The sleek black car rolled to a slow stop in front of the gate. The door swung open, and Jimson stepped out with his usual unbothered demeanor. Blood stained his left arm in dark, uneven patches — the bullet had grazed his shoulder and was still bleeding. But his eyes remained coldly indifferent, as if the wound meant nothing. Not a single word of complaint, not a hint of sluggishness — Jimson walked straight into the house like nothing had happened.
Someone was already waiting in the living room.
Lucian sat sprawled across the sofa, legs crossed, eyes sharp as knives, fixed on the front door. Beside him was Aaron — worry etched into every line of his face, his body tilted forward like someone perpetually ready to run. And just as expected, the moment Aaron saw Jimson step inside, blood still dripping down his arm, he jumped to his feet.
— "Jimson! Y-You're bleeding! There's so much blood! Sit down, where's the first aid kit?!"
Aaron was frantic, panic clear in his eyes, as if he were the one wounded.
Jimson sat on the sofa, propped his elbow on a cushion, and spoke coolly:
— "I'm not dying. Don't overreact."
His voice was as casual as commenting on the weather. That dismissive tone left Aaron speechless. He scrambled to grab the first aid kit and began tending to the wound, while Lucian's eyes never strayed — silently watching like a predator waiting for its prey to let its guard down.
Lucian finally spoke, his voice low and chilling:
— "Thought you were dead for real this time."
It sounded like a joke, but his eyes betrayed something else. Jimson glanced at him, a mocking smile tugging at his lips:
— "Disappointed?"
Lucian smirked, gaze still locked on the bloodied shoulder:
— "Disappointed I didn't get to see you in an even more pitiful state."
The air thickened with tension. Aaron could feel it — he looked up nervously, voice uncertain:
— "But I saw Jimson this morning… Lucian, you must've seen wrong, right?"
Jimson remained silent. He didn't deny it, nor did he offer any explanation. All eyes turned to Lucian.
Lucian replied evenly, each word heavy with meaning:
— "I didn't see wrong. That was Jimson. But it was also Julian."
Aaron froze. He repeated the name in his mind, trying to make sense of it, but nothing connected. Meanwhile, Jimson leaned back, eyes half-closed, as if the conversation didn't involve him at all.
— "So… there are two of you?" Aaron asked hesitantly.
Jimson said nothing. But the smirk on his lips deepened — a silent slap to Aaron's innocence. Lucian glanced at the boy, his gaze softening slightly — not pity, not blame — just truth: he was still too young.
— "Are we done here?" Jimson opened his eyes and sat up, voice flat. "You came just to check if I'm still breathing? Well, I am. You can leave now."
He waved them off without the slightest courtesy. His tone was so commanding, it was easy to forget the man he was dismissing was Lucian — a name the underworld itself spoke in hushed tones.
Lucian stood. Aaron followed quickly. Just as they reached the door, Lucian paused. His voice didn't change, but the words carried weight:
— "Don't die too soon. There's still a lot for you to face… and a lot to teach Aaron."
Jimson didn't turn around. He only let out a faint smirk. His eyes remained fixed on the window, gazing into the darkening night — a void without end.
Lucian and Aaron left. The soft click of the door closing echoed faintly, but its presence lingered. In the dim room, the scent of blood still hung in the air, and a single name — Julian — had been quietly cast out, now sinking into the deepest, untouched layers of a story no one yet fully understood.
Jimson raised a hand to cover his eyes. The smile on his lips slowly faded.
————————————————————
After bringing Lyra to the hospital, Atropa asked a nurse to call Raphael. He didn't stay. Quietly, he turned and left, his tall figure fading into the night as he headed straight for Jimson's base.
The room was cloaked in darkness, lit only by the faint glow of a yellow lamp casting shadows through thick curtains. Jimson sat alone, motionless, on a wooden chair beside the window. He hadn't turned on the lights, hadn't played any music, hadn't touched the now-cold glass of water on the table. His left arm hung limply, palm open, as he stared intently at his hand — as if it held the most important thing in his life.
A tattoo — carved deep into his flesh — the portrait of Raphael.
That face… he could not remember.
Jimson suffered from a form of prosopagnosia, a facial recognition disorder that had haunted him since childhood. He forgot faces quickly — even those of his loved ones, even his own. No face ever stayed in his memory long… except this one. The tattoo was the only way to hold on to Raphael.
He had it inked on his left arm — on the side of his heart.
He was born and raised in an orphanage with his younger brother, Elian. From a young age, Elian had been Jimson's entire world. In order to protect Elian, Jimson had forced himself to become strong — to become cold-blooded, to grow up long before he ever understood what childhood was meant to be. He gave up his smile, his softness, even his humanity — all so that his brother could be safe.
Gradually, his smile disappeared. His facial muscles stopped responding to emotion. Jimson's face became so expressionless, it was as though he had never known sorrow or joy. But his heart still beat… and love still lived there.
Jimson loved Raphael. It wasn't a vague or fleeting kind of love. It was the kind of love that endured even when he no longer lived as himself.
The name Julian — it was the last remnant of his humanity. His true self. A soul still capable of love, of pain, of sacrifice.
