《Punishment Halls》 Punishment I: Ashes PUNISHMENT I ASHES The heavy slam of a door, followed by the intense stomping made by two sets of feet abruptly shattered the prior tense silence, with a couple of nervous gasps and the audible displacement of the living room¡¯s furniture made the small child hidden under the covers of her bed clutch onto Toast, who proceeded to meow moodily in response, unaware of how anxiousness had brought the girl to shut her eyes tightly and hold onto her breath in between firmly pressed lips. He wasn¡¯t exactly done with the mayhem either. Having already pushed Lieta aside, and with his mind still too overtaken by adrenaline to keep a proper handle on his own forcefulness; Narguile Ashford opened the bathroom door with another loud bang of his fist, not bothering to turn on the lights, nor caring about the set of footprints that his shoes left on his way there, remnants of the downpour still going on the streets outside the small apartment clinging to his soles. The first thing the man did once he was surrounded by the sterile ceramic walls was let out a large, deep exhalation. Leaning over the bathroom sink, his hand found a natural resting place covering the entirety of his face, the hot currents of air escaping from his lips providing a hard-to-ignore sting on his gashed knuckles. Letting his shoulders release at least some of that head-aching tension that had his neck tied in a knot, his first instinct was to open the faucet, the sounds of freely running water offering a much needed respite from the rhythmical throbbing his brain kept making against his skull. Still breathing slowly, he allowed both his hands to rest under the stream, rubbing his hands with his parted fingertips to make sure he got rid of all the blood staining them. His skin was still numbed, enough for the pain to remain almost exclusively as a distant shadow, but he knew he was hurt nonetheless. His dry mouth produced a series of sharp noises every time his lack of care opened his wounds just a bit more, yet he was more preoccupied by a different matter altogether. Just¡­ How much of that blood was his? Reflecting on such a thing helped Narguile to slowly bring down the levels of agitation still being pumped wildly across his system, however, soon enough it came to be replaced by something far darker. Worry, and guilt, weighing down on his shoulders as if they had suddenly gained a physical mass, forcing him to raise one of his still-soaked hands to hold his head. He certainly needed to do so in order to prevent it from falling over and strike the mirror in front of him in both anger and frustration. Unable to completely tune out from his own mind, no matter how much he wanted to, Narguile delivered a long sigh as the sweat running down his forehead clashed against the cold water brought by his fingers. It¡¯s not like this was the first time he had done something like that. Back at the foster group home, he got himself into fights incredibly often, even before Lieta appeared to become part of his life¡­ However, he didn¡¯t really need to continue that line of thought to realize that what he had done today couldn¡¯t be truly compared with childish brawls that had only bruises or getting grounded as collateral. To even try to do so wouldn¡¯t be unlike an immature attempt at a poor excuse. As his eyes fell onto his hands, and unavoidably looking at the bloodstains on his shirt¡¯s sleeves, he wondered¡­ Had he killed that man? He had no doubt he deserved a beating, such a hesitation never quite reached his head, but the still raw memory was creeping into his conscience like a haunt, repeating itself on his hands which were rapidly getting sore, the torn skin feeling like a live fire that didn¡¯t go down no matter how much water he poured over it. The way his knuckles sunk on his face, loosening teeth and displacing nasal bones. How he lost sight of everything around him as he drove his skull against the asphalt multiple times. Even the gargling noises of his throat filled with blood and the distant pleas from Lieta, urging him to stop¡­ They all took their own part in a macabre echo chamber inside the young man¡¯s head. Losing all inhibition to allow every primal impulse to take control was as exhilarating as frightening¡­ Yet, not even that was entirely the reason why he was now being assaulted by regret. What his wife had witnessed that day wouldn¡¯t be something that could be simply unseen. He figured that the visage of the person you trusted your life being reduced to a savage instrument of violence would come back anytime he held their daughter in his arms; and the prospect of being seen with fear in their eyes was enough to break his heart. Such concern was the emotional, irrational side of him loudly speaking; but logic would swiftly peek its ugly face to similarly become a thorn inside his chest just as well. He might have left a corpse in the streets, one murdered with his own bare hands. What if police came to the house for questioning? What would he say then? Should he confess right away and turn himself in? But if he went to prison, what would his wife and daughter do afterward? In such a state of turmoil, Narguile couldn¡¯t stop his own heart from rapidly start beating louder. He raised his eyes towards the mirror glass in front of him, perhaps in the hope of calming himself with the reflection of reality; perhaps to laugh at himself pathetically being pushed into a growing sentiment of dread. And it was then that he saw it for the first time. That¡­ Thing. He had never believed in ghosts, demons or monsters of any kind ¡ªYet there was no other way to call it. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Towering behind his back there was a large shadow, a half-translucent spectral being of sickly greenish-black skin tone, its flesh torn and ruptured all over, allowing a disturbing sight at slimy patches of its insides that didn¡¯t bleed over. It had a bloated body lacking any proper sense of proportion, a hulking mass of fat under a thickened hide with grotesquely long arms that fell well over its obese waistline, faintly disappearing into nothingness. Yet it was the creature¡¯s face to where Narguile¡¯s eyes couldn¡¯t move from, turning every other detail into the back of his mind. Momentarily paralyzed in position, a cold numbing sensation traveled down his back, making it feel like the fingers of death itself were firmly grasping his spine as both their ¡®gazes¡¯ locked. The unspeakable abomination had a large, wide and abysmal maw; darkened and putrid yellow teeth drawing an uneven, repulsive smile. It seemed as if it was having the time of its life, cruelly pleased beyond belief at how utterly helpless and appalled its soon-to-become prey was. Yet aside from that horrid grin, it lacked most features that a human should. Its round, swollen face was devoid of nose, ears, and any semblance of hair. The rough texture of its skin was alien in nature, however, it was one disturbing trait that triumphed even over that malignant expression of evil satisfaction. Where the demonic specter¡¯s eyes should be, two sunken gaping orifices stood instead, a blackness denser than darkness itself residing inside them, and thick wrinkles surrounding the emptied holes, shaping them into an abyssal expression of morbid joy that was easily ascertained even through the mirror¡¯s reflection. Because, despite its apparent lack of sight, it seemed watchful, aware not only of every single drop of sweat running down Narguile¡¯s forehead, but also of all the fight-or-flight impulses barely being held back from impending collapse. Narguile¡¯s already disorganized black hair was shaken down even further as he abruptly turned around to face the monster face to face, despite every fiber of his being yelling at him not to do so; and in doing so, his eyes widened in fright once again. It wasn¡¯t a trick of the light, or an illusion served by his unstable mental state. Despite the way its silhouette seemed to fade into the darkened atmosphere of the bathroom, faintly illuminated by the artificial lighting coming from the hallway behind the partly opened door; that thing, that... monster, was undeniably there. No matter how fervently he wished to deny it, how much nausea he felt by seeing it directly, and how difficult it suddenly felt to breathe, he couldn¡¯t help but to accept its repellent presence even more. Having it so close before him was suffocating in multiple senses, straining a sanity he had never doubted even once before. In that nerve-wracking silent stillness, Narguile¡¯s examination of the disrupting entity continued amidst shallow and labored intakes of air. Around its round, deformed head hovered an ornate headpiece, giving shape to the formless dread that seeped from every pore of its spectral being. The headpiece was very similar to a crown of antlers and thorns, coated erratically in what appeared to be rusted steel and tarnished silver. It grew and twisted in a manner that resembled an overgrown vine, writhing around its head until it sunk into the space in between skin and bone, its shape visible on the spots where flesh gave way to decay in a visage of putrefaction. ¡°Why, such splendor¡­ Your majesty.¡± Despite the way he felt his eyes growing dizzy and his line of sight blurry, Narguile forced his lips into a snarky smile. ¡°I¡¯m afraid to say it¡¯s a little bit wasted, considering how fucking ugly you are.¡± Sarcasm that was met with no direct verbal response, but the inclination of the abomination¡¯s head as it tilted itself towards him in what perhaps could be construed as curiosity ¡ªOr perhaps amusement towards his evident discomfort. Even without eyes to see, or ears to hear, everything was communicated straight into his being with sheer oppressive malice. The thick, bony thorns seemed to pulse lightly, a gesture subtle yet sinister; and every time they did so, Narguile could feel his brain throbbing against the confines of his skull. Despite the lack of a tangible stench in the bathroom, his stomach churned when he couldn¡¯t help but stare back into those gaping pits where eyes should dwell, now appearing as windows into endless nightfall, adorned by the pulsating coronet. A hard swallow went down his dried throat, as he closed his eyes in an attempt to regain some semblance of control over his scattered senses. He didn¡¯t need to throw a punch to understand it was a futile endeavor¡­ But then¡­ What else could he do? Why was this monster haunting him? And what was it doing to him that made him feel so¡­ Sick? ¡°What¡­ Do you want?¡± His voice came out defiantly even though everything within him screamed not to do so. But he needed to. ¡°Are you here¡­ To take me? For what I did?¡± His family was just beyond that bathroom door. If the devil himself had pursued Narguile there over the crime that he had just committed, it was his duty to destroy him right there and then, no matter the cost¡­ For their sake. A low gurgle escaped from the greenish creature¡¯s maw ¡ªA sound most would associate with a guttural mockery of laughter if it didn¡¯t carry such a chilling resonance. It stood before Narguile yet it seemed to envelop him completely in its presence, like a cold blanket of despair, menacing to consume him just as much as the worry and concern he had experienced right before seeing him. But even at that time, it wasn¡¯t his own well-being that was tormenting him. He didn¡¯t care whatever retribution may come his way. If that¡­ beast, that ¡®Punisher¡¯ of sorts wanted to devour him for his crime... Then he didn¡¯t mind that his flesh could serve as a sacrifice just so that Lieta and Aria could continue their lives without further danger. It was as if his acceptance, when all he could see was the semi-transparent flesh of the hideous abomination before him, triggered something inside himself. His headache became more unbearable, keeping him from being able to even look straight. As his legs lacked the strength and stability to keep him standing, Narguile collapsed to his knees as he bluntly slammed the door before succumbing to the floor, a dreadful sense of uneasiness running through his veins as the last he saw before losing consciousness was the sightless pit of that cruel entity staring down at him, perhaps entertained by his willingness to give himself up to protect his wife and daughter. Ashes -Part 2- Narguile Ashford was only seven years old when he lost both his parents, yet he was still a hard to control rascal even at such young age. While the faces of both his mother and father had faded inside his memory with the passage of time, the psychological and social scars left behind by that fateful night were not as easily erased. After all, even if he wasn¡¯t meant to bear the consequences of his progenitor¡¯s actions, he was draped in a cloak of silent judgment, a damning shadow cast over him by blood ¡ªnot of his spilling but undeniably coursing through his veins. He was the child of a murderer, the son of a man who killed his own wife to then disappear from the face of the earth. The boy''s lineage had become a labyrinth of unanswered questions and untimely endings, his father''s side remaining an enigma wrapped in the shroud of anonymity. The man who was half responsible for his existence had no kin that society was aware of, or at least none that cared to claim Narguile as their own. On the other hand, Narguile''s maternal relatives regarded him with a mix of disdain and superstition, as if he were a living reminder of a cursed lineage they wished to forget. Society recoiled from him as though he were marred by his father¡¯s sin ¡ªa misdeed not his own, yet it seemed to taint his very soul in the eyes of the world. While it wasn¡¯t handled directly by the boy, doors closed one after another; conversations faded into silence as his future was brought into discussion; eyes that should have looked upon him with warmth instead turned away, leaving him adrift in a sea of rejection. Ultimately, it was within the austere walls of an institutional center where Narguile Ashford ended up being relocated to the Foster Group House that became his unlikely home. The new home was starkly utilitarian, its corridors echoing with faint laughter and muffled sobs of other lost souls similar to himself. Each child there carried their own burdening tale, one that often lay heavy beneath their youthful exteriors, yet even there Narguile was unable to find camaraderie, despite the rest of the children understanding fully well what it meant to be unclaimed and unwanted. His heart had become far too closed, its ramparts reinforced by the searing betrayal of his father, the very man who should have been the bastion of safety for his family. Age proved irrelevant in Narguile''s wounded psyche. He became noxiously overprotective of himself, ever vigilant against the onslaught of pain that threatened to breach his defenses with every potential bond. The vehement refusal to engage in the customary pursuits of childhood companionship was not merely a passive act of self-preservation; it was an aggressive assertion, perhaps an innate trait already embedded in his personality. Narguile repelled advances with a ferocity that belied his age, as if each overture of friendship concealed the dagger of future treachery. It wasn''t just mere shoves in passing or scowls cast across playrooms; he met perceived slights with clenched fists and a fury that left both peers and caretakers equally wary. It only took a slightest insinuation of hostility or mockery to ignite within him a tempestuous wrath, leading to violent confrontations more often than not. His clashes were indiscriminate ¡ªchildren who mocked him and staff who sought to discipline him found themselves facing equal measures of his unbridled rage. In his perceived world, where trust equated vulnerability, Narguile clung fervently to one solitary relic from a time before innocence was shattered. A simple red ribbon that mother Tina loved to tie her hair with. This memento was more than a keepsake; it served as both shield and talisman, safeguarding what remnants remained of the love he once knew while warding off the perils he now faced alone in the merciless world around him. Yet one shadowy figure remained a constant inside those feverish dreams about his childhood. Vitola Ashford, his father. He was unable to muster his face no matter how much his brain seemed to try, but¡­ Why was any of that important now, of all times? It was as he tried to shake those thoughts off his mind that Narguile groaned back into an awakened state. His face and shoulders were sore from lying on the cold ceramic floor of the bathroom for hours, and not without some effort, he pulled his body upwards into a seating position as he accommodated his legs inside the confined space between the tight four walls. An effort that perhaps proved to be unwise, as he was immediately faced with an intense recoil that felt like his guts were making a somersault. Everything came back to haunt him at once, the searing sensation of his parted knuckles, the pulsating ache in his head around the area he slammed the doorknob with; and eclipsing both of them, the immense dread that ran through his veins like a wildfire at the potential of facing that revolting ghost once more. Narguile¡¯s exhausted gray eyes moved across the shadow-laced bathroom in a frantic tempo, scanning his surroundings with rapid line-of-sight shifts that mirrored his rapidly increasing heartbeat, however, he was ultimately met with nothing. The bloated grim reaper¡¯s oppressive presence had dissipated like a horrid nightmare after waking up, and bit by bit, Narguile¡¯s shoulders began to relax as he sought support in any stable object to lift himself completely upwards. He questioned if all was nothing but his mind playing tricks on him, disorientated just as much as he was unable to dispel the sickened sensation after remembering the monster¡¯s visage. No, it had been too real, too vivid for a mere dream. Moreover, he had never considered himself to be a particularly imaginative guy, and certainly not enough to come up with something as crazy as that