Memo 08: (R1)A call for help.

The door creaked open. Standing there was a boy, small and wiry, his foxlike ears drooping and whiskers twitching with nervous energy. His clothes were ragged, the kind of fabric that had been patched too many times, and his sandals looked like they’d been walked thin.

He bowed his head slightly, clutching the frame of the doorway with dirty fingers.“Um… this is the reportering agency, right? The one everyone’s been talking about in town?” Nagisa blinked, caught off guard. Camera tilted his lens with a curious hum. The boy’s golden eyes darted between them, trembling yet stubborn. “I—I don’t have much. Hardly anything at all. But… could you do something for me?” Nagisa straightened in her chair, her expression softening.

“What’s your name?” she asked. “…Riku,” he said, tugging at his torn sleeve. The boy suddenly straightened, tail bristling. “I saw you! Leaving the Orc-a-Gobble!” His voice cracked with desperation. “I’ll tell you everything I know. My sister—she works there. She… she hasn’t come home in days.”

Nagisa froze, exchanging a glance with camera.

The fox boy’s whiskers twitched as his words tumbled out faster. “I’ve been watching the place, waiting for her. But no matter how long I sit out there… I never see her leave. It’s like she’s disappeared.” His golden eyes welled, but he clenched his fists, forcing them steady. “Please. Please help me.” Nagisa’s expression softened, though her reporter’s instinct flickered behind her calm eyes. She stepped aside from the doorway, gesturing gently with one hand. “Come inside,” she said, voice firm but kind. “We’ll talk more where it’s safe.” The boy nodded, almost stumbling with relief as he crossed the threshold, ears drooping low as though the weight of the whole town rested on his thin shoulders.

Riku’s tail twitched faintly as he looked at the group, but his eyes fell hardest on Nateas—just for a second too long, a shadow passing over his gaze. Then he spoke, soft but rehearsed: “It’s just been me and my sister since forever. We don’t have anyone else. She got the job at Orc-a-Gobble to… to keep food on the table. Whatever the customers didn’t finish, she’d sneak home for me. That’s how we lived. That’s how we survived.” “She always said… ‘If anything happens, Just trust me I'll make things right.’” Nagisa pulled Memo closer, thumbing across the screen as it blinked, recording.

“Missing sister. Days gone. No signs of her returning,” she murmured.

"When I stalked around the store at night, I would see strange men coming late. Big cloaks. They’d go behind the restaurant when no one’s around. Since then, nothing. No word, no sign of her. The staff all look at me like I’m crazy when I ask. But I know she wouldn’t just vanish.” He rubbed his palms together, looking down. “I even saw one of the cooks throw out… I don’t know, sacks? In the middle of the night. Like they were hiding something.”

Nagisa’s eyes narrowed. “Sacks? What kind of sacks?” “Dark cloth. Stained. Filled with hair. I didn’t get close, they were… guarded. But I swear, it wasn’t food.” He bit his lip. “Maybe… bodies.” Memo blinked red at that word, filing it under suspicious content. The boy leaned forward. “If you go during the next delivery, you’ll see it. Wagons come in from Veylstra’s below. That’s when they hide things. I’d check there first. Please. I can’t sleep, thinking about her locked up, hurt…” He trailed off, letting the silence hang, hoping sympathy filled in the blanks.

Nagisa scribbled the last note, then looked up at him. “Alright. We’ll start with the deliveries.” Nateas leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing on the fox boy. The demonill’s presence filled the room with quiet pressure, enough that the boy’s tail stiffened. “Why,” Nateas drawled, voice low but cutting, “should anything you say be taken seriously? You barge in here with stories, but stories are cheap.”

The fox boy flinched, ears folding back against his head. For a second, the whiskers at his cheeks twitched, as though they betrayed the faintest tremor. But then he straightened, forcing out words with a quiver of defiance.

“Because it’s my sister,” he said, voice trembling but convincing enough. “You think I’d make up something like this? I’ve been waiting outside that place for nights—I saw you leave yesterday. You’re reporters, aren’t you? You’re supposed to help people like me.” He fidgeted with the frayed edge of his sleeve, lowering his gaze just enough to seem small, vulnerable. His lies wove neatly with a mask of desperation. Nagisa thinking to herself "this is a lead especially if the reportering world. But this could this be."

Nagisa, watching him intently in her chair, tapping her memopad with her pen, her notes forming quickly. Nagisa got the idea to quickly aim Camera at the young boy. She caught the aura of faint red around him, but it didn’t flare sharp like danger—more like panic. Panic made sense. A boy missing his sister should panic. Nateas narrowed his eyes further, clearly unconvinced, but the fox boy pressed on, layering details. 

