The question felt less like a child asking their parent and more like an assistant confirming things with their boss.

The patriarch flinched before lowering his quill, placing it carefully beside the blank sheet of paper before turning toward the boy.

"Elliot," Marcel said softly. "There are matters I must attend to tomorrow, you know that."

Deon had expected the boy’s reply to be either one of two things: a tantrum or wells of tears. Yet, neither happened.

Barely even a change, really. Instead, the boy’s expression was similar to someone who had already expected the answer and just wanted to confirm it.

"Personal matters?" Elliot asked. "The same one?"

The patriarch shook his head slowly. "No, something else...But it’s just as important. I’m really sorr—"

"I see." Elliot cut him off, whether intentional or not.

Yet somehow, it made things worse. Marcel’s fingers twitched against the edge of the desk. "I will make it up to you."

"You said that last year. And the year before that," the boy looked back up. "And the year before that as well."

Seems like he’s been counting. Well, of course he had.

Adults liked to believe children forgot things because they were young. But that was stupid. Children remembered everything, even if they didn’t always know what to do with it.

Marcel took a breath, seemingly to gather himself. "When this matter is resolved, I will arrange something even better for you. Whatever present you want. Books, games, expensive toys—"

"It’s alright," the boy smiled. "I’ll wait for next year."

But Deon already knew that it wasn’t sincere. In fact, this whole conversation wasn’t sincere at all, built on top of the lies they both told themselves.

Elliot turned and headed back toward the door. Deon had no idea why, but an instinct told him to follow. And right when he did, a faint whisper brushed against his ear, almost like the memory had leaned close to share something it wasn’t supposed to.

"I never opened them anyway..."

Quietly, the boy stepped outside, the stuffed bear dragging against his side for half a second before the door closed.

Marcel stood behind the desk, one hand raised, as if he had reached for his son and stopped halfway.

A part of Deon understood. A kid throwing a tantrum would’ve been easier to watch. At least then, Marcel could pretend not to understand, call it childish, and move on.

The patriarch stared blankly at the piece of paper in front of him before reaching back for his quill.

"...Damn it, Marcel. Maybe I shouldn’t go after all," he whispered softly to himself.

But just as he picked up the quill, his hand started to tremble. At first, Deon thought it was guilt. After that whole encounter, any person with even a half-functioning conscience would probably feel something.

Yet, the longer Marcel held the quill, the more Deon realized something was wrong. His fingers weren’t trembling because he felt bad, but because they were physically weak.

Marcel’s breathing grew uneven as he pressed his free hand against the edge of the desk. His shoulders rose and fell harshly, like he was trying to force air into his body.

"...Don’t," Marcel whispered to himself, quill scratching hastily against the paper.

But before Deon could read the words properly, Marcel’s hand jerked, hitting the nearby ink bottle and tipping it over.

Black ink spilled across the desk, rushing over the blank paper, causing the whole table to become a mess.

"Tch..." Marcel hissed, grabbing for a cloth and wiping some of it off his clothes.

Deon leaned closer instinctively, staring at the scene. The ink should’ve stopped...yet, it didn’t.

It spread farther than the bottle could have held, crawling over the desk in thin black veins. The liquid twisted around the letters, curled along the edge of the paper, then began to gather in the center.

Deon rubbed his eyes. "Am I seeing things? That doesn’t look like normal ink at all."

He turned to look at Marcel. The patriarch seemed to go on as normal, noticing nothing. He simply coughed into his gloved hand. When he pulled it back, Deon caught the faintest smear of blood.

"What the hell?" Deon muttered. "What is this then?"

But just as Deon turned back to look at the ink, something had formed.

At first, it looked like a shadow. A tall, thin shadow rising from the desk, dripping black ink from its arms as if someone poured the liquid into a mold.

Then, thin cracks of red spread across its body, glowing faintly beneath the black surface. The lines twisted around its chest, crawled across its arms, and gathered near the center, almost like a heart that shouldn’t exist.

Deon took half a step back, already reaching into his pocket. "Yeah...definitely not normal ink."

Only then did a blue panel flicker in front of Deon’s vision. His eyes widened as he read the message.

[Private Quest Received.]

[Issuer: GraveyardArchivist]

[Objective: Eliminate the Memetic Spirit corrupting the scene.]

[Target: Memetic Spirit — Spilled Regret]

[Reward: 75 Points]

[Warning: Damage received inside [Playback] will carry over to the user’s body.]

Deon stared at the last line. "Now you tell me???"

The monster lunged at him, hands suddenly stretching into long black claws that Deon definitely didn’t want to be hit by.

He pulled [Blade] out and summoned it in one smooth motion, katana appearing in his hands just as the spirit’s claw came down.

Squelch...

Deon’s blade passed through the claws cleanly, like cutting through thick mud. He quickly pivoted, slicing at the hand and cleanly severing it at the wrist.

But just as quickly, the severed ink snapped back into place as the hand reformed again.

"Of course," he muttered. "At least I know I can’t damage it now..."

The second strike came from the side. Deon twisted back, but the claw still caught his shoulder, causing pain to rip across his skin, enough to make his teeth clench.

He kicked off the nearby guest chair, putting some distance between them before looking at his wound again.

Red, hot blood was spilling from the shallow gash, but it was enough for him to confirm that it was real. Deon looked at the memetic ink-spirit thing again, quickly realizing a single fact:

"How the hell am I supposed to kill this thing?"