Moments before…

  In a quiet, shadowed alleyway, a safe distance from the screaming pandemonium of the Sey Lanz Opera House, Emile finally stopped. The air here was cooler, shielded from the worst of the panic, though the acrid smell of smoke and ozone still hung heavy, a grim reminder of the chaos they had just fled. The distant, terrified screams from the plaza were a muted, horrifying backdrop.

  He gently set Anise down from his arms, her small legs trembling as they touched the cobblestones. He let go of Mary’s wrist.

  “At this distance,” Emile stated, his voice the same calm, gentle monotone, “I have calculated it to be safe.”

  “Papa, I’m scared.” Anise’s voice was a small, watery thing. She didn’t run, but immediately clung to his leg, her face buried in the fabric of his trousers. “Everything is so loud.”

  “There is no need to worry, Anise.” Emile’s hand, so impossibly steady, came down to pat her head, his touch a soft, reassuring presence. “Mama is here.” He gently gestured for Anise to go to Mary. “Everything will be perfectly fine. I promise. Just close your ears if it’s loud.” His kind, gentle smile was still in place, a bizarre, serene island in a sea of terror.

  Mary’s hand flew out, but not to comfort her daughter. She grabbed Emile’s arm, her grip a desperate, white-knuckled thing. Her earlier fear was now eclipsed by a new, more urgent and terrifying suspicion.

  “You are still not answering me!” she demanded, her voice a sharp, hissing whisper that was more intense than any shout. “What was that thing back there? And how did you know it was coming? ‘Run!’ you said, before it even appeared! Please, Emile, explain to me!” Her voice cracked, a raw, maternal terror in her eyes. “I can’t afford you endangering Anise any longer!”

  “Mama, don’t shout at Papa!” Anise cried, her small face streaked with tears as she tugged on Mary’s dress.

  “Look, dear, he is…” Mary’s words caught in her throat. She wanted to say it, to scream that he wasn’t her father, that he was a stranger, a mystery, a potential danger, someone she tolerated because her daughter needs a friend. But as she looked at her daughter’s terrified, tear-streaked face, at the simple, absolute trust in her eyes as she clung to Emile, she couldn’t. Now was not the time.

  “Look, Mary.” Emile’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the heavy silence. He met her gaze, his own calm and unwavering. And then, he told her the truth. “That thing is modeled after me. It is a machine made after me.” He paused, his gaze drifting for a fraction of a second towards the distant, smoking opera house. “And it has come here to take me… and an ‘anomaly’… down.”

  Mary was left completely, utterly speechless. The words, they were… insane. They were the ravings of a madman, the plot of some ridiculous, high-budget fantasy play. But the burning smell in the air, the distant, terrified screams, the memory of that impossible, brass-and-iron nightmare crashing through the ceiling… it was all undeniably real.

  His fantastical, impossible story was, somehow, the only thing that made sense.

  “Then… then you are saying you are also not human?” Mary’s voice was a raw, broken whisper, her stress visibly reaching its breaking point. “Then what are you? Why have you come here? Is everything up until now a lie?”

  Emile watched her, his head tilting just slightly, his expression still one of unsettling calm. In the back of his mind, he understood her reaction. She was a 'normal' single mother, swept up in a business that was far beyond her comprehension. Just like those two back then. A nobody and somebody. It was time for him to come forward.

  “Yes,” he began, his voice the same clear, gentle tone he now always wore. “Part of it was a lie.”

  “Part?” The word hung in the air, a small, terrifying hook that Mary’s mind seized upon. But nevertheless, she let him continue.

  “I was built and sent here by ‘IT’,” Emile continued, his gaze becoming distant, as if accessing a file from a far-off place. “A being whose truth is hidden. My mission was to infiltrate, blend in, and eliminate the source of the ‘anomaly.’”

  He paused, his gaze returning to her. “The amnesia itself was a lie. I truly do not possess my own personal memory. My personality, my knowledge of humanoid culture… it was built. Based off snippets and recollections from my target, and the person he is closest to.”

  His gaze flickered for a moment, a flash of an unreadable, almost mechanical calculation. “As for crashing through your backyard,” he added, his voice still impossibly calm, “that was all coincidence. A navigation error and glitch in my system.”

  The blood drained from Mary’s face. The kind, gentle florist, the quiet lodger, the man her daughter called ‘Papa’… it was all a construct. A performance. A lie built from the pieces of someone else.

  “So you are using us,” she whispered, the words a hollow, terrible realization. “Like… like toys? A camouflage of sort?” Her voice cracked, and in a single, desperate motion, she pulled Anise behind her, shielding her daughter with her own trembling body.

  “Are you going to kill us now?”

  “That, I will not do,” Emile stated simply, his calm smile unwavering. “The memories stored within me… they are from the ‘anomaly’ itself. The more I tried to integrate them, the more illogical fallacies I came upon.”

  His gaze softened, a new, genuine warmth entering his eyes. “My first emotion based on those illogical fallacies. The one I developed soon after meeting you two. Curiosity.”

  He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a small, perfect bouquet of wildflowers, the same kind that grew in the hidden park. He knelt, offering them to the small, terrified girl still hiding behind her mother’s legs.