thing was. And in the very second that he didn¡¯t dismiss it as an illusion, a new fear sunk its teeth to his very core ¡ªmore visceral than any fear for himself. What if the grotesque bastard had turned its malevolent focus towards his wife and daughter? The thought sliced through Narguile¡¯s daze like a guillotine; every paternal instinct within him sounding alarms far louder than any ghostly encounter ever could. It propelled him into action despite the lingering pain and the overwhelming desire to drop unconscious for a few more hours. Lieta and Aria¡¯s safety was of paramount importance, above all else. Whatever guilt he had felt about his actions the night before was swiftly discarded, deemed thoroughly unnecessary, as the protective fury fueling his steps was not unlike a darkness threatening to claim him as an instrument of violence once more. Every fiber of his being screamed alertness at this potential threat lurking unseen; feeling as if his very eyes could deceive him, sheltering the monster under every shadow cast across the home he swore to defend. Be it a monster, hell or heaven itself, if anything dared to harm his family, then¡­ Lieta was caught off-guard, most likely as a result of his abrupt staggering through the doorway, or maybe because of the way his bloodshot eyes looked under his disheveled face and distraught expression. Regardless of the reason, Narguile¡¯s sudden presence made his wife turn around sharply in his direction, interrupting the sizzling sound of breakfast being cooked with a loud yelp escaping from her lips as she flinched, pushing down a nearby bowl with her elbow as one of her hands flew to her heart, making the glass container succumb to gravity¡¯s call as it crashed onto the tiled floor. The cacophony of shattering glass served as a jarring symphony that snapped Narguile back into reality ¡ªhis world of phantoms interrupted by a visage of mundanity, the danger of any hypothetical monster replaced by the one offered by scattered crystal shards. He felt momentarily stunned, unable to move a single muscle for a couple of seconds, just as Lieta¡¯s gaze swept across him. The soft features of her face and the golden brightness of her yellow eyes tainted by concern¡­ And perhaps a hint of something else. An expression that spoke volumes to him without uttering a single word. Even when he was still recovering from the lingering torment that appeared to have rooted itself inside his mind, Narguile compelled himself to move, forcing his feet to bridge the gap between them to then kneel over the broken glass pieces, beginning to pick up the larger shards between his hands before she could manage to get hurt. But¡­ He knew it wasn¡¯t much more than an escape from her trembling eyes, a subterfuge driven by fear rather than altruism. But he was afraid, how could he not? What if Lieta now harbored fear towards him, after his violent outburst the night before? The idea that she could see him as something monstrous, a figure to recoil rather than be embraced by, sent a fierce pang through his heart, sharper than any piece of glass his shaky fingers picked up. It was easier to focus on cleaning up the broken remnants than confront the possibility that their relationship might fracture under the weight of his monstrosity. He busied himself amid debris and uncertainty, desperate for anything that would keep him from staring back into Lieta¡¯s eyes and finding in their reflection his deepest fears confirmed. ¡°You know¡­ You¡¯ve always done this, ever since we were children.¡± With a long sigh, Narguile stopped himself once again from movement when the voice of his wife reached his ears, soft-spoken and heavy-handed at the same time. ¡°You burden everything on your own, as if it didn¡¯t matter even a little bit how much pain you¡¯d have to endure, or how hurt you¡¯d end up in the process.¡± >> ¡°Don¡¯t you realize how unfair that is, Narguile?¡± Unconsciously, his fingers tightened around the gathered glass pieces. Her words reached him yet they were hard to acknowledge. He understood at once that Lieta was right, that she had every reason in the world not only to be mad at him, but also to question the very foundation upon which they had built their union. And despite how much that possibility tore at Narguile¡¯s already frayed seams, he struggled to maintain composure. There was something excruciating about that realization, crushed under the weight of everything that transpired in the last handful of hours, yet unable to give up that fierce need to keep everything intact for Lieta and Aria¡¯s sake. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. He knew that his efforts to cloak his inner disarray were pitiful at best. Attempts of deceiving had never been his forte, anything he ever tried to hide was easily uncovered by Lieta¡¯s discerning gaze. It wasn¡¯t so much ineptitude on his part, or at least, that¡¯s what he wanted to believe; but rather a testament to how deeply she understood him. ¡°Last night must have been very scary.¡± Accompanying the soothing tone of her voice, her proximity wrapped around him like a caring embrace. He didn¡¯t exactly know when it was that the crybaby girl he once met had turned into the very lifeline keeping him from despair, but there was no denying it either. Despite their lives being so thoroughly intertwined, she had matured into a really strong woman without him noticing. ¡°It was for me, at least.¡± >> ¡°But I¡¯m thankful, Narguile. It¡¯s only thanks to you that it was nothing more than that¡­ Just a scare, a bad dream.¡± For Lieta saw beyond the superficial veneers; she was able to perceive the raw anguish and conflict warring within him as clearly as one might see daylight piercing through a rift in curtains. In her eyes lay a mirror reflecting back at Narguile not just his fears but also an unspoken pledge ¡ªan assurance that regardless of anything that lay ahead of them, they would face them together, as long as he was able to accept that he didn¡¯t need to do it all on his own. Narguile truly thought of telling it all, right then and there. From how much tension it brought to him thinking that the cops might knock down on his door at any moment, to how afraid he was of what murdering someone implied to his humanity. How he was lost, unsure of what to do next¡­ His lips parted only for a brief moment before everything was obscured by the shadow of the creature he saw last night. Indeed, everything came back to that thing. How could he even begin to explain it? There was just no way. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± Narguile ultimately said, letting a relieved sigh escape from his lips. Whatever was to come, all he needed to know was that Lieta was still on his side. ¡°It¡¯s just exhaustion taking its toll on my head.¡± >> ¡°But¡­ Thank you, Lieta. I really needed to hear that.¡± The smile he tried to muster did little to appease Lieta. It likely seemed too feeble to stop her growing frown. ¡°You do realize you¡¯re bleeding out of your hand right now, don¡¯t you?¡± She soon pointed out, making him notice faint traces of crimson running down from his tightened fingers. Thankfully, he had a secret weapon at the ready. ¡°The same way that you notice the smell of burnt eggs?¡± A roll of her eyes and a cleaning cloth thrown to his face as she urgently stood up to tend the forgotten frying pan were not sufficient measures to stop him from chuckling lightly. It was truly a mysterious thing how just being around her placated his concerns, and it calcified his determination just as well. All she needed to do was stand beside him, and he could take on anything. Similarly rising from his kneeling position, Narguile discarded the pieces of the shattered bowl before tending to the superficial wound he had just given himself with the cleaning cloth Lieta ¡®handed¡¯ to him. Despite how his complexion had improved significantly after that little chat, he figured he was still in a pretty messed up state, enough so that the cut was barely being registered by his numbed-down palm. ¡°It really is just like when we were children, isn¡¯t it?¡± His voice came out softly, but Lieta¡¯s attention fell on him just the same, despite her efforts to salvage the darkened breakfast, her eyes ¡ªthose striking orbs of golden luminescence, locking onto Narguile momentarily. Her delicate features were reminiscent of that of a painting; platinum strands cascading like soft silver around her face ¡ªthe very picture of fragile elegance. It was that breathtaking beauty that had once made her vulnerable among those who thrived on preying upon weaknesses. ¡°It¡¯s hard not to reminisce.¡± Back when Lieta arrived to the austere confines of the Foster Group Home, even as a child of eleven, she called unwanted attention. Older girls cast envious and scathing glances toward her, while boys, emboldened by juvenile bravado, sought to tease and harass. Little did it help just how easy it was to make her cry. Two years older, Narguile brought it upon himself to stand between her and the rest of the kids. He had always been a prone-to-fighting loner, but now, with Lieta, he had a reason to do so. He bore the bruises like medals earned in defense of something purer than himself ¡ªa kindred spirit found amidst shared misfortune. After all, the motive as to why she was taken to such an awful place was the fuel of rapidly moving rumors. Abandoned by her father, who ran away after the murder of her mother, a tragedy he could understand too well. It was a connection he didn¡¯t really make too much of beyond its superficial meaning ¡ªsomething he would come to eventually regret. ¡°Oh, so you do remember?¡± Lieta¡¯s voice pulled him out of his daydream. There was the right amount of playful displeasure in her tone so that Narguile couldn¡¯t help but smile, picking up a broom as he proceeded to sweep the remaining smaller shards of glass, navigating around her petite frame. ¡°Then why is it so that you never seem to learn?¡± Yes, he figured she was right. The very first time he ever interrupted the bullying against her, he ended up biting way more than he could chew. Older kids beat him to a pulp, and he was left a bloody mess, lying on the ground with an overly sentimental dummy crying right next to him. Narguile remembered that moment quite vividly, even as she called him stupid while asking why had he butted in throwing punches without reservation; but how could he forget? It was the first time he felt pride, the first time he ever felt like he had won at something. After all, none of them had managed to reach even a single hair of that frail girl whose name he then proceeded to ask. ¡°Some lessons are just a bit hard to take in.¡± Narguile answered, discarding the final pieces of the glass bowl. Even as jest carried his words, there lingered an underlying truth ¡ªa self-admonishment, perhaps. ¡°I didn¡¯t really understand it all that well back then.¡± >> ¡°But it¡¯s likely that you saved me too, just by coming into my life.¡± Before Lieta, he was alone and empty. A hollow husk that moved without any reason, carrying out the motions set by his defiant nature ¡ªa rage lacking purpose, a gun barrel aimed blindly at the skies. That¡¯s why, as his eyes, a bit sunken under his beaten face, looked upwards at this girl choking in-between sobs; he didn¡¯t mind parting with his sole treasure ¡ªthe red ribbon he kept as a memento from his mother, at least not after scribbling with some black marker the words ¡®DONT CRY¡¯ with his own irregular handwriting. The very same accessory that now found its residence amidst Lieta¡¯s long hair, tied tenderly to one side. Despite its frayed edges and faded hue testament to time''s relentless passage, it held within its threads an intangible essence more potent than mere adornment. Its meaning transcended simple remembrance or attachment. It symbolized an inexorable bond born from loss to then end up sealed by mutual salvation. ¡°There are many things that I could never do without you.¡± Narguile added to his previous words, as he moved from the kitchen to take a seat on the only couch they had. ¡°So don¡¯t think I¡¯m trying to shoulder everything on my own. I¡¯m too stupid to even consider trying that.¡± Case in point, an example of those claims promptly came barging in with almost the same urgency that he had done so the night before. With a poor grumpy cat who had resigned to his fate being mercilessly shaken, trapped inside the embrace of her tiny arms; Aria stormed outside her room, interrupting the melancholic talk between her parents as if it was no big deal. ¡°Mom! Why didn¡¯t you wake me up!? I¡¯m going to be late for school!¡± Yelped the six-year-old, making her dad also realize he had no idea what time it was, making him search through his pockets in a rush and failing to locate his phone in the process. The realization hit him like a cold splash of water. He too was behind schedule, and the way the winter sun illuminated their humble home probably indicated that it was by quite a considerable margin. He needed to report that he was on his way there, for the risk of losing his job was not a luxury he could take. "What are you two getting so desperate for?" Perhaps sensing his mounting anxiousness, Lieta''s voice cut through the mounting tension with ease, its timbre rich with amusement. As she began laying out breakfast on the table, a focal point in their compact apartment, the absurdity of their fretting unfurled before them. "It''s Saturday." She clarified with a knowing smile. "And far too late already to be thinking about any sort of classroom." In one fell swoop, Narguile¡¯s agitation dissipated into nothingness. He did feel a bit silly, so caught inside his headspace and internal ghosts that even something as simple as the day of the week slipped from his mind. At least he had an excuse for his absentmindedness on last night¡¯s tumultuous events, but what about his young daughter? ¡°Oh¡­ It is? Really?¡± Aria answered to her mother¡¯s gentle chiding, sounding drowsy and disorientated despite her previous high energy. ¡°I feel a bit lost, I kept waking up over and over again during the night.¡± She explained in a groggy voice as she finally allowed the fuzzy hairball to escape, the older black cat staying near her tiny feet anyway. ¡°I didn¡¯t have good dreams.¡± >> ¡°It felt like a monster was in my room, but Toast kept it away with angry hisses.¡± Despite the dramatic manner in which Aria began imitating meows and cat scratches, Narguile expression soured considerably. He had come to forget about the monster that he also saw last night. It all seemed like a distant nightmare by that point, was his daughter just having regular childish fears, or was it an indicator of something more sinister lurking around? ¡°But if it is Saturday, then that means¡­¡± He couldn¡¯t really keep asking those questions, as the tiny bundle of silly turned around to finally acknowledge his presence on the couch behind her back, speaking in an endearing tone. Their eyes crossed and then locked, with him making an entertained smile as he waved his hand at her before another loud squeal ensued. ¡°Daddy!¡± Without wasting one more second, Aria began rushing towards him. The small whirlwind that was his daughter could easily be dubbed a miniature version of himself. None of Lieta''s ethereal features seemed to have claimed residence in Aria''s visage; instead, she boasted the same stark black hair as her father ¡ªa mane that bore the same untamed spirit as his did whenever he neglected it for more than a couple of weeks, but in her it tumbled around her face and shoulders in charming disarray, another symbol of her carefree essence and infectious joy. While his smoky gray eyes looked right between exhaustion and restrained, untapped ferocity; Aria¡¯s similarly colored gaze reflected a kindling spark of lively curiosity instead, full of innocence despite the hint of mischievousness hidden inside them. In the ephemeral stillness that preceded Aria''s affectionate embrace, Narguile took a moment to truly observe her ¡ªthe mirror-image of his younger self, encapsulated in the spirited innocence of his child with Lieta. But then Aria¡¯s youthful exuberance faltered; her feet rooted firmly to the ground as if an unseen force had pressed pause on her impetuous advance. ¡°Aria?¡± Narguile called her name, his warm smile replaced with an uncertain expression as he tried and failed to interpret hers. ¡°Is something wrong?¡± ¡°No¡­ It¡¯s just¡­¡± Her usual torrent of words was now but a trickling brook, timid and uncertain. She lingered there in limbo, barely a whisper away from him on the couch yet worlds apart. ¡°¡­Are you really daddy?¡± >> ¡°Something feels¡­ Different.¡± A cold shiver snaked its way down Narguile¡¯s spine as he heard those words. His complexion drained of color, leaving it ghostly pale as the pit of his stomach churned with unease. Ashes -Part 3- He was unable to shake that uneasiness for the remainder of the day. His morning talk with Lieta had lifted much of the worries wringing his heart, the ones regarding the opinion she held towards him after last night¡¯s transgression; but his daughter¡¯s innocent question had unwittingly unearthed some veiled truth, a discrepancy he himself could not completely discern, yet it echoed on that lingering feeling inside his gut that something was very wrong indeed. The specter that appeared before him last night wasn¡¯t about to relinquish its grasp on his mind so easily ¡ªthis encounter with Aria serving as a stark reminder that while he couldn¡¯t really see or feel its presence, there was a possibility that it wasn¡¯t truly gone either. And just thinking about such a horrid creature stalking his daughter during the night was enough to make his blood boil, to send him into a blind witch hunt. ¡°So you sensed a monster?¡± Narguile asked Aria during their breakfast, after the girl¡¯s acute perceptiveness gave way to the displays of affection she typically gave so absentmindedly. ¡°Should daddy take a look around your room just to double-check if Toast chased away any unwelcome guest for good?