The words were a brand, searing into the quiet corners of his mind where he kept his carefully constructed solitude. "Thank you my lord."

Each time the broken man wheezed the phrase, Cole's grip tightened on the man's tattered shirt. It wasn't a grip of anger, but of a desperate, internal recoil. The title felt like a physical weight, heavier than the limp body he carried. A 'lord' was a protector, a figure of hope, a symbol. Cole was none of those things. He was a mercenary, a ruthless killer of women and children, a dog to the highest bidder. He was a shadow that observed and, when necessary, erased. He was not, and had never been, a savior.

He moved through the darkened streets of the Rose District, his earlier spring-like leaps replaced by a heavy, earthbound scuffle. The journey back was a blur of cracked pavement and the scent of night-blooming jasmine mixed with the coppery tang of the man's blood. The man himself had fallen into a semi-conscious state, his muttering fading into ragged, shallow breaths.

It was a small mercy. Cole wasn't sure how many more 'my lords' he could stomach. 'I wish this guy could quit this already.'

He couldn't take the man to the rooftop where he was, at the same time it wouldn't exactly make sense to take him to a hospital. At least that's what he thought, based off his previous experiences Cole had developed a certain thought pattern.

The man needed a place of healing, a place that dealt in mending, not breaking. His mind sifted through the limited knowledge he'd gathered of Sant Flores. Unfortunately, he concluded nothing.

Condescending thoughts spawned in his mind, Cole's only option was to drop the man in a hospital. If not the man's last breathes would be wasted in his arms, something Cole wouldn't allow.

Apart from saving his life, Cole had questions of his own which needed answering. There was a possibility laundas companions would save her in the end yet Cole left her almost unharmed in a not so secluded area.

Was it a sort of pity? Far from it. Cole had very devious intentions behind his actions.

"Stop here my lord..... don't take me to the hospital." The man wheezed as he forced the words out. "I know someone..... that'll treat me in that small house....by the left."

He lost conscious as he weighed heavier on Cole's sturdy arms. Cole saw the horrendous looking shack by the left and wore a perplexed expression, the building resembled a rotting jail house with it's only redeeming features a furnished yet slanting window.

Cole walked towards it, knocked and waited for a response. He was greeted by the insides silence, as much as he didn't want to intrude Cole pushed the door open as he gently held the man like a new Born baby.

Upon entering, the inside looked abandoned, similar to majority of the homes he'd seen that night. The furniture and walls were partly illuminated by the moonlight sneaking through every opening and crack in the structure.

He laid the man gently on a long wooden table that dominated the center of the room. A soft groan escaped the man's lips.

"Who's there?" A voice, sharp and clear, cut through the darkness from a back room. There was no fear in it, only the weariness of someone who was used to being disturbed.

A lamp flickered to life, and a woman emerged, holding it high. She wore a simple linen nightgown, her severe bun slightly loosened, framing a face etched with lines of concentration. Her eyes swept the room, taking in Cole's imposing figure, the open door, and finally, the broken man on her table. She didn't gasp or cry out. Her gaze simply sharpened, her lips thinning into a firm line.

"Frederick, is that you?" She blurted in a concerned whisper.

"You," she said, her voice flat. She placed the lamp on a nearby shelf, illuminating the gruesome extent of the man's injuries. " you're Cole Raden, The neforious psycho who saved sant Flore. Did you save my friend here too?"

"He needs help," Cole stated, his voice a low rumble. He felt out of place, like a weed in a rose garden.

The woman rushed to the man's side, her fingers probing his neck for a pulse, her touch surprisingly gentle. "He needs a hospital, he's in pretty bad shape. What happened to him?" She began cleaning a deep gash on his forehead with a cloth dipped in a basin of water that seemed to appear from nowhere.

"Ran into some trouble at the old baking factory," Cole said, deliberately vague.

"was he kidnapped like the others?" Elara asked without looking up. Her tone suggested it wasn't the first time she'd heard the name. "They've been snatching people for weeks. Causing whispers. Fear. This is the first one I've seen returned." Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and they were like chips of flint. "Thanks to you, I guess."

Cole bristled. "I was clearing my head. He was in the way."

A dry, humorless chuckle escaped her. "Always the excuse. You drift through this town like a ghost, pretending you're not a part of it, yet the lives of its people seem to keep getting tangled in your path." She moved to the man's hands, her expression grim as she examined the mangled fingers. "They revere you, you know. The people in the districts. They say you're a guardian spirit. A protector sent to watch over them."

Cole's jaw tightened. "That's their foolishness."

"Is it?" she countered, her voice dangerously soft as she began splinting a finger with practiced efficiency. "My name is Elara by the way."

Cole had no response for her. Her words were scalpels, expertly dissecting the lie he told himself. He wasn't just a passerby. He was involved, deeply and irrevocably. The realization was suffocating.

He watched her work for several minutes in silence. Her movements were economical and precise. She was a different kind of professional, one who pieced things back together. He was her opposite in every way.

"He'll live," she finally announced, wiping her bloody hands on a rag. "He'll be scarred, and he'll never have full use of this hand again, but he'll live. His name is Frederick. He has a wife and two daughters." She looked at Cole, her gaze unwavering. "They will see this as a miracle. They will thank their 'lord' for it."

The word again. It landed like a punch.

"I don't want their thanks," Cole growled, turning toward the window. "Or their reverence."

' I'll be leaving this place tomorrow any way.'

"You don't get to choose," Elara said, her voice stopping him in his tracks. "That's the price of power, Cole. You can't wield it without changing the world around you. You can't save a man's life and expect his family to ignore it. You've made a choice, whether you admit it to yourself or not. You are a part of Sant Flores now. Their struggles are your struggles. Their enemies are your enemies."

He stood frozen, his back to her, the cool night air from the open window doing nothing to quench the fire in his gut. She was right. The shimmering light he'd followed out of desperation hadn't been a trap for his body, but for his soul. It had dragged him out of the shadows and into the light, and now everyone was looking at him.

"The people of sant Flores, aren't any of my business."

Without another word, he slipped back out the window and into the night. He scaled the nearest building, needing the familiar solitude of the rooftops. But when he looked out over the city, the view had changed. The dazzling lights no longer looked like a beautiful, distant scenery. They looked like a thousand tiny windows, and behind each one were people like Frederick, with families and fears. People who were starting to look to him for protection.

The weight of their hope was a heavier burden than any he had ever carried.

'I'm a killer of men, this is nothing.' He kept a weak gaze pasted at the sky. 'From vanity, to Arthur, then gothel and now the people of sant Flores.... I've been getting over my head lately.'

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