she simply couldn't move.
She was terrified.
She tried to speak, but the words tangled on her tongue. "W-Who… w-what do y-you…?" Her breath hitched, heart hammering in her chest. The blue mask stared back, unblinking, unfeeling. She swallowed hard, forcing the words out, but they came in a whisper, fragile and broken. "Wh-what do you want…?"
A low, gravelly voice cut through the silence, rough as stone, sharp as a blade.
"Tell me everything… about what Nobleman Deltoff did to your family."
She registered the words, and the color drained from her face, leaving her as pale as a ghost. Her breath shuddered, her body stiffening as if the very mention of that name had stolen the air from her lungs
"Oh…"
-----------
Power wasn't just strength—it was control. And control didn't come from brute force alone. It came from knowledge, from leverage, from knowing exactly where to strike. The corrupt ruled through secrets, through whispers in dark halls and deals made behind locked doors. If he wanted to rise, if he wanted to bring them down, he had to know everything.
The average man worked a few hours a day, just enough to stay useful. The ambitious pushed harder, grinding away at their skills. But even they had limits— hesitation, conscience, morals. He had none.
So he worked. He listened. He followed. He dug through records, intercepted messages, planted himself in places no one expected. He studied movements, patterns, weaknesses. He mapped their sins, traced the threads of deception until he saw the whole rotten web.
Others gathered blackmail as a tool, a safeguard. He gathered it as a weapon. Not to protect himself, but to pull their strings, to make them dance, to drag them down when the time was right.
He wasn't waiting for justice. He was building his Empire.
------------------
She trembled, hands clutching at his cloak, her voice a broken whisper. "P-please… I told you everything… I swear. Just—just don't kill me."
Tears streaked her face, eyes wide with terror, searching the hollow white gaze of that blue mask for mercy.
There was nothing. No anger, no hesitation—just silence.
She flinched as he crouched beside her, the weight of his presence suffocating. Slowly, deliberately, he reached forward and brushed a gloved hand against her cheek, his fingers cold as death.
Her breath hitched. "I—I did what you wanted! You said—" She choked on her words, her grip slipping as she fell to her knees. "Please…"
He didn't speak.
Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook. Flicked it open. The faint scratch of pen against paper was the only sound in the suffocating silence.
Each stroke deliberate.
Subject: Female, early twenties. Malnourished. Sunken cheeks, red-rimmed eyes—prolonged distress.
Demeanor: Trembling. Kneeling, shoulders hunched—submissive but desperate. Watches for movement, clings to hope.
Conclusion: Broken. Afraid. Willing to talk.
She shuddered, her fingers curling into fists. He was writing about her. Studying her like she was nothing more than an experiment.
"I—" her voice cracked, throat raw. "I told you everything."
He turned a page. Slowly.
"You missed something," he murmured. The voice—low, gravelly, inhuman beneath the mask—was worse than a threat. It was a statement of fact.
"I—I didn't," she whimpered.
He reached out, took her wrist—gently at first. Then, a sudden squeeze. Just enough pressure to send a bolt of panic through her chest.
"You think Deltoff won't come for you even if you don't talk?" His grip tightened. Not enough to break anything. Just enough to remind her that he could. "You think I won't?"
She sobbed, shoulders shaking violently.
"My mother—" The words barely escaped her lips.
The gloved hand shifted, now gripping her chin, forcing her to look up at him. The blue mask filled her vision, hollow eyes swallowing her whole.
"She thought she could save you," he murmured. The cold detachment in his voice made her stomach churn. "She thought playing the Nobleman's pet would spare you. Just like you thought keeping quiet would save you."
He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper.
"It didn't."
A strangled cry tore from her throat. She tried to turn away, but he held her still.
The weight of him. The inescapability of him.
She had nothing left. No fight, no will. Just the truth.
And so, she broke.
Before her child's eyes, Deltoff's men defiled her mother. One villager, enraged, tried to stop them and was slaughtered. The rest stood frozen, too afraid to act, watching as she suffered, as blood soaked the ground, as the village burned despite her sacrifice.
The Blue Spirit's pen scratched against the paper. His voice was low, gravelly.
"Sacrifice means nothing to men like him."
Control is moderate—enough for small players, not the real ones. Bureaucrats are easily bribed but disposable. Some military officers crack under pressure, others need a cause. The nobles guard their secrets well, but every fortress has weak points.
The next steps are clear: infiltrate the judiciary through bribable clerks, uncover hidden deals in merchant records, and exploit growing dissent within the military.
He shut the notebook, tucking it away as he turned. His steps were slow, deliberate.
Then, like a shadow, he was gone.