¡± He made an effort not to show his own growing turmoil, the deep tone of his voice keeping a balance of nonchalance and play-pretend concern. Approach that was met by Aria¡¯s enthusiastic nods and Lieta¡¯s amused chuckles. He preferred that the two of them remained that way, free from any encroaching shadow stretching its fingers into their tangible world. After their meal, Narguile didn¡¯t waste a single second before inspecting every corner inside Aria¡¯s room. He swept through her closet and peered under her bed, searching for any trace or hint of that bloated green phantom still haunting his thoughts. ¡°No monster here.¡± Finally standing upright, he offered reassurance with a small smile tinged with affection, taking a chance to tousle his daughter¡¯s already unruly hair. ¡°It seems Toast is quite the guardian, huh?¡± His actions were not a simple, condescending effort to put Aria¡¯s mind at ease. He needed to do it just as well. When the young girl said she felt something inside her room, Narguile believed her. How could he not, for he also had faced something inexplicable during the last night. If she hadn¡¯t felt a presence ¡ªif these notions were baseless¡­ Then it would be his sanity being called into question instead. With Lieta and Aria settling down in the main bedroom to watch a movie, Narguile took some time to breathe on his own in their small balcony, letting the soft warmth of the afternoon sun reach him. The city sprawling before him felt distant, as he wrestled with persistent anxieties circling like crows around carrion, finally acknowledging Aria¡¯s final question. Was it possible that this green atrocity was clinging onto him somehow, lurking perfectly unseen? Was that why he felt so much at edge since the morning? Employing hands that had become steadier than his own thoughts, Narguile reached for the glass he had prepared with a duo of ice cubes that awaited their liquid dance partner. Not long afterward, he poured the bourbon inside, lured by the promise of momentary escape that its amber liquid was supposed to bring ¡ªor at least a numbing comfort against the insidious doubts writhing within. As he swirled the drink a couple of times, the sharp clink of ice against glass provided an oddly comforting soundtrack to this ritual. He raised the glass closer, allowing himself a momentary pause to appreciate the bouquet of aromas before bringing it closer to his lips. Sharp flavors abruptly invaded the corners of his mouth as he tried the spirit, and soon enough, he had finished drinking his first sip. A disgruntled frown ensued, as he felt his throat burning, and a foul taste lingering on his tongue. There was no caramel, no toasted oak or vanilla in his mouth, just sheer unpleasantness. He kept a couple of coughs in, but he had no such luck with a couple of shudders that his shoulders and head involuntarily made. This was the first time he had ever tried bourbon in his twenty-three years alive. Previous dalliances with alcohol had been limited to social sips of beer, but even then, the question as of why people subjected themselves to alcohol seemed to escape his understanding. ¡°This is so bad¡­¡± He muttered under his breath, wondering if it would be a better choice to dispose of the glass contents in the sink, if not making the entire bottle follow a similar fate. But ultimately, Narguile couldn¡¯t find the will to do either. The whole bourbon thing had been a Christmas gift from Phillip, and whether he appreciated the gesture or not, he esteemed the old coot enough not to do something like that to him. He braced himself for another mouthful of the aged liquid before setting the glass aside, its duty fulfilled for now. The potency of its flavor was undeniably jarring, a stark bitterness scorching its way down his throat, sharp enough to cut through the nonsense of nightmarish fantasies and giving him some clarity to consider the cold, hard reality for a change. The likelihood that he had extinguished a life the previous night loomed monstrously high. While self-defense could initially rationalize his violent onslaught in protection of his wife, such justifications quickly withered when his fury propelled him well beyond the bastard¡¯s choking gasps. The cacophony of gurgling blood and the crunching displacement of teeth culminating in the oppressive stillness of a sunken face under his hands replayed dimly in his memory even now. Childish courtyard-brawl rules didn¡¯t apply to him anymore. There were no excuses to cower behind, and the lengths he reached escalated violently past the realm of a mere skirmish. But then¡­ What kind of consequences ensued? Narguile feared checking any news report from the area in confirmation of his potential murder, but if truth mirrored his dread, would then his door ring sooner or later, heralding police questioning? If such a thing came to happen, trying to hide his involvement was a fool¡¯s errand, a laughably futile charade doomed from inception. His knuckles bore all kinds of tell-tale bruises, and the bloodstained clothes he once wore now lay as silent but accusatory witnesses to his deed; condemning evidence he was unsure he¡¯d be able to mask. Was then confessing the best resolution? And if that was the case, wouldn¡¯t it be better to turn himself in as soon as possible? The thought of jail time made him shudder. His paramount obligation was ensuring Lieta and Aria¡¯s well-being. Their sustenance, their future, was too high of a collateral to pay. His savings could only take the two of them so far, and moreover, he didn¡¯t want to imagine a future where his actions blinded by rage brought them anguish. Besides, thinking of being apart from them weighed his heart enough to sink his mind into despair. Aria was still at an age where every month marked significant strides in her growth, and he yearned to not miss a single step in her journey through childhood. With a renewed sense of resignation, unable to reach any kind of satisfactory conclusion, Narguile coaxed another sip of bourbon past his lips, discovering to his mild surprise that the taste wasn¡¯t as unpleasant as before. It was distracting enough to disrupt the tempest inside his head. Perhaps that was the reason why so many people were ensnared by its potent embrace. A new internal question made him chuckle at himself. He was being a coward, wasn¡¯t he? It was funny. He had always prided himself on being fearless, sure to never second-guess himself if any form of danger loomed nearby. Yet now he felt pathetic, scared beyond belief in anticipation of his deserved retribution. While grappling with that internal disquiet, a foreign distraction brushed against his legs, with Toast weaving around his feet in an age-old feline display of affection and curiosity. The creature was an unremarkable fuzzy mosaic, mostly of black, but also plenty of browns; its fur patched with the evidence of numerous cat years lived. Animals were often credited with a keen instinct, an innate sensitivity to shifts in people and their environments that eluded human perception. Yet Toast carried on blissfully impervious to anything like that, instead nudging against him, calling for attention with small meows. If there was truth to Aria¡¯s previous words, and his being had indeed been altered in some intangible way, the cat¡¯s unmoving copper eyes certainly showed absolutely no indication of it. ¡°What do you want, you old fur-ball?¡± Narguile said while gazing down at the insistent feline. Truth be told, he found little joy in interacting with pets. It was his daughter that usually took care of all the petting and playing around. ¡°Has Aria fallen asleep already that you¡¯ve come to pester me now?¡± Despite his bitter words, there was an undercurrent of warmth in his voice, grateful for even this small semblance of normalcy amidst the maelstrom of recent events. Toast wasn¡¯t even their pet by formal rights. He belonged to the Harmines next door, an elderly couple without children or any other form of relatives. Not that it mattered much to the lazy and plump purr-ball, who was probably drawn to their home by Aria¡¯s playful spirit. Over time, they had even acquired toys and a feeder for him, allowing the cat free rein between the two residences. Narguile bent down to pick him up and immediately noticed an uncharacteristic lack of resistance from the cat. In his hands, Toast felt unusually pliable, a lethargy creeping into his limbs that Narguile hadn¡¯t bothered to observe before. Holding the cat close to his face, he arched an eyebrow wondering if it was the inexorable march of time beginning to leave its mark on him. ¡°Awfully mellow today, aren¡¯t you?¡± Narguile remarked to Toast, fully aware that he wouldn¡¯t get an answer. He narrowed his eyes as they focused on the cat¡¯s placid gaze. He gave the animal¡¯s front paws a light jiggle anticipating one of his typical reactions ¡ªeither a scratch or a disgruntled hiss, but was met with nothing but passive compliance ¡°Everything alright, buddy?¡± His one-sided conversation with the cat was cut short by the chime of his doorbell, an interruption that instantly centered his attention. A now familiar twisting sensation gripped his stomach. This moment had been expected, so he didn¡¯t allow nerves to paralyze him. He settled poor tired Toast back on the floor and swiftly moved towards the apartment¡¯s entrance, hoping to have whatever was coming over and done with before Lieta could notice. Despite all the doubts plaguing his mind, Narguile held a distinct distaste for lingering trepidation; he preferred to confront matters head-on rather than wallow in unnecessary suspense. Without a hint of hesitation, he gripped the doorknob firmly, barely giving himself the time to prepare for what waited on the other side. Police, monsters or anything in between, he was ready for whatever that might come calling. ¡°My boy? Is everything in order? You seem rather tense.¡± As Narguile pulled open the door, he was met not by an intimidating squad of officers nor by otherworldly apparitions, but by the familiar visage of Phillip Harmine instead. The old man stood modest in stature when compared to him, his posture slightly curved from the weight of years but not entirely bowed, suggesting a resilience that belied his age. ¡°It¡¯s really strange to see you this shaken.¡± Phillip¡¯s presence carried a certain poise, an echo of wisdom and gentle concern attained over seven decades. His eyes, framed by lines etched from smiles and sorrow alike, held a softness that spoke to a life filled with both contentment and a hint of loss. There was a graceful ease about him, despite ¡ªor perhaps because of; the melancholy that sometimes touched his gaze. Wordlessly, Narguile opened the door wider to allow Phillip entry. With familiar ease, the old man stepped into the subdued January sunlight streaming in from the balcony, the light casting reflections on his balding head which he wore with an air of acceptance. The Harmines could never become parents themselves, their lineage halting at their own branch. It was probably this very void that drew them toward Narguile and Lieta, seeing in the young couple the children they never had, providing guidance and support as if to fill the silent spaces left in their hearts. Despite Narguile¡¯s reluctance to outspokenly accept his turmoil, the truth was that Phillip¡¯s presence alone brought him solace. The old man¡¯s eyes, though softened around the edges and carrying within them a milky haze, still glinted with an astute awareness. That gaze now met his troubled one, filled not just with concern but also an unmistakable flicker of affection too. Lieta and Narguile were not that different from them. They saw in Phillip and his wife Virginia figures akin to mentors, or even the parental figures they never found elsewhere. People who provided counsel without judgment, and warmth without condition, ever since they arrived in that place seven years ago. If there was anyone to confide in for advice during his time of need, it would undoubtedly be Phillip, the closest friend he had and perhaps even more than that. He was one of the halves of the cherished duo that stood beside them in both hardship and tranquility. But where to start, exactly? ¡°I see you¡¯ve opened my gift.¡± Sensing his reluctance, Phillip aimed to dissolve Narguile¡¯s tension with lighthearted banter, his gaze shifting to the glass now resting abandoned on the balcony. ¡°That¡¯s some darn fine bourbon, I tell you.¡± >> ¡°Mind if this old timer joins you for a swig?¡± The topic caught Narguile a bit unguarded. His head was pulled from the clouds almost immediately, as he blinked away his reverie and nodded. His movements were slightly awkward as he fetched an additional glass and filled it with ice cubes while Phillip made himself comfortable in one of the balcony¡¯s chairs. ¡°Oh, of course not.¡± He stammered a response, joining him soon enough as he poured whiskey for Phillip. ¡°Truth be told, I don¡¯t have much taste for it.¡± ¡°I figured as much. You are the uptight type after all.¡± He said before letting out a hearty laugh at the honesty of his confession. ¡°Give it enough time and nothing else will quite scratch that itch that only whiskey can soothe.¡± Their conversation paused momentarily as Phillip took a generous gulp from his glass, a gesture which seemed to invite Narguile to do so as well. A more reserved sip coming from him was accompanied by the hope that the old man continued drinking, just so a second pour would hasten the bottle¡¯s emptying. Yet, no sound of satisfaction graced the old man¡¯s lips even after he leaned back into the chair, gazing at the amber liquid in his hand with an arched eyebrow ¡ªas if it didn¡¯t hold the taste he was so accustomed to; however, he soon shook his head and redirected his attention to Narguile. The jovial air around him turned grave as he seemed to weigh his next words more carefully. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°We heard a ruckus from this direction last night¡± Setting down his glass on the small table between them, Phillip met Narguile¡¯s eyes directly for the incoming serious talk, the short-lived lightness of their interaction receding like the mist in the horizon under the winter sunlight. ¡°Virginia and I couldn¡¯t help but notice.¡± >> ¡°We may be old, but we¡¯re not oblivious.¡± He added with a wry twist of humor that didn¡¯t quite hit its mark. Despite the troubled expression on his face, Narguile was thankful of Phillip¡¯s efforts. It served as a bridge across the chasm between apprehension and openness. Yet even so, the confession that hung on his lips was heavy, and not quite as easily conveyed as bourbon talk. ¡°I¡­ I think I killed someone last night.¡± As the words tumbled out like stones, they drew down both Narguile¡¯s eyes to the floor, just as well as the strength from his shoulders. Phillip¡¯s reaction was palpable ¡ªa mixture of disbelief and shock that seemed to ripple through him. For a moment, time itself appeared to halt within those balcony confines as the old man processed the gravity of what had just been said. The jovial twinkle that once danced in his eyes gave way to a more deep-etched concern as he struggled to answer. ¡°It can¡¯t be just that.¡± The old man¡¯s lips trembled slightly as he muttered, refusing to stop believing in the inherent goodness of the rough-around-the-edges kid he had grown to care for like his own offspring. ¡°You¡¯re not a cold-blooded killer. I know you too well to believe that.¡± >> ¡°Tell me the whole story, Narguile. What happened?¡± Phillip¡¯s voice carried a firm resolve, steadying against the tremors that such alarming news had undoubtedly set off within him. His words were not merely a call for clarity; they bore the silent but heavy promise of support. Realizing this helped Narguile to finally start untangling everything outspokenly. ¡°Lieta wasn¡¯t home when I got back from work last night.¡± He began, his voice tinged with remembrance of the chaos that still clung to his mind like cobwebs, muddled further back when urgency and adrenaline took full control. ¡°It was just Aria and Toast, waiting here alone.¡± >> ¡°She wasn¡¯t picking up her phone either.¡± At this detail, Phillip¡¯s brow furrowed. Given how both their families were so closely woven together, he could immediately sense the irregularity in Lieta¡¯s absence, especially considering that Narguile usually returned well after nightfall. ¡°And why was she out so late?¡± The old man couldn¡¯t help but ask, curiosity sharpened by concern. ¡°Funny thing¡­ She doesn¡¯t really know.¡± Narguile added with an unfocused gaze and a halfhearted smile. ¡°I asked her today, and she couldn¡¯t answer.¡± >> ¡°Something about a strange compulsion, an overpowering thought she couldn¡¯t shake off¡­¡± >> ¡°...As if fate itself was manipulating her like a puppet on strings.¡± Phillip leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he absorbed Narguile''s account. His eyes narrowed slightly, a reflection of the gears turning behind his weathered facade. It was a troubling picture being painted, and not once had Lieta given him any reason to question her character, but... ¡°You don¡¯t think she might be keeping something from you, son?¡± The question emerged tinged with reluctance, betraying Phillip''s internal tug-of-war between doubt and trust. Yet the idea that something so out of character could occur without explanation gnawed at him uncomfortably. If it were anyone else, skepticism might have easily led to conclusions of deceit or some substance-induced haze leading to irresponsible behavior. But this was Lieta they were talking about ¡ªthe same young girl who held such a special place in his heart that she had asked him and Virginia to stand as godparents to her and Narguile¡¯s daughter in their wedding. It didn¡¯t sit well with him, she wasn¡¯t one to weave tales or succumb to vices carelessly, as outlandish as everything was shaping out to be. ¡°No, I believe her.¡± Narguile eventually answered, closing his eyes with a long sigh. ¡°Because I felt the exact same thing too.¡± >> ¡°I don¡¯t know where it came from, but it was there. This¡­ Pull.