Regulus lay on a simple bed, its plainness a sharp contrast to his regal presence. The thin mattress creaked under his weight, and a gray blanket, carelessly pushed aside, barely covered the worn upholstery. He held a manga in his hands, its pages rustling as he flipped through them lazily. Morning sunlight streamed through a narrow window, catching his snow-white hair and making it shimmer like snow under a winter sun.

"Morning must have already come," he thought, glancing at the ceiling. His eyes drifted back to the manga, and he frowned slightly. "Ordinary, mediocre romance about schoolgirl Sakayanagi and Gojo… How could Mirzam even read this?" A fleeting memory of someone whose tastes now seemed a mystery crossed his mind.

With a soft sigh, he closed the manga and set it on the nightstand, where it landed next to a battered lamp and a couple of old books.

"Alright, time to get up," he muttered, standing from the bed. His low, slightly raspy voice faded into the quiet room.

The Archbishop of Greed walked to the door and opened it.

"First, I'll check on Chelsea," he decided, heading toward her room.

Chelsea's bedroom door opened silently, revealing a girl curled up on her bed. Her red hair, messy and glowing in the morning light, spilled across the pillow, and her blue pajamas, slightly bunched at the waist, gave her an almost vulnerable look. She was asleep, snoring softly, and Regulus raised an eyebrow.

"Still sleeping?" he thought, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

He approached the bed, his steps soft and nearly soundless. With a heavy exhale, he shook her shoulder.

"Come on, wake up," he whispered, his tone carrying the insistence of a captain giving orders to a sailor.

Chelsea let out a muffled sound—somewhere between a groan and a mumble—and buried her face in the pillow.

"Let me sleep more," she mumbled, yawning so widely her voice drowned in sleepy hoarseness.

Regulus put his hands on his hips, his white hair swaying as he tilted his head, studying her with mock indignation.

"Seriously, Chelsea, how can you sleep this much?" he asked, a mix of surprise and teasing in his voice. "This isn't sleep anymore; it's some kind of hibernation mode!"

"I'll get up soon," she grumbled, eyes still closed, rolling over as if hoping he'd vanish.

He frowned, but a genuine warmth flickered in his gaze.

"Fine, but don't make me come back with a bucket of water," he said, turning toward the door.

Leaving Chelsea to her dreams, Regulus headed to the kitchen. The room greeted him with the faint smell of yesterday's pilaf and a cool breeze from a slightly open window. He pulled out a chair—old, with a worn backrest—and sat down, glancing at the table. There, in a plastic bag, were food containers carefully packed by Marilyn.

"The pilaf's gone cold," he muttered, squinting. "Why did I even ask her to leave it?" He sighed, but there was no real irritation in his tone.

Regulus reached for the top container, opened it, and scooped up a bit of pilaf with a plastic spoon. He brought it to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"The flavor's still there. Not bad," he concluded, nodding to himself. "Just needs reheating, and it'll be perfect. But first…"

He stood, walked to the cabinet, and opened the door. His eyes immediately landed on a bottle of red wine on the top shelf. A satisfied smile curved his lips. Grabbing the bottle and a glass, he returned to the table.

The soft, almost musical sound of pouring wine filled the kitchen. Regulus took a sip and let out a pleased hum.

"Mmm… Such a refined taste."

He leaned back in the chair, savoring the moment, but then the kitchen door creaked, and Chelsea appeared in the doorway. Her red hair stuck out in all directions, her blue pajamas still rumpled, and her half-closed eyes betrayed that she'd barely escaped the grip of sleep.

"Wow, you actually woke up?" Regulus exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up in mock surprise.

Chelsea nodded weakly, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, and shuffled toward the table like a ghost.

"Yeah," she muttered, her voice as lifeless as an old lightbulb. She plopped into the chair across from him, shooting Regulus a faint glare.

"You didn't let me sleep, Reg. You're cruel," she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

Regulus laughed—short but genuine—and raised his hands as if defending himself.

"Hey, don't go accusing me of cruelty!" he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Some people just sleep like bears in a den."

Chelsea huffed, rubbed her eyes again, and glanced at the glass in his hand. Her gaze slid to the wine bottle, then back to Regulus, and she narrowed her eyes.

"Looks like you're starting the morning off strong," she remarked, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "Up and straight to the wine? Alcoholic."

Regulus shook his head, his white hair catching the light.

