"There is no escape for those who give life to horror. Creation does not forget, and judgment always finds its way."
--Unknown record, Source: ???
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Chapter 7: Geneva
Pov. Victor.
The morning had begun like any other since he arrived in the city.
Victor Frankenstein awoke to the faint light of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains of his room. The mountain chill still seeped in through the cracks in the window, but inside the inn, the fire had burned through the night, and the blankets were sufficient.
For the first time in weeks, he hadn't woken up to nightmares.
He sat on the edge of the bed, stretched his arms, and let out a long, contented sigh. His body was still weak—the fever from a few days ago had left its mark—but he could now hold himself steady.
He stood up, moving calmly, and searched the coat rack for his clothes for the day: a clean white shirt, a dark gray vest, a wool coat, and well-polished boots. His fingers lingered for a moment over the inside pocket of his coat, feeling a thin book he had started the night before.
"Today is a day without incident," he murmured, almost like a private joke.
He washed his face in the basin in the corner, the icy water sending a slight chill through him. There was no bathroom as such, but the inn offered clean towels, a copper basin, and lavender-scented soap.
For a man who had spent weeks amid chemicals, darkness, and storms, that was more than enough.
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He went outside.
The air was clean, fresh, with that particular scent of cities waking up by a lake. The bustle of the market hadn't yet begun, but the distant church bells and the rolling of the first carts could already be heard.
The snow-capped mountains rose like silent guardians at the far end of the city. The world seemed… in balance.
Victor allowed himself a smile, brief but real.
He walked a few blocks, nodded to a young woman sweeping the front of her shop, and entered a small corner café, where he was already known.
The owner, a man with a thick mustache and a friendly expression, showed him to his usual table by the window.
"The usual, monsieur?"
"Of course. And a little honey, if you may."
He sat down, arranged his coat carefully on the neighboring chair, and took the book out of his pocket.
It was a collection of poems in French, nothing extraordinary, but its soft, abstract words seemed to wash something inside him.
He read. He breathed.
And for the first time in a long time… he wasn't thinking about alchemy.
Not about sorcery.
Not about...her.
Really not...?
Victor closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of the warm sun on his face.
"...continuing like this wouldn't be bad," he murmured to himself, almost like a revelation.
"No more spells. No more meat. No more guilt."
The coffee steamed. The honey sweetened just right.
The book weighed just the right amount in his hands. And his soul, finally, felt...at peace.
As if his past torment and madness were nothing more than an illusion.
He smiled.
He sighed.
He turned back to the marked page.
Then it happened.
It wasn't a sound.
Not a visible presence.
It was a wrenching, as if the air were shrinking inside his lungs.
His heart stumbled in his chest. The tranquility shattered like glass.
The coffee turned bitter.
The sun, colder.
The verses, illegible.
Victor put the book on the table, not understanding why his fingers were trembling. He put a hand to his chest.
It wasn't pain.
It wasn't cold.
It was… something else.
An invisible presence, as if the atmosphere itself had tensed, as if the air had gained weight. The murmur of the city continued, cups clinked, wagon wheels passed, and yet… everything seemed distant.
He turned to the window, as if by instinct.
But he saw nothing.
No familiar figure. No face in the crowd. No one watching him.
Just ordinary people, doing ordinary things.
Everything was where it should be.
And yet… no.
The discomfort persisted, like a thorn buried in his soul.
Victor closed his eyes for another moment. He took a deep breath. He let it out slowly.
"...It was nothing," he said softly, as if by saying it he could make it true.
"Just... a memory. A shadow of the mind."
He picked up the cup again, but the coffee was no longer hot. Nor sweet.
The verses in the book no longer spoke to him.
Outside, the sunlight remained the same... and yet, everything seemed to have changed.
Victor tried to concentrate on his reading.
He turned a page.
Another.
But he couldn't remember what he had just read.
And the discomfort didn't go away.
It just settled, like something waiting for the moment to speak louder.
And deep down... he knew it.
Please... let it be nothing.
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Pov. Eva.
The city was bigger than she had imagined.
After four days of traveling following the compass needle—day after day, field after field, between villages where she didn't dare stop—Eva had finally arrived in Geneva.