“She… she used to work in the kitchens, cleaning dishes. But I heard the staff whispering—she was pulled into the special service. After that, she never came home. I even saw a carriage leave late at night from the Orc-a-Gobble… I think they’re moving people. Maybe slaves.” The words hung in the air, bait threaded carefully with just enough plausibility.

Nagisa extended her hand, firm but warm. “Thank you for being brave enough to come here,” she said, clasping the fox boy’s small, rough palm. “We’ll do all we can to bring your sister back.” The boy’s ears twitched, his tail flicking once before he lowered his gaze, murmuring something about “blessings.” Behind them, Yuranu folded her arms, eyes narrowing. “Two things now,” she said under her breath, almost like a warning. “the cellar beneath the restaurant … and this missing sister.” Nagisa glanced at her, a spark of determination rising in her chest. “Then we’ll keep track of both.” Yuranu didn’t answer right away. She only looked at the fox boy again, and something in her stare made the child shrink slightly, whiskers trembling.

Yuranu’s eyes lingered on the boy even as Nagisa released his hand. Something in his story stinks. He’s too smooth for someone scared… like he’s practiced this before. Nagisa exhaled, her resolve hardening. “We’ll wait until nightfall,” she said firmly. “Stake the building then. If there’s another delivery, we’ll be ready for it.” Yuranu said nothing, only letting the doubt coil tighter in her chest.

Still, Nagisa didn’t notice. All she saw was a frightened brother asking for help. The night settled heavy over the street, lanterns burning low as the last drunks stumbled home. The restaurant looked quiet, its shutters drawn and its sign dim. From across the way, the group crouched low behind stacked crates and a leaning cart, keeping eyes on the door. Nagisa’s focus never wavered, her hand brushing the hilt of her blade every so often. Camera adjusted his lenses, zooming in at intervals. Yuranu’s eyes stayed sharp, glancing from shadow to shadow, searching for the first sign of movement.

Nateas, however, slumped back against the cart. He let out a huge yawn, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Gehhh… how long’s this gonna take? They ain’t gonna move anything if we’re all sitting here like statues.”

“Patience,” Nagisa whispered sharply without looking at him. “We’ll know when the time comes.” The street went still, almost unnaturally so—until, faintly, the scrape of a lock being turned echoed from the restaurant’s side door.

Nagisa smirked faintly as Nateas yawned again. “This is what reporters call a stakeout,” she whispered, a sly grin tugging at her lips. . Reporters do anything for the story, even sitting in the dark with bugs crawling up their boots. Get used to it.” Before Nateas could grumble back, the soft clop of hooves echoed down the cobbled street. A carriage rolled into view, its wheels rattling on the uneven stones. It slowed to a stop in front of the restaurant, horses steaming in the night air.

The door creaked open, and two figures stepped down.

First to step down was a short ogre-like in a crisp coat, top hat tilted low to shade his face. He moved with a slow, practiced elegance. Behind him came another—taller, broader, with a presence that seemed to ripple the air itself. His hair was long and blue, tumbling over his shoulders, stark against the black tank top stretched over his frame. The man’s features carried a demonic sharpness, his eyes faintly glimmering in the night. His most notable feature was his two bloodied red horns like nateas.

Nateas, suddenly wide awake, He didn’t say a word, only leaned forward, watching with uncharacteristic discipline. The two men exchanged no words with each other as they approached the restaurant. The top-hatted gentleman rapped lightly on the side door. It opened with a click, and both slipped inside without hesitation. The street was silent again, save for the restless stamp of the horses.

The night air was thick with the scent of old wood and fried oil wafting from the restaurant. Nagisa crept forward, keeping her back low as her boots touched the gravel with practiced silence. Camera trailed behind, clutching her notepad tightly to her chest, her usual cheer smothered by the heavy tension. “Stay sharp,” Nagisa whispered, her voice little more than a brush of air. 

The group pressed against the dark brick of the building, only a thin window separating them from the glowing lantern-light inside. Shadows danced across the walls, the silhouettes of the carriage men entering the back room with the orc restaurant owner. Nagisa steadied her breathing. She motioned for the others to hold still, and then the voices began to spill through the cracks in the wood.

The blue hair demon stroking his hair the dank atmosphere not doing much for it. "This place is too dreary, it'll affect my hair. A fitting place livestock for its feed." The orc’s gravel-thick voice carried first. “—the last batch is…settling. A few were noisy at first, but they’ve learned their place. By now, they make fine waitresses. Docile, smiling, and eager enough to please the customers.” Nagisa’s stomach tightened. She could almost hear the smile in the orc’s tone—cold, satisfied, monstrous.

