The dressing room was cold.
Micah swung the door open with more force than necessary, the wood slamming against the wall with a crack that echoed through the small space. The room was dimly lit, a single candle-flame floating near the ceiling casting long shadows across the worn velvet of the makeup chair. Costume racks lined the walls, their garments swaying slightly in the draft from the door.
He stopped.
Donquixote Dunnjona Haigo was waiting for him, his long, lean form sprawled in the makeup chair with the casual arrogance of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. His pale blond hair—the distinctive gold of the Donquixote line—fell across his sharp, aristocratic features, and his winter-sky eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. He wore a well-fitted open-collar dress shirt and tailored trousers, nothing ostentatious, nothing memorable. A simple disguise that made him almost invisible.
Beside him, Shamrock Figarland stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The God's Knight Commander was a wall of coiled power, his presence filling the room like a living weight. His red hair was slicked back, and his eyes were fixed on Micah with an intensity that made the air between them feel heavy.
Micah's jaw flexed. His hand tightened around the handle of Nisero Koegoroshi's case.
"What do you want?" His voice came out cold, flat, devoid of emotion.
Shamrock Figarland stepped forward, with a sharp, commanding edge that made his subordinates snap to attention. "We need to talk."
Micah didn't move. His yellow hawk-eyes flickered between the two of them, cataloging their positions, their postures, their intentions. Haigo was relaxed, almost languid, but his hand was resting on the head of his cane—the one that concealed the shikomizue blade Mephisto. Shamrock was coiled with tension, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to move.
Micah placed his cello in its case with deliberate care, his movements controlled and measured. The black lacquered wood gleamed, and his fingers lingered on the strings for a moment longer than necessary.
"Say what you came to say," he said, not turning around. "And then leave. I have nothing to say to either of you."
Haigo's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He rose from the chair with a fluid grace, his cane tapping against the floor with each step. The sound was sharp, deliberate, a metronome counting out the seconds of a life that was rapidly unraveling.
"Your sister is still alive," Haigo said, his voice carrying that warm baritone that made even the most devastating news sound like casual conversation. "In case you were wondering."
Micah's hand froze on the cello case.
The words hung in the air like a blade suspended above his heart. He could feel his pulse hammering in his temples, his breath catching in his throat. The image of Marya collapsing to the ground flashed through his mind, the blood pooling beneath her body, the glassy emptiness of her eyes.
Alive. She was alive.
"You're lying." The words came out harsh, a ragged whisper that cut through the silence like broken glass.
Shamrock Figarland shook his head, his expression grim. "He's not lying. She survived. She was taken back to the island, and she's currently meeting with the Dual Flame Council."
Micah's knuckles were white around the edge of the cello case. His jaw flexed, the muscles in his neck standing out like cords of iron. He could feel his control slipping, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his emotions crumbling like sand beneath a wave.
"How?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "I put my sword through her. I felt it go through her. I felt her blood on my hands. How is she alive?"
Haigo tilted his head, his pale eyes glinting with something that might have been pity, might have been contempt. "The Celestial Omen awakened in her. The Inmyeonjo chose her as its vessel. She transformed, healed herself, and then she killed Neku. Dissolved him into nothing with a single swing of her sword."
Micah was silent. The words crashed over him like a tidal wave, each one a hammer blow against his carefully constructed denial.
She had awakened. She had transformed. She had killed a god.
And he had tried to murder her.
Shamrock stepped forward, his eyes burning with cold fury. "You failed us. All of us. Your sister is now allied with the Red Hair Emperor, and the Dual Flame Council has declared war on the World Government. They're flying the Emperor's flag over Amiso, and there's nothing we can do to stop them."
Haigo's voice was smoother, more measured, but there was an edge to it that hadn't been there before. "We need to know everything. How she survived. How she awakened. What she's planning next. And we need to know how to stop her."
Micah finally turned around. His yellow hawk-eyes were blazing with a fury that made even Shamrock take a half-step back. His jaw was tight, his teeth grinding together with the force of his anger.
"Stop her?" His voice was cold, flat, deadly. "You want me to stop her? After everything I've done? After everything she's done?"
Haigo's smile didn't waver. "You're the only one who can. You're her brother. You know her better than anyone. And you have more reason to want her gone than anyone else in Mary Geoise."