And yet, she couldn't allow herself to rest.
Lea had warned her: the compass would work for a limited time. "Maybe a week… a few more days if luck holds," she had said, her voice trembling.
But the week had almost passed.
And she still hadn't found it.
That's why her steps were quicker. That's why her breathing was more labored, her eyes harder. Her fear wasn't that the compass would stop.
It was that it would stop when she was so close… and even then, it wouldn't be enough.
Eva stopped at the edge of the stone bridge, where the Rhône River ran through the city like a blue artery. Geneva stretched out across the water, shrouded in a thin mist that didn't hide its reddish roofs, its church towers, or the smoking chimneys that dotted the horizon...
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Carts passed through the crowd. The streets were a mix of worn cobblestones and wet earth, splashed by the rain of previous days.
The aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the smell of coal, sour wine, leather… and something else.
A smell that didn't belong.
Her.
Eva moved slowly, her black cloak barely dragging against the ground, covering her body like a funeral veil. The dirty bandages on her feet grew darker with each step, sticking to her skin.
Her face was barely visible in the shadows of the hood: an incomplete face, with scars and stitches that seemed reluctantly made, a living mask where the human and the inhuman collided.
And with each step, the world around her reacted.
First, a faint silence. Then, murmurs.
"Did you see her…?"
"Is she hurt? What is that…?"
"She's not a beggar. Look at her eyes. No… she's not normal."
"Don't look! Walk, come on…"
The voices were whispers that didn't dare rise, as if simply mentioning her name might attract their attention.
And yet, they couldn't stop staring.
As if before them lay a wild animal wandering the streets disguised as a human.
A butcher dropped his knife when he saw her pass.
An old woman crossed herself and clutched an iron crucifix to her chest.
A dog, tied to a cart, began to bark desperately.
Eve didn't respond. She didn't stop.
Only the beat guided her walk.
As they reached the center, the buildings grew more crowded, imposing. Elegant shop windows and centuries-old clocks framed the corners, while church towers stood out like gray spears against the cloudy sky. Snow was beginning to accumulate on the rooftops.
A bell rang overhead. The exact time. Cold. Empty.
Eva stopped by a fountain. She looked at her reflection in the still water.
A broken face.
A ghost.
An unveiled truth.
She didn't belong here. And everyone knew that.
"Mom, her face—"
"Silence!"
"What if she's a demon? They say some walk like men..."
"Don't even think about talking to her. Let's get out of here."
Eva listened to the voices around her.
She frowned slightly.
It bothered her that they spoke like that, without knowing her. They judged without knowing anything. Without imagining the pain she carried.
But it didn't matter.
None of it mattered.
Their words were worthless.
His presence, less than nothing.
The city… perhaps once it would have seemed vibrant, exciting.
Now it was just a place.
Just another point on the road.
The only thing that truly mattered…
Was the compass gem.
Which, just moments ago, had changed color.
Now it glowed a deep orange, fiery and vivid.
The world around her became a distant murmur.
For the first time since she left the workshop… something told her she was close.
Too close.
Soon…
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Pov. Victor.
Victor left the café slowly, intent on dissipating the unease tightening in his chest.
The streets of Geneva stretched out before him, their muted bustle and their long shadows in the midday sun.
He tried to focus on the details: the vendors selling fresh fruit, the tinkling of bells, the creaking of cart wheels.
But the feeling wouldn't go away.
An invisible weight followed him with every step, obscuring his thoughts. He couldn't shake it, no matter how hard he tried to distract himself.
"What is this...?" he muttered to himself, his fingers brushing the lapel of his coat.
Suddenly, a firm hand rested on his shoulder.
"Victor, are you okay?" a warm, familiar voice asked.
Victor turned his head and found an old friend, Jean: a man with kind eyes and a face wrinkled by age, looking at him with genuine concern.
"You seem lost in another world," Jean continued. "You've been wandering around the city since this morning. Is something wrong?"
Victor tried to muster a smile, but it was difficult.
"I don't know... just... something's not right. I can't explain it."
Jean looked at him in silence for a few seconds.