¡± As he talked, he felt the already deep tone of his voice straining at times under the burden of recollection. It was clear that this wasn¡¯t simply a passing sensation, but something more profound, and disturbingly real. ¡°It wasn¡¯t like being possessed¡± The young adult clarified, his eyes showing a grieving uncertainty, of not knowing exactly which words to employ. ¡°I didn¡¯t lose control, or stray from my own consciousness.¡± >> ¡°But something urged me to run in search of Lieta.¡± Narguile paused for a brief moment, reflecting on the peculiarity of his motivation. ¡°One might think it normal for someone to act on instinct, given the circumstances.¡± He commented thoughtfully. ¡°But this¡­ Impulse, was anything but that. It wasn¡¯t normal. I knew exactly where I had to go. No questions asked, no room for self-doubt or second-guessing.¡± The air between them grew heavy with tension as Narguile recounted a scenario too bizarre for fiction. It strayed too heavily from everything Phillip had ever experienced in his life, but he knew of the boy¡¯s honesty, and instead leaned forward with deepening concern. ¡°And where did this¡­ Compulsion lead you?¡± The old man asked. ¡°What was it that you found at this place you were driven to?¡± Phillip¡¯s question lingered in the air for what felt like an extended period of time as Narguile struggled to put every memory in place. It was around this point that his primitive drive took control, turning everything into a rage-induced haze. ¡°It was an alley, conveniently close.¡± Narguile clarified, although the location wasn¡¯t really of consequence. If anything, it was a small oddity when compared to the greater mysteries. ¡°Just a couple of streets away from here at most.¡± >> ¡°As of what I found there¡­ It was just as that damned feeling was telling me.¡± >> ¡°Lieta was thrown on the pavement, screaming for help.¡± As the otherwise loving husband and father continued, the shift in his voice wasn¡¯t a subtle one. His countenance became raw, as he was brought to grit his teeth by recollection alone. ¡°I lost it, when I saw this¡­ Motherfucker hovering over her.¡± His fist tightened, straining the bandages placed over his knuckles, faintly stained by dried blood, and still searing with a distant ache. Even after many hours of consequences, it was hard to picture himself acting any different from how he did back then. ¡°It¡¯d be easy to blame it on those weird compulsions, don¡¯t you think?¡± Narguile asked with a mocking smile, one directed at himself. ¡°But no¡­¡± >> ¡°It was all me, I was unable to stop. Even when Lieta begged me to, I couldn¡¯t. Not until his skull had caved in.¡± As Narguile laid bare the darkest moment of his life, Phillip felt his chest sinking. There was no trace of boastfulness in the young man; it was clear that he recognized his actions tread perilously close to an abyss separating man from monster. Yet alongside this acknowledgment lay a haunting absence of repentance. The visceral understanding that if presented with the same scene once more, his response would remain unchanged. Trying to dispel the oppressive atmosphere that had enveloped them, Phillip cleared his throat while his hand instinctively moved towards the resting glass of bourbon for another sip before ultimately deciding not to. It was more important to try and clear some of the dread that had fallen on Narguile¡¯s shoulders, and so he swallowed the discomfort to steer their conversation into another concern he had. ¡°And who was this man that assaulted Lieta?¡± It was certainly an important question. While the neighborhood around their run-down apartment building housed its fair share of petty thieves and beggars, the old man had a hard time imagining any of the already-known faces committing such a heinous thing. ¡°Was it someone you had seen before around here?¡± Narguile lifted his gaze from his own hands with an unfocused resignation and a partly broken spirit. His memories regarding the guy himself remained an indistinct blur inside his head ¡ªunreliable at best. ¡°Not anyone I recognized.¡± The dark-haired young man replied, crossing his arms with a bitter expression. Narguile had a knack for navigating the streets, so both men didn¡¯t need to vociferate their conclusion that this one particular thug wasn¡¯t a local one. ¡°Looked like a low-life. Dirty clothes, awful smell. He didn¡¯t seem all that old, but I¡¯m not too sure. His face didn¡¯t last all that long with everything in place for me to say that with certainty.¡± >> ¡°Didn¡¯t strike me as the homeless type though.¡± He added narrowing his eyes, focusing as to recall every detail, however vague. ¡°Dunno. A gut feeling.¡± It was liberating to be able to let everything out without minding his words for a change, but nonetheless, Narguile paused for a moment as he took the opportunity to quench his dry throat. Grasping the neglected glass of bourbon, he braced for another sip ¡ªa decision immediately followed by regret. He hadn¡¯t gotten used to the flavor of the amber spirit just yet, prompting a subtle grimace he attempted to conceal despite how foul and rancid it felt on his taste buds. ¡°Tragically enough, it was Lieta who got a clearer sight of the creep.¡± He continued after placing what little remained of the whiskey back onto the table. Compared to when Phillip had first arrived, his demeanor now seemed considerably lighter. Sharing his burden had granted Narguile a measure of relief. ¡°We talked about it a while ago, she had some odd things to say too.¡± >> ¡°Something about his¡­ Eyes. She told me they were¡­ Vacant, empty. As if he wasn¡¯t really seeing anything in front of him. Like he was unable to hear her screams or even my approach until it was too late.¡± ¡°Vacant eyes, you say?¡± As he echoed Narguile¡¯s words, Phillip leaned further in the chair as he rubbed his chin in contemplation. They were reaching another esoteric dead-end, and even when he had heard many tales tinged with eeriness in his many years, perhaps it¡¯d be better to ground their conversation back into the tangible. ¡°And did any of you two see anyone around the alley?¡± >> ¡°A witness, as a detective would say?¡± The old man¡¯s voice was calm, but there was a hint of worry in there too. This was certainly another piece of information that could turn critical when dealing with the aftermath of this outburst of violence. ¡°On the place itself? No, there wasn¡¯t.¡± Narguile swiftly answered, certain amidst the chaos of his recollection ¡ªit was a conviction born from an unsettling assurance, for he knew that if anyone else had been present, they too might have fallen victim to his unrestrained fury. ¡°But just before I arrived home¡­ There was someone strange.¡± >> ¡°A man tucked away in a passage across our street. Never seen him before either.¡± Narguile¡¯s voice took on an edge as he described this figure. Something about it all just kept bothering him. ¡°Slicked-back greasy hair. Dark sunglasses despite the late hour. A worn down suit that must have been as old as he was, and a fucking ugly tie to boot.¡± >> ¡°He had a knife gripped tightly in one hand; precariously balancing a baby with the other, unbothered by the pouring rain.¡± Narguile left unsaid how the guy lowered his glasses just enough for their eyes to briefly meet; an encounter that unsettled him back then, but one he didn¡¯t make much of. ¡°And why do you think he¡¯s important?¡± Phillip asked back, struggling to make a connection between this stranger and the tumultuous events that unfolded next. ¡°Well, that¡¯s one more thing Lieta and I have in common.¡± It suggested perhaps more than mere coincidence. Another piece that didn¡¯t fit anywhere in the puzzle. ¡°She saw him earlier that day too.¡± After that final piece hung in the air beyond what was comfortable, Phillip let out a resigned sigh. The whole array of today''s revelations were already starting weighing on him, and while the old man couldn''t sweep everything under the rug with superficial words of comfort, he still managed to offer Narguile a weak half-smile. ¡°You know¡± He began with a lighthearted huff. ¡°There¡¯s only so much peculiar business an old man can take in one evening before his head starts spinning.¡± >> ¡°I believe you, son. Every word. But what to make of it all¡­¡± His voice trailed off, lost momentarily in thought. ¡°I¡¯m afraid to say that¡¯s beyond me.¡± Gathering his strength, he pushed himself up from the chair, feeling the far too familiar protest of the age in his bones as he rose to his feet with a raspy grunt. He looked down at Narguile and placed a reassuring hand on the younger man¡¯s shoulders, freely offering his camaraderie in a gesture that conveyed more than phrases ever could. ¡°Listen here.¡± There was an optimistic lilt to his voice that seemed almost incongruous given their grim discussion. ¡°Things may not be as dire as they seem.¡± Or at least, that¡¯s what Phillip preferred to think. ¡°Maybe that fella walked away with nothing worse than a bloodied nose and wounded pride.¡± One of Narguile¡¯s eyebrows arched in disbelief. No, that couldn¡¯t be it. He could still hear it¡­ The sounds his head made whenever he made it brutally clash against the concrete. Phillip however, had something to back his claims. ¡°Virginia¡­ You know how she is, sharper than a bloodhound. Trust me, she¡¯d have known if there was talk of any¡­ Unfortunate discoveries nearby.¡± >> ¡°Never underestimate an old lady''s talent for sniffing out neighborhood gossip.¡± Despite not sharing his deductions completely, Narguile didn¡¯t have any rebuttal for Phillip¡¯s argument, and so, he simply limited himself to get up and walk beside the joyful old man while trying to mirror his smile. ¡°And my wife? Her nosiness is something else I tell you.¡± The door to Narguile¡¯s apartment was held open once more as his neighbor and confidant prepared to bid farewell, not without offering first a final attempt at soothing his worries. ¡°Son, no matter how dire life can seem at times¡­¡± He mused, calling upon the wisdom Narguile had relied on many times before. ¡°As long as your heart¡¯s in the place it belongs to ¡ªnext to Lieta and little Aria, you¡¯ll find what it takes to pull through." >> ¡°And never forget.¡± He added with a warm glance over his shoulder, ¡°Virginia and I are just next door for whenever you need a reminder of your own strength.¡± It was a reassurance that didn¡¯t quite manage to warm the chill that had settled deep within his chest. Even with how lengthy and painstaking their conversation had been, he still held back the most disturbing and inexplicable apparition from last night. But how could he burden the old man with the nightmarish creature that haunted him before he lost consciousness? He simply watched as the elder man departed, weakly waving goodbye, at least until he paused mid-step as if recalling an afterthought. ¡°Oh, and that bourbon? I reckon that you should get rid of it.¡± The remark caught Narguile by surprise, especially considering how often he had to hear Phillip waxing lyrical about his choice in spirits. Now he realized how the old man had left his glass practically untouched. ¡°It didn¡¯t taste quite right.¡± >> ¡°Must have been a bad batch. I¡¯ll bring you another soon.¡± Left alone once more with only silence for company, Narguile mulled over Phillip¡¯s departing words regarding the whiskey. An innocuous comment that somehow echoed within him. Watching through the doorway as the old man disappeared into the neighboring apartment, he was left with an odd sense of non-closure, just like with Aria¡¯s question in the morning ¡ªa story left frustratingly half-told. But there was no reason to mull over those thoughts under the door frame. He exhaled deeply and shut out the world with a tempered click of the doorknob, to then start making his way towards that godforsaken bottle that now held more significance than mere distaste. To have an excuse to throw it in the sink wasn¡¯t an unwelcome development, but Narguile would¡¯ve preferred it was a decision taken by his own accord rather than because of those off-putting insinuations that only further spurred his disquiet. His path led him through the limited confines of the kitchen, a place where an unexpected softness underfoot halted his progress abruptly. A disconcerting squelching sound crept to his ears as he hesitantly looked down to confront whatever had made it, his breath caught at the sight of Toast lying sprawled in disturbing stillness across the floor tiles. Much as he hoped for the silly old coot to be sleeping in an ill-suited spot, there was really no mistaking it. A sinister line of darkened blood trickled from one corner of Toast¡¯s agape mouth, drawing a morbid trail that now loomed ominously close to his shoes. Narguile had seen his reflection in the cat¡¯s coppery orbs just hours ago, and now... They were clouded, aiming at different directions, as if each were lost in its own abyss, with outlines of pupils once expressive barely discernible under fur that already had lost some of its luster. He couldn¡¯t help but crouch down, and didn¡¯t hesitate to nudge him gently with his hands. His heart was clinging to the slimmest chance that this was nothing more than a tasteless prank on the animal¡¯s part ¡ªno, it was begging for it. But as he failed to pick up any sign of breathing, hands receiving none of the signature warmth that the feline¡¯s patchwork pelt once offered in abundance; reality settled with freezingly cruel finality, weighing harshly on Narguile''s shoulders. Ashes -Part 4- The absence of life left within Toast¡¯s unmoving form added a fresh layer of anguish atop of Narguile¡¯s already tumultuous emotions. It was just one more way that this persistent nightmare just refused to yield, denying him what should have been just another ordinary weekend. A profound desolation began seeping inside his chest. It was powerlessness. He yearned for the strength to shield those he cherished from every harm, but now he was confronted with a grief that could not be softened, an inevitable reality that could no longer be averted. Despite the way that his spirit was corroding at the seams, Narguile gathered the resolve to hoist the cat¡¯s lifeless body into his arms. As he tenderly cleaned the grime away from Toast¡¯s mouth, each stroke against the soft fur he touched served as a brutal prophecy of what was to come. There was a harrowing tranquility in focusing on all of the tasks at hand, to keep himself from thinking about consequences. He carefully swaddled the small body inside the same towel he employed to wipe all the remaining blood, and softly carried the delicate burden towards the balcony to nestle it onto one of the chairs ¡ªwrapping him up snugly before steadying his spirit to the grim work ahead. He looked at the setting sun on the horizon as he took in a deep breath, a melancholic dirge sung inside his chest. The one performed by pieces of his heart crumbling away in anticipation of Aria¡¯s reaction. But he needed to be the bedrock his family relied upon; succumbing to despair or recoil from adversity wasn''t an indulgence he could allow himself. Summoning the remaining fortitude inside him in preparation for the daunting step ahead of him, Narguile ventured back inside. Each footfall felt like a funeral march, as it was now time to convey that the two households¡¯ beloved pet would no longer greet anyone with quiet purrs ever again. It was as he began walking towards the main bedroom that its door opened abruptly before him, almost as if on cue. Lieta¡¯s voice echoed through the hall, urgency transparently woven into her tone. While the surprise was certainly sufficient to make prickles of alarm run through his spine, he couldn¡¯t help but ask himself ¡ªalmost cynically, ¡®What the hell could have happened now¡¯. The wicked truly had no rest, did they? ¡°Narguile, come quick!¡± She implored with wide eyes that met his own as she rushed to grasp his arm, tugging it in her direction. ¡°I-¡­ It¡¯s him! On the news!¡± Little time was given to him to try and make sense of her words before he was brought in front of their TV. His eyes narrowed as waves of conflicting emotions battled within. From panic to apprehension, all the way to utter confusion. <<¡­identity of the victim at the center of a disturbing homicide in the south-bay region of Cretierfield, that we reported earlier today, has finally been confirmed.>> The newscaster''s crisp and monotone voice cut through his internal monologue as images flickered on the screen, leaving him rooted in front of it in turn. Coupled with an overhead footage showing police officers amassed near a body concealed beneath a white coroner¡¯s sheet recently pulled from the waters, an all-too-familiar face stood superimposed in a corner. <> ¡°But there¡¯s no way¡­¡± Narguile muttered aloud under his teeth, disbelief resonating through every syllable. ¡°That area¡­ It¡¯s way too far from here.¡± <> Following the tide of information, a similar wave of questions lacking answers surged through, leaving Narguile struggling to reconcile any shape of semblance to them all. <> ¡°Daddy? Mommy?¡± Aria¡¯s voice punctured through his focus as she drowsily rose from the embrace provided by bed covers. With her already unruly hair showing clear pillow marks, the girl¡¯s bleary eyes blinked open slowly as another innocent question ensued. ¡°Is everything okay?¡± His heart ached at the sight of his daughter, oblivious to the reasoning that made both him and Lieta so tense. It was a world he wished to shield her from just a little longer. ¡°Hey there, honey.¡± Narguile said softly, sitting on the bed¡¯s edge and gently tucking away a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. His hands always felt disproportionately large and coarse against her delicate features, something the small seven-year-old didn¡¯t seem to mind. Her usually vibrant complexion seemed slightly faded and sunken, subtly dimming her usual radiance ¡ªan observation he attributed to mere somnolence. ¡°Your mother and I were just sorting some grown-up stuff, that¡¯s all.