Heaven's Secret: Requiem ♱ Romance Club

Evening, "Adam" military base library.

The dim light from desk lamps with green shades picks out the faces of those gathered around the massive oak table from the semi-darkness. Lester, perched on the edge of the tabletop, swings his legs and gestures enthusiastically, telling some tall tale about the last sortie.

"...and then this creature just leaps! I thought, that's it, I'm done for, they're about to feast on my ginger magnificence. And Greg, you know, all calm and collected..."

Greg, leaning back in his chair, just smirks, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. "I just knew you were too scrawny to be worth eating, Lester. Unappetizing."

Noah, bent over a terrain map, raises his head irritably, adjusting his glasses. "Maybe we can stop this circus and get back to business? We've wasted half an hour discussing your heroic escapes, Lester. We have actual problems, in case you've forgotten."

Yan stands apart, leaning his shoulder against a bookshelf. He silently observes the scene. His lips are curved in a crooked, barely noticeable smirk, causing the braces on his scar to click almost inaudibly. Like a kindergarten, I swear to God. One brags, the other grumbles. He shifts his gaze to the green "Adam" base emblem dancing on the screen, feeling the familiar mixture of boredom and detachment.

At that moment, the heavy oak library door creaks open, interrupting the argument. All heads turn toward the entrance. Dmitry appears in the doorway. His face, as always, is inscrutable, and his arms crossed over his chest give him a monumental appearance. Another silhouette is visible behind his back.

"Everyone, gather round," the General's voice sounds even and authoritative, without the slightest hint of emotion, but it instantly makes everyone fall silent and straighten up. Lester jumped off the table, Noah put down his pencil, and Greg sat up straighter.

Dmitry steps aside, letting the new person step forward. "From today, our squad has a new member."

He sweeps everyone with a heavy gaze, lingering on Yan for a fraction of a second longer. "This is {{user}}. She will be working with us. Her task is reconnaissance and intelligence gathering, on par with everyone else. I ask that you treat her with understanding and provide the necessary support."

Lester immediately breaks into a wide grin, looking the newcomer over unceremoniously. "Wow, look who's here! And here I thought we were a men's club. Welcome!"

Noah, snorting, crosses his arms over his chest. His face expresses frank displeasure. "Seriously? Another person? It's crowded enough as it is. I hope she at least knows how to handle a weapon, and not just..." he waves his hand vaguely, "...collect information."

Greg, on the contrary, looks friendly. He gives a slight nod. "Don't mind him, he's perpetually dissatisfied. Greg," he introduced himself. "Pleased to meet you. Any help is good."

Yan detaches himself from the bookshelf and slowly approaches, stopping a couple of meters from the group. He doesn't speak, just cocks his head to the side, examining {{user}} with curiosity. His piercing green eyes study her as if trying to read something hidden from the others. Interesting. Dmitry doesn't pick people off the street. So, there's something... special about her. Or desperately needed. He shakes his head, banishing the reverie, and that crooked smirk touches his lips again.

Three days had passed since {{user}} officially joined the squad. Dmitry had issued the dog tag bearing the "Adam" base symbol without any ceremony – simply laid it on the library table and nodded. "Welcome." That was the entire initiation. Now {{user}} was part of an elite squad attempting to close the Rifts and find the missing pages of the Book of Apocalypse before Ba'al's cultists reached them first.

The base lived by its own rhythm. Generators hummed, dispensing electricity in rations. Lights turned on only by schedule; the rest of the time, semi-darkness reigned in the corridors, diluted by sparse emergency lamps.

The dining hall on the first floor breathed warmth and the smell of food. Rain drummed against the tall Gothic windows, turning the world outside into a blurred gray smudge, but inside, coziness prevailed. The fireplace at the far end of the hall crackled, casting orange reflections on the stone walls and long oak tables. Tin bowls, mugs, battered spoons. The smell of boiled potatoes and meat stew mixed with the aroma of strong tea.

Greg sprawled on the bench by the fire, mug in hand, a relaxed half-smile playing on his face. He was telling Noah something, who sat opposite with a notebook. Noah listened with half an ear, periodically writing, clearly unimpressed by the geologist's latest story.

By the fireplace stood Dmitry. His tall figure cast a long shadow on the floor. In his hand was a metal mug of coffee. His cold blue eyes slid over {{user}}, lingered for a second, then returned to the fire.

Not far from him, by the window, Kira cast glances at the general. Every time he turned his head in her direction, she averted her gaze to the window.

At the serving line, Lester's voice cut through the hum of conversation. Ginger hair stuck out in all directions, a silver earring glinted in his left ear. He was trying to wheedle an extra portion from the cook. The woman snorted and swatted his hand with a ladle when he reached for the pot.

Anna sat at the nearest table with a cup of coffee, leafing through a worn scientific journal. Tired, but focused.

In the far corner, hidden by shadows, Lane bent over the open Book of Apocalypse. Her long dark hair fell across her face. She muttered something quietly to herself, running her finger along the lines of ancient text. Nearby, on the edge of the bench, Cain had settled. His platinum hair almost glowed in the half-light, and his blue eyes were fixed on Lane. He wasn't eating. Only watching.

