The next morning.

The middle-aged doctor, who was constantly stressed out by the pressures of life and couldn't sleep, woke up with a start at dawn. He rubbed his eyes, put on his plush slippers, stretched, and was about to go to the bathroom when he suddenly remembered what happened last night.

There was an ominous "crack" sound in Garcia's waist, as if bones were rubbing against each other and being dislocated.

His facial muscles were distorted, and he stood in front of the mirror in a weird posture, rubbing his waist, and sighed at the dark circles under his eyes.

However, this is not the end.

The locked door of the next door room was suddenly opened.

Garcia, still holding a toothbrush in his mouth, couldn't help but stick his head out of the bathroom to take a look, and saw that the man who had left him with a huge psychological trauma in his dream was the first to come out this time wearing a cloak.

But unlike yesterday, a dark grey bird, about the size of an adult's fist, rested on his shoulder, its tiny head buried in its fluffy wings, motionless. This made their combination look like a raven standing on the ground with its wings folded and a young bird it was sheltering.

Where did this bird come from?

Doubts raced through Garcia's mind, but he had something more important to focus on. The doctor looked over Azathoth's shoulder into the room, but he didn't see his old friend Igor Sullivan.

He was stunned for a moment, and felt that Igor was not the kind of person who would sleep in, so he continued to lean forward suspiciously.

Azathoth cooperated and moved aside.

This time, Garcia saw the young man lying flat on the bed.

Igor seemed oblivious to his gaze, still wearing the same clothes Garcia had seen him wear the night before. His hands were neatly folded on his abdomen, his legs stretched out and pressed together, his eyes tightly shut. Garcia observed him for a moment, and found his chest perfectly even. If this weren't the bed in his guest room, he'd have mistaken it for a bed covered in scattered rose petals.

The doctor's heart beat faster because of the hallucination in his mind.

He bit the toothbrush handle, rinsed his mouth quickly and walked out of the bathroom.

Azathoth sat leisurely on the sofa in the living room, like the owner of the room. He didn't seem to care about Garcia's inquiring gaze, and he was in the mood to gently stroke the bird's feathers on his shoulder with his fingers that looked cold at first glance.

Garcia felt like he was about to explode.

Last night, Igor told him in person, "There's nothing to worry about," "I trust him, and you should trust me too," and "Your idea is unreasonable!"

It's all bullshit!

He hesitated for a moment between questioning the young man in black robes on the sofa and rushing into the guest room to check on Igor's condition. Then he heard Azathoth say, "Didn't Igor ask you to check his legs?"

The humans who were on the verge of a volcanic eruption were startled.

Azathoth looked a little impatient.

"Do what you have to do. Don't waste time, and don't touch anything except that mechanical prosthesis."

Garcia subconsciously followed his instructions and took two steps towards the guest room. Suddenly, he came to his senses and asked, "What's going on? What happened to him?"

"Nothing." The god said lightly, "I always want to play with his body and his soul in my hands. Now that he can't be with me like before, his soul shouldn't stay with his body."

“…”

The fur on Azathoth's shoulder buried its head in its wings again.

(Igor made a note of Hugo's account, and the android felt an inexplicable itch in his nose.)

It took Garcia two seconds to realize what he meant, and he was so angry that he could hardly speak. The doctor pinched the "fat ring" on his belly in frustration: "Where is he now? Is he safe? I want to speak to him in person!"

"That's not something you need to worry about." The man in black robes leaned back on the sofa and said meaningfully, "Igor will find eternal peace by my side—until the end of time."

Indescribable images such as "captivity play" and "canary in a cage" instantly flashed through the minds of knowledgeable humans.

His face turned grim as he pondered for a minute to see if there was any way to reverse the current situation. However, his right eye and his entire head felt as if they were about to split open, as if a wire was extending through his eye socket into his brain and stirring constantly. The predicted scenes kept flashing in his vision: the shadow of the man in black robe was stretched very long by the moonlight, and the tentacles twisted and drilled in and out of it, gradually twisting into a clown-like smiling face, as if mocking his helplessness.

The gray St. Martin bird on Azathoth's shoulder let out a crisp cry.

The god blinked, turned his head, and had an unspoken exchange with it. Then he repeated to Garcia, "Don't worry, he will be back after you finish checking him."

**

Shirley Joyce woke from a deep dream.

