On the opposite side of the bridge, Enjolras stood beside Feuilly, the two of them looking across at the bodies of their friends they had slaughtered. Enjolras hardened his gaze, his mind screaming "beasts". Those fiends, those murderers, bloodthirsty, inhuman monstrosities were not his friends. His friends were elsewhere, safe and away from the horrors of the Hunter's Nightmare, if only safe in the memories he held.

"Shall we continue?" Feuilly asked, beckoning his head to the right.

They stood in the middle of the three-way street. Enjolras watched as messengers popped up from the stone ground, leading him left. He looked back at Feuilly who stared at him curiously. He wanted to follow, to go wherever his friend went as long as he had company. But the messengers knew the way, and his heart slowed and silently ached at such an immediate parting.

"I wish I could, mon ami," Enjolras said. "But I have other business to attend to."

"Ah, yes. The blood minister."

Enjolras looked to his left, seeing nothing but the all too familiar scene of buildings, carriages, and bodies. He wished to see the clinic, but of course, that would be too easy. He looked back at Feuilly. "I have questions only he can answer."

Feuilly nodded. "I do not know much about blood. I do hope you find the answers you are looking for." He then paused, turning his body from him, "Be cautious, Enjolras. If you happen cross Grantaire before I, do not confront him yourself. His power surpasses that of Les Amis combined. Perhaps it's the drink."

Enjolras could not bring himself to smirk or chuckle at Feuilly's poor joke, not now, knowing Feuilly's next target could potentially kill him. His brow furrowed, a faint indent of a line between them.

Feuilly touched his shoulder. "Do not worry for me, my friend. I have my blood as you have yours."

Enjolras nodded, his stern expression unwavering.

"Be well, Chief," Feuilly smiled. "This isn't the end of us."

"Take care."

The two parted, and Enjolras followed the path laid out by the messengers, his throat working as he briskly jogged, pushing all horrible thoughts out of his mind. Feuilly will live. He will talk sense into Grantaire, that foolish oaf. No more of his friends will die.

Beasts littered the streets, some as yellow-eyed men not yet transformed and others as black furred and clawed beast patients, hunkered over as they walked on two feet, seemingly creeping as they went. There were even a few that no longer walked upright. They walked on all fours, their snouts much longer, their forms like that of a wolf save for their broad shoulders. They attacked like a dog would, biting and snapping, and swiping their longs claws at him. Wolf beasts, Feuilly had mentioned them to him briefly. They were the absolute, the true form of a beast. Enjolras slayed them all, even those that coward away from him in fear. He resented these creatures, these humans -no-more, that only sought to kill anyone that moved. He'd kill them all before they harmed anyone else.

Eventually, after turning so many street corners and through so many alleyways, Enjolras reached the clinic. The building was tucked away between larger structures that dwarfed the clinic. He had imagined a much grander building, but he trusted the messengers hadn't led him astray. He walked up the few steps, noticing the door that was cracked open. Claw marks were scratched into it, and, holding his cleaver as his heart hammered in anticipation, he opened the door. It creaked in response, and by the candlelight inside, Enjolras could see the disarray of the waiting room. Chairs were overturned and some broken. The floorboards bore large claw marks as well, and they groaned under him as he walked. Papers and files were scattered about, books torn, and the deeper he went into the clinic, in the operating room, he found bloodied tables and patient beds. Medical equipment had been knocked over and blood and lumps of flesh soaked the floor. A patient's body had been shredded, half of its body on the left side by the bookcase and the other on the opposite side of the room by the window. Enjolras's nostrils flared, his jaw tightening as he walked past the gore. He approached the wide staircase, spying the blood dipped paw prints that went up the stairs.

Enjolras took wide steps up the stairs, his eyes fixed on the entrance at the top. Moonlight guided him, and he reached the entrance to the doctor's office, the double doors opening as far as their hinges allowed. Inside the office alit by the moon, Enjolras found the minister sitting at his desk, his head resting on the desk, a wound at his temple that bloodied his face, his gun that had fallen to the floor. Enjolras glared at the body, growling in his frustration. He put away his cleaver and paced the office before stopping before the body. He slammed his fist into the desk, hissing and panting, his mind turning frantic as he struggled to control himself. He cursed and swore to whatever god would hear him, shutting his eyes as his mind became consumed by his seething thoughts. Hopelessness seeped into his heart, and he wished he had ignored the messengers and followed Feuilly.