"She's having an anxiety attack again," he thought sadly. He had thought he'd gotten over them, but apparently not.
"Do you want to come over to my house and talk a little?" he offered in an open, friendly voice.
Victor inhaled deeply, grateful for the unexpected company, even though the shadow inside him didn't dissipate.
"Thanks, Jean. I think that would be nice."
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Pov. Eva.
The sun was beginning to set over the city.
Eva continued wandering, guided by the direction the compass indicated.
Growing increasingly anxious, she had changed course several times and covered much of the city.
And she feared...
Too late?
Then, in the middle of a side street, something changed.
The compass vibrated with an intensity that forced her to stop in her tracks.
Static.
Like a statue carved in stone.
His eyes fixed on the gem that hung around his neck, pulsing with an erratic light, like the furious beat of a heart.
Its color: blood red.
Finally…
The corners of his lips tightened into a disturbing, barely visible smile.
An omen.
His eyes trembled uncontrollably, yet remained fixed, focused.
There was no doubt.
There was no fear.
Only a cold, determined intensity.
He slowly raised his arm, holding the compass in his open palm.
He moved it carefully through the air around him, watching how the gem reacted to each movement.
The needle spun uncontrollably…
Until, suddenly, it stopped.
It pointed steadily toward a house at the end of the street.
The light from the gem grew brighter than ever.
It pulsed with its own power.
Like a beacon in the darkness.
Eva gritted her teeth. And, in a low voice, almost to herself, she whispered:
"I found you..."
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Pov. Victor.
Jean's house was modest, but cozy.
As he walked through the door, Victor was greeted by the warm aroma of freshly baked bread and the cheerful murmur of family conversation.
Jean's wife, Marie, appeared in the living room holding a small girl, who played with Victor's fingers with shy curiosity.
Immediately, Marie got up to tuck the child in and take her upstairs, leaving Victor and Jean alone in the room.
Jean smiled, taking out a couple of glasses and a bottle of wine.
"Are you feeling a little better now?" he asked, pouring.
"Yes... a little, thank you," Victor replied, gratefully accepting the glass.
Jean patted him on the shoulder with simplicity and confidence.
"That's what friends are for. You know you can tell me anything."
Victor gripped the glass tightly in his hands, feeling the warmth of the wine and the human warmth he hadn't experienced in a long time. He remembered how it had all started:
When he arrived in Geneva, aimless and without shelter, it was Jean who recommended a humble inn where he could stay.
Since then, their paths had crossed, and little by little, through brief conversations and kind gestures, a sincere friendship had developed.
That phrase, that simple invitation to trust, gave him courage.
"Jean... the truth..." he began, opening his mouth to speak, but the words were lost in silence.
Jean watched him intently, waiting.
But Victor sighed, lowered his gaze... and shook his head.
"Nothing. Forget it."
He couldn't.
Telling his story would involve unearthing a part of himself that must remain hidden.
His magical nature.
The pain of his memories.
His mistake.
All of that must be buried.
He would be the only witness...
The only living record of his sin.
Forever.
Jean showed a slight hint of disappointment, but he hid it almost immediately.
"No problem," he said with an understanding smile.
Victor smiled simply, grateful for the understanding.
He stood up from the chair, examining himself with a sigh.
"It's late, I should go—"
Then, a familiar but even more intense feeling came over him again, like a shadow that stretches and oppresses the air around him.
"Victor?" Jean asked, confused, seeing his friend go rigid, his face pale and his gaze fixed on an invisible point.
Suddenly, the lights in the house began to flicker, casting erratic shadows across the walls. A chilly, unsettling air filled the room, making both of their hearts race.
Knock... knock...
Knock... knock...
Slow, methodical knocks echoed on the door.
Each knock seemed to increase the pressure in the air, as if the house itself were holding its breath.
The two men turned their gaze toward the entrance, the silence broken only by those knocks.
At that moment, Marie came down the stairs, fresh from the room where she had tucked her daughter in. Noticing the tension in Jean and Victor, and feeling the thick air, she stopped in confusion.
"Darling..." she began, but Jean interrupted her with a gentle gesture.
"Shh," she whispered, slowly approaching to stand in front of her, protecting her and preparing for whatever was coming.
