Pierrot stood in the dimly lit room, the members of Wicked Wings gathered around the table. Quill sat at the head, his expression serious but calm. Arc leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he listened.
Crescent and Gibbous sat beside each other, Crescent's fingers tapping lightly on the table, while Gibbous remained still, her gaze fixed on Pierrot. Roy sat at the far end, flipping through papers, though his attention was clearly on the conversation.
"Charles is dead," Pierrot said, his voice steady but carrying a weight that made everyone pause. "He took his own life after killing 99 people. And that was no accident. He made a deal. A demon's contract."
Quill raised an eyebrow, his usual calm demeanor unaffected. "A hundred souls, with the last one being his own?"