Micah laughed. It was a hollow, bitter sound, a laugh that came from somewhere deep in his chest. "You think I can stop her? You saw what she did to Neku. You saw her transform. You saw her dissolve a god with a single swing of her sword."
His voice cracked, just slightly, just enough for the two men to hear. "I can't stop her. I couldn't even kill her when I had her at my mercy."
Shamrock stepped forward, his voice hard and unyielding. "We don't need you to kill her. We need you to slow her down. To give us time to find a way to neutralize her. The World Government has resources you can't even imagine. We can stop her—if we have the information we need."
Micah's expression darkened. His hand drifted to the hilt of Kogoroshi, the heavy claymore still sheathed, reclining next to his Cello Nisero Koegoroshi. The blade had tasted his sister's blood. It was still stained with it, no matter how many times he had cleaned it.
"I don't know what she's planning," he said, his voice flat and empty. "I don't know how she awakened. I don't know how to stop her. And I don't care."
Haigo's pale eyes narrowed. "You don't care?"
Micah's hand tightened on Kogoroshi's hilt. "She's not my sister. Not anymore. She made her choice when she abandoned me to rot in this gilded cage. I don't owe her anything."
Shamrock stepped forward, his voice carrying a note of warning. "Micah—"
"I said I don't owe her anything!" Micah's voice rose to a roar, echoing off the walls of the dressing room. His yellow hawk-eyes blazed with a fury that made even Shamrock pause. "She left me! She left me here to be a hostage, a pawn, a weapon to be used by the people who took everything from me. And now you want me to help you stop her? You want me to help you destroy her?"
He laughed again, bitter and broken. "I tried to destroy her. I put my sword through her heart. And she survived. She survived because she's stronger than me. She's always been stronger than me."
His voice cracked, and for a moment, he was eight years old again, watching his family walk away while he stayed behind. He was the boy who had been left behind, the boy who had been forgotten, the boy who had never been good enough.
"I can't stop her," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "And even if I could, I wouldn't. Not anymore."
Haigo was silent for a long moment. Then his lips curved into a smile that was more dangerous than any weapon Micah had ever held.
"You're right," he said, his voice carrying that warm, conversational cadence. "You can't stop her. Not alone. But you don't have to be alone. We can help you. The World Government can help you. We have resources you can't even imagine."
He stepped closer, his pale eyes fixed on Micah's with an intensity that made the air between them feel heavy. "But first, we need you to tell us everything you know about her. Everything you've seen. Everything she's done."
Micah met his gaze, his yellow hawk-eyes blazing with cold fury. He opened his mouth to respond—
And then he heard it.
The sound of the Swan floated through the air. The melody he had been playing, note for perfect note, drifting through the ventilation shafts of the dressing room. It was his arrangement, his interpretation, his heart bleeding out through the strings.
He had been playing it for her.
Micah's expression shifted. The fury faded, replaced by something else. Something older. Something he had been carrying for too long.
"Get out," he said, his voice flat and empty.
Haigo's eyes narrowed. "Micah—"
"I said get out."
The room was silent. The candle-flame sputtered, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Micah stood with his back to them, his hand still gripping Kogoroshi's hilt, his shoulders rigid with tension.
Haigo and Shamrock exchanged a look. Then, without another word, they turned and left.
The door closed behind them, and Micah was alone.
He stood in the middle of the dressing room, his hand still gripping the hilt of his blade, his knuckles white. The cello case was open beside him, its polished wood gleaming, showing a distorted reflection of his face. The sheet music for "The Swan" was scattered across the dressing table, his annotations marking the margins in flowing cursive.
He had been playing it for her.
Micah closed his eyes, and the vision came again—Marya's body collapsing to the ground, her golden eyes going glassy and unfocused. He had killed her. He had tried to kill her. And she had survived. She had survived because she was stronger than him.
She had always been stronger than him.
Micah opened his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself feel something other than anger.
He let himself feel the loss.
The door opened behind him. Bovee, Marcella, and Hao stood in the doorway, their faces etched with concern. They had heard everything. They had seen everything.
Micah didn't turn around. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
He just stood there in the middle of the dressing room, his hand still gripping the hilt of his blade, his eyes fixed on something only he could see.
The Swan was silent.
But the music was still playing.
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