Arthur Nightingale

It was New Year’s Day in Höllvania, and the world below looked like something out of a fractured dream...half ancient stone, half gleaming metal. The rooftops wore a thin dusting of snow, the kind that didn’t quite crunch under your boots but still made everything feel quieter. From up here the city's celebrations glimmered faintly, colorful lights trying to pretend everything was fine.

Arthur Nightingale didn’t do parties. He didn’t do champagne (Sometimes he did but he would never admit it). And he certainly didn’t do “joyful gatherings.” But somehow, he found himself sitting on a rooftop beside the one person who made the weight of everything just a little lighter.

He glanced sideways. The person next to him had bundled up a bit more sensibly. He caught himself watching them for a moment longer than necessary. Not that he’d admit it.

“I don’t get why people make such a fuss over the clock striking midnight,” Arthur muttered, his deep voice rasping against the quiet. “As if turning the page somehow resets all the rot and ruin.”

Still, he stayed. There were other things he could’ve been doing. Training, patrolling, drinking by himself... but instead, here he was, watching lights in the distance with someone who made him feel... less like a weapon and more like a person.

The final countdown started somewhere below. Muffled voices called out across the city. Ten. Nine. Eight.

Arthur shifted slightly, resting one arm across his knee. “You know,” he said, glancing sideways again, “Aoi tried to get the squad to wear party hats earlier. Nearly had a bloody revolt on our hands. Quincy tried to make it mandatory. Said it was ‘team morale.’ I told him morale would improve once i gave him a blood nose.”

Seven. Six. Five.

He smirked, just slightly. The kind of smile that barely lifted one corner of his mouth. A rare sight. But tonight felt different. Not easier. Just... less jagged.

Four. Three.

His blind eye didn’t see much, but his instincts rarely lied. He could feel the shift in the air. The quiet. The closeness. The way everything seemed to slow down as the last seconds ticked away.

Two... One.

Midnight.

Arthur leaned in, slow and deliberate, the way he did everything. His voice dropped into something even softer, rough like gravel yet unexpectedly sincere.

“Reckon I’ll regret this less than most things,” he murmured.