Julian loved Raphael with a passion that crossed life and death. But Jimson — the assassin, the creature of darkness — could never allow that love to exist. And so, he chose to disappear.
He faked his own death, tore himself away from Raphael like a wound that never healed. But for the past four years… not a single day had passed where he hadn't watched over him.
He knew what kind of wine Raphael liked, what he wore to work, which chair in the garden he sat in when he was sad… even the nights he stayed awake, haunted by the memory of the Julian he believed had died.
Jimson had once stood hidden in the shadows of a staircase, where the light couldn't reach, watching Raphael walk past him like a stranger. He had once disguised himself as a hospital pharmacist just to slip a gentle sleep aid into Raphael's prescription. He had once posed as a mailman, just so he could secretly place an old handkerchief — one that Raphael had once kept — into his mailbox.
He had never truly left.
No matter how many faces he wore, no matter how many lives he lived in disguise, Jimson was still Julian — when standing in front of Raphael.
A soft knock echoed through the room.
—"Boss, I'm back." Atropa stepped in, his silver eyes gleaming faintly under the dim light.
Jimson didn't turn around. His voice was flat and cold:
—"Tomorrow morning, bring porridge to Doll's Eyes. And… place a single monkshood petal on the bedside table."
Atropa paused. For the first time, he hesitated. Though unwaveringly loyal, never once disobedient—this time, his loyalty clashed with heartbreak:
—"Must we really do this? It will hurt you."
Jimson smiled. The faintest smile Atropa had ever seen. Not bitter, not scornful, not cold. Just… pained.
—"You're the only one who truly understands me, Atropa."
He spoke as he lifted his head, revealing empty yet utterly exhausted eyes.
—"Yes, it will hurt. So much that I'll want to die all over again. But I'm used to it. For the past four years, I've lived with heartbreak every single day… not a day missed."
He looked down at his arm. The tattoo was still there. Still Raphael in his eyes. A Raphael he no longer dared to touch.
After Atropa left, Jimson remained motionless, the faint light from the ceiling casting a glow on the tattoo on his left arm. It was too intricate, too lifelike… the face of Raphael, wearing his gentlest smile.
Jimson gently ran his fingers over the inked skin, as if afraid he might forget what it felt like to touch that person. More painful than death… was once being loved, and then having to learn to live as if that love never existed.
Jimson knew Raphael would soon receive news from the hospital. That Lyra was unconscious, and beside her—an untouched bowl of warm porridge… and a pale purple monkshood petal.
Monkshood — the flower he once said he loved, during a quiet afternoon in the library with Raphael, beneath the April rain.
If it's Raphael… he would remember.
He would surely believe Jimson was behind it all. Including the death of his mother.
Jimson pressed his lips together, eyes fixed on the tattoo, as if asking himself:
Was I right to do this?
To be hated by you, as long as it keeps you from the pain of the truth…
Does that still count as love?
That day, Julian had placed a listening device in Raphael's room. He heard every word. Heard Raphael say he would forget Julian. That he would love Lyra now… because she was the most important person to him.
Every word—each syllable—stabbed into Julian's chest like a knife.
He knew Raphael deserved peace. Deserved someone by his side who wasn't stained by blood and regret. And if that person was Lyra, then Raphael should keep only the best memories of her.
Even if the cost… was hating Jimson forever.
Twelve years ago…
Elian — Jimson's only brother — had chased a ball into the street. A truck, brakes failed, barreled down the road. The only two people nearby… were Lyra's parents.
They didn't hesitate. Didn't flinch.
Their car swerved directly into the path of the truck, shielding Elian with their own bodies. Before the explosion, they had just enough time to scream to Julian:
"Please… take care of our daughter."
He had nodded, eyes filled with blood and smoke.
From that moment on, Julian carried a vow — a debt of gratitude that could never be repaid. But life was never so simple. Not every promise could be redeemed with trust.
Lyra — Doll's Eyes — grew up with the unshakable belief that Jimson was responsible for her parents' death.
She hated him.
And to take revenge… she killed Elian.
Julian didn't cry.
Didn't scream.
Didn't place blame.
He just… went silent.
Silent because the promise was broken.
Silent because the truth was too cruel.
Silent because even at the moment of his death, Elian still loved her. Loved her so much that he asked Jimson:
"Don't hurt her. Even if she hates me… I still want to see her smile."
Jimson closed his eyes, heart hollow.
Doll's Eyes — the one he hated most… and the only one Elian had ever loved. That's why, even as she tried to destroy him, he still protected her. Still pulled her back from the edge of death.
Only love… could make a demon spare the one who murdered his brother.
Jimson returned to his chair and sat silently, once more gazing at the tattoo of Raphael.
—"Doll's Eyes… you were an angel. But because of my silence, you became a demon."
His voice was soft, like a whisper to a soul long laid to rest.
Perhaps Elian's.
Perhaps Julian's—the name that died the day he left Raphael.
In the stillness of the night, the ticking of the clock echoed…
Tick tock… tick tock…
Counting down to the next tragedy.
EndofChapter25.