Veil of the Devil’s Hour

Ava stepped forward, her voice cold and razor-sharp.

"Come on, Blade. I told you not to use that damn paper. It's literally called forbidden for a reason, you reckless dumbass."

Blade smirked and gave a shrug.

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"

Ava rolled her eyes, then got serious again.

"Whatever. Just tell me—any clue why that Cleaner made a deal with them?"

Blade winced, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Not much. But the Parasite Devil said something weird… He said that body was given to him—by his roommate."

Ava blinked. "Roommate?"

"Yeah," Blade nodded slowly. "Not partner. Not teammate. Roommate."

Ava looked off to the side, processing.

"So devils are living in human bodies like it's normal now."

Blade muttered casually, "You think the Veil's behind it?"

Her eyes snapped to him like knives. "Don't say that name out loud."

She turned away, thinking. "...We'll need to dig deeper."

Then she faced him again, voice steady. "For now, you're heading back to Vailhom."

Then—snap—a sharp bootstep echoed down the hallway.

A smooth, drawling voice followed.

"My boy Blade. We didn't get to chat properly back there. Too many serious faces in the room. Now we can talk casual."

Blade rolled his eyes. "Get your damn hand off me, Jack."

Jack the Ripper stepped from the mist—tall, sharp, and wrapped in a blood-red suit that clung like velvet. His slicked-back black hair shimmered under the dim light, and a thin mustache sat above a grin too wide to be friendly.

His eyes, faintly tinted amber like rusted gold, weren't glowing—just unsettling.

He looked like someone pulled from an old noble painting… if that noble ate monsters for a living.

Jack smiled wider. "Can't you show some heart? We were partners once, remember? That mission—"

Blade cut him off, voice cold. "And I told you to stop calling me that."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What, Paragon of Death? It's your myth-name, isn't it?"

Blade's jaw twitched. He didn't respond.

Jack laughed softly. "Oops. My bad. Slipped out."

He leaned in closer, eyes dropping to Blade's hand. "Anyway… can I get a bite of one of those fingers?"

Blade stepped back instantly. "What? No. Freak."

Ava stared at them like they were sewer rats fighting over scraps.

"Enough, you two. Grown men acting like brats."

Jack gave a dramatic little bow. "Whatever you say, my lady."

Ava folded her arms. "Your mission's done. Head back to Vailhom. Wait for orders."

Jack tilted his head. "And when are you coming back, Ava?"

"After I finish the damn paperwork."

Jack groaned and looked at Blade.

"Aw, come on. Don't go yet, Blade. We didn't even get to talk about our cool stories. It's been what—nine years since that day?"

Blade didn't respond. He just grabbed his coffin and slung it over his back.

"Don't talk about that."

He turned, heading toward the infirmary.

"See you two around."

Later — Infirmary

Blade stepped in. Miles and John were already getting patched up. Awkward silence hung in the air.

Blade broke it first.

"So… did you report to your captain?"

John answered without looking up.

"Nah. He said he doesn't have time for baggage right now."

Blade flinched. The same captain who tried to bite his fingers… now ghosting his own men.

He didn't know if that was worse—or just expected.

A medic jabbed a needle into his ribs. Blade hissed under his breath, then stood and headed for the door.

"Well, see you.

And boys—forget that nickname."

The two looked at him. Not with anger. Just disappointment.

So that's what the famous Paragon of Death really was?

Blade didn't care.

That night was finally over.

And now, he could return to Vailhom.

[Vailhom]

An island-nation hidden in the North Atlantic, somewhere between Iceland and Greenland.

Closed to tourists. Closed to the world.

Known for harsh weather, blackstone cities, and rumors of supernatural tech and sealed devils.

The kind of place that raises legends—or buries them.