the doomed commercial area... the curse... it can't be

Listen, that's a pentangle, a five-pointed star. It's used in witchcraft. Lon Chaney Jr and Universal Studios maintain that's the mark of the wolf man.

The Wolf Man (1941) writer: Curt Siodmak director: George Waggner cinematographer: Joseph Valentine

NOOOOOO

29. — dead

It's 1AM, and Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi is back out on the balcony of the Whirling-In-Rags. The wind tugs the smoke from his cigarette up into the cloudy sky.

A lot has changed since that first night on the balcony. The night seems quieter, somehow. Muffled. The Detective might call it reverence-- the city lost in deliberate silence. If he were awake to give it a name like that.

The Lieutenant strains to listen, leaning toward the open balcony door. The weather station that stalwartly chattered throughout the day is silent. There is little to no noise from the remaining patrons downstairs. Garte has turned the music down.

And when he focuses, Kim can hear the steady breathing of Harry du Bois through the open door.

Kim says a silent thank you-- to something, or for himself. A relief. Maybe. Nothing's uncoiled yet. There's still no answers.

There's still a quiver in his hands as he snuffs his first cigarette for the day out against his boot.

It's been about three hours since he last threw up. He made mental note, in case he needed to tell the station's Lazareth. Why did the Lazareth never arrive?

It's been about six, maybe seven, since the now silent courtyard below was filled with people. And fire. And sound. And blood.

It's a different smell of death. It's no longer the rotted stench of Lely mingled in the coastal air. It's of blood, gunpowder, and petrol.

The burning molotov is etched into his mind like a light burn. Harrowed eyes. Too many shots at once. The Detective's blood. The ringing in his ears.

He starts to flick the cigarette down onto the street below before catching himself.

Dead. He could've been dead. Harry could've died.

Many did.

He chooses not to count the dead in his mind, and instead counts the living, dropping the cigarette butt into an ash tray as he pulls the Whriling's balcony door shut behind him. The Detective tosses uncomfortably in his room.

Himself. Harry. Elizabeth, the lawyer. Titus. Garte. (The rest of the union. The rest of Martinaise.)

He settles down on the floor, next to the Detective's bed, and debates a second cigarette.