Upon opening his eyes, he noticed at the corner of the minister's desk was a small book meant for note keeping. He took the book and went to the window to read it. It was a journal by the blood minister that he had kept ever since he had arrived to Paris over a year and a half ago, judging by the date, December, 1830.

"Blood cures all ailments. Indeed, this wondrous find mustn't be reserved only to those in London." it read, and Enjolras struggled to read the foreign Englishman's writing, shuffling through is mind to call back university years. "I've come to Paris with the blood and the knowledge that those ignorant fools hoped to covet for themselves. I'll make a difference here in Paris. The citizens will not suffer sickness any longer."

Enjolras skipped through the journal, searching for passages that held little information.

"February, 1832. For the past year I have been successfully curing all illnesses my patients have come to me with. But over the past few months, familiar clients are returning, their sickness worse than when they had left. I do not understand. Why isn't the blood curing them?"

The doctor went on to write of the possibilities of the failed blood ministrations, expired blood, malnourished clientele. He even questioned the alignment of the stars and satellites. Regardless, it was not working. He skipped to the last entry.

"June, 1832. I've failed. I could not save the child. And blood did not save the mother. What have I done? My blood couldn't save them. My research hasn't yielded any positive results. The city is sick, worse than when I had arrived. What more is to be done? What more good can I do?"

"Blood cannot save people," Enjolras thought. "Does it then mask sickness long enough for the disease to weaken and kill its host?" He closed the book and glanced back at the blood minster. He pocketed the journal, decided the body would no longer be of need of it. "Fear the blood" returned to the forefront of his mind. "Perhaps it is foreign blood itself that kills receiving patients."Enjolras wondered but found the conclusion impossible. Another unanswered question, and he gritted his teeth until they hurt.

He walked down stairs, back into the operating room, and a light caught his eye. A lantern had unearthed itself and messengers crowded around it. Enjolras approached it, and as he did, another messenger appeared. It held up to him a red scarf, and Enjolras frowned, baffled by what he would need of it. He stared at the messenger that offered it to him, and its only response was to lift it higher. Sighing through his nose, he gave in to the little creature's request and took the scarf, stuffing it between the belt at his hip.

He glanced at the lantern, wondering if he should return to the Hunter's Dream. His bones seemed to turn to lead, and his muscles wished for rest. But he decided against it, preferring to continue than to stop for a breather that only wasted time. He wanted to find Feuilly. Perhaps he could shed some light on what he had found, if he could figure out what it meant and if it had any correlation to the prisoner's warning. "Fear the blood" echoed in his mind again, the long, bloodied hand and arm that had grabbed him, the horrid face the limb belonged to. He thought of the jailer he attempted to save and the Bastille that turned to rubble and smoke after he had escaped.

"A nightmare," Enjolras muttered to himself.

He left the clinic, walking passed the bodies of beasts he had killed, his cleaver in hand. He returned to the spot where he and Feuilly parted ways. He glanced at the path Feuilly had taken. He wondered if Feuilly had found Grantaire, if his hunt was a success. Enjolras turned then his attention back to the bridge, back to the body of beasts in his friends' clothing. Sorrow threatened to chip away at the mask he wore. He didn't wish to hunt again. He wanted for a friend, someone to confide in, that would understand his burdens. He thought of Jehan, alone in his home, caged by his sickness. Was Jehan missing him?

