Veil of the Devil’s Hour

Whatever Blade did last night, it's still unknown.

Now, in the cold morning light, he opened his eyes.

The morning came like fog on glass — soft,

cold, refusing to leave.

Blade stirred from the couch, boots still on. The silence of his cabin crept around the walls. Not peaceful… just quiet.

He reached for his phone.

3 Missed Calls

1 Message – [Mission Report Requested]

He stared. Then tossed it onto the table. No alarms went off. That told him enough.

---

He stood and passed by the bathroom mirror. A glance. Then a pause.

Lifting his shirt, he eyed the deep wound that had split across his gut just two nights ago.

Now? Barely a scar. The skin was already knitting together.

Faint, raw, but healing too damn fast.

He didn't smile. Just stared at it.

"Didn't think those two boys would look that disappointed…"

His voice was quiet. Almost like it wasn't meant to be heard.

---

He suited up — jacket, gloves, hat shadowing his face again. His body moved like it had done it a hundred times. Maybe a thousand.

Then the garage door creaked open.

The black motorcycle gleamed, waiting for him. '90s frame. Long handles. A deep growl ready to wake the dead.

The second the engine roared to life, he felt the wind rush his face.

His hair whipped with it — long, messy strands of brown tangled with streaks of white. Not dyed. Not age. Just something time left behind.

---

The city passed in gray streaks — roads, buildings, motionless people, all chasing something.

He wasn't.

---

The Restaurant.

Tucked between a gear shop and a dried flower stall. Fog on the windows. A bell that didn't ring.

He walked in and sat in the corner. Didn't take off the coat.

The waiter knew him. No questions.

A hot plate landed in front of him — grilled meat, some rice, a bowl of miso.

He stared at it.

Steam rose. Time slowed.

He picked at the food without eating much. Half his mind still somewhere between the train, the wound, and the line:

"You don't need blood to fight blood."

The kind of quote that ages worse the more people remember it.

---

Eventually, he stood up, paid, and walked out without a word.

---

Back on the road.

He turned into a small side street — one of those access roads near the black walls of the outer zone.

Up ahead: yellow tape.

Steam vents.

A gate.

A closed devil site.

Oh… this is the one they called yesterday.

Outside the building, a cleanup unit worked silently — masks, blue suits, hoses. Bloody handprints on the sealed doors. The scent of sulfur still hung in the air.

Blade slowed.

His eyes flicked to the redhead — the same boy from the train.

Still tired. Still working.

"Huh."

That was all he said.

No wave. No greeting.

Just a glance — and the engine growled again.

---

A buzz.

[New Message] – Report to Vailhom City Gov Bldg. Rm 12. Meeting @ 3:00 PM.

He didn't react much. Just switched lanes and kept riding.

---

The motorcycle rumbled past the devil site, engine low and smooth like a beast that didn't need to roar.

The redhead didn't look up.

He felt it, though — the weight, the wind, the silence that came with someone who didn't need to speak.

"Tch… must be nice."

Just a mutter through his mask. Not jealous. Just tired.

Some folks ride off.

Others stay behind to mop up hell.

He crouched again, boots sinking into wet pavement, the smell of sulfur still fresh. Devil blood mixed with ash — thick, heavy, clinging to his gloves.

Around him, the cleanup crew worked like ghosts.

No chatter.

No music.

No breaks.

Just the hiss of chemicals and the scrape of brushes against blood-stained tile.

Metal cases clamped shut over mangled remains.

Red kept scrubbing.

Didn't matter that his back screamed.

Didn't matter that the air reeked of sulfur and rot.

He was a rookie.

Rookies don't get to be tired.

Not in Vailhom.

---

A shadow passed over him.

He looked up — the guy from the train.

Supervisor. Bald. Glasses. Same smug face.

"How's it feel, rookie?" the man asked, voice dry. "First day in Vailhom. Working with the real ones."

Red didn't blink.