A deeper voice followed, the ogre in the top hat. “Good. That keeps suspicion away. A bustling restaurant filled with pretty faces is easier to explain than crates of screaming stock.” Then the demonic one spoke. His voice slithered, smooth yet sharp enough to cut the air. "Pretty faces bring coin, and broken spirits don’t fight back.” “But if they break character, if one of them tries to slip, you’ll throw them in. No hesitation.” Nagisa restrained herself.

“They’re turning them into waitresses…” Nagisa thought, her heart hammering. Not just stealing lives, but parading them in front of everyone. And no one sees the truth." 

Another voice, sharp and mocking, followed. The man with the top hat. “And the pair that slipped in earlier?” The orc grunted, irritation in his throat. “Some viperian… and something else. Couldn’t even describe it. Has to be the other demonill that betrayed you all.”

 The ogre in the top hat chuckled darkly, his blue hair catching the candlelight. “Oh? You mean what that fool Nateas was guarding?” The ogre continued, a sneer woven into every syllable. “He let the merchandise escape… precious merchandise… wasted because of incompetence.”

The ogre leaned against the counter, his massive frame blotting out the lantern-light. His fat on his neck gleamed as he sneered. “The Collect won’t take kindly to traitorous filth like that… Nateas.” His guttural voice rumbled through the dining hall like rolling thunder. “They’ll hunt him down across all of Veylstra, rip his name from the earth until nothing is left but dust.” The blue-haired demon gave a throaty laugh, brushing strands of hair from his shoulders. “Heh. A fitting end for a fool who couldn’t guard the merchandise. 

Nagisa pressed herself closer to the worn wooden wall, her ears tuned sharply to the muffled voices inside. The ogre chuckles. "The two little roaches that were snooping around should be met with our little bug" 

The bug should have made contact by now—the sly fox of the Collect.”

Her chest tightened. Sly fox…?

The words clawed at her thoughts until she dared a glance sideways. Only a slight turn of her head—careful, slow, so as not to rustle her cloak. Her eyes slid over the dim shadows where her allies crouched. Cammy tensed, gripping her blade with white-knuckled focus. Nateas, unaware of his name being spat with venom just meters away, stifled another tired yawn.

And then there was Riku.

He sat still, almost statuesque in the darkness, yet the faint sliver of moonlight caught his expression. His lips curled—not into his usual cold smirk, but into something deeper, darker. A smile dripping with malice. A smile that didn’t belong to an ally crouched in secrecy, but to a predator amused by its prey. 

Nagisa’s breath hitched, just for a heartbeat. 

He's.......

She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak. One wrong whisper, one wrong breath, and Riku would know she had seen through him. So she stayed silent, watching the shadow at her side—pretending she hadn’t noticed the boy’s monstrous grin while the night pressed down around them.

Riku’s whisper was sharp, anxious, almost childlike. “...Are they saying anything about my sister? Please.”

Nagisa didn’t move her head. The camera lens remained fixed on the crack of the window. Inside, the ogreman barked his orders with a voice that rattled the wood of the shutters. She felt the tension in Riku’s trembling words, but her instincts as a reporter clicked first. She answered softly, careful that even Cammy beside them couldn’t hear the faintest tremor of truth. “No… not yet. But I’ll make sure we get everything. Pictures, evidence—whatever they’re hauling away, we’ll have proof.”

lowered his gaze. His expression twisted—part relief, part something darker. The smile from before hadn’t left his lips, even though he was trying to bury it under false worry. Nagisa noticed. But she didn’t say a word. Not yet. From the crack in the glass, they saw the men inside fastening chains onto a massive crate, the sound of metal grinding against the wooden floor echoing like an omen. The orc clapped his hands, calling for the rest of the staff to prepare the carriage at the back. Nagisa’s lens narrowed in. “They’re moving something… something big.”

Her words were low, deliberate, meant more for Cameras lens than Riku’s. And still, Riku leaned closer, his voice breaking the silence. “Then we’ll follow. If it’s her, we’ll find out. Right?” One after another, heavy crates were dragged from the back of the restaurant. The two handlers handled them as if they were no different from sacks of grain.

Thump… creak…

A muffled sob.

A low, desperate whisper, “Please… let us out…” The lid of another crate shuddered violently before the head orcs massive fist slammed down on top of it, silencing whatever had been inside. “…different stock this time,” one of the orcs sneered. “Elves, beastfolk, even a bird-girl or two. All premium.” “Shut your maw,” another snapped, though he was grinning. Another crate scraped across the ground, the faintest chorus of voices leaking from within: pleas for water, for mercy, for freedom. Then, silence again.

The crate splinters, wood snapping like brittle bone as a blur of fur and claws bursts out—one of the beastfolk girls, her eyes wild with fury, teeth bared. She wastes no time. With a feral howl, she charges the ogre with the tophat.