Because she felt it.
Something was coming.
Victor, despite feeling the worst, was the one who approached the door with shaky steps. His hand rose, trembling, until it was inches from the doorknob when—
Zzzzzt.
"Ack!" He immediately pulled his hand away, as if burned.
Small green sparks sizzled across his palm, leaving visible burn marks.
The doorknob turned slowly, as if the door had a life of its own.
Victor's heart stopped.
His breathing became frantic, and a cold sweat broke out across his body. His legs took several steps back, overcome by an unknown and overwhelming feeling of dread.
No, he was lying. He'd felt it before, months ago. But that time it wasn't as intense, it wasn't as real.
"No... it's... i-impossible..." he stammered, unable to look away.
Faced with Jean and Marie's surprised looks, and Victor's paralysis, the door opened completely.
And she walked in.
Eva.
"...It's been a long time, Victor. Did you miss me?" she asked after a long silence, a casual smile on her face, as if addressing an old friend she hadn't seen in a long time.
But her eyes told another story.
Dark. Cold. Filled with something deeper, something no smile could hide.
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Pov. Third person.
A crooked smile spread across Eva's lips, a mixture of elation and restrained madness that only she could understand.
Finally, she had her prey before her.
Her heart beat with an intensity that seemed to break her chest. Emotion enveloped her, pure and overwhelming.
She could finally see the desperation in his eyes.
The fear trembling in his hands.
The terror paralyzing his steps.
For every step he took back, she took one step further into the house.
"Yes, perfect," she thought, a fierce gleam in her eyes.
"Despair. Anguish with no way out. Horror."
The same feeling that had consumed her, the one that had marked her that day that changed everything.
—"E-Eva… how is it possible… I sealed the workshop, you…" —Victor stumbled, losing his balance, and fell to the ground. Eva's shadow lengthened over him, covering him and rendering him immobile.
"I destroyed you!" she exclaimed, her voice cracking. "You should be—"
"Dead?" Eva asked, tilting her head with a cold smile. Her right hand slowly emerged, palm firmly gripping the handle of the Bridal Chest.
"That's the word you're looking for, isn't it, Victor?" Her voice was a sharp whisper. "Dead."
Victor lay on the floor, his breathing ragged, his chest rising and falling in an erratic rhythm.
Every breath was a dry gasp.
The color had completely drained from his face; his lips were ashen, his eyes wide open, as if unable to blink.
His body trembled, not from the cold, but from something older and deeper. Something primal.
Panic held him chained.
"Like a child facing the abyss."
"As if death had sat before him, smiling."
Eve gazed at him silently, savoring the moment.
For every step he took back, she took one forward.
Without haste. Without mercy.
"Yes..." she thought, feeling a sweet pressure in her chest, a euphoria that clouded her reason.
"That's what I wanted to see."
The trembling in her legs.
The total loss of control.
The certainty that there was no escape.
Crumbling.
Collapse.
Sinking.
"Just like me..."
She murmured in her mind, a green spark running through her fingers like a sigh from a suppressed storm.
"...that day."
She said as she continued to close the distance between them.
"Those months..." she whispered, and the air seemed to respond with an electric hum.
Emerald sparks leaped from his right hand.
—"…in the darkness…"
Her left hand gripped the handle of his mace, while her right hand furiously gripped the Bridal Chest, which throbbed like a living heart.
The smile on her face finally crumbled, like a mask that no longer served.
What remained was brutal.
Authentic.
Terrible.
"I only thought of two things… escape…" she said, her voice tense, vibrant, barely contained.
"…and making you pay for my suffering."
Victor tried to speak.
"I-I..." His mouth opened, but what came out was barely a broken murmur. Disjointed, useless words. As if language no longer responded to him.
But it didn't matter.
Eve had no intention of drawing it out any further.
Now.
The mace was raised.
Its shadow fell upon him like the final judgment.
An immutable sentence.
Silent. Inescapable.
Victor...
"...Die," she said.
And the weapon descended.
End of Chapter 7
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This concludes Chapter 7. I hope you enjoyed it, and comments are always welcome and appreciated. Bye.