"Not an alcoholic, just a cultured drinker," he countered with mock seriousness, raising his glass as if toasting. "There's a difference."

"Sure," Chelsea snorted, her lips twitching into a faint smile, though the sarcasm in her voice didn't fade. She exhaled heavily, running fingers through her messy hair, and looked at the bag of containers.

"Alright, didn't you mention something about pilaf yesterday?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Regulus nodded, pointing to the bag.

"Yup. It's all there. Want me to heat it up, or can you manage?" he asked, a teasing edge in his tone, as if testing whether she had the energy to stand.

Chelsea rolled her eyes, but her gaze lingered on the containers, a spark of interest flickering in her sleepy eyes.

Just over ten minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the warm aroma of reheated pilaf. Regulus set the containers on the table, their soft clatter against the wooden surface breaking the silence.

Chelsea, still in her rumpled blue pajamas, perked up.

"Let's see what kind of food you ordered from that restaurant," she said, her voice tinged with anticipation, like a kid about to unwrap a gift. She yanked the lid off a container, and the steam that escaped clouded her face, making her squint slightly.

Grabbing a plastic fork, Chelsea scooped up a generous portion of pilaf with a piece of chicken, golden from saffron and spices, and shoved it into her mouth. Her eyes widened instantly, and her eyebrows shot up as if she'd stumbled upon unexpected treasure.

"This… is so good!" she exclaimed, barely chewing. Her voice brimmed with genuine surprise. "Reg, where did you order this pilaf? It's like… a flavor explosion!"

Regulus, sitting across from her, crossed his arms, a smug smile playing on his lips.

"I told you, from a restaurant," he said casually, but a hint of teasing in his tone suggested he was enjoying her reaction.

Chelsea let out a heavy sigh, rolling her eyes so dramatically it was almost audible. She jabbed her fork in the air, pointing at him.

"You already said that, smartass. Which restaurant? What's it called?" Her voice grew sharper, but curiosity still lingered.

Regulus frowned, his golden eyes narrowing as he tilted his head, studying her with mild irritation.

"Why do you need to know?" he asked, a cautious edge in his voice, as if she'd accidentally stepped into forbidden territory.

Chelsea grinned, her lips curling into a cheeky smile, her red hair swaying as she leaned back in her chair.

"Why not?" she shot back. "What if I want to go there? Or are you scared I'll steal your secret little restaurant?"

Regulus put his hands on his hips, looking down at her, his face growing more serious.

"Let's just say it's a secret," he said, his voice firmer, like steel wrapped in velvet.

"A secret?" Chelsea raised an eyebrow, her eyes glinting with playful defiance. "Seriously? Why?"

He leaned forward slightly, his white hair falling over his forehead, casting a shadow across his face.

"Listen, I said it's a secret. It's a secret, period. Drop it," he said sharply, his tone leaving no room for joking.

Chelsea pouted, her cheeks flushing with annoyance, and she stuck out her tongue like a child.

"You're such a jerk!" she huffed, crossing her arms so forcefully the chair creaked beneath her.

Regulus just snorted, his lips twitching into a restrained smile, but he didn't respond. Chelsea muttered something under her breath and turned back to her pilaf. She scooped up another bite, and her expression softened as the taste distracted her from the argument.

The kitchen settled into a cozy silence, broken only by the clink of Chelsea's fork and her occasional sighs as she savored every bite, despite her grumbling. Regulus, watching her, took another sip of wine, his eyes glinting-whether from satisfaction or some hidden thought, it was hard to tell.

In a cramped office reeking of old wood and cognac, tension hung thick in the air. Ishida Akira sat behind a massive desk cluttered with papers and empty bottles, looking as if he'd just been yanked from a deep sleep-or, more likely, another drinking binge. His dark hair was disheveled, and his bloodshot eyes sparked with irritation. Leaning back in his chair, he clutched a glass of amber liquid and glared at the two girls standing before him.

"So, what the hell do you two want?" he snapped, his hoarse, sharp voice slicing through the silence. His irritation simmered, ready to boil over.

Kurome, arms crossed, tilted her head, her black hair swaying like a shadow sliding across a wall. Her lips curved into a faint, almost mocking smile.

"Wow, are you actually sober today?" she drawled, her voice calm but laced with razor-sharp irony. "What a surprise."

Ishida slammed his fist on the desk, making the glass clink dangerously and a few papers slide to the floor.

