Ezra stepped hesitantly out of the room, his body still aching from the cuts and bruises, the bandages feeling tight around his torso. The air downstairs was thick with the scent of food—something hearty and warm.
His feet moved on their own accord, his mind still lost in the whirlwind of confusion and the bizarre circumstances that had led him here. The walls of the house around him felt strangely unfamiliar but comforting in their quiet, homely nature.
Soft light filtered through the windows, casting the wooden beams in a golden glow. The whole space was rustic but lived-in—bookshelves lined the walls, and the occasional trinket, like a small brass compass or an old, tarnished mirror, gave the space a character Ezra couldn't quite place.
He felt like an intruder in this peaceful, almost dreamlike atmosphere, but his questions burned through his exhaustion.
Just as Ezra made it to the foot of the stairs, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching behind him. Isolde emerged into view, carrying a small tray in her hands. Her expression was calm, almost detached, but her eyes held something darker—something like knowing.
"Good, you're down. I didn't want to have to come up there to bring you these rice balls," she said, setting the tray down on the table with a small smile.
Ezra, still uneasy and unsure, took a seat. The room, despite its serenity, felt charged with the unspoken. Isolde's calm demeanor did little to ease his racing thoughts. She gestured for him to eat.
As he sat down, his fingers grazed the warm plate. The rice balls, neatly wrapped and delicate, looked almost too perfect. But as he looked at them, his stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from the weight of everything that had happened. He wasn't sure how to feel about any of it.
"I just wanted to say, thanks for treating my cut," he muttered, his voice heavy with gratitude yet laced with curiosity.
Isolde gave a small nod as she took a seat across from him. Her hands rested calmly on the table. "Actually, it's not treated properly. That's why I called a doctor. He should be here soon, but he's a bit slow," she said casually, her tone almost clinical.
Ezra blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Oh, but I'm fine, though," he said, unsure why she was making such a big deal about it.
"Trust me," Isolde said, her gaze never leaving him. "You need a real doctor." Her voice wasn't just calm anymore—it was firm, as if she knew better than he did.
Ezra shifted in his seat, his discomfort growing. "There's so much I need to ask you, though," he said, leaning forward slightly. The weight of everything he'd experienced over the last few hours pressed on him, and now, sitting here in this strange room, he felt the need for answers more than ever. "What is the Veil? What's a Veil Keeper? Who are you? Where am I? How did I end up here? And what are those monsters?"
Isolde listened, her expression unchanged, but there was a glimmer in her eyes. She sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. It was almost as if she expected the questions—no, as if she had been waiting for them. She didn't immediately answer, and the silence between them felt heavy, stretching out in a way that made Ezra more anxious with each passing second.
"I see," Isolde finally said. Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it now. "And I've got one question for you, Erza."
Ezra's brow furrowed. "Oh? And what's that?" he asked, his voice tinged with exhaustion but still sharp with curiosity.
Isolde's eyes flicked to his, her gaze piercing. "Why on God's earth are you cursed?" She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Who in hell ended up cursing you?"
The words hit Ezra like a physical blow. His mind recoiled at the suggestion, his heart thundering in his chest. His breath caught in his throat. *Cursed?* The thought hadn't crossed his mind—not like this. He had felt something dark, something wrong, but he had never put it into words. Not like she had.
"How… how do you know that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of her question sinking in.
Isolde didn't flinch. Her gaze was unyielding, as if she had been waiting for him to ask. She wasn't just some stranger who had saved his life—there was something far deeper to her than Ezra had initially realized. Her eyes seemed to pierce through him, as if she could see the curse that clung to him, that ancient and malevolent thing twisting within.
Isolde continued to watch him with a mix of curiosity and something darker—something that felt like pity, or maybe understanding.
"You don't even know, do you?" she said quietly, almost to herself. "The curse is bound to your soul, Erza. It's not something you can just ignore."
A cold shiver ran down Ezra's spine as the weight of her words sank in.
"I don't know what you are talking about but before he could finish he remembered what happened in the cave with the monster."
"So that monster wasn't joking," Ezra murmured aloud, his eyes widening in shock.
Isolde's eyes, which had been calm until now, suddenly sharpened, like the flash of a predator catching a glimpse of its prey. "Really? Which monster cursed you?" she asked, her tone shifting from casual to intense in an instant.
Ezra blinked. "It called itself... The Watcher," he said, almost unsure of the words, as though they didn't fit into the reality he knew.
Isolde's breath caught, her eyes widening with something that looked like recognition—or perhaps dread. "You're saying one of the Six Kings of Hell cursed you?" she asked, her voice low and urgent. "If he did... where is he? Which artifact do you have the longest on you?" Her voice dropped even further, becoming almost a whisper, but there was no mistaking the gravity in her words.
"What are you talking about?" Ezra asked, now feeling completely lost. " The Watcher was not just a monster—it was something far worse, something tied to ancient and unimaginable forces.
Isolde sighed deeply, running a hand through her hair, her fingers trembling slightly. "These monsters... they're devils," she said, her voice carrying an unsettling weight. "When they curse a human, they don't just leave it at that. They bind themselves to the nearest living thing, something that will carry the curse with them. A person's soul, a family heirloom, or an artifact—something that connects them to their humanity."
Ezra stared at her, piecing the information together in a way that felt like it belonged in a nightmare. "Oh…" He swallowed hard, the realization settling in his chest like a stone. "He's in my teddy bear. The one I got from my mom. Before you found me,after he... escaped."
"Shiiiiit," Isolde cursed, "The Watcher, one of the Six Kings of Hell. That's... That's bad."
Ezra's stomach churned. He couldn't comprehend the enormity of what he had just said. The Six Kings of Hell? He had no idea what that even meant, but he knew instinctively that it was far worse than anything he'd ever imagined. And now, The Watcher—whatever that was—was inside his childhood teddy bear.
Out of now where the door starts to bang
Suddenly, there was a loud, rapid banging on the door. The sound was frantic, sharp against the quiet tension of the room. Both Ezra and Isolde froze, their eyes snapping to the source of the noise.
Isolde stood quickly, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Stay here," she ordered, her voice hard and commanding. She goes on her phone to make a call
Ezra watched her for a moment as she made her way toward the kitchen. He had so many more questions—about the Watcher, about his curse, about what the hell was going on.
"Could you open the door?" she called out, her tone casual, but there was an edge to it that betrayed her calm facade.
Ezra hesitated for a moment, then pulled the door open, only to be greeted by the sight of a tall, lean figure standing in the doorway. The man before him was an unusual sight. He had an unkempt appearance, but something about him exuded a quiet, sharp intellect. His face was a strange mix of intrigue and wisdom, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he surveyed the room.
But what caught Ezra's attention the most were his eyes—or rather, the lack of them. The man wore dark-tinted, round glasses, the lenses opaque and concealing his sightless gaze. There was an air of mystery surrounding him, as if he existed outside the boundaries of normal human experience. His hair was silver, falling messily around his face, giving him an eccentric, almost intellectual look.
"Aye, I'm Dr. Vesper Calder," the man said, his voice rich and confident, carrying a slight accent. "This world's best doctor, I suppose. You must be my patient."