Kazou barely had time to fold the note before a shadow fell across the room. The door creaked open slowly, and the man who had taken them in, Wojciech, stepped inside. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes narrowed sharply as they settled on Kazou.

  Kazou’s breath caught. The unease he’d been trying to push aside surged up again. He instinctively straightened, trying to look calm but failing. He set the letter down on the bedside table, unable to meet the man’s piercing gaze.

  The man’s voice was low, calm but edged with something like suspicion.

  “She told me everything before she left,” he said, his eyes flicking to the note on the table. “Said you weren’t the killer. Said you didn’t hurt anyone.”

  Kazou’s eyes narrowed in return, his posture stiffening. “Then you know the truth,” he said quietly. “The man responsible is still out there.”

  The man nodded slowly, folding his arms. “The real killer is still loose, yes. And you saw him with your own eyes.”

  Kazou’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Casimir.”

  The name hung in the room for a few seconds.

  The man’s face tightened, as if the name itself was poison. He took a step closer, his tone dropping lower.

  “You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

  “I have to stop him. No one else will.” Kazou’s voice was steady but burning with a quiet fury.

  The man stared at him for a long moment. Then, with a slow nod, he spoke again. “You’re not the only one who wants that.”

  Kazou’s gaze sharpened. “Then help me.”

  The man’s eyes flicked toward the window, then back at Kazou. “You’re still weak. And you’re alone. Casimir is more dangerous than you imagine.”

  Kazou swallowed. “I’m not afraid.”

  The man smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. You’ll need that.”

  ***

  The sun hung low over the eastern tree line, casting long amber rays across the tall grass and broken earth of Wojciech’s property. Birds chirped faintly, but the air was cool, quiet, and sharp. It was the kind of morning that felt like it was waiting for something to happen.

  Kazou stepped outside, still slightly stiff from having slept upright in the armchair, but awake now, alert. The events of the previous days felt like they had stitched themselves into his body. Natalie was gone. And Casimir was still out there. That fact thrummed in his skull.

  Wojciech stood on the porch, arms crossed, smoking a thin, hand-rolled cigarette. Marek, the boy, was crouched by the garden, pulling at weeds with the curious dedication of a child who’d never had to worry about anything more than dirt under his nails.

  When Wojciech turned to Kazou, his expression was cool but not unkind. “Come,” he said simply, nodding to the trail that cut through the property. “Let’s walk.”

  Kazou followed, hands in the pockets of his borrowed hoodie.

  Marek trailed behind them, skipping and spinning a stick in his hands. “Are you going to show him the river again, papa?” he asked, voice light.

  “No,” Wojciech replied without looking back. “I’m going to show him the real land.”

  They moved through a path carved loosely through overgrown brush and stone. As they walked, Wojciech began to speak, his tone low and measured.

  “You want to kill this man, Casimir. That’s not a thing said lightly.”

  Kazou kept his eyes ahead. “He’s not a man. He’s something else.”

  Wojciech didn’t answer right away.

  They passed by rows of crop beds, then a fenced-off area where some goats idly chewed at hay. Marek waved at them and hummed softly to himself, happy in a way that made Kazou feel something painful twist inside him, envy, maybe, or loss.

  Wojciech glanced over. “Natalie said you were a scientist once.”

  “I was,” Kazou replied.

  “You believe in demons, Dr. Kuroda?”

  Kazou’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I believe in Casimir.”

  They walked in silence for a while longer, the grass crunching beneath their boots. Eventually, they came upon a wide clearing — barren earth and stumps of chopped wood, flanked by targets made of old wood and rusted sheet metal. Bullet holes. Scorch marks.

  A hunting or training ground.

  Kazou stopped, eyes locked on the largest of the targets. Something about it rooted him in place. Not the violence, but the discipline of it. The repetition. The control.

  Wojciech noticed.

  He stepped closer and tilted his head. “Would you like to see something?” he asked.

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  Kazou blinked. Slowly, he nodded.

  Wojciech turned to Marek. “Stay out here, little one. Don’t touch the gate.”

  “Okay!” Marek said, cheerfully kicking at a rock with his boot.

  Wojciech led Kazou through the creaky iron gate into the hunting grounds. In the far corner was a small, weathered shed with a slanted roof and a heavy padlock on the front.

  Wojciech unlocked it with a key around his neck.

  Inside, shelves lined with cloth, bullets in boxes, and a single pistol lying neatly on a wooden bench beside a flask of oil and an old rag.

  He picked up the pistol and offered it to Kazou.

  Kazou stared at it for a moment. Then reached out and took it with both hands, slowly, reverently. It was heavier than he expected. Cold.

  He turned, raised the gun, and pointed it at the back wall of the shed — at nothing.

  It felt… surreal. Like holding a confession.

  “Have you ever fired one before?” Wojciech asked.

  Kazou shook his head. His voice was quiet, firm.

  “Teach me.”

  Wojciech’s eyes narrowed, gauging him. Then he nodded once.

  The shed door creaked shut behind them as they left the shack, the afternoon chill brushing their backs as Wojciech and Kazou stepped out onto the dry path that curled between the trees. The air had changed. The light had shifted—less golden now, more stark, more present. Like the dream of safety had passed and in its place was the clarity of preparation.

  Soon, they returned to the garden in front of the house. Below the porch.

  Marek kicked at the dirt with his boot, trying to balance a twig on the tip of his toe.

  “Tatausiu! Papa,” he said, glancing up, “is Dr. Kuroda going to stay?”

  Wojciech paused. His face softened, not quite a smile, more a moment of stillness. “Maybe,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “But not forever. He has things to do!"

  “We’re going back,” Wojciech told Marek, gesturing toward the woods. “Just for a bit. You stay here. Understand?”

  Marek nodded, though his lip twisted in disappointment. He didn’t like being left out.