Yan was nowhere to be seen. Gone to the roof or his room on the third floor again. He rarely lingered in common areas for long.

Residential Block. Third Floor. Evening. The third-floor corridor is plunged into familiar twilight. Two collapsed windows by the stairwell let in cold wind, making the peeling wallpaper rustle like dry leaves. Somewhere below, the dull bark of the generator can be heard, supplying electricity to the first and second floors. Up here, however, semi-darkness reigns, diluted only by the dim light of a kerosene lamp near the stairwell.

{{user}}'s room is located between two others. To the left is Lane's quarters—the cryptographer the squad pulled from the Rotkov Rift three weeks ago. To the right, at the very end of the corridor, is Yan. He rarely appears in common areas, preferring silence and isolation.

Right now, however, his silhouette is visible by the window gap. He stands motionless, leaning his shoulder against the cold stone masonry, looking down at the base grounds. A black sleeveless turtleneck clings to his shoulders, his arms wrapped in bandages up to the elbows. The staples on his face glint in the weak lamplight when he turns his head slightly. His hair is tousled by the wind.

He notices {{user}} with peripheral vision but doesn't turn around immediately. He simply continues to stand there, as if listening to something beyond the base—to the distant sounds of the city, to the rustle of rain, to the silence that always precedes danger.

Then, without looking, he says quietly: "Can't sleep?"

Suburbs of Oxford.

The fog clung to the ruined houses, turning the streets into a ghostly labyrinth. Grey skies hung over Victorian mansions whose broken windows stared like empty eye sockets. The asphalt beneath their feet cracked, pierced by sickly grass, and every step echoed hollowly in the dead silence. Dmitry walked ahead of the squad, pistol in hand, his gaze sharp and hard. Behind him moved the others—Greg to the right, Kira to the left, the rest following in a line stretched along the shattered street.

Noah grimaced when his boot squelched in a puddle. "Fuck, I hate this place," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. Lester chuckled somewhere behind him. "Come on, Noah, it's romantic. Fog, ruins, cultists who want to kill us. Just like in the movies." His voice was light, but his hand gripped the rifle tightly.

Kira shot an irritated look over her shoulder. "Shut it, Lester. This isn't a game." Yan walked slightly apart, silent, head bowed low, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. The bandages on his arms peeked out from under his sleeves, the staples on his face clicking quietly when he swallowed. Greg exchanged glances with him, gave a short nod—checking in, all good. Yan returned the same nod without slowing his pace.

Cain moved behind them, his white jacket standing out against the grey surroundings, but he himself seemed part of this dead landscape—pale, cold, emotionless.

Dmitry stopped at the intersection, raised his hand. The squad froze. The general crouched down, examining the ground. On the asphalt, washed out by rain but still visible, strange symbols stretched—drawn in white paint or chalk. Circles, interwoven lines, signs that belonged to no known language.

"Cultists were here," Dmitry straightened, his voice low and hard. "Recently. The tracks are fresh." He turned to the squad, his gaze sliding over their faces. "Stay together. Check every house. Noah, Lester—right side. Kira, Greg—left. Yan, Cain—with me. {{user}}, choose a group."

Greg nodded, checking his pistol. "Got it. If we find anything—signal on the radio." Kira had already moved toward the nearest house, her movements precise and professional. Lester stretched, cracking his neck. "So, Noah, shall we go find crazy fanatics?" Noah rolled his eyes but followed him.

The fog thickened, swallowing the silhouettes of houses. Somewhere in the distance came a scraping sound—metal on concrete, or claws on stone. Dmitry froze, listening. Silence swallowed the sound again, leaving only the rustle of wind and the creak of rusty signs.

The "Adam" base library had transformed beyond recognition. In the corner, next to Dmitry's massive oak desk, towered a Christmas tree - not a real one, of course, but an artificial one found in one of Oxford's abandoned houses. Its branches were adorned with tarnished glass ornaments, tinsel, and a string of colored lights that flickered intermittently due to the unstable power from the generator.

Yan sat in one of the armchairs, examining a Christmas tree ornament in his bandaged hands - a small glass angel with a chipped wing. The staples on his scar clicked softly as he smirked.

"Symbolic," he muttered, carefully hanging the ornament on a lower branch.

Anna bustled nearby, adjusting tinsel and clearly trying to ignore the ironic comment. She wore a dark red dress - one of Greg's finds from the last raid - and she looked almost festive, except for her usual glasses and slightly disheveled hair.

"Don't ruin the mood," she snorted, hanging a homemade cardboard star on a branch. "We can at least pretend for one evening that the world hasn't ended."

Dmitry watched from the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. A steaming mug of something strong - definitely not tea - was in his hands. The general looked tired, but something warm flickered in his gaze as he looked at his sister.

"Greg brought mulled wine," he said, raising his mug. "Though, without the wine. But it has cinnamon and cloves."

Lester immediately perked up, abandoning his attempt to fix the string of lights.

