At the end of the hallway, there was an empty small room. In the corner of the room, there was a ladder leading to the roof. Climbing up, the sudden night wind caused a sharp pain in Panthonia's injured left eye. Not far to the east, he heard the sounds of a chase. He looked in that direction and saw Dennisen trying to catch up with Salvaney, who was leaping and running across the adjacent rooftops in the moonlight.
Dennisen wasn't confident in his jumping ability. After crossing the distance between two houses, although frustrated at losing to the much heavier Salvaney, he stopped and raised his gun. The gunshot echoed through the night. He didn't know if he hit the target, but he saw Salvaney stumble to the side and then somehow disappear. He prayed that Salvaney had fallen downstairs and quickly pursued. His prayer was half answered. The houses in the Queen's District were not sturdy enough; Salvaney had broken through the roof and fallen, leaving a large hole.
"Serves him right," Dennisen muttered as he crouched and peered inside. He couldn't see much in the darkness, but at least Salvaney wasn't in sight. He hesitated for a moment and then jumped down.
Inside, he quickly backed against a nearby wall, gripping his gun. But before his eyes could adjust to the darkness, Salvaney rushed out from the shadows and punched him with his left fist. Dennisen tried to block with his gun, but failed. The punch hit near his heart, feeling like he was being slammed against jagged rocks by a waterfall, nearly knocking him unconscious. He collapsed, unsure where his gun fell. Before he could think, Salvaney grabbed his neck and lifted him. Even with his right arm injured, Salvani's left hand was strong enough to kill him soon.
I made a huge mistake. Trying to outdo him for credit. Dennisen grabbed Salvaney's wrist but couldn't budge it. He could only feel the tremor of Salvaney's muscles as they tightened, like watching a blade plunge into his heart in slow motion.
He kneed Salvaney in the face, but it was weak. Salvaney raised his unused right hand, doubling the pressure on Tennyson's neck. Dennisen tried to close his eyes, not wanting his last sight to be his killer's face. He wished it would end quickly.
Just as he was about to lose consciousness, he heard a gunshot nearby. The hands around his neck loosened. As he fell to the ground, he saw Salvani's lower face almost completely destroyed, his ruined tongue hanging from his blackened mouth. Salvaney wasn't dead yet. He gave Dennisen one last look, then slowly turned his head. This time, Panthonia aimed at the upper half of Salvaney's face and fired. The king of the Queen's District wobbled and fell.
It took Dennisen a while to speak again. "I didn't expect you to follow," he said to his partner. "But you should've aimed at his heart. Now people might not believe we killed Salvaney, saying we brought in some faceless corpse… Help me up, will you?"
Panthonia didn't extend a hand. Dennisen faced the barrel of his partner's gun.
"What… what are you doing?" he said. "This isn't funny."
He stared into Panthonia's eyes.
"Put the gun down. I'm serious. Don't…" he said.
"I didn't tell anyone. Only I know what was said that day. I already… I apologized. Let's forget what I said last time, we agreed. Don't scare me like this, Panthonia," he added.
Since that night's conversation, Dennisen had had a premonition. But considering such a possibility seemed too absurd, so he always pushed it to the back of his mind. After all, they had been partners for years. Those mutual rescues weren't fake. He realized he had overestimated his judgment. The person in front of him, despite their long cooperation, had never lived in the same world. Panthonia was closer to Salvaney than to a law enforcement officer.
He gave up. He gave up imagining, thinking, and everything else. He closed his eyes and whispered his fiancée's name.
Panthonia steadied his trembling fingers. He pulled the trigger. The gun didn't fire. The ammo was depleted. Realizing this, Dennisen lunged at him. They both fell to the ground.