Didn't smile.

Still scrubbing.

"Nothing special," he muttered. "I clean. I get paid. I go home.

And hey — call me Red, baldy."

The man blinked. Stiffened.

He straightened his glasses with a sharp tug.

"I won't call you that, rookie. Know your damn place.

I'm your supervisor.

You?

You're just a stray rat with no Vailhom blood."

Red clenched his jaw.

That one hit different.

Too loud.

Too public.

Now everyone nearby had stopped moving — barely hiding their stares.

"Great," Red muttered under his breath.

"Bald bastard just turned my first shift into a circus.

I just wanna work, get paid, and go the hell home. Only good part of this job's the paycheck…"

---

Then… everything changed.

Not with a bang.

Not with yelling.

Silence.

Heavy. Sudden. Like the air got sucked out of the zone.

Red didn't see it at first — he felt it.

Eyes drifted. Tools lowered. Heads turned.

A figure moved through the mist — tall, sharp, walking like judgment.

Gray hair.

Black suit.

Unblinking.

He wasn't dressed to clean.

But the crew froze all the same.

Even the vents seemed to hiss quieter.

Whispers ticked through the mist:

"Wait…"

"...Is that…?"

"Michael…"

"The Custodian…"

---

Red's fingers froze around the brush.

The co-motion faded. The weight shifted. Glares left him.

He slowly turned, confused.

Then he saw him.

Michael.

Tall as sin. 6'8", maybe more.

Limbs like long steel rods.

Black tailored suit that looked stitched from shadows.

Gray hair, slicked back, perfectly cut.

But those eyes…

Pitch black.

No whites. No irises. Just void.

He didn't walk. He moved — like a silent verdict.

Every step he took melted the noise around him.

Crew members stood straight without knowing why.

Some bowed without orders. Others just stopped breathing.

And he didn't look at them.

He only looked forward.

---

Michael approached slowly — not toward Red.

Toward the bald supervisor.

The man was still ranting, oblivious to the shift in air…

Until the shadow touched him.

Then he froze.

His mouth still open, breath caught.

The other cleaners backed off. Way off.

Michael stopped inches from him.

Didn't blink. Didn't raise his voice.

He bent down slightly — a man that tall had to lower himself just to make the rest of the world feel seen.

And even bent, his presence towered.

He looked past the supervisor.

Right into Red's eyes.

"What's this noise about, Mister…?"

The supervisor jolted.

"N-nothing, Custodian, sir— I was just reminding the rookie to respect the chain of command—"

Michael's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Because he's not from Vailhom?"

No smile. No rage.

Just cold pressure.

"Funny. I'm not full Vailhom either.

Half.

You think that makes me less?"

The bald man shrank three inches without moving.

"N-no sir— I didn't mean that— He just called me 'baldy,' that's all— I—"

Michael tilted his head.

"It is rude."

A beat.

"But… you are bald."

Then — a smile. Not warm. Not cruel. Just… efficient.

"Mister Baldy. That's your new code name. I approve it."

The supervisor swallowed glass.

"...It'll be my honor, sir."

Michael said nothing to him after that.

Just turned to Red.

"Relax, kid. I'm not here to eat you.

You've got fire. I like that."

A pause.

"Name?"

Red blinked.

"...Red."

Michael grinned faintly.

"Of course it is."

He turned to the others.

"Back to work.

And you — Red — I'll be seeing you again.

Be ready."

---

Just like that, the weight lifted.

Mr. Baldy slunk off like a whipped mutt.

The crew exhaled.

Work resumed.

Red crouched again.

"What the hell is this place…"

He dipped the brush into a new mix of chemicals.

"First devil fight.

First shift.

Almost got turned to paste by my own boss."

He scrubbed harder, sulfur biting the air.

"And nobody told me we had volcanoes??"

He chuckled to himself under his mask.

"Yeah…

Everyone here's crazy.

But I think I like it."