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The General's murder proved far greater kindling for the Town's anger. News traveled fast, and riots had broken out across the entire town. He hated the feeling of a gun in his palm, how easily it came to him despite his oaths. Daniil's hand could scarcely hold a scalpel to save a life, and yet this laid so steady in his grip.
'They're soaked to the bone with blood. A fighter's hands.'
When he returned to the Stillwater, Eva did not greet him.
There was no time to search the premises—he'd only come for his ammo, needing to make multiple treks across those rage-tinted districts. The army had left these riots to burn themselves out, and Daniil didn't know whether to resent it or not. On one hand, a soldier only knew how to put out fires with blood, yet on the other, none of those deaths would matter once he figured out how to stop Lara. At this point, he'd rather they make it easier.
Like a see-saw, his emotions tipped leftward with a pathetic thud. Desperate, Dankovsky?
Once again he made his way to the Stone Yard Quarter. Here, the road verge, the water pump, and there, the street sweeper, the—
In the Cathedral's shadow, her pale figured had been rendered in monochrome stone, a woman standing over her in solitary vigil.
🔗 the sound a pebble makes
ch.3 — where time finally lurches forward, if only in the eaves of the Cathedral.
her crash would have always reached his ears too late, m
#pathologic #pathologic3 #fic