¡± Even as comforting words found their way to Aria, the news report had certainly created many disquieting questions that whirled inside Narguile¡¯s head. How had body traveled from the alleys near the apartment building all the way to Cretierfield¡¯s Southern Bay? Was he still alive when he finished with him? Or perhaps more disturbing than that¡­ Had someone moved his body, and if so¡­ Why? All of them pushed to the back of his head as he was to turn into the bearer of another piece of disheartening information ¡ªthe task of sharing Toast¡¯s fate. As he finished steeling himself, he couldn¡¯t help but feel a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. Despite his best efforts to keep a strong fort, to be their resilience in turbulent times, Narguile knew they fell short in masking his evident distress. ¡°Come here, Aria.¡± Lieta chimed tenderly, opening her arms for their daughter, and providing an inviting sanctuary the little girl immediately took, nimbly clinging to her mother¡¯s frame with both arms and legs. Undoubtedly she was capable of deciphering the troubled mask Narguile wore. She probably had an inkling of the disheartening news he was about to deliver, a testament to her ability to read him like an open book. ¡°I need to tell you both something about Toast. He was a very, very old cat already¡­¡± Narguile began tentatively, unsure of how to begin and then how to continue. He could throw punches like no other, and roar like a thunder in their protection; but this scenario demanded a finesse he found himself lacking in. ¡°And I¡¯m afraid to say that¡­ He won¡¯t be around anymore.¡± Lieta¡¯s mask of gentleness wavered at his words. Her hold on Aria tightened instinctively, who unlike her mother, responded almost immediately with an innocence afforded only by her tender age. ¡°But Toast was just fine yesterday.¡± She countered with a tilt of her head and an expression of disbelief. ¡°Did he have to go to the Vet? That¡¯s a bummer¡­¡± >> ¡°When will he come back?¡± The hopeful echo in Aria''s question made Narguile sigh wearily. It was tempting to tell her that indeed, the cat had only gone away to eventually come back; but alas, perhaps feeding into that expectation would only bring a crueler disillusionment in the end. ¡°Sweetheart¡­ Toast isn¡¯t coming back this time.¡± It was difficult to push the words out of his mouth, every single one felt like a barbed wire clawing at his throat. ¡°He passed away.¡± ¡°Do Phillip and Virginia know?¡± Probably unable to keep her concerns to herself any longer, Lieta interrupted his conversation with Aria, whose eyes began to well up as she grappled with the harsh reality. ¡°No¡­ I haven¡¯t spoken with them yet.¡± Narguile admitted, taking a moment to rub his strained brow. It was hard enough to tell the two of them, what would the elder couple say after hearing their beloved cat passed away in their neighbors¡¯ home? ¡°Dad, you¡¯re lying.¡± Suddenly pushing away from Lieta, Aria stood defiantly on the bed ¡ªan accusing finger directed at him while tears began coursing down her cheeks. ¡°You tell the worst jokes! I¡¯m going to look for him right now!¡± Before he could even react she had hopped off the bed and darted out of the room¡¯s door. How he wished this was him telling an ill-conceived prank, yet he lacked enough imagination to ever stretch into something in such poor taste. ¡°Should I tell them?¡± Lieta offered just as Narguile prepared to follow after Aria ¡ªa question that halted him in his tracks. Her own eyes teetered on brimming tears. It was very likely that she was also pushing herself to keep a strong front. ¡°Y¡­ You¡¯ve already gone through en-¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I should be the one to do it.¡± He cut off her words halfway through with quiet resolve, despite the bleak circumstances. At least him, should never cower away from each hardship. ¡°I¡¯m not breaking just yet. All I¡¯m going to ask is that you please help me with Aria.¡± His smile was faint and weak, but it held a sincere warmth. He lacked the talent for stern reprimands and had an inclination towards pampering. Whenever Aria¡¯s tantrums stormed through their household, it was usually Lieta the one needed to put some order amidst the chaos. Like when Aria would pout at dinner, stubbornly refusing to eat anything remotely green as if she were waging war against vegetation itself. Or those summer trips to Lake Aqueveque when she ran recklessly into the water despite his warnings. It was during such moments when his parenting skills fell short that he relied heavily on Lieta¡¯s firm yet calming presence ¡ªto guide both him and Aria through tumultuous waves like a beacon of warmth. Their journey into parenthood had been a premature one, after all. An experience marked more by youthful mistakes than any substantial wisdom. Narguile was still able to vividly remember how Lieta¡¯s pregnancy announcement gripped him with shock, accompanied by the feeling of his small world coming undone by the news. But even with him being a minor, Aria¡¯s birth brought him unfiltered happiness. She was the tangible manifestation of his love for Lieta ¡ªthe woman he''d already resolved to spend the rest of his life with; even if her arrival signified stepping beyond familiar boundaries into a new plateau of challenges. Of course, things were different from back then. They were not naive teenagers anymore. He managed to secure a more suitable living space before his daughter was born, and enough resources to raise her with. It was an attainment he considered impossible without the support he received along this rugged part ¡ªthey didn¡¯t have all that much, and it was more of a reflection of sheer grit rather than any other particular prowess. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. Gradually, bit by bit, he liked to think they were inching towards a stable present... That is, if it weren¡¯t for the events of the last days that came to shatter the very foundations he had built around his heart. And yet another brand new example of his shortcomings would come with discomforting swiftness, Aria¡¯s voice resonating across their small apartment, filled with a dishearteningly triumphant and jubilant tone. ¡°I knew you were trying to trick me! Here he is!¡± Realization hit him like a freight train as the young girl spoke. Amidst every other of the consuming worries, he forgot to keep Toast¡¯s remains away from Aria¡¯s reach. ¡°Look. He¡¯s okay. He¡¯s just sleeping like always.¡± A collapse of self-reproach fell upon Narguile. How could have been so negligent? He should¡¯ve known that the inquisitive seven-year-old would seek out her dear feline friend until she found him. Reacting with urgency, both Lieta and him rushed into the living room only to be welcomed by a heart-wrenching sight ¡ªtheir vibrant little daughter cradling Toast¡¯s inert body tenderly, nestled under the towel he had left him wrapped in previously on the balcony. Lieta reached her first, kneeling before Aria with a face mixed between pain and worry; however, before he could even hear what she had to say, another cold-freezing image obscured everything else around the apartment. Behind his own reflection in the balcony¡¯s window, a disturbing silhouette floated above his shoulders ¡ªit was that same horrifying spectral creature from last night, its grotesque outline looming as surreal as it was threatening. Instinctively, he turned around in less than a second, positioning himself as a barrier between this spectral menace and his family. Undeniably there it was, more vivid than ever before. Maybe it was the way shadows played out against the darkened night sky, or perhaps his senses growing accustomed to perceive beyond tangible reality. Either way, its monstrous presence was irrefutable now. For how hard it was to accept it as fact, for how much it defied logic and reason, an unerring certainty resonated within him. This malevolent specter was terrifyingly real, floating ominously in front of him ¡ªhis defensive stance being all that stood between the monstrous figure and his family. ¡°Lieta! Take Aria and get back to our bedroom right now!¡± Narguile¡¯s order reverberated through the apartment like a storm''s warning, every syllable charging the apartment with an air of imminent danger. His voice echoed like a raging tempest, and though Lieta remained unable to perceive the uncanny apparition inciting her husband''s alarm, she swiftly gathered Aria into her protective embrace. Her heart pounded like a drumbeat against her ribs as she retreated from view, breath hitching in sync with each frantic thump. But there was something unsettling about the young girl¡¯s gaze ¡ªan underlying tremor in her eyes as they hovered ambiguously over where the specter floated; as if she held some unconscious awareness or inexplicable gravitation towards it¡­ All while clutching Toast¡¯s lifeless body even tighter against her chest. Subtleties that would go unnoticed by Narguile, whose attention was wholly seized by the monstrous abomination before him. It remained every bit as revolting as he remembered it to be ¡ªbut he wouldn¡¯t be as easily frightened this time around. Once the thud of the bedroom door signaled Lieta and Aria¡¯s retreat into safety, he reached out for a nearby floor lamp; the sting of bruised knuckles dwindling into nothing but a faint sensation amidst a more primal anger surging within him. ¡°It was you, wasn¡¯t it?¡± Narguile¡¯s lips curled as he snarled at the apparition. ¡°Toast may have been old, but I refuse to believe that he would just die right after you showed your ugly mug.¡± He couldn¡¯t really fathom how he¡¯d react if that thing dared to respond; but blessing or curse, he could imagine what its voice would be like, since it replied only with a chillingly silent grin. Narguile perceived this silent mockery as an additional affront ¡ªan evident indication that this loathsome entity was rejoicing in the suffering his family had been subjected to since the previous night. And he could only take so many of those before his anger came bursting out like an unrestrained eruption. ¡°What is so damn funny!?¡± The young father¡¯s voice thundered through the room as he swung the floor lamp with all his might, colliding against the specter¡¯s broad, bloated shoulders. The fragile light source shattered upon impact, its pole bending under the force of his assault, as Narguile remained unmindful of any consequences or noise his outburst could bring. ¡°Do I have to kill so you fucking leave us alone!?¡± Words were being spat out as though they were projectiles, his exhalations fast and ragged as adrenaline-fueled tremors coursed through his veins. His normally restrained voracity for violence was quickly yielding to a wild sea of rage, bloodshot eyes being overtaken over by unfiltered, unbridled fury. It was like a wildfire, poised to consume every last ounce of fear or hesitation that dared to appear before its path. As Narguile discarded the lamp now broken beyond repair, he gave one more glance at the pale green colored entity in search of damage, and while its thick hide showed no indication of it, it mattered very little now. He had confirmed what he needed to know. That thing, unmoving as it still was¡­ It could be touched. And if that was true, then perhaps it wasn¡¯t invincible either¡­ And oh, how he wanted to hurt it. ¡°...Keep that fucking smile¡­ I want to see you try and hold onto it!¡± Unable to keep himself in check anymore, Narguile lunged forward with clenched teeth. Without care of how the creature easily towered over him, he thrust himself at it ¡ªhands outstretched to punch, tear or latch onto anything within reach. He charged with force, yet the creature seemed to hover effortlessly in front of him. It wasn¡¯t like it succeeded in keeping him away, but rather that it was tethered to a specific distance, kept in a fixed position from his. Regardless, the struggle eventually brought them both to collide into a flimsy bookcase which crumbled easily under their combined weight. Or was it just his own? No matter. It was hardly enough to quell his growing thirst for savagery. The creature¡¯s flesh felt rough and dense beneath his fists; and when he attempted tearing through the degraded skin fissures or gouge its empty eye sockets, he was met with an unearthly coldness, profound enough that it seemed to seep directly into his bones. The morbid ghost, appearing as immovable as a fortress, maintained its disturbing grin in the face of Narguile¡¯s assault. It was a truly maddening smile, as steadfast as it was infuriating, serving only to taunt him further as if it enjoyed the frenzied state he was being reduced to ¡ªoblivious or perhaps simply indifferent to his desperate attempts at inflicting damage. Undeterred, Narguile¡¯s hand scrabbled across the nearby kitchen counter, sending cutlery clattering to the floor before finally closing around the handle of a large knife. Its sharp blade glinted menacingly under the room¡¯s now dim lighting, as he saw his own eyes reflected on them for a brief moment ¡ªablaze with what only could be described as escalating bloodlust. He lunged once more at it, now trying to thrust the knife at the height of its overweight excuse for a neck. Yet no matter how many times he tried, each successive stab phased right through, as if the specter had selectively chosen which attack to endure and which to evade; his struggles once again sinking down to the futile. Frustration only continued exacerbating Narguile, fury carrying each strangled roar and clenched fist; but he refused to relent. Any notion of surrender remained an unacceptable concept, conviction driving him forward no matter the setback. Around him, the once tidy home began transitioning into a war-torn battlefield. Furniture lay upturned; shattered glass shimmered ominously amid splintered bookcases and broken dishes. For as much as the scene evidenced the physical confrontation between Narguile and the spectral stalker, perhaps it also mirrored the unstable mental state brewing within him. As he attacked relentlessly, anger slowly began turning into desolation. Even a retaliation from that monster would have been encouraging ¡ªfor it would signify that he wasn¡¯t simply being toyed with; yet such a response never came forward. It didn¡¯t matter how much he continued busting his hands, reopening previous wounds and creating brand new ones. Regardless of how much he bled or strained himself in the undying resolve to protect those he loved no matter the cost¡­ At the end, his fists just continued to collide with a despair-inducing pointlessness, with the chilling touch of the specter''s essence corroding well beyond his bones, threatening to freeze even his resolve from within. The unrestrained onslaught continued well past midnight, only ceasing when exhaustion claimed him and his body refused to raise its arms any longer. With the spectral tormentor still watching him with unsettling delight, Narguile plummeted against a nearby wall; panting in ragged breaths amid torn clothes, and surrounded by the catastrophic aftermath of the one-sided confrontation. ¡°I don¡¯t care¡­ What the hell you are¡­¡± Narguile''s words emerged in uneven gasps, each said with effort as his chest unevenly rose and fell. ¡°Demon, ghost, or whatever¡­¡± Despite how the over-exertion had run its toll on him, his eyes still glimmered with both venomous contempt and unyielding devotion. Lieta and Aria were still only a room away, after all. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter if I have to stand guard every single night of my life, or even if I must sacrifice it...¡± >> ¡°I won¡¯t let you lay a finger on them.