Fog crept through the narrow alleys, thick and suffocating, and with each step Jackelin felt a chill settle deeper into her bones. But tonight, it was more than the cold that clawed at her. Something darker lingered in the shadows, an unseen weight pressing against her, a ghostly presence she couldn’t shake.


    From the corner of her eye, she saw them–flickers of spectral faces, shadows lingering just out of sight. The phantoms, restless and hungry, watching her with hollow, accusing eyes. The dead she had bound to her, souls of the men she had chosen to hunt, to kill. They haunted her now, no longer mere tools but reminders of the blood that stained her soul.


    “Stop dragging your feet,” Jack’s voice snapped through the murk, cutting into her thoughts. He didn’t glance back, didn’t notice the faint tremor in her hands or the haunted look in her eyes.


    “I’m not dragging,” she murmured, though the words felt hollow. She didn’t want to tell him, couldn’t bear to share the fear that twisted within her. Jack wouldn’t understand; he never had. To him, the phantoms were nothing more than weapons. But she… she could feel them. Their sorrow, their anger, pressing against her like a weight.


    She was haunted. Haunted by the faces of those they killed, by the memory of each life she had stolen, each soul bound and twisted into servitude. Each phantom was a scar, bound to her like chains she could never break.


    As they moved deeper into the city, she felt the eyes upon her grow heavier, darker. She could sense their resentment, their silent condemnation, their grief. And for the first time, she began to wonder if they were more than tools. If they were biding their time, waiting for the moment to turn against her.Stolen novel; please report.


    Jack’s laughter cut through the night, cold and humourless. He glanced back, his gaze sharp and mocking. “Ghosts?!” he sneered. “Are you really letting them get to you?”


    Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing. The truth was, she feared them, feared what they had become. Her control over them was slipping, unravelling, and in the shadows of the fog-drenched night, she could feel the souls hovering, their presence thicker, colder, as if they were drawing strength from her own weakness, her own regret.


    Every corner they turned, she felt them closer, like dark tendrils reaching from the edges of her vision. The spectres of the men she had hunted were becoming more than mere whispers; they were manifestations of guilt and dread, an army of silent faces pressing in, closing her in with every step.


    Jack was oblivious to it all. He prowled forward, blade in hand, his eyes gleaming with that feral hunger she had come to recognise. “If you’re weak,” he muttered, barely turning to look at her, “then leave. Don’t bring me down with you.”


    She clenched her fists, biting back a response. Weak. The word seared through her, a bitter echo of the faith she’d once clung to, of the vows she’d once believed. She had wanted to serve something greater, to be a force of righteousness. But all that was left now were fragments, broken promises, and an ever-growing darkness that seemed to consume her from within.


    Later, as she lay alone in her room, sleep eluding her, she found herself whispering into the silence. The words were faint, hollow, the last traces of a prayer she had not spoken in years. She prayed for peace, for absolution, for freedom from the faces that haunted her. But as her eyes closed, the memories rose up to greet her–men’s faces twisted in fear, their last breaths still lingering in the fog.