The Delacroix stood alone in a warehouse. The morning light peaked over the tops of the masts of ships docked in the port, unloading their cargo for the day. Inside the warehouse, boxes turned splinters. Shards of wood scattered about and spots of blood forming small puddles overlapping the shards in places. Yet there the Delacroix stood, hands bloodied. Fingers hard to distinguish beneath the gorish flesh and blood. Pap, pap, pap. The blood dripped down on the floor. The only company for the Delacroix, a lone glass jar, blurry and reeking of preservatives. The Delacroix looks up to the jar, as though defeated. Nicolas Delacroix finally steps over to the jar. She lifts it up, tucking it beneath her cape as she turns, leaving the warehouse for good this time. A trail of blood follows her as she pushes past the old wooden doors into the busy harbor docks.
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