Enjolras did not follow after Feuilly. Instead, he made his way back to Central Paris, a long and tedious endeavor that depleted the energy he had. His muscles ached and head throbbed, the blood on his hair, clothes, and skin stiffening and reeking. His eyelids were heavy and movements were slow as he struggled to kill what beasts attacked him, and his exhaustion cost him. The last of the mob of Central Paris that had thwarted before him managed to slice him well and good, but after shooting the sentry atop the carriage, along with a few others that got in his way, he was able to take down the beasts one by one. His cuts burned him, and he hissed as his clothes touched the open wounds. He looked at his vials and noticed he had fewer than he had thought. Frowning at this, Enjolras rummaged through the corpses. Perhaps they carried more vials, and he would not have to needlessly waste his own.

His stomach did not churn as it usually would have as he dug through the pockets of the bodies. He merely continued on from body to body. He found more quicksilver bullets, which he was grateful for, truly. But he wished for more vials, more than anything. The pain resulted in a throbbing in his head which in turn was so great, he nearly halted all movement, needing rest. He groaned as if an axe had been taken to his skull, and for a few moments all he saw was white. He hurt behind his eyes as the white faded, and Paris seemed to sway as his vision played its tricks on him. He moaned as he stood to his feet, rubbing his head. The pain miraculously ebbed away, and he began to move again. He grumbled, bitter that he hadn't found extra vials on the bodies that created his agony and decided that he'd have to use his blood wisely, cautiously. He accepted this, for what more could he do? He'd have to or else they'd all be gone, and he'd have to suffer death time and time again. And besides, the cuts weren't deep enough, he convinced himself. He could bear this minimal suffering. The pain kept him awake, kept him alert.

He sluggishly walked down the familiar street, passed the corpses of beasts he had slaughtered from what felt like days ago. He passed the lantern and turned the corner, suddenly feeling life seep back into him at the sight of Jehan's window. But before he could make it, he heard a bark and low growling. He turned, and a beast patient, furred and clawed ran up to him. The creature swatted at him, and Enjolras jumped back in surprise, quickly going for his cleaver. He had never seen a beast of this stage in this section of Central Paris. Where had it come from? The beast was persistent, swinging his great arms in an attempt to draw blood. Enjolras dodged its attack, waiting for the beast's movements to slow. Once he found his opening, Enjolras struck, swinging his cleaver into the beast's body. The beast patient yelped out in pain, clasping at the wound. It then looked at Enjolras and extended its arm out to him. It then collapsed, blood flooding from it to touch Enjorlas's boots.

He sighed in relief, closing his eyes a moment before latching the cleaver to his back. Enjolras then looked over at Jehan's window, rubbing his eyes as he walked over.

"Jehan—" He breathed out the name, his voice hitching.

His heart nearly stopped, his blood tingling with panic. The light of the red lantern no longer shined. Jehan's window was shattered, the white of the sheer curtains gently billowing in the breeze, and Enjolras thought that possibly a beast had broken in. But the bars that guarded the window were forced open from the inside, a circular hole of the bars that protruded outward not in. Enjolras's heartbeat was in his ears, and a sharp ringing tore through him. Eyes wide and chest heaving in panic, he glanced from the window to the beast patient he had just killed.

He involuntarily stepped back, his back pressing to the wall, and he found himself sliding down to sit against it, facing the beast whose blood seeped and pooled red, red, red, all around him. He sat and stared at the body, his eyes ghosting over the black fur, the claws, the wide open yellow eyes, the parted mouth that showed his sharp wolf's teeth. He swallowed, his tongue dry, the veins in his throat more prominent while his breathing became erratic as his nostrils flared. He glanced at the window, staring at the curtains.

"Jehan?" He feebly whispered.

He waited for an answer, waited and waited, his heart burning in panic and fear and grief. He called again and again, glancing between the window and the beast, sniffing as wetness left his eyes. There was never a returned reply no matter how long Enjolras waited, and he wished for a drink. He wished he could feel the wounds on his body, every one ever inflicted upon his person, anything else than the wretched horror, guilt, and anguish.

He stood, his eyes unblinking, fixated on the corpse. His knees wobbled as he forced himself to walk, distancing himself from the body. He could not think, his mind empty of all thoughts, and he could hear nothing but the echoing of his footsteps that led him away from the beast back to the lantern, to the Doll and the Hunter's Dream.