"Cut the crap!" he growled, leaning forward. "Spit it out already, or get the hell out!"

Kurome shrugged, her dark eyes glinting with indifference, though a cold calculation lurked beneath.

"Nothing major," she said, her tone deceptively light. "Just thought we'd report on some invincible guy."

Ishida's face twisted in confusion, his thick brows knitting together.

"Invincible guy?" he echoed, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his irritation.

Bellatrix, standing slightly behind, stepped forward. Her blonde hair gleamed in the dim lamplight, her gaze sharp as a blade.

"He didn't take any damage from our attacks," she said, her voice steady but with a faint tremor of unease. "He didn't even get wet in water."

Ishida froze, his eyes widening slightly, his fingers tightening around the glass.

"Didn't get wet in water?" he repeated, his voice quieter, as if trying to process the information. "How the hell is that possible?"

Bellatrix continued, her words falling like stones into still water, rippling through his thoughts.

"He threw roof tiles at us," she added, her fingers clenching into fists. "They destroyed everything in their path. Walls, pavement—everything."

Kurome, standing beside her, nodded and pulled a cookie from a small pouch at her waist. She bit into it with a loud crunch that felt almost defiant in the quiet office.

"And judging by the deep holes in the pavement, those tiles didn't lose speed or trajectory," she added, chewing nonchalantly. "We managed to send him flying, but it probably didn't even hurt him."

Ishida leaned forward, his forgotten cognac glass left on the desk. A bead of sweat glistened on his forehead, his gaze sharp and almost feverish.

"Are you serious?" he breathed, his voice trembling with a mix of shock and disbelief. "You ran into some invincible guy who throws tiles that punch through the ground?"

Kurome nodded, her face impassive, though a spark of interest flickered in her eyes, as if she were studying Ishida's reaction like an experiment. Bellatrix, looking down, glanced at her fingers, as if recalling the fight.

"He was… pretty slow," she said quietly. "That's what saved us."

Kurome crunched her cookie again, swallowed, and added, "Basically, the only reason we didn't end up as Swiss cheese was his slowness. The tiles were insanely fast, but we could track his movements."

Ishida leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the desk, betraying his inner tension.

"Alright," he said, trying to collect his thoughts. "So, what exactly do you want from me? You think throwing a bunch of soldiers at him will help?"

Kurome sighed heavily, her brows furrowing slightly, but her voice stayed even.

"Just report him to the higher-ups," she said. "Let them figure out what to do with him."

Ishida suddenly grinned—a crooked smile tinged with relief. He grabbed his glass, took a swig of cognac, and chuckled.

"You're right, kid," he said, his voice softening slightly. "Why should I stress about it when I can pass it off to someone else?" He took another sip, set the glass down, and continued, "So, what does this guy look like? Did you see his face?"

Kurome shook her head, her black hair swaying like a curtain.

"No face, it was hidden," she replied. "I can tell you he wore a white cloak, wrapped in white bandages. White pants, white everything."

Ishida froze, his fingers, which had been rubbing his chin, pausing. His gaze grew distant, almost detached.

"Hm… sounds familiar," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost to himself.

Kurome, catching his thoughtful tone, raised an eyebrow. Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned closer.

"Familiar?" she asked, genuine interest creeping into her voice.

Ishida rubbed his forehead, as if trying to dredge up a fading memory. His lips moved, repeating words Kurome barely caught.

"White bandages… completely white outfit…" he mumbled, then his eyes widened, and shock spread across his face. "That's it!" he shouted, slamming his palm on the desk so hard the glass jumped.

"It's that assassin they told me about…"

Kurome and Bellatrix exchanged a glance. Kurome frowned, her fingers tightening around her half-eaten cookie.

"What did you say?" she asked, not catching his whisper.

Ishida raised a hand, his face reverting to irritation, now laced with nervousness.

"Nothing, get lost already!" he barked, waving them off like annoying flies.

Kurome's eyes narrowed, her brows knitting in displeasure, but she didn't argue. She glanced at Bellatrix, who had been silent, watching Ishida with faint suspicion.

"Fine," Kurome said, her voice cold and businesslike. "We reported the guy. We're leaving."

Bellatrix gave a curt nod, her blonde hair swaying, and the girls left the office without looking back. The door closed behind them with a dull thud, leaving Ishida alone with his thoughts.