"I don't want to die," Dennisen said, kneeling on Pansonia's stomach, punching him. "I won't die. She's waiting for me at home. I…"
Panthonia drew a dagger and stabbed Dennisen in the neck. Tennyson's movements ceased. Panthonia reached out his left hand to cover his partner's eyes, slowly pushing the barely functional body aside. The moonlight pouring through the broken roof illuminated Tennyson's profile and back. Blood spread out in a large pool. The foam on the surface of the blood turned into petal shapes in Tennyson's eyes. Then, the red shifted to white. White flowers sprouted next to the white. Soon, Dennisen saw a field of white flowers in his blood. Not just flowers, but white soil and white sky. If the wind had a color, it would be white too. She stood in the middle of the flower field, in a white dress, as if about to speak… He couldn't hear her. Suddenly, the sky cracked open. The crack grew, and black sludge poured out, crushing petals and grass, tainting everything white. He heard a scream, not belonging to anyone. Ignoring it, he ran towards her, still untouched by the sludge, to protect her. He had to… even if the sludge bound his legs, closed his eyes, and choked his throat. He had only one thing to do.
Dennisen's lips moved one last time, and life faded from his eyes.
Panthonia did not withdraw the dagger. He shifted his body and sat against a wall, away from both corpses.
This was unexpected, he thought. He had never planned for this, though the unease from their previous conversation lingered. Dennisen knew too much. Just like the informants who had blackmailed him before. You knew too much. And you. And you too. And you. They had been mere temporary threats and were already dead. Dennisen knew things that could ruin his entire future. So, naturally, he had to die as well. For Panthonia, that was how things worked. The key was his relationship with Aretta — once exposed, Panthonia would lose the trust of everyone in the bureau, and Koen would not recommend him in such a scenario.
But he had never planned to kill his partner. It was a sudden impulse. It emerged...
...the moment after shooting Salvaney. When Dennisen said, "Help me up," Panthonia suddenly realized: someone could verify that Dennisen had first pursued Salvaney alone; moreover, there was no one else in the house now. The word "kill" hadn't truly formed in his mind. But these two facts, like hands reaching out from a black swamp, grabbed Panthonia's wrists and aimed the gun at his partner. It was almost an instinctive reaction—to perceive and seize the opportunity to eliminate an obstacle. Only after seeing the fear and confusion in his partner's eyes did he understand: he had intended to kill him. If he had planned it, the right move would have been to confirm whether Dennisen had shared anything with others. He had missed that step.
Once his intent was clear, there was no turning back. His lifelong beliefs and habits wouldn't allow him to back down. Noticing the tremor in his trigger finger, he suspected a conflict between his mind and body, but neither side decisively chose to kill Dennisen. The final chance to retract was when he realized the ammunition was spent. Panthonia could have pretended to know the gun wouldn't fire, using it as a warning, but Dennisen's quick retaliation gave him a reason to act again. An irreparable rift had formed. The conflict demanding a conclusion already existed. He had to ensure this matter had a reasonable end.
What was a reasonable end?
No one survived the scene except him. Salvaney killed Dennisen.
What was a reasonable end?
He achieved merit. Due to his partner's death, he would face some investigation, but it would not be a major issue.
What was a reasonable end?
He fulfilled his promise to Duke Koen. The Duke would push to establish an independent intelligence agency, making him the first leader.
These were reasonable outcomes. Yes, the predetermined path was such. There was no other choice but to continue.
What was unreasonable?
Dennisen's misplaced expectations. The word he used was… friend. He said he hoped to be friends and tried to prove it with actions. He indeed tried.
The pain in his left eye never ceased.
Panthonia recalled events from when he was thirteen. He had killed a crippled soldier and defenseless old men. For his first act of killing, he felt no tension or fear, as if he was accustomed to such things. But later, when he decided to spare a woman's life, he began to feel nervous. And when he buried the woman who had died of illness, he became even more anxious. It felt like he was slowly killing her a second time. Killing was not terrifying; burying was. He shoveled dirt into the pit faster and faster, wanting to end the torment and slaughter quickly. The sound of cold wind in the forest seemed to tear at his ears. Now, facing Dennisen's body, he felt a similar sensation. His body was sinking; this descent was necessary for his current self. He believed that from now on, the things he could do and should do would increase. Before backup arrived, Panthonia stood up.