  Wojciech placed a hand on Kazou’s shoulder, and the two men walked back toward the hunting ground in silence. The earth under their feet was cracked with frost but giving way to thaw. The wind had picked up, rustling the trees like distant whispers.

  Kazou looked down at his hands as they moved. They were trembling slightly. He clenched them, then released.

  “You were a scientist once?” Wojciech asked, not looking at him.

  “I told you, not anymore,” Kazou replied, voice low.

  “Must’ve taken a lot. Years of study. Dedication. But here you are.”

  “I never imagined I’d be here,” Kazou said. “Not like this.”

  Wojciech gave a short exhale, more breath than a laugh. “No one ever does.”

  They arrived at the clearing again. The old targets stood still in the morning wind like ancient sentries. The air here was different. Quieter.

  Kazou’s eyes lingered on the pistol resting on the bench outside the shed. His pulse picked up.

  Wojciech stepped forward, picked up the weapon, checked it, and handed it to him.

  Kazou took it slowly, deliberately. He’d held it once, but this time was different. Right now, he was going to use it.

  “Let’s start with the easy bit,” Wojciech said, stepping beside him. “Point it downrange. Two hands. Keep your feet under you, shoulder-width.”

  Kazou mirrored the stance he had taken earlier.

  “Now, safety off. Slow breath. No jerking the trigger. You squeeze. Like you’re pressing a button.”

  Kazou aimed. The weight of the gun was solid in his hands, like holding a thought too heavy to speak aloud.

  He exhaled.

  And fired.

  CRACK.

  Casimir... You devil. Kazou thought.

  The recoil jumped up his arms, but he managed to hold steady. The bullet struck just right of the center on the rusted sheet metal. Not perfect. But close.

  Wojciech nodded.

  “You don’t look like a killer, you know,” Wojciech said suddenly.

  Kazou blinked, surprised. Wojciech smiled faintly, “You look like a man who still believes the world can be fixed. That’s not a killer’s face. That’s a scientist’s face.”

  Kazou didn’t respond right away.

  “Scientists,” Wojciech went on, “they invent things. Cure diseases. Build machines. Save lives. Change the world. Most of them, anyway. You went into that field for a reason, didn’t you?”

  Kazou looked down at his hands.

  “I used to believe it was enough,” he murmured. “Solving equations. Understanding genetics. Carrying my father's legacy… from a distance.”

  Wojciech let out a short, dry laugh. “Well, I’ve seen men who looked like saints and killed like devils. Maybe I’m wrong.” He gave Kazou a sideways glance, eyes sharp with something more serious now. “Go on then,” he said. “Prove me wrong. If you want to win. Shoot more than once."

  "Casimir..." Kazou muttered as he aimed.

  CRACK. CRACK.

  Kazou’s body moved in rhythm now, hands tight, stance fixed. He wasn’t fast, but he was careful. Each shot was deliberate.

  After the sixth round, he lowered the gun, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

  “I never thought I’d be doing this,” he murmured.

  “What did you think you’d be doing?” Wojciech asked, taking the pistol back and reloading with ease.

  "I thought I'd be writing papers. Working in labs. Maybe teaching.”

  “Not chasing ghosts.”

  Kazou’s jaw twitched. “Casimir isn’t a ghost.”

  Wojciech watched him carefully. “What is he, then? You told me he was real. But nobody but that girl believed it. Tell me."

  Kazou didn’t answer right away. He looked at the ground, then up at the sky. Then, at the gun in Wojciech’s hands.

  “Someone once said… evil doesn’t come from the outside. They’re made. Carefully. Intentionally. That’s what he is. The end result of something we allowed to happen.”

  Wojciech handed the pistol back to him. “You want to kill him.”

  “I need to stop him.”

  CRACK.

  The next shot was cleaner. It struck near the center, ringing against the metal with a resonant clang.

  “You’re improving,” Wojciech said.

  Kazou wiped sweat from his brow, surprised to find how much effort it took just to stand steady.

  “You’ll feel it after,” Wojciech said. “Your hands, your breathing. It doesn’t leave.”

  Kazou looked at him, eyes tired but focused. “You’ve killed before.”

  Wojciech didn’t deny it.

  “I was a hitman. Years ago. I stopped counting. It’s not something you forget. And it’s not something you carry easily.”

  He stepped closer, voice lowering.

  “If you kill Casimir, Kuroda—it won’t fix anything. It won’t erase what he did. Or what you saw. You understand that?”

  Kazou nodded. “I’m not doing it to forget. I’m doing it because I remember.”

  For a moment, Wojciech said nothing. Then he gestured to the target again.

  “Good. Then aim."

  Kazou raised the pistol again. His hands were steadier now. His breath was calmer.

  Each shot rang with the clarity of intention.

  Wojciech stood at his side, watching. Not judging.

  “You’ll need more than just a pistol,” he said. “You’ll need timing. Disguise. Luck.”

  Kazou didn’t answer, just kept firing. The holes in the metal spread slowly across the target like a wound being opened with precision.

  After the last round, he lowered the gun. His arms were tired, and his ears rang slightly from the repeated blasts.

  Wojciech took the weapon from him, reloaded it, and placed it gently back in the shed.

  “I’ll keep it here,” he said. “You’ll need to practice more.”

  Kazou nodded.

  As they walked back through the trees, the shadows were longer now. Sunset was nearing.

  “What will you do when you find him?” Wojciech asked suddenly. "Will you really do it? You never specified what you wanted to do with that gun."

  Kazou didn’t hesitate.

  “I’ll make sure he can’t do this to anyone else.”

  Wojciech gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s not what I asked.”

  Kazou slowed slightly. The wind picked up, rustling the bare branches overhead.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  And somehow, that was the most honest thing he’d said all day.