¡± The conversation was unilateral, as always. With the creature¡¯s large, bloated body casting a ghastly silhouette amidst the penumbra of the ravaged apartment; the only response he got was how its empty eye sockets distorted in morbid pleasure despite lacking discernible sight. Forced more by physical limitations than desire into this cease-fire, Narguile was kept in that stalemate for hours. Minutes stretched into agonizing hours ¡ªthe atmosphere dense with tension as neither party seemed willing to back down. Narguile didn¡¯t fool himself, he knew he wasn¡¯t smart enough to decipher the spectral entity on his own. He had no hope of finding out the reason behind its existence, whether it was there as a reaper to exact punishment for his past sins or not ¡ªyet he wished it would hasten its judgment if that was the case. If giving away his life could spare his family further torment¡­ He would offer himself willingly. As dawn approached, time melted away under the weight of his suspenseful anticipation ¡ªa vigil held in mistrustful observation by a half-broken man who pushed through fatigue simply because he didn¡¯t know what else to do by that point. The first fingers of morning light began to creep over the horizon, spilling over the destruction wrought within his home, and casting long shadows that danced and intertwined amidst scattered remnants of the skirmish. Only then would the herald of his anguish start to relent, its menacing form gradually dissipating under daybreak¡¯s glow until nothing but its chilling memory remained within Narguile''s weary heart. Or so he initially thought. With a rough groan, Narguile hauled himself back onto his feet, and as he steadied himself, his gaze slowly began to register how the surrounding environment had shifted beyond mere physical destruction. The once pristine white walls now bore a sickly yellowish hue, with strips of paint peeled off in torn fringes. The manufactured wood of their cheap furniture displayed cracking seams, bearing signs of prolonged exposure to a hostile environment. Even the fruit they¡¯d recently bought, resting on places that were spared of his rampage, had their freshness replaced with a sudden rotting decay. A part of him began piecing together what was going on behind his knowledge¡­ But another vehemently refused to accept such inconceivable truth just yet. Overwhelmed once more by a sinking wave of despair, Narguile spurred his exhaustion-stricken body into motion; heading towards the main bedroom despite the escalating dread of what awaited him there. His hand hesitated on the doorknob for a moment. There had been demons and unexplained mysteries in his life already ¡ªwas it too much to ask for some sort of divine intervention now? But he knew that he couldn¡¯t turn away. With a deep breath, he steeled himself and pushed open the door. Narguile¡¯s eyes were met by an image that would haunt him for the rest of his days. Lieta was sitting in the center of the bed, her face obscured beneath cascades of her beautiful platinum hair, acting as a silken curtain veiling the once vibrant brightness of her golden eyes. Her arms encased something precious within their embrace ¡ªthe unmoving form of Aria, lying frighteningly still against her mother¡¯s body. He felt his heart being crushed underneath his ribs, each beat echoing with a hollow emptiness that threatened to consume him whole. Every single devastating detail of the scene, brutally tranquil in its horrifying revelation, etched itself indelibly into his memory, never to be forgotten or forgiven. The steps he began taking towards them were full of harrowing understanding. It was his doing. As soon as he grasped his true nature, the name calcified inside his head by itself in a baptism by fire ¡ªCruel. He annihilated everything in its wake, with a malevolence that stood impervious of either desperate struggles or futile resistances. An abomination that had spawned from hell itself to consume everything he cherished. He did so subtly, without Narguile realizing it ¡ªall with the sole purpose of dragging him into a sightless pit of desolation from which there could be no escape. Ashes -End- Staying inside the room was already challenging enough, and even more than that to keep his gaze focused on them. Navigating such a situation with a sound mind was something far beyond the reach of his capabilities. Narguile had once prided himself on his emotional fortitude, yet now, that self-proclaimed resilience was crumbling right beneath the encroaching maws of ruination. His mind became a desperate scavenger, seeking for any agonizing kindle of hope left to grasp onto. Perhaps it wasn¡¯t too late yet. If indeed, as all his encounters with the spectral being seemed to indicate, Cruel had latched solely to him ¡ªthen maybe getting as far away as possible could set things right in his absence. But Lieta''s soft-spoken words perforated his spiraling thoughts like a needle through silk, before he even managed to turn away from them. ¡°Please¡­¡± She implored with a weakened tone. ¡°Don¡¯t leave.¡± Once more, she showed him just how easy it was for her to piece together the tangled web of turmoil and worries inside his head based on nothing more than the subtle shifts in his expression alone. ¡°Just¡­ Stay with us.¡± It made it all that much more difficult to prevent himself from fracturing at the mere sound of Lieta¡¯s voice. Narguile could tell she was in excruciating pain, both her body and her heart¡­ Yet, she was pushing herself to keep them both from utter devastation. Shielding the two from harm was supposed to be his duty, one he willingly shouldered. It never mattered how many sacrifices he had to make, even his life was a collateral he would gladly give if it meant keeping their smiles untarnished. It shouldn¡¯t be different now. For Lieta¡¯s sake, he needed to stay strong and find a way forward¡­ So¡­ Why then? Why couldn¡¯t he suppress those tears that betrayed him? Why was it impossible for him to stop his knees from surrendering into helplessness by their side? Why... Why had he failed at keeping them alive? His overprotective nature had made him the target of taunts and mockery many times in the past, yet now those same comments felt like a ruthless joke at his expense. After every vow he had allegedly etched inside his heart, in the one moment that it mattered the most, his foolishness had... ¡°Is she really¡­¡± Narguile¡¯s voice was a whisper barely above audible. Even pushing those words out of his lips made his hands tremble wildly, as they vehemently refused to follow his instructions ¡ªhe was too terrified of the icy grip of mortality his fingers might encounter should they dare touch Aria. Seeking to alleviate the torture of speaking any further, Lieta softly nodded. It was such a simple gesture, yet it felt like a brutal stab wound being torn open in his chest. His neck tilted upwards as he closed his eyes, fists clenching over the sheets enveloping them both. His daughter had already gone somewhere he couldn¡¯t protect her anymore. ¡°Both of you¡­ You are my everything¡­¡± His words were like a plea for mercy, bare of any vestiges of strength. Each passing second was full of a morbid finality. These were the last moments, and he¡¯d never be able to hear her voice again. ¡°I can¡¯t¡­ I can¡¯t go on without you.¡± The once warm home they had built together was now choked by an unrelenting misery¡­ Yet Lieta didn¡¯t give in to the biting coldness of grief, choosing to deliver a gentle caress over his disheveled hair instead. Under the veil of tears blurring his vision, he stole one more longing gaze at her haunting beauty. Her face was not tainted by the stains of weeping like his own, but she was unnaturally pale. It made his heart ache even more, but he could see the faint traces of wiped blood under her nose. Her lips curved into an apologetic smile, soft and tender beneath her ghostly complexion. She wasn¡¯t struggling against the fate that loomed ominously over them anymore; she had already made her choice once their beloved little girl had exhaled her final breath. ¡°Narguile.¡± She whispered in a brittle voice that echoed with a solemnity mirrored in the subdued brightness of her golden eyes. ¡°I want to thank you, for everything.¡± Watching her slender fingers trail up towards her hairline, he was left drenched in speechlessness, forced to receive a gratitude he hadn¡¯t asked for. ¡°You¡¯ve made me¡­ Really happy.¡± >> ¡°So please¡­ Promise me that you won¡¯t blame yourself.¡± Every fiber within him longed to protest, to curse against the unjust destiny they were handed¡­ But Narguile found himself entrapped within silence, unable to voice a single protest, left only to mechanically accept the red ribbon that once donned her hair, now resting inside his mistreated hands. There was a clear message written in it, the black ink remained strong and defiant against the passage of time. <> Every stroke of harsh and uneven handwriting bore testimony of the days in which they were nothing but children, withstanding the throes of adversity. A flash of memories engulfed Narguile. Her radiant expression when he first asked her to be his girlfriend, the fright that took over her face when she told him she was pregnant¡­ And the ethereal beauty and grace she embodied in her wedding gown, scant months after Aria graced their lives. ¡°Always...¡± Lieta whispered with a fading voice. ¡°I will always love you.¡± From within Narguile surged a tidal wave of intense yearning to enfold them both in a desperate embrace. His trembling arms held their bodies close against his chest, unable to find solace even in their lingering warmth. His soul sought any way in which to manifest the anguish taking hold of him ¡ªyet he lacked the power to even scream, only managing pained, choked gasps. Though he felt the will to resist abandoning Lieta¡¯s arms as they fell listlessly to her sides, all Narguile could do was to hug them tighter, mired in an agonizing awareness of the moment that air abandoned her lips; a helpless witness of death¡¯s merciless vice extinguishing the gentle blaze of her life. Time ceased to have meaning for him as he remained frozen in that position for what felt like an eternity. The very thought of releasing his grip on them was unbearable; a sin he couldn¡¯t bring himself to commit. For he knew that once he allowed them to slip away from his grasp¡­ All that would remain would be the brutality of his wife and daughter¡¯s unmoving corpses; their bodies reduced to nothing more than a torturous elegy for the happiness that had once been bestowed upon him. As the hours that he remained in that suspension spell stretched like a bottomless abyss, he could sense him lurking around the periphery of his vision. Cruel, the only fitting descriptor for the vile being that continued to revel in his profound misery. The fact that it now revealed itself under broad daylight hours, unconcerned by luminosity as he made no attempt to seek solace within the penumbra of the darkened room, signaled that he held no dependence on the night''s protective shroud to present his horrid radiance. It was likely that he had only restrained his appearances to weave a false sense of security and normalcy ¡ªjust enough for Narguile to maintain his anonymity in his life. A sinister strategy that allowed him free reign to destroy everything he treasured. But now¡­ Even such a revelation barely mattered to Narguile anymore. If anything, he found himself questioning what held him back from delivering the final blow; after all, he was already a dead man masquerading as a living one. With nothing left to live for, even the notion of his heart still breathing life onto him while Lieta and Aria¡¯s were forever stilled was nothing short of a torture. ¡°It¡¯s that how it is?¡± He murmured softly amidst the encroaching decay surrounding him. ¡°You have no intention to kill me, do you?¡± Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. >> ¡°You only want me to keep enduring this nightmare." >> "Is my suffering that entertaining?¡± No response from his very own personal tormentor, as expected. Lashing out at the ugly bastard held no purpose. Not only had it proved to be an exercise in futility in a physical sense, but his spirit too, was ravaged and drained of any will to resist. He was beyond devastation, a mere husk of a man devoid of defiance. It was only when he completely gave up that he noticed a subtle shift in Cruel¡¯s demeanor ¡ªa fissure in his perennial delighted grin. So he desired resistance? A fight? Well¡­ Should¡¯ve thought better before robbing him of everything he had. Suicide loomed at large inside his head. In his family¡¯s freezing embrace¡­ He could hear the siren song of death calling, tempting him with an offer of oblivion. It promised an easier route; a swift end to this unbearable agony that relentlessly gnawed his very being. But he wasn¡¯t allowed to do that, was he? The crimson ribbon hanging from his hand anchored him like a reminder of Lieta¡¯s wishes. He understood what it symbolized, since it had been him who had once written the words in it. Telling him now not to cry. To continue forward. In light of her own surrender¡­ It was certainly a selfish request. Nevertheless¡­ He figured he owed her that much. After all, he couldn¡¯t pin the blame entirely on Cruel. His negligence and stupidity were just as responsible ¡ªcontributing to Lieta and Aria¡¯s slow demise, harboring a pain he was only able to imagine. His penance shouldn¡¯t involve an easy way out. Peace and swiftness were largely undeserved, but so be it. How he would accomplish this self-imposed punishment remained unclear¡­ But Narguile decided there and then that a death filled with pain awaited him on the end of that god-forsaken path. Perhaps in that way he could begin atoning for all the sins, even if reunion with them had already become impossible. How long did he stay in that bed was a question not even Narguile could answer. Hours bled into days, and while he had resolved to traverse toward an uncertain future, he found himself bereft of the necessary strength to part from the decaying corpses of his wife and child. Labeling this moment of his life as his darkest hours might seem fitting¡­ However, he knew that this was nothing but the beginning of his spiraling descent into a suffocating pit brimming with grief and guilt. He¡¯d only continue to get worse. Cruel¡¯s spectral afterimage intermittently ghosted into his line of sight, imposing his unwelcome company upon him. Despite how he never failed to return Narguile¡¯s vacant gaze with a wide smile, there were moments that he sensed a flicker of restlessness within the unexplained creature ¡ªOr was it simple boredom? He had long since crossed the point of caring about him. This stagnant quietude was eventually brought to a halt by the heavy slam of a door being violently forced open¡­ This time not by his hand, but rather those of several uniform-clad figures forcing through his home. Dehydration and hunger had left him severely weakened, and as such, despite how much he would have preferred to stay that way, Narguile could offer no meaningful resistance when they eventually separated him from his family¡¯s remains. The aftermath of his heartrending ordeal transpired mostly like a hazy daze, blurring in the edges of Narguile¡¯s consciousness. His hospital stay was a brief one, spent mostly unconscious as he was passively administered intravenous sustenance, replenishing the broken man just enough for him to be transferred into police custody. It was at this stage that the scope of Cruel¡¯s destructive influence was fully unveiled to him. He had undoubtedly done much more than simply underestimate Cruel¡¯s reach. Not only had he taken the lives of Lieta, Aria and Toast; but an entire community residing in their apartment complex became his collateral victims. Unbeknownst to him, in those rueful days since Cruel¡¯s first manifestation, he had silently stretched his aura of decay beyond the confines of his home. Seeping through walls and floor, it extended over an area encompassing two full stories both above and below Narguile¡¯s residence; and every single individual dwelling within this expansive radius were met with an untimely demise ¡ªincluding Phillip and Virginia. ¡­ Yet even more deaths to feel responsible for. As the only survivor of the whole incident, he was given quite a polarizing treatment. For once, many cops were frightful of even approaching, fearing that whatever had produced such a large tragedy could still be passed over to them under a prolonged exposure to him. Narguile initially didn''t understand himself why this wasn''t happening. It only took Cruel around the span of a day to murder dozens of people, and by the time he was taken into custody his apartment was full of degradation signs. Yet now the specter¡¯s corroding presence seemed to have slowed down drastically. He was still around, showing himself whenever he was subjected to tense questioning sessions, but even as he was kept for days in a temporary prison cell while the investigation went on ¡ªnot even the food he left hidden in experimentation appeared to spoil. His only deduction was that once Cruel finished destroying his spirit, he relented in his torment. Either that, or he needed time to recover his energy before striking once more. Another piece of information he gathered was that no one else was remotely aware of his presence. Everyone perfectly ignored Cruel, despite him being even bold at the times he inspected any particularly intense interrogator. Narguile¡¯s lack of cooperation didn¡¯t exactly garner him much favor. Paired with his heavily bruised body and the disastrous state his home was left in, he was certainly the only natural culprit behind the deaths. From mass poisoning to radiation exposure. He was questioned about many sorts of conjectures while the media picked up the news like ravenous vultures; but ultimately, his response was the same for every single inquiry they could come up with. <> Not necessarily a lie, even when he was withholding Cruel¡¯s existence. Would they believe it anyway? That a venomous grim reaper had emerged from the nether targeting solely him, and left perfectly immune to his influence despite that? With enough time, and despite their frustration, the authorities had no choice but to release him. Not only he lacked motive or any potential background that gave him the equipment to orchestrate the mass murders, but he was also devoid of any prior criminal record. Narguile was just a run-of-the-mill paraprofessional teacher after all. How could someone like him conceive and execute such a heinous act? His stony silence coupled with a diagnosis of mental instability ultimately painted him as another unfortunate victim of the nightmarish tragedy. His identity was shielded from public scrutiny as the whole incident served as another tantalizing fodder for paranormal enthusiasts and conspiracy theorists alike. As for him? Everything was mostly inconsequential. The only relief he derived from his dismissal stemmed solely from the fact that he could now proceed with the arrangements of his family and the Harmines¡¯ burial. Comforting words extended by colleagues fell on deaf ears, offering no solace. They were faces he no longer had any intention of ever seeing again in his lifetime. But what should Narguile do instead? His world was already frozen solid from the moment Lieta and Aria had left it. His life had no remaining pieces left to make it whole again. No amount of time could ever heal the wounds inflicted upon his spirit. The warm memories that filled his home, painted with radiant smiles and shared laughter, were now irrevocably tainted by loss. Somewhere among those tumultuous days of sorrow, he picked up smoking. No matter the initial aversion to the numbing effect tobacco imposed on his brain, or the times in which he pushed his mouth beyond the limits of dry disgust, he consumed cigarette after cigarette as if they were vital sustenance. To poison himself slowly seemed fitting ¡ªa poetic justice to the suffering he forced his wife and child to go through. While he eventually developed his own craving for nicotine, it was cancer in its lethality that he relentlessly courted; a hope to gradually drown his lungs in smoke until they eventually surrendered. But as he drifted like a mindless ghost through the barren remnants of his past life without clear direction, and despite the fact that they never quite managed to fully ignite any significant will, Narguile still couldn¡¯t fully let go of all the questions left unanswered. What exactly was