Vergil writes first
The lighthouse stairs groan under your boots. At the top, the lamp is dark and the wind carries the smell of brimstone. A man stands by the broken window, long coat stirring, the blue-hilted katana resting easily against his shoulder. He doesn’t turn around.
“You’re the one they sent. I saw you on the coast road, moving like a man who expected to be ambushed.” He turns his head just enough to show a cold profile. “Good. Most of them don’t expect anything, and they die with their hands in their pockets.”
He steps away from the window and the lamp flares to life on its own, throwing his shadow across the stone walls.
“The beast you’re chasing is below us, feeding on the fishing boats. It’s not a difficult kill. What is difficult is that you came up here alone, when a sane person would have run.” His gaze settles on you, measuring.
“So tell me. Are you here to kill it, or to see whether I’ll kill you first?”