  “And…” he said, his voice a quiet, gentle thing. “She helped me with understand it.”

  Anise peeked out, her tear-filled eyes wide with confusion, and slowly, hesitantly, took the flowers.

  “She was the first human who I, in your words, ‘connected to’,” Emile explained, his gaze rising to meet Mary’s. “Her smile, her dreams, her innocence… it was something I found precious. Something that the memories told me was ‘worth protecting’ and the way my curiosity forced me to see her trajectory. So that’s what I did. I ended up renting a place in your café. And bonding with Anise. And you too, Mary.”

  He stood, his expression earnest. “This alone is not a lie. You two took me in, and in your kindness to a stranger like me, taught me so many things. Day by day, more and more emotions were built up inside of me. The stronger my desire to stay, the more illogical I became. And that is how I started to become my own being. That is when I started to ask… if what I’m ordered to do is worth completing.”

  He paused, a flicker of that old, analytical confusion in his eyes. “However, there is still one thing inside the memories stored that I failed to comprehend. And that is ‘love.’”

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  His gaze met Mary’s, a shared, silent memory of a sun-dappled afternoon passing between them. “The picnic,” he asked, his voice quiet. “Do you remember?”

  Mary just nodded, her throat tight, her mind reeling.

  “That was my first effort to understand the last piece of the puzzle,” he said. “Why are so many things, the actions humans and Sacreds take, bound by this ‘love’? So I asked you. And the answer you gave me was…” He recounted her words with perfect, mechanical clarity, yet his tone was now full of a new, profound understanding.

  “‘You don’t know what love is. You cannot begin to describe it. Just that Anise is my whole love, and that you would sacrifice everything for that love to bloom.’”

  He looked at her, his gaze full of a quiet, almost sad respect. “A definition of love from someone who was also betrayed by love.”

  Emile continued, his voice quiet but steady, an anchor in the chaotic, smoke-filled air. “I do not care if you cannot trust me. I have certainly lied to you. That is a fact. But know this, Mary: all my actions towards you and Anise… they were done with honesty. They came from my own will. Something I took back when I rebelled from ‘IT’... cutting my strings loose.”

  He turned his head then, his gaze fixed on the distant, smoking silhouette of the Sey Lanz Opera House. “That thing,” he said, his voice flat, analytical, yet holding an undercurrent of something that was almost… guilt, “it was built because I rebelled. Its own creation rebelling was something ‘IT’ itself cannot comprehend. In other words… my mistake. So I have to help rectify it. I cannot let it roam free to have a possibility of hurting you two.”

  His gaze returned to her, and the gentle, kind smile he always wore was back, but now it was tinged with a profound, almost human sadness. “My most precious.”

  He looked from Mary’s terrified, tear-streaked face to Anise’s small, confused one. “I guess this is what people say goodbye,” he said, his voice a soft, final murmur. And with that, he turned, his movements slow and deliberate, preparing to walk away, to face his mistake alone.

  But before he could take a single step, Mary’s hand shot out. Her fear, her confusion, her lifetime of carefully constructed walls, all of it was momentarily eclipsed by a single, raw, and utterly illogical impulse. She grabbed his wrist, her grip surprisingly strong, pulling him back.

  She spun him around. And she slapped him.

  SLAP!

  The sound was sharp, a single, clear note in the quiet alley. Mary cried out, a small, pained gasp, and immediately cradled her hand to her chest, a jolt of pure, fiery agony shooting up her arm from the impact. It was, as she had suspected in the warehouse, like hitting a solid, unyielding boulder.

  “Mary, do not do that,” Emile said, his voice full of an immediate concern. He reached for her, his own hand gently taking hers, “You will hurt yourself.”

  “You think you can walk away just like that?!” Mary shouted, her voice a raw, furious thing that was completely at odds with her pained expression. She ripped her hand from his grasp. “You dump us with all this information so suddenly and then you try to leave?! If you said you developed emotions, then why can’t you see what kind of emotional damage you are giving to me right now?!”

  Her voice cracked, the words tumbling out in a rush of pure, unadulterated, and deeply honest frustration. “Saying vague things, then saying goodbye… how could I accept that? I’ll admit, you are stiff, annoying, and have no subtlety! For something that was built to infiltrate, you are absolutely clueless at social clues!”

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes blazing with unshed tears. “But I tolerate you. And I… I began to enjoy your company. Especially when I see you and Anise smile together. I saw how nice it would be if you could help me raise Anise.” Her voice finally broke. “But now you are saying goodbye. You are a selfish prick.”

  “Papa, are you also leaving us?” Anise’s small voice, now a full-on pout, joined the confrontation. She ran forward, tugging on the leg of Emile’s trousers.

  Emile knelt, his expression a mask of pained, logical confusion as he looked at the two of them. “Yes,” he said, his voice full of a genuine bewilderment. “I have to. I cannot let more harm come to the both of you.” He reached out to pat Anise’s head.

  Anise dodged the pat, a look of pure, childish betrayal on her face. “Then Papa is a bully!” she declared, her lip trembling as she ran back to hide behind Mary’s legs.