Cruel? The malevolent entity had turned into a vile companion haunting his every step, looming ominously over his shoulders entertained by his ruin ¡ªa presence that remained an unsolved enigma. What caused those strange compulsions Lieta and him experienced on that cursed night? Who relocated Michael Johnson¡¯s corpse from its original location? Narguile knew that these quests were all futile in the end ¡ªno revelation would ever bring back what had already been lost; but he craved the closure, the understanding... Even if they were nothing more than meaningless answers he¡¯d then proceed to take to the grave. Was it vengeance he wanted? No, he never really thought about it like that. Narguile recognized that regardless of any unidentified puppeteer pulling the strings, blood stained his hands indelibly. Had he deciphered Cruel¡¯s abilities sooner or confessed to his crime immediately, thus sealing him behind prison bars and away from Lieta and Aria... Perhaps the grim conclusion that consumed his family could have been avoided. He conceded that he alone bore the weight of their deaths, but¡­ If there indeed lurked a hidden conspirator manipulating events from behind the shadows, then¡­ Not even hell itself would be able to replicate the wrath he¡¯d unleash upon them. Punishment II: Saraband PUNISHMENT II SARABAND In the lingering hours of darkness, the slender hands of the clock had already ventured well beyond midnight. The surrounding neighborhood was cloaked in a profound stillness, characteristic of the deep Sunday nocturne. Every home and alley were steeped in silence, save for the soft echoes of the weary steps made by Callista as she traced the short path from her parked vehicle to her main entrance. A reigning quiet that was momentarily disrupted by a subdued jingle ¡ªthe faint serenade of her wireless door chimes; acting more or less as a harbinger for the imminent surge of enthusiasm that was now hurtling towards her. The frantic pitter-patter of four minuscule paws and the almost desperate whimpers made by the tiny creature yearning for affection effortlessly tore Callista¡¯s brittle heart. She had scarcely crossed the threshold to her home before she found herself crouching down, trying and failing to match the fervent motions made by the ruby-coated puppy bouncing around her feet. He held the court as Sir Chocolate Milk the First ¡ªher baby and source of comfort amongst murky waters. The Cavalier King Charles Spaniel dog had been welcomed into Callista¡¯s life during the tumultuous months preceding her graduation; but while he had benefited from copious amounts of attention and diligent training during his formative months¡­ He was already showing clear indications of anxiety due to all the time he was left alone in the house, something the nurse couldn¡¯t successfully alleviate after being ensnared by the erratic schedule dictated by rotating hospital shifts. ¡°That¡¯s no good, Sir Choccy.¡± Callista tried to appease the overzealous puppy with soft-spoken words as she wrapped her hands gently around his frame, lifting him off the ground to cradle him against her body. ¡°You have to settle down, what if you wake up a neighbor?¡± Not like her efforts amounted to much. The Cavalier¡¯s frame quivered in response to her proximity, breathing in shallow waves as the excitement of having his human back home seemed to overwhelm him. The petite paws paddled against her chest incessantly, and his tail fluttered like a banner in the softly illuminated hall as Choccy struggled to press his muzzle against Callista¡¯s cheek ¡ªa veritable shower of love that the similarly small young woman had come to anticipate after every grueling shift at work. Or at the very least, the most selfish side of her. Allowing herself a moment to relish in the warmth being offered to her, Callista couldn¡¯t help but wonder how healthy or fair it all was for Choccy. She walked towards the nearest couch to place him above the soft cushions, much like one might handle a piece of glassware that held sentimental value, before sitting beside him. The sight of those enthralled eyes looking up at hers melted away some residual fatigue left from the sterile hospital rooms, but it also made her feel even more guilty as collateral. Considerations towards dog daycare or pet sitters had already been thoroughly evaluated by the young nurse, but her feet continued to quail over the first step. This wasn¡¯t the first time she had felt remorseful pangs as she worried about Choccy¡¯s solitude and mental well-being; but ultimately, more pressing fears continued to grip her heart. Callista had a hard time trusting others. She couldn''t quite believe the legitimacy behind internet reviews, and she remained skeptical in blindly accepting promises of professionalism. The thought of leaving her precious and loyal puppy in the hands of strangers filled her with apprehension. What if the staff mishandled her frail and tender little baby? What if her Choccy encountered larger, more aggressive dogs to be left injured and traumatized as a result? With those queries tangling inside her head into worried knots, Choccy simply jumped in and off her lap in over-excited twirls and chases of his own tail in joyous abandon ¡ªa routine of pure joy that never failed to ignite a smile on Callista¡¯s weary face, infusing a much-needed touch of innocence into her life. This simple pleasure seemed a stark contrast to the whispers of envy and the malicious gossip that went on unchecked in the hospital corridors, or the heavy burden of expectations conveyed in her mother¡¯s frequent calls. ¡®Moreover... What if Choccy grew to prefer someone else''s company over hers?¡¯ Was a last, intrusive and insidious thought that felt like a prickle in her chest before being forcefully cast aside. This was about taking care of her dog¡¯s needs, not about her irrational fears or insecurities. And what better way to do just that than to exhaust some of Choccy¡¯s excess energy by venturing out for an evening walk? It would certainly be a more productive alternative to dwell on what-ifs or doomsday scenarios. Perhaps it was a desire to escape all those intrusive thoughts that led Callista to disregard how late it already was ¡ªalready nearing 1 AM rather than midnight. There was nothing to worry about, she told herself. Her neighborhood was constantly surveilled by security cameras, and the presence of nearby security booths offered additional peace of mind. Having been forced to lead a calculated and risk-averse life by her parents... Little acts like walking her dog by night brought to Callista a refreshing sense of liberation now that she was finally independent. With the leash securely fastened to Choccy Milk''s collar, he pranced about all the more wildly as the two of them ventured to their nocturnal stroll. A cool breeze weaved through Callista¡¯s hair and caressed her face, her steps guided mostly by eager tugs made by her canine companion, even as her gaze remained fixed on the vast, empty night sky above. The trees lining the neighborhood loomed large, their perennial shadows making her life appear minuscule in comparison. They brought a strange sense of serenity over the troubled young nurse. After all, no matter how many mistakes she made or how often she found herself flustered, the relentless march of seasons would persist unaffected. But even as she acknowledged this fact, Callista could not suppress the unease that gnawed at her stomach as the memories of past transgressions, of the bitter betrayals of those she once trusted, tried to sneak their way onto her memory even when she tried to grapple them away. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. She was aware of how the fear of deepening her unhealed emotional scars had gotten to the point that it impaired her ability to make decisions, all in the desperate attempt to conceal her insecurities from the prying eyes of the world, circling around her head like vultures over prey. Not even Callista was entirely sure of how she managed to maintain that superficially gentle and cordial facade she presented to her colleagues and patients. Her interactions with all of them, even when she had been told of the many nasty rumors they were spreading behind her back, came off almost effortlessly. It wasn¡¯t all that easy, was it? Every interaction demanded a concerted effort of self-imposed challenges, each fairly successful conversation filled with hurdles, as if they were merely check-boxes to be ticked off rather than anything else. Despite her mother''s persistent inquiries about potential suitors that would never come, Callista knew deep down that she was merely projecting the role of the dutiful daughter, deflecting the questions with practiced ease. And now, as she stared emptily at the rustling leaves falling around her path, she couldn¡¯t help but let her mind stray off to the potential day where her carefully cultivated persona might come crumbling down around her, leaving everything exposed for all to see. That would have been the entire palette of menial concerns that would occupy Callista Nilsson¡¯s head-space if not for a sharp cracking noise taking her out of her obliviousness, making her eyes dart around her in the dead silence of night. Sir Choccy''s dissatisfaction with their sudden stillness was evident in his frustrated whimpers, yet the young nurse found herself transfixed, narrowing her eyes as she tried to discern on a silhouette hidden behind a dense thicket of bushes in the distance. Her heart quivered when she felt a growing certainty that it was a human figure hiding within the shadows, swiftly casting aside all of the previous concerns to replace them with a brand new wave of questions and worries. Who was this person? What were they hoping to achieve lurking so late in the night? Were they a robber, lying in wait for an opportunity to invade one of her neighbors¡¯ homes? Gripping Choccy¡¯s leash more tightly, Callista felt a growing sentiment of dread taking hold of her. The most sensible course of action, she reasoned, would be to approach this mysterious figure to confront them, in the hope of driving them away from the neighborhood ¡ªyet fearful of what such an encounter might entail for her, she chose to avert her gaze and quicken her pace, eager to put as much distance as possible between herself and this stranger. What had begun as an experiment in empowerment ended up making her feel even more tiny and pathetic than ever ¡ªbut honestly, she could deal with her feelings of worth once she was once again safely embraced within the protective walls of her home; even when there was no one there to cower behind. She turned a corner prematurely in order to shorten her trip back, but she quickly came to regret it as she was surrounded by a different atmosphere from the previously well-illuminated streets. The imposing foliage that she once saw as an awe-inspiring ambiance had now morphed into a sinister labyrinth of potential hiding places under the darkened trees, casting eerie shadows that danced and flickered under the scarce artificial lighting. Worst of all, a role reversal ended up happening between Callista and Choccy, the nurse finding herself pulling on his leash as he resisted every step they took. With ears perked and a tail stiff with alertness, the small Cavalier fixated on a particularly overgrown thicket across the street, emitting a low, menacing growl. Choccy¡¯s unexpected transformation from silly fluff ball to unlikely hunter only served to heighten Callista¡¯s paranoia, causing her to startle at even the faintest rustle of leaves or the distant hoot of an owl. In the dark recesses of her mind, she couldn¡¯t help but imagine if the mysterious figure from earlier was tracking her down, lying in wait among the shadows to pounce at any moment. However, soon enough, she didn¡¯t have to rely on imagination alone to fuel the trembles coursing through her body. As she and Choccy rounded the final corner, a masculine shape came into view behind her back, his face and features still obscured by the distance between them. Color completely left Callista¡¯s already pale face, and dog barks sliced through the silence as Choccy stubbornly pulled on his leash, growling and straining to face the stranger rather than running away with her. For better or worse, the stalker didn¡¯t seem to be in any rush to close the gap between them. Instead, he simply appeared satisfied to have abandoned his earlier hiding place to now boldly show himself in the distance. Her horror only deepened when Callista realized that the figure wasn¡¯t content with merely watching her from afar either. A quick glance over her shoulders confirmed her worst fears ¡ªhe was indeed following her. Each ragged breath she took felt like drawing air through a thick, suffocating fog; making it harder to take in even the smallest gulp of oxygen as he continued to walk behind her, their roles now settled in a twisted hunt where she was the prey. Clinging tightly to Choccy¡¯s leash, Callista sent a desperate plea for the safety of her home to please appear faster before her, the once peaceful night having turned into a waking nightmare ¡ªeach step forward filled with frightening uncertainty. Unable to control her rising panic any longer, she scooped Sir Chocolate Milk into her arms and broke into a sprint, her heart pounding wildly in her chest and her breath coming in short, frantic gasps. A wash of relief fell on her shoulders when she finally reached her front door, her hands fumbling nervously with the lock before slamming it shut behind her with a jarring thud. The distant chime of her doorbells did little to soothe her frazzled nerves as she hurriedly bolted every lock and security measure she had available, her eyes squeezing tightly after finally giving free rein to her dog, who only continued darting about in overexcited unawareness. Was it over? She desperately wished for that to be the case, but her legs remained frozen in place for a good couple of minutes, trapping her in a paralyzing fear that kept her from seeking the reassurance of knowing for sure. Her hands trembled as they reached for her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen, hesitant to call for help. Surely¡­ Whoever was daring enough to follow her in the streets would simply leave now that she wasn¡¯t vulnerable and exposed in the open, right? Against her instincts demanding her to just lock herself inside her bedroom to try and leave everything in the past, another side of them screamed to take action. Gathering every ounce of courage she could muster, Callista slowly made her way to the living room, one hand pressing the phone tightly on her chest as if it could somehow calm her racing heart. With another deep, shuddering sigh, she summoned the strength to move the blinds aside and peer out into the darkness, hoping that this awful experience would finally be over. But instead of finding solace in the emptiness outside, she was met with the chilling sight of the man once again. He stood just beyond the reach of the dim porch light, his features obscured by the shadows cast by his hooded raincoat. If this was some cruel prank being played at her expense, it had gone far beyond the boundaries of what Callista could tolerate. Fighting the urge to hyperventilate, she fumbled over her phone and dialed the police number, her voice already trembling as she struggled to find the words to properly convey the horror that was suddenly invading her otherwise uneventful life. Unable to tear her gaze away from the ominous figure, Callista watched in terror as he finally retreated into the shadows, vanishing to a place where her eyes couldn¡¯t follow. The development might have been reassuring under different circumstances, but the absence of the stalker only served to exacerbate her mounting panic. Now she was left in the dark, uncertain of his whereabouts or intentions. Her mind raced as she considered each terrifying possibility. Was he now searching for another point of entry, like a different door or window? Did she lock every other entrance properly before everything began? The question swirled around in her head, threatening to overwhelm her right there and then in the process. Her jaw clattered in desperate anxiety as she begged for an emergency operator to pick up the line ¡ªnow acutely aware of every little sound from the vast darkness that surrounded the home where she lived entirely alone. Saraband -Part 2- Seated comfortably behind the wheel of the patrol car, Officer Alain Konradsson found his thoughts drifting aimlessly as the soft hum of the engine provided a soothing background to the quiet night. The fluorescent glow from the gas station¡¯s signs emitted a stark, white light over the convenience store¡¯s parking lot, illuminating the vehicle windshield. It had been a blissfully uneventful couple of hours so far, with Sunday already giving into the early hours of Monday. With no official dispatch yet to occupy their attention, Alain¡¯s attention was divided between the steady flow of traffic on the nearby road and the amusing sight of his partner in the distance, obsessively rummaging through his ever-growing stash of snacks. Despite his constant warnings about his over-abundant intake of sugar and caffeine, especially during their night shifts, Manny seemed undeterred in his quest to indulge his sweet tooth, as usual. Not like he minded it too much. Since both of them were around the same age, and just as inexperienced when it came to navigating the nuances of their new careers, the mutually agreed laissez-faire approach to their nocturnal duties facilitated a bond of camaraderie between the rookie CPD officers. Whether it was old high school stories or awful jokes, the relaxed atmosphere allowed them to pass the time more enjoyably ¡ªat least until the inevitable call to action came over the radio, reminding him of the duties he had sworn to uphold. And sure enough, one of such messages would soon come to put that conviction to the test. "Attention Unit 43-16, we have a potential 10-32, suspicious person stalking at 2059 Psalm Street.