Inside the second-floor bedroom of the hotel.
Moon leaned against the balcony railing and glanced up at the clock.
Midnight sharp.
It was still bright outside.
Pentagram City never truly quieted down at night; flashes of fire erupted in the distance from time to time, followed moments later by the muffled boom of explosions.
He placed his unlit cigarette on the windowsill—a silent sacrifice to the night—then turned and left the room.
The hallway was silent.
The scent of old wood and mildew peculiar to ancient buildings fermented in the late hours, mingled with an indescribable sense of anticipation.
He descended the stairs slowly.
Reaching the first floor, he first noticed several wall lamps still glowing in the lobby.
Then, he saw the people.
Angel was curled into a ball on the sofa, clutching a long pillow with his legs draped over the armrest.
The collar of his robe hung loose and disheveled.
He wasn’t even on his phone; he just stared blankly at the ceiling.
Husk was slumped behind the bar, his feline ears drooping.
The whiskey in his hand was only half-gone; he looked less like he was drinking to get drunk and more like he was just killing time.
On the other side, Charlie and Vaggie were squeezed into a single armchair.
Charlie had already drifted off, clutching a cup of cold coffee, her head nodding rhythmically.
Vaggie held a book, though she hadn’t turned a page in a long time.
Even in the shadows of the corner, Moon could sense a faint ripple of red light.
A certain Radio Demon was apparently present as well.
Husk’s ears twitched at the sound of footsteps.
The drowsiness on his face shifted into an awkward, prickly expression.
“Tch,” Husk grumbled, trying to cover for himself.
“I knew a guy like you would come down and make some noise eventually.
Figured I might as well wait here rather than be woken up later.”
Hearing this, Angel propped himself up from the sofa, rubbed his face, and let out a long yawn.
“You finally showed up.
I thought you’d flaked on me.”
Charlie jolted awake.
Her hand jerked, nearly dropping her cup.
What?
Has it started?
I mean…
good evening, Mr.
Moon!”
Vaggie closed her book and looked up at Moon.
Though her expression remained neutral, the fact that she didn’t immediately reach for her weapon was the greatest sign of goodwill she could offer.
Moon looked around at them.
With a nod, he walked toward the piano.
At this moment, words were superfluous.
He sat down at the bench, his posture casual.
There was no redundant ceremony this time.
He simply lifted his hands and pressed the first note.
*Do—Sol—La—Mi—Fa—Do—Fa—Sol—*
Pachelbel’s *Canon in D*.
It was perhaps one of the simplest melodies in human history.
A cycle of eight notes, as relentless as the rising sun or the turning tides.
It possessed no aggression, nor even much emotional volatility; it was simply an exquisite, almost divine order.
In a Hell defined by chaos and unpredictability, this absolute “order” was a powerful magic in its own right.
The bass line in his left hand flowed like a steady river, laying down a solid foundation.
The treble in his right hand was like starlight dancing on the water—agile and tender.
As one phrase ended, another followed immediately.
They intertwined, mimicking one another, yet always maintaining a harmonious distance.
Much like the people gathered in this hotel.
Angel, who had been swinging his legs while hugging his pillow, stopped moving after a few moments.
He sank deeper into the sofa, rested his chin on the pillow, and closed his eyes.
In this moment, he wasn’t a flamboyant spider selling his body; he was just a tired, unlucky kid who wanted to go home.
Charlie leaned against Vaggie’s shoulder, her eyes misty as she watched Moon’s fingers dance across the keys.
Her heart felt wrapped in soft cotton.
Vaggie’s hand had initially rested on her book, tapping out a faint rhythm on the cover.
After a few cycles, she set the book aside and went still.
She thought of the clouds in Heaven, of the days before she had picked up a spear to kill.
But this melody held no judgment, only acceptance.
An unconditional acceptance of everything that had passed.
Husk stopped drinking.
The ice in his glass had mostly melted.
He peered through the amber liquid at the silhouette seated before the piano.
“Hmph.
Not just a connoisseur, but a pro,” he muttered under his breath before tilting his head back to drain the lukewarm dregs.
Moon didn’t use any flashy techniques.
He simply repeated.
Again and again.
With every cycle, the tone became softer and lighter.
It wasn’t so much that he was playing the piano as he was tuning the frequency of the room, using sound to resonate with the fractured souls filling the space.
The red static in the corner stabilized.
If one’s hearing were sharp enough, they might have caught a sigh mixed with electronic interference from the shadows: *Perfect.*
Another cycle passed.
Angel had fallen asleep, slumped sideways on the sofa clutching his pillow, a bit of drool escaping the corner of his mouth.
Charlie couldn’t hold out any longer either; her head lolled to the side.
Vaggie shifted her shoulder to give her a more stable place to lean, remaining silent herself.
Gradually, the lobby was filled with nothing but faint breathing and the sound of the piano.
Moon brought the final cycle to a slow close.
He held his fingers against the keys, waiting for the trailing echoes to dissipate completely before drawing his hands away.
No one spoke.
The lights were still on, the alcohol unfinished, and the coffee long cold.
One was asleep on the sofa, two were leaning together in the chair, and one was slumped over the bar.
Even the red light in the corner had settled.
Moon sat there quietly, watching them for a moment.
Then, he stood up slowly and headed upstairs.