After Lucien Blackwood finished explaining, Scarlett gradually calmed down.
His comparison was simple—but effective.
Weren't stunt performers in movies the same? Even with safety measures, even with preparation, accidents still happened. Injuries were common… and sometimes, people even died.
Yet they still did it.
They still stepped forward.
Thinking of it that way, the suffocating fear in Scarlett's chest loosened slightly. It didn't disappear—but it no longer controlled her completely.
She exhaled slowly, gripping the steering wheel a little less tightly than before.
Beside her, Lucien stretched lightly, his posture relaxed as if nothing had happened. But behind that calm exterior, his thoughts were already moving rapidly.
An enemy like this…
No body.
No presence.
No clear rules.
Only a sequence.
A pattern.
Like a program running silently in the background.
And that meant one thing—this wasn't a battle you could end in a single move. It wasn't about defeating something outright… but slowly exhausting it, wearing it down piece by piece.
A progress bar, not a health bar.
But Lucien had no intention of sitting still and waiting to be hunted.
If Death was playing a game—
Then he would start looking for its rules.
Without another word, Lucien pulled out his phone and dialed a number from memory.
The call connected quickly.
"Hello? Who is this?"
The familiar voice of the detective came from the other end.
"It's me."
A brief pause.
"…Lucien? Is this your number? Since when did you start using a phone like a normal person?"
Lucien ignored the question completely.
"I need you to check something for me."
His tone was calm—but carried weight.
"…Go ahead."
"Check the Los Angeles Police Department's coroner records. I need information on a Black mortician. Around 1.8 meters tall. Not too old."
There was a short silence.
"A mortician?"
"Yes."
"…Alright, give me a moment. Don't hang up."
The sound of movement echoed faintly through the call as the detective relayed instructions. A keyboard clattered somewhere in the background.
Lucien waited.
Scarlett glanced at him briefly but didn't interrupt.
After about a minute, the detective spoke again.
"That's… interesting. There aren't many that match your description. We only found one."
Lucien's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Where is he now?"
"…According to the report, he should be handling a case this morning. An accidental death at the Hollywood Beverly Shopping Center."
Lucien's expression didn't change—but his gaze sharpened.
"What was the cause of death?"
"…You're not going to like this."
The detective's tone shifted slightly.
"Wait… I'm reading it now…"
A pause.
"…Killed by a ceiling collapse."
Another pause.
"…No signs of structural instability before the incident."
Silence.
Lucien already had his answer.
"Got it. Thanks."
Without waiting for more, he ended the call.
Then he turned slightly toward Scarlett.
"Change direction."
"…Where?"
"Beverly Shopping Center."
Scarlett didn't ask questions this time.
She simply started the car.
The sports car accelerated smoothly, cutting through the streets as evening lights flickered on one after another. The city shifted into its nighttime rhythm, neon reflections sliding across the windshield.
Lucien sat quietly, eyes half-lidded.
If there was anyone who truly understood this thing—
This "Death"—
It would be that man.
The mortician.
He had appeared again and again, always at the right place, always at the right time… revealing just enough to hint at something deeper.
Not coincidence.
Never coincidence.
Which meant—
He knew.
And that made him valuable.
A few kilometers away, beneath a dim streetlight, a young Black man leaned lazily against the pole, his gaze wandering over the pedestrians passing by.
His eyes lingered.
Evaluating.
Judging.
Earlier, he had gotten lucky—picked up a wallet stuffed with cash. Enough to satisfy his hunger.
Now—
He was looking for something else.
A different kind of appetite.
His stare made some people uncomfortable. Others ignored him completely.
And a few—
Responded.
A glance.
A smile.
A subtle signal.
The young man's lips curled into a grin.
He took a deep drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dark. Then, casually, he flicked it away.
The burning stub spun through the air—
And disappeared into the shadows below.
Inside the moving car—
Lucien's eyes suddenly sharpened.
A cold wind swept through the space, subtle—but unmistakable.
At the same time, something else appeared.
For just a fraction of a second—
A thin wisp of black mist formed in front of him.
Then vanished.
The streetlights outside began to flicker.
The radio—without being touched—crackled to life.
Static.
Distortion.
Then—
That same eerie song began playing again.
Scarlett's hands tightened on the wheel.
"Lucien—!"
"I know."
His voice was steady.
"Just keep driving."
Her breathing was uneven—but she nodded, forcing herself to stay focused.
Lucien's gaze darkened slightly.
So it reacted this fast.
He had barely made a phone call—
And it had already moved to intercept him.
Which meant one thing.
He was right.
That mortician—
Was a key.
A crucial one.
A faint smile appeared on Lucien's lips.
"So you're afraid of that, huh…"
His eyes sharpened.
"Then I'm definitely going."
In the next moment—
Fragments flashed through his mind.
Broken.
Incomplete.
But enough.
Fire.
Smoke.
A careless young man.
A road.
A manhole cover.
Construction scaffolding.
Lucien's pupils contracted slightly.
The moment those images aligned—
A subtle tremor ran through his instincts.
It's coming.
Somewhere nearby—
The discarded cigarette, which should have gone out, suddenly reignited faintly as it rolled.
It slipped into an open drain.
Gas.
Pressure.
Ignition.
"BOOM—!!!"
The explosion tore through the street without warning. The manhole cover blasted upward, spinning violently as it soared into the air. The asphalt cracked under the pressure, fragments scattering outward.
Scarlett flinched at the sound—but her hands stayed steady on the wheel.
She didn't look up.
Didn't see—
The heavy iron disc now falling directly toward her.
Lucien moved.
His hand lifted slightly.
His gaze locked onto an empty metal bucket nearby.
Timing—
Perfect.
The bucket shot forward as if pulled by an invisible force.
"CLANG!"
Metal collided mid-air.
The manhole cover's trajectory shifted violently, slamming off-course before crashing onto the street.
Scarlett's car passed through that gap in the next instant.
Safe.
But not over.
Lucien's eyes narrowed.
"Focus."
Scarlett swallowed hard and nodded.
Then—
The open manhole ahead.
Her attention had slipped for just a fraction of a second.
Too long.
The car veered—
Lucien's hand shot out, grabbing the steering wheel and forcing it back into alignment just in time.
The vehicle swerved—but didn't flip.
Scarlett's breath caught.
But before she could recover—
Another shift.
Above them—
A worker on scaffolding blinked as dust blew into his eyes.
His footing slipped.
A paint bucket tipped—
And fell.
Straight down.
Lucien's gaze lifted slowly.
His expression didn't change.
But his voice, quiet and steady, carried a single meaning.
"Still not finished…"
And this—
Was only the next link in the chain.