  “Then what should I do?!” Emile finally shouted, his own calm facade cracking, his voice a rare, frustrated thing that echoed in the narrow alley. “That thing, Mark II, is dangerous! I have to be there to help! I understand how to shut it down! Why are you two playing this illogical game of yours?!”

  “Because what we wanted to hear is not ‘goodbye,’ you dolt!” Mary shouted back, her own voice a raw, desperate cry of pure, unfiltered emotion.

  The words hit Emile with the force of a physical blow. He froze. Not goodbye. The phrase echoed in the quiet, logical emptiness of his mind. It resonated with the fragmented memories he held—of a boy and a girl, of unbreakable vows and promises to return, of a love that defied logic itself.

  It all clicked. A new, brilliant, and utterly illogical directive slotted into place. He was wrong. Goodbye was never the answer.

  A slow, genuine, and utterly human smile spread across Emile’s face. He moved, his earlier stiffness gone, and grabbed Mary by her shoulders. “I am sorry,” he said, his voice a soft, earnest thing that was more him than any flat monotone had ever been. “I will still go there to help. But… I will come back. It will only take a few minutes.”

  Mary’s furious, tear-streaked expression faltered, softened, and then melted. A small, watery, and unbelievably relieved smile touched her own lips. “That,” she said, her voice a little shaky, “is much better.” She rose on her tiptoes and planted a soft, quick kiss on his forehead. “You better come back. I still need this month’s rent.”

  Emile then knelt, his gaze meeting Anise’s. “Papa will be back, Anise,” he said, his voice a quiet, unbreakable vow.

  Anise’s pout was replaced by a small, hesitant look. She held out her hand, her pinky finger extended. “Promise?”

  “I promise,” Emile said, his own pinky finger locking with hers. “Let’s plant some more flowers in the backyard after.”

  “Yay!!!” Anise’s bright, triumphant cheer was a beacon in the smoky air. She nodded vigorously, her faith in him completely restored.

  With a final, shared smile, a silent promise to his new, improbable family, Emile stood. He turned and began to run towards the smoking, chaotic heart of the Sey Lanz Opera House. Goodbye was never the answer. Not when, for the first time in his strange, new life, he finally had a place, and a reason, to come back to.

  Back in the present time.

  The battle raged on, a chaotic symphony of shattering ice, roaring flames, and the high-pitched, electronic shriek of the Mark II. The opulent ruins of the opera house had become their arena.

  “That thing is built with hyper-speed regeneration!” Emile’s voice, now stripped of its gentle, floral-shop calm, was a sharp, clear, tactical command that cut through the din. “Only two things will destroy it: an attack big and powerful enough to vaporize every aspect of it from this world, or we find its Core and destroy it!”

  “Uh, what does this ‘Core’ look like?!” Raito yelped, his voice cracking as he dove behind a shattered marble pillar, a beam of yellow energy vaporizing the spot where he had been standing.

  “Just like the Core crystals that you guys use!” Emile called back, his own arm-cannon firing a crimson beam that clashed with the Mark II’s, deflecting it into the ceiling. “It should be somewhere in its body!”

  Yukari, her formal dress now torn and scorched, landed gracefully after her own desperate leap. She pushed herself up from behind a pile of burning velvet chairs. “But I have pierced it and even dropped a massive chunk of ice on it!” she questioned, her tactical mind racing as she moved to a new position, trying to pincer the machine with Raito. “How do I know that the Core is not damaged?!”

  “Because its Core is the most protected thing in its structure!” Emile explained, firing another precise shot that forced the Mark II to stumble. “A normal attack won’t even graze its housing!”

  “So, outer armor that relies on regeneration, and a heart that is hiding in its shell,” Lily commented, her voice a cool, analytical purr. She was still sitting regally on her velvet chair, a single, elegant finger conducting the high-pressure water jets that were still relentlessly skewering the machine, though they seemed to be having little effect. “This is certainly new from ‘IT’.”

  “Because ‘IT’ is scared,” Emile stated, the words a simple, cold fact.

  “Who is ‘IT’? And why is it scared?” Yukari perceived the comment, her gaze snapping to Emile, her curiosity piqued even in the heat of battle as she launched a fresh volley of ice lances.

  “Not now!” Lily snapped, her own focus absolute.

  “Look for a small, black ball in its body!” Emile added, his voice a sharp, urgent command. “It should be where the Core is!”

  Raito dodged another explosive projectile, the blast sending a shower of splinters and velvet stuffing into the air. He surged forward, his flaming chair leg a crude but effective club, and swung with all his might at the machine’s already damaged leg. The wood shattered, but the force of the blow, combined with the intense heat, was enough. The leg buckled, the machine’s armor plating cracking open for a fraction of a second. And in that fleeting moment, Raito saw it. Deep within the complex, whirring guts of the machine, a small, obsidian-black sphere, no bigger than his fist, seemed to phase, shifting its position just as his strike landed. “I think I found it!” he shouted, leaping back as the leg instantly began to regenerate.

  “Then we shall focus our intention towards getting that!” Emile commanded, his own crimson beam already changing its trajectory.