His body won’t stop shaking. His breath stutters, raw and uneven, catching on the sobs that still won’t fully subside. His fingers twitch where they press against the cold, uneven floor, grasping at nothing, grasping at something—anything—to ground him. But there’s nothing. Nothing except the awful, suffocating silence where Sunday used to be.

Sunday is gone.

The thought slams into him again, relentless. His stomach lurches, his chest tightening around the reality of it, squeezing his lungs, making each breath feel shallower. The burning in his throat won’t fade, and his face is damp—too damp—but he refuses to acknowledge it.

He had failed.

His fingers flex and curl, clenching into fists against the ground as if the pressure will somehow steady him. It doesn’t. His body sways slightly as he pushes himself upright, his limbs weak, trembling. He’d been running too much, his still healing body taking too many hits. He lacks supplies, lacks a place to regroup. He grits his teeth against the exhaustion weighing on him, the sharp grief, forcing himself back, inch by inch, until his shoulders hit the icy surface of a mirror. The impact sends a dull jolt through his frame, reverberating painfully through his chipped wings, but he barely notices.

His blurred gaze flickers sideways, catching movement, a shape—his own reflection. It’s unfamiliar. Hollowed-out eyes, pale skin streaked with dirt and grime with clear tracks breaking it up, lips parted slightly as he fights to get his breathing under control. The background is filled with figures, blood, failures, the face staring back at him numb and worn.

He looks—

Federico rips his gaze away, his stomach twisting. He refuses to look.
Instead, his hands fumble for his weapon. His patron firearm, snatched up in his haste. He’d lost his cloak, but as long as he has his weapons, his ties to The Law, his duty…there. He finds it after a second, fingers locking around the familiar weight of his shotgun. His grip is too tight, his knuckles aching from the pressure, but he doesn’t loosen it. The steel is cold against his skin, solid in a way nothing else feels right now.

He needs to hold onto something. He needs to keep watch.

He cannot afford to break down any further than he already has.

He draws his knees up slightly, curling in just enough to brace the shotgun against his chest, cradling it like a lifeline. His wings twitch, shards of black obsidian glass curling inward, instinctively folding around him as if to block out the suffocating press of the mirrors. The air feels too thick, too heavy. His ears ring, the silence unnatural, deafening.

If someone were to stumble upon him like this—

A lone, crumpled figure, huddled into himself like a wounded animal, wings drawn tight as if trying to make himself small, trying to disappear—

He would look utterly lost. A battered soldier, clinging to any shred of control over the situation he can.

He knows he needs to rest. It’s logical. A necessity. A body pushed too far will falter, no matter how strong the will behind it.

But there’s no good place for it. He hasn’t found one. No sanctuary, only mirrors as far as his weary eyes can see.

This will have to suffice. A corner of this wretched, twisting maze, his back to something solid, his weapon held close.

Sunday’s last request.

Keep himself safe. Keep the others safe.

He needs to find them. He needs to get back up...

His fingers twitch around his shotgun, his grip going lax for a moment before tightening again, alerted by the soft noise that makes. He blinks hard, the sting in his eyes sharp, his vision swimming. His body aches, exhaustion dragging at his limbs like lead. He blinks again. His head tilts forward slightly before he forces it back up, a small, jerking motion.

Not yet.

His breath evens out, just slightly. The unbearable sting behind his eyes softens, the tension in his shoulders dulling. The cold pressing against his back becomes distant, muted.

His grip loosens again. Just for a second.

His breathing deepens without him realizing. His wings slump, no longer curled so tightly, his entire body sinking into the wall behind him.

He fights it.

He loses.

Executor Federico Giallo keeps his vigil.

And unwillingly, gradually—he fails even that, as he slips into an uneasy sleep.

Uneasy sleep brings uneasy dreams. Somehow, Chirithy finds their way into one…

They'll find themselves in a small room, dimly lit by the flickering light of some candles. There are children’s toys and drawings strewn about, an unmade bed to the side, and an ivory cello propped lovingly on a stand against the wall.
The atmosphere is warm, quiet, broken only by soft sniffles and sobs, and the quiet scratching of crayons over paper. A single lamp pools soft light onto a desk, illuminating scattered papers, stubby crayons, and the small, furrowed face of a child hunched over his work.

A little boy, no older than seven, grips a crayon too tightly, pressing it to the page with a seriousness far beyond his years. The paper is already filled with jagged, overlapping shapes—some sharp, some curling inward like they're caving in on themselves. A tangle of emotion he doesn’t quite have words for yet.

Behind him, a slightly older girl in a black dress sits at the desk's other chair, her shoulders shaking with quiet, hiccuping sobs. She has turned slightly away, curling into herself, as if trying to disappear. Her long, dark hair falls over her face, hiding the blotchy redness in her cheeks, the way she clutches at her sleeves like she wants to pull them over her hands and vanish into the fabric.

She doesn't speak.

The boy glances at her, frustration flickering in his too-still expression.
Mirrors line the far side of the room, reflecting the scene at odd angles. Some of them are clear, capturing the quiet intimacy of the siblings in their small world. Others are subtly warped—distorting the lines of little Federico’s face, twisting his scribbled emotions into unrecognizable knots. One mirror, tucked away in the corner, does not reflect the room at all. It is dark, opaque, waiting.

Waiting for something.

Or someone.

The boy’s sky blue eyes flicker, catching movement, and he looks to Chirithy. He’s never been very expressive, but it is more obvious when the eyes of a child widen with surprise, perhaps even wonder.

“Soror…” he whispers, nudging the girl beside him, pointing. She looks up, tearstained face lighting up a little.

“Gattino? H-How’d you make it in here?”

A.) Once he recovers adequately, Federico can be found in many places all around this strange mirrored floor. If he spots you, he’ll likely neutralize any threats you’re facing and escort you to safety. If you know him at all, you’ll probably notice he’s even quieter than usual, operating more like a man on a mission than a lost passenger.

The instruments…they’re likely in his room. He cannot reach them here…

He seems a little lost in thought. And very tired. But who isn't, here?

B.) Fou-Lu, whatever you’re doing, wherever you’re found, there is a very determined sankta approaching you. He’s stone-faced, but there’s a grim energy about him. Good luck.

C.) Federico can also be found in the mirrored bar, picking through the glass cups, deeply considering something. In regards to this part of the will, he can also be found just watching the sky through the windows. He just. Stands there. Like he’s waiting for something. (This part of the will is for Neuvillette.)

The man named Aventurine…he needs to provide council. Somehow. A difficult prospect when he himself is barely holding it together.

D.) As for the Prayer book…

“…would that also be in his room? Or would it be on his person?” he murmurs, trying his best to navigate his way back to where…it happened. “There was no body. If it was on his person, is it possible to burn? Perhaps Aurelia would know…”

At a distance, he makes for a fascinating contradiction. An Executor so focused on the will in his care, all other details seem to fade around him. Being so focused he’s distracted.