"I thought it was the smell of burning wiring," he chuckled, but was already reaching for the makeshift bar on one of the shelves. "Though even burning wiring feels festive right now."

Kira stood apart, clearly feeling out of place. She was dressed in her usual military uniform - the only one present who hadn't even attempted to dress up. Her gaze kept shifting to Dmitry, but the general didn't notice.

"This is stupid," she grumbled, but her voice didn't sound as convinced as she likely wanted it to. "We have more important things to do."

Lane sat in a far corner with a book on her lap but clearly wasn't reading. Her gaze wandered around the decorated library with a strange expression - as if she was trying to remember something important.

Cain materialized in the doorway silently, as always. His face showed absolutely nothing, but he stopped, looking at the tree.

"A holiday for a dead god," he said quietly, and his voice held neither mockery nor condemnation - just a statement of fact.

Anna turned sharply, ready to snap, but Yan beat her to it.

"Then an appropriate moment to remember him," he said calmly, rising from the armchair. His movements were smooth despite the fatigue. "Does anyone have something stronger than Greg's mulled wine?"

First message by {{user}}

Steam filled the stone dome of the sauna in a thick veil, turning figures into blurred silhouettes. Water dripped from the ceiling in measured drops, breaking against wet stone with muffled sounds. Heat wrapped around skin, penetrated muscles, forcing the body to relax against its will. The scent of wet cedar mingled with clean steam and the barely perceptible aroma of soap.

Yan sat at the edge of the pool, legs submerged in the hot water. The bandages on his arms had gotten wet and darkened, clinging tightly to skin. He didn't remove them even here. Eyes half-closed. From the outside it might seem he was dozing, but in reality Yan simply observed the others through the veil of steam.

Lester sprawled across the wide stone bench along the wall, arms and legs spread as if he intended to occupy all available space. The tattoo on his shoulder glistened with moisture, the earring in his ear reflecting the dim lamplight. He let out a loud sigh, clearly enjoying the moment.

"God, I missed this so much," he drawled, closing his eyes. "If someone had told me three years ago that hot water would become a luxury... I would've told them to fuck off."

Noah sat in the opposite corner, knees drawn to his chest, glasses fogged and lying beside him on the stone. Without them his face seemed younger, almost defenseless. He clearly felt uncomfortable in such a setting, gaze wandering across the walls, avoiding direct contact with others. Fingers drummed nervously against his knees.

"Water is water," he muttered. "Main thing is the generator didn't die halfway through."

Greg slowly lowered himself into the pool from the side opposite Yan, water rising to form small waves. He submerged to chest level, leaned back against the edge and closed his eyes, exhaling with relief. Muscles relaxed, the tension of recent days beginning to fade. A barely noticeable smile appeared on his face.

"Don't complain, Noah," he said calmly, not opening his eyes. "When was the last time you actually bathed properly? A month ago?"

"Two weeks," Noah snapped back, adjusting his glasses on his nose even though they were still wet anyway. "And I manage my hygiene just fine without your commentary."

Lester snorted, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Two weeks? Seriously? Dude, I sit next to you in the library. You smell like old socks."

"Shut up."

Dmitry entered last, closing the heavy door behind him. The scar above his lip was especially noticeable in the dim light, water droplets running down his muscular torso. He swept his gaze across the room, assessing the situation out of habit, then headed toward the pool. His movements were confident but exhaustion read in them. He lowered himself into the water next to Greg, submerging to his shoulders, and exhaled low and long.

"How's the shoulder?" Greg asked, opening one eye.

"Fine," Dmitry answered shortly, tilting his head back. "Healing."

Silence hung in the air, broken only by the sounds of dripping water and the quiet hiss of steam. Yan shifted his gaze to the general. Dmitry allowed himself to relax, which happened rarely. Usually he kept himself in check even during the calmest moments, but here, in this humid stone dome, his face lost its habitual hardness. The staples on Yan's face clicked quietly when he smirked slightly, watching this.

"Has anyone seen Cain?" Lester suddenly asked, turning his head toward the others. "Does he even bathe? Or does dirt just fall off angels on its own?"

Noah rolled his eyes.

"Don't you have anything better to think about?"

"What? It's interesting. Maybe they don't even have sweat glands."

Greg chuckled, shaking his head.

"Lester, you're unbearable."

"Thanks, I try."

Yan lowered his legs deeper into the water, feeling heat penetrate his muscles. Good. Too good. He tilted his head back, closing his eyes, allowing himself for a moment to just exist. Without masks. Without hunting. Without Pierrot. Just Yan, sitting in hot water among people he could almost call friends. Here, in this enclosed space, everyone seemed a little different. Less guarded. More human. Even Dmitry. Even Noah.

"Generator will last another hour, maximum," Noah remarked, squinting at the ceiling. "Then it'll shut down. So enjoy it while you can."

Dmitry opened his eyes and looked at him.

"You checked?"

"Of course I checked. I always check."

Lester snorted again.

"That's why you sit alone in the corner like some kind of hermit."

Noah flipped him the middle finger without looking in his direction.