The night wind howled across the abandoned rooftops of the Outer Ring, carrying with it the distant echoes of Hollow howls and the faint metallic scent of rust and blood that never truly left this place.

Promeia stood alone at the edge of a crumbling rooftop, the city lights of New Eridu glittering far in the distance like cold, indifferent stars. The full moon hung high above her, its silver light mercilessly illuminating her face. It cast sharp shadows across her sharp features, highlighting the faint scars she rarely let others see.

Her long black hair swayed gently in the wind, a few strands sticking to her pale cheek. The silver handcuffs on her wrists caught the moonlight, glinting coldly as a constant reminder of the chains she had willingly placed upon herself.

She looked out over the ruined district where she once operated as a Sweeper — where she had ended countless lives without hesitation, telling herself it was necessary. The same streets where she once moved like a silent reaper now lay quiet beneath her gaze.

Promeia slowly raised her cuffed hands, resting them against the rusted railing. Her crimson eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, reflected the moon with a quiet, heavy sorrow. “…How many ghosts are watching me tonight?” she whispered into the wind, her voice soft yet carrying the weight of years.

A cold breeze brushed past her, making her coat flutter. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the night air fill her lungs. Even now, years later, the memories of blood on her hands refused to fade. The Judge’s handcuffs felt heavier than usual tonight.

She opened her eyes again, staring at the moon as if searching for an answer it could never give. “I keep walking this path… because someone has to. Even if that someone is already damned.”

The wind answered only with silence, carrying more cherry blossom petals — or perhaps they were just ashes from a past she could never outrun.