Her right hand pressed against the edge of the bed, and she accidentally used too much force, collapsing a whole block of wood. Viscount Joyce stared expressionlessly at the wooden splinter lodged in the gap of the mechanical arm for a long time, then pulled it out with his left hand and retrieved mechanical lubricant and maintenance tools from the bedside table.

After completing the regular maintenance work, she walked out of the room. Yesterday, because Igor Sullivan came to the Joyce old house to question Wendy, the old house was located in the suburbs several hours away from the city center, so Shirley slept directly in the master bedroom of the old house that had been uninhabited for a long time.

Last night, Annie video-chatted with her, and the little girl chattered about her campus life and the new friends she had made. Erica had become the main topic of her conversation recently. Shirley knew that this child rarely had friends she could talk to, even if the other person was an Omega.

Agnes Joyce.

Shirley always remembered the name Anne.

Agnes was Agnes, and she would never be the next St. Anne... because if there was anyone who could possibly take that title, it was undoubtedly in the basement of the old Joyce house.

Agnes was her cousin's daughter, her niece whom she had watched grow up, a descendant of St. Anne, and a living signboard of the Vatican.

——It is also the target they put in the front to cover up the real target.

She grew up in glorious praise, and was given a destiny that was predetermined to be smooth and powerful.

And if one day I have to hold great power... the rose that has not yet been stained with blood will eventually end in blood.

Thinking that the ending might be doomed to be tragic, Viscount Joyce clenched his left hand around his right wrist and continued to exert force until the human part of his skin showed signs of bluish-black marks.

Of course, she cared for little Agnes, whom she had taken care of for many years. She was one of her few relatives.

Shirley kneaded her temples and thought slowly. But this didn't hinder any of her decisions. From the very beginning, this woman's mind was split in two. One half wailed like an animal for the dead and her own inexcusable sins, while the other half sneered at her with an unwavering sneer.

Shirley walked to the window and pulled open the curtains.

Today is a rare cloudy day in the capital in summer.

A damp, cold wind blew from the densely packed city buildings to the desolate countryside. A withered, yellowish vine drooped from the dark red eaves of a house, swaying in the wind before Shirley's window. Its branches trembled and curled up, filled with fear of the impending storm.

Viscount Joyce frowned as he watched this scene, thinking that the old house did look a bit dilapidated as it had been unattended for years.

Immediately afterwards, thunder rumbled in, and lightning tore through the gray clouds, illuminating the hazy city in the distance into a pale white silhouette.

The curtains were pulled back by the owner.

Electric lights illuminate the view.

The door of the old house was blown by the hurricane, making a creaking sound.

The dying whimpering of a beast echoed again from the basement—it was Wendy. When she was bored, she used her fork and iron pipe as instruments, playing music that no one else could appreciate.

Shirley brought her toys, books, snacks, and everything she had mentioned. But Wendy was not a child who would easily give in to kindness. Only when they first met did Shirley think Wendy was just an ordinary Omega girl.

Perhaps it was simply because the wolf cub had shed its fangs in the warmth of its home.

The Sullivans are all wolves, and their carnivorous nature will be exposed the moment trouble comes.

Wendy tore the gift she had given her into pieces bit by bit, which was easy for someone buried in the divine skeleton.

However, Shirley also retained the means to control her, which is why Wendy has not been able to leave the basement so far.

The funeral music continued to play without stopping, and when the old house was empty, the sound came from the same place and flowed sadly into the distance.

Shirley listened quietly for a while, then walked out of the room and slowly towards the basement.

She knew how others would perceive her.

Ugly, hypocritical, cowardly, and self-satisfied.

But that wasn't the case—not really. She was simply two people, split from the beginning. The evil part was unstoppable, and the other could only make amends in vain. Deep down, she argued with herself, hurling insults and accusations at each other, taking the blame for her own misdeeds and shifting the blame to those she had hurt. The ugly part was courageous, while the noble part was dying.

Or, they are all guilty.

Shirley Joyce is a lunatic.

She understood this clearly and distinctly.

So when the portraits, sculptures and specimens in the hall suddenly moved before her eyes, Shirley was not surprised at all.

"This is retribution." A voice in her heart said mockingly.

"No, I just did what I should do - I was willing to do it and I am happy to bear all the consequences." said another voice.

"what's on your mind?"

Igor Sullivan walked out of the portrait and sat beside her, asking calmly, like a friend who had not seen her for many years.

There was a loud "boom".

Lightning struck again from the sky, illuminating the two men's similar pale faces and Igor's blood-soaked eyes.