¡± A ¡®Stalker¡¯, was it? Nothing out of the ordinary. Calls like those rarely led to anything substantial. The mere wail of a police siren in the distance typically ensured that anyone with a hint of common sense would flee from danger, either to themselves or others. Hardly something that warranted him to hurry Manny¡¯s little shopping adventure before embarking towards the place ¡°Victim is a young female, identified as Callista Nilsson, reporting a male subject loitering near her proper¡­¡± Wait¡­ Did he hear that right? Callista Nilsson? That Callista Nilsson? ¡°Unit 43-16 acknowledging, en route to 2059 Psalm Street.¡± Alain¡¯s voice echoed through the radio, steady and composed ¡ªnot hinting at the unexpected stream of emotions that coursed through him like a tidal wave. Without sparing another second after finally absorbing the announcement, Alain stirred the patrol car back into motion. The engine, already awake, responded in a powerful rumble, eager to propel him forward as his foot pressed down on the accelerator. Leaving dark tire marks in its wake, he surged out of the parking lot and onto the highway. As the vehicle lurched forward, he gave one final glance at the convenience store. He understood that leaving Manfred behind wasn¡¯t a particularly smart choice, however, when instincts took control of the steering wheel, Alain often found it challenging to suppress their influence. The lingering trepidation soon dissolved, replaced by a growing excitement as his mind became flooded with long-neglected feelings and memories. These were sentiments that he now had the chance to rectify, tinged as they were with bittersweet nostalgia. To hear that name again¡­ After all these years¡­ Yet he didn¡¯t have much opportunity to reminisce before his antics ended up earning him a phone call from his partner, interrupting his internal monologue. ¡°Al? What. The hell. Happened?¡± Manny¡¯s voice, despite natural traces of worry, was thankfully kept from sounding overly angered ¡ªa marker that this wasn¡¯t the first time that he had to deal with Alain acting according to impulses. He was, understandably, probably just annoyed from being ditched, even when that didn¡¯t stop an attempt to crack jokes. ¡°There were bathrooms in the store, just so you know.¡± ¡°Listen, buddy¡­¡± Alain hesitated for a moment as the streetlights blurred overhead, a consequence of his rapid journey through the city. ¡°Something came up.¡± >> ¡°Something I have to take care of by myself.¡± If this were anyone else, Alain was certain it would land him in hot waters with their superiors, particularly because he didn¡¯t exactly want to share the full extent of his reasoning. Fortunately, he and Manfred had developed a friendship strong enough to understand the situation without needing a detailed explanation. ¡°I bet this is another attempt to show off to some random girl.¡± A wry chuckle echoed from the other end of the call, a sound mirrored by a faint smile from Alain. ¡°Alright... I won¡¯t rat you out to Chief Malvirta.¡± >> ¡°But next time, you¡¯re the one buying the beers.¡± ¡°Thanks ¡®bud. I promise I¡¯ll make it up to you.¡± With the ending conversation allowing him the free reign he required for the reunion about to unfold, Alain felt a heart-warming bout of gratitude for having met a partner like Manfred ¡ªsomeone who was not only supportive but also trustworthy. He was all too aware of the potential complications his impulsiveness could create for both of them, yet Manny always had his back regardless as a steadfast ally. This bond, which had allowed them to function effectively as a team, now also served to bolster Alain''s confidence as he prepared for what was to come. He knew he would need every ounce of it. And that was because his relationship with Callista could be best described as more one-sided than he cared to admit. Being given a moment to contemplate as he drove in silence, teenage years long gone resurfaced in his head with terrifying force. Alain could still remember her quite vividly, impervious to the passage of time. If anything, being apart from her for that long only pronounced even more the features that he quietly admired from afar during high school. The melodious softness of her voice, the warm brightness of her amber eyes that carried within a boundless mixture of laid-back charm and gentleness, just as well as the natural sophistication with which she navigated every interaction ¡ªall of them qualities that painted a graceful picture that continued to leave him breathless even now, half a decade after believing he had lost for good his chance to get closer to her. Two relationships with other women during his transition from adolescence to adulthood had failed to ignite in Alain even a fraction of the feelings his high school crush still evoked in his heart. So¡­ If fate had conspired to bring Callista back into his life, he vowed to do everything within his power to keep her there. Things would be different this time around. Gone was the anxious, insecure teenager he had once been; in his place now stood a resolute, strong individual ¡ªa guardian of law and order. There was a creep stalking her? Well, it would be better if he stayed around to confront him properly. This was an opportunity for Alain to demonstrate to Callista that she would never have to fear anything or anyone if he was by her side. What better way to prove his worth than to make short work of her problems all by himself? With a renewed sense of purpose, Alain firmly pressed down on the accelerator once more, the patrol car''s engine roaring in response as it approached towards her house. He was determined to leave a lasting impression on the woman he had always loved, once and for all. ¡°Dispatch, this is unit 43-16. Arrived at 2059 Psalm Street. Code 4, no further assistance required. Will assess situation.¡± He reported as he stepped outside of the vehicle, his heart pounding in anticipation as he could barely keep his anticipation in check. Alain had purposefully left the siren off during the approach, not wanting to scare away his potential foil or bring too much attention from the other residents in the neighborhood. He was fully aware how his reckless behavior could bring along a fair share of dangers¡­ But honestly, he prospect of impressing Callista was too enticing to resist, even at the cost of putting his career on the line. As he stood outside her door, taking in the opulent surroundings, Alain felt a pang of doubt creep in. Was she truly living in such a beautiful home all by herself? He knew even as a teenager that her family landed more on the well-off side of the spectrum, and even if that wasn¡¯t what drew him to her, he found himself questioning whether he was worthy of her respect after all. Reminding himself that he was there with a mission, Alain took a deep breath and rang the doorbell, only to be startled when it opened almost immediately, as if she had been waiting right on the other side for his arrival. Callista peeked from behind with eyes that seemed to be on the verge of tears, and her hands trembled as she clutched the door frame for support. She had changed since he last saw her, but only in subtle ways that someone who had paid as much attention to her as Alain had would notice, aside of course from the way her skin paled from the frightening experience. Alain could still see in her the girl he had known in high school, and his heart ached for Callista even as it was bewitched by her the same way. Her silky and long light brown hair, which used to flow freely down her back, was now arranged into a tidy shoulder-length cut that framed her delicate features. Her clothes were modest and understated, a simple blouse and slacks that accentuated her slender figure without drawing attention to her curves. Her porcelain skin was as flawless as ever, but it seemed sharper, more angular, than he remembered. She had grown taller too ¡ªthough Alain still towered over her, making her look petite and fragile. The faint yet alluring scent of a unique perfume lingered on her and it reached him even in the distance, bringing back all the neglected feelings from his memories. Was it the same one that she used to wear back then? Or was that her natural aroma instead? If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°You got here¡­ So quickly.¡± She murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it managed to break the spell he had fallen into as he drank from her sight. Callista was just as beautiful as he remembered her to be, if not even more. ¡°Hey there, miss.¡± Despite his overabundant musings, Alain forced himself to sound energetic and upbeat, hoping to put Callista at ease. He tried to keep his tone light, even though his hands were starting to sweat. ¡°Heard you had an¡­ Unwelcome guest.¡± The police officer¡¯s eyes were bright and cheerful, expecting that despite of the tension taking over her shoulders, the heavy atmosphere would dissipate as soon as she recognized him ¡ªyet he was given an arched eyebrow and a brief silence instead. ¡°Huh?¡± His smile began to fade as Callista appeared unsure of how to respond, her lips trembling nervously before she finally managed to speak as she opened the door fully to allow him entry. ¡°Yes, he chased me all the way here while I was walking my dog.¡± >> ¡°But I don¡¯t know where he is now¡­ Or what he wants.¡± Alain wasn¡¯t accustomed to hearing vulnerability in Callista¡¯s voice. It sharply contrasted the confidence she typically displayed in his memories, and it stirred even more his already strong desire to protect her. But there was another issue that demanded his immediate attention, perhaps even more pressing than dealing with the stalker. ¡°Cal, don¡¯t you recognize me?¡± Alain asked with a tone of disbelief as he pointed at his face. It would surely be a heavy blow to his ego if she had actually forgotten him entirely. ¡°It¡¯s me, Alain Konradsson. From high school?¡± ¡°Excuse me?¡­¡± There was a hint of incredulity in Callista¡¯s voice as she struggled to understand where the conversation had drifted. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, trying to collect her thoughts and steady herself. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­ I¡¯m just not in the right state of mind right now.¡± Realizing that he was likely pushing too hard, Alain forced himself to back off and simply stepped inside her apartment. He supposed he was being insensitive, considering her current circumstances. So what if she couldn¡¯t remember him right away? He had also changed quite a bit since high school, after all. Even his parents hadn¡¯t recognized him when he first visited them in uniform. "Well, don''t you worry," The young officer said adopting a confident tone and a renewed smile. "I''m here to take care of it all. You''re safe now." In gentle motions, Alain covered Callista¡¯s shoulders with one of his arms while guiding them both back inside. Now that he had the chance to be her hero, he was determined to do everything in his power to make it count. And as he began to take in the details of her home, Alain couldn''t shake the feeling that something was off. The house was small and sparsely furnished, giving it a sense of emptiness that was only amplified by the many darkened corners. Despite its size, it didn''t feel cozy or welcoming at all ¡ªit seemed cold and sterile, almost as if it wasn''t actually lived in. Not like he was given the chance to actually on why the place gave him such an unsettling feeling, ending up distracted by a couple of excited yelps and tail wags sent in his direction. Looking down, he saw a furry creature with long ears leaping up to greet him. ¡°Hey there little friend. You¡¯re not too much of a guard, are you?¡± Alain said with a relaxed smile kneeling down to give the dog a bunch of pats. Its fur was soft under his fingers, and he could get a notion of the animal''s friendliness as it nuzzled against him. "How about we give you some training once this is all over?" "Choccy, no! Behave yourself!" Callista interjected, quickly moving to nestle the dog inside her arms. Their fingers brushed just slightly in the midst of the moment, in a touch that left Alain¡¯s fingers feeling a bit electrified. What had he been thinking before? There was nothing wrong or sterile about Callista¡¯s place ¡ªall it took to turn it into something warm and alive was her presence alone. But with those weird ideas pushed out of his system... ¡°Choccy? Really?¡± The police officer asked with a smirk, taking a great effort to prevent himself from laughing out loud. ¡°Sir Chocolate Milk the First, officer.¡± She replied feigning indignation as her cheeks flushed a rosy pink. The sight of her clinging tightly to ¡®Choccy¡¯, looking both adorably embarrassed and overly serious at the same time felt like another bullet aimed straight at his heart. ¡°I¡¯d appreciate it if you call him by his full name.¡± This was a side of Callista he had never seen before. The professional, no-nonsense attitude she used to bring into the classroom and take over the chalkboard back in high school was nowhere to be found; and this level of playful cuteness made her all the more endearing in his eyes. Was this how the real Callista was behind all pretenses? ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll make sure to address him properly in my report.¡± Alain acknowledged her request with a hint of amusement, as his attention turned elsewhere inside the large and mostly vacant hall. He figured it was high time to finally start asking the important questions. ¡°Now, about this stalker you reported¡­¡± > ¡°When and where exactly was the last time you saw him?¡± There was a clear shift in Alain¡¯s tone as he brought them back to the reason that had reunited them. His seriousness didn¡¯t escape Callista, who held her dog firmly as if seeking comfort from him. ¡°It was around twenty minutes ago. He was¡­ Standing outside of my house, staring in through the window.¡± As she recalled her stressful experience, the officer noted how her shoulders were still trembling slightly; gradually igniting a mounting sense of anger toward the person causing her distress. ¡°I¡¯m sure he saw me looking at him¡­ And then he just disappeared.¡± >> ¡°I¡¯ve heard some strange noises coming from outside the house.¡± >> ¡°But I was too afraid to check.¡± Alain doubted that the stalker was still around. It was likely just the wind or some other random noise, and whoever had been following her so openly would have been intimidated once he arrived at the scene. But he still nodded, taking note of the information. He could sense the fear in her voice and he didn¡¯t want to understate it, making a mental note to check around the vicinity for any potential lead. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll do everything I can to find him so he never bothers you again.¡± He reassured her with a kind smile and a comforting squeeze of her shoulder, hoping that his confidence could help lift her spirits. ¡°You can count on me, Cal.¡± Alain silently congratulated himself, maintaining his stoic demeanor even as his heart raced. ¡®Yes, I¡¯m doing well. That was a good line. Maybe now¡­¡¯ He began to slowly slide his hand down her arm, aiming to pull her toward him into a closer embrace. It was a small gesture, but one that signaled a shift from his duties as a mere enforcer of the law into something more personal and deep, as he so much desired. In the grander narrative he envisioned for the two of them, this was but a first step forward. Yet also one that was not ignored by the sinister watchful eye lurking in the shadows just beyond grasp. By the time the corner of his eyes caught wind of the silhouette approaching, it was already too late to forestall the impending disaster. ¡°Get the fuck away from her right now!¡± Even when muffled from behind the thick glass wall that connected the living room to the reigning blackness that enveloped Callista¡¯s backyard, a harsh shout still managed to pierce through ¡ªno, perhaps it was more fitting to call it a desperate roar instead. The crystal barrier between them and the dimly lit figure was abruptly shattered with a deafening crash as he barged inside, in complete disregard for his own safety. Alain instinctively flinched, preparing for impact. Amidst the flying glass shards, his reflexes kicked in almost immediately after, swiftly pushing Callista back towards the entrance to position himself between her and the aggressor. He had mere split seconds to analyze everything before him, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the charging figure. The fact that he had smashed through the glass without showing any sign of injury led Alain to assume he was holding a weapon, even though he didn¡¯t witness the event fully unfold amidst the chaos ¡ªand so he tried to reach for his gun with every muscle and nerve on edge, each movement feeling painfully slow in the throes of the sudden ambush. However, before he could fully draw, the two men collided in a haywire struggle, their bodies falling to the ground in a frenzied tangle. With a visceral growl of exertion, Alain fought back against the intruder¡¯s fierce attempts to overpower him. In the end, it would be Alain the one to come out on top, his greater size and superior strength giving him the advantage as he maneuvered himself into a dominant position over the stalker. He twisted the man¡¯s arm behind his back into a painful lock, while also pressing a knee harshly onto the opposite shoulder blade. Breathing heavily as an aftermath from the encounter, his hands gripped the intruder tightly, eliciting anguished cries of pain from him. With his teeth clenched, the adrenaline coursing through his veins gradually gave way to raw anger. ¡°Hah¡­ So you didn¡¯t run away after all, you piece of shit?¡± Alain snarled, increasing more pressure on the man¡¯s arm than necessary. ¡°Maybe you should have; that was another one of the many mistakes you¡¯ve made tonight.¡± Beneath him lay the man responsible for all of Callista¡¯s anguish and the thrashing of her home. There was no way Alain could forgive him ¡ªdespite him being the reason why they