A whirlwind of slashing nails and snarling rage, aiming to tear her captor apart piece by piece. Intercepting the blow was the accompanying demonill. "Whoa there, my boss pays a pretty penny can't have him getting hurt." He does not flinch. A giddy, chilling laugh escapes his throat, lips curling into a grin that reeks of sadism. He meets the beastfolk’s pounce with a single, sharp step back, letting claws scrape through the air where his throat had been. Then, in a flash, his elongated arm whips forward like a spear, catching the beastfolk by the shoulder and slamming her into a wall so hard the restaurant’s wood creaks.

The beastfolk rebounds instantly, not deterred—claws digging into a chair, she hurls it with terrifying speed. The demonill bats it aside, using the splintering wood as a springboard, vaulting upward and landing on the restaurant’s hanging beams. He perches there like a vulture, eyes gleaming crimson, every muscle relaxed. She tears across the floor, overturning tables, lunging up to strike. The demonill leaps down, landing squarely on his back, forcing her to crash into a table that shatters beneath the weight. Every move is effortless for the demonill—she relishes the chaos, his laughter bouncing off the walls as the beastfolk bleeds, bruised but refusing to stop.

The fight becomes a savage ballet:

Beastfolk’s claws slash across the demonill’s arm—black ichor drips, but the demonill only smiles wider.

A chair leg is turned into a club, swung with desperate might, only to be caught mid-swing and twisted until the beastfolk cries out in pain. The demonill hurls her onto the bar counter, bottles exploding, glass and liquor showering them both. Yet through it all, the demonill remains terrifyingly calm, never breaking a sweat, savoring every second like a predator toying with prey.

“Suedomas.”

The word rolled from his tongue like a curse, and the ground beneath his feet cracked in jagged lines of red glow. His already twisted frame became worse—a mass of corded sinew and jagged, blackened veins bulging beneath his skin. His eyes went from burning embers to pits of roaring fire, and his grin stretched unnaturally wide as if his face itself was splitting.

The beastfolk girl, panting from the desperate flurry of attacks she had unleashed, froze as an invisible pressure crushed down on her. Her claws, which only moments ago had carved deep gouges into the restaurant’s walls and beams, now trembled against the sheer weight of his aura.

Suedomas laughed, a sound like grinding stone mixed with the shrill screech of tearing metal. “Do you feel it? The gulf that separates your kind from mine? Beastfolk fight with rage and instinct… but a demonlike who calls his own name.

∂Ξқצּĺĺ∂¡עΞ (JekyllJive)

"IS THE STRONGEST!" 

Suedomas appearing in front of her in a blink, his demonic speed tearing reality like a jagged seam. He drove his fist into her gut, the force sending her crashing through a booth and into the far wall, leaving her coughing up blood.

The moment the demonill Suedomas lifted his clawed hand for the final strike, his grin widening as the beastfolk girl’s blood dripped onto the ruined restaurant floor, the air cracked like a thunderclap.

From the far side of the shattered windows, a silhouette blurred into view—swift, precise, unrelenting. Nateas landed between them, his boots grinding broken glass into powder. With one arm raised, his forearm caught Suedomas’ claw mid-swing, stopping the strike inches from the beastfolk’s trembling face.

The clash rang out like steel grinding against steel—Nateas’ calm, almost detached strength holding back the demonill’s murderous glee. Suedomas’ vile smile faltered for just a moment. Suedomas: “Tch… and who do we have here, stepping into my musical piece?” backing away to see the air dispersed, he laid eyes on someone familiar.

“...Nateas?” The demonill tilts his head, the shadows of his horns stretching across the restaurant wall. “Didn’t you run off? What makes you think you can interrupt my performance?” The ogre-hatted man leans back against a cracked pillar, pipe hanging between his lips, brows raising at the sight. “Well, ain’t this a twist. Thought you had your leash cut, boy. Turns out you’re still dancing to someone’s tune.”

The sigil—Nagisa’s command tether burning against his skin. He snarls under his breath, the weight of humiliation. He wasn’t here to save the girl. He knew that. His body had moved because he’d been ordered to. "I didn’t come here for you, Suedomas, you're not worth the time.” Nateas’s voice is low, teeth clenched. 

Suedomas’s expression darkens, that smooth air of control breaking into irritation. “Oh, don’t insult me, Nateas.” His voice grows sharp, the aftertaste of venom on every word. “You didn’t move on your own. You’re still someone’s little dog.” He spreads his arms, letting the air fill with his killing aura. “But if you’re itching for a reminder of your place, then by all means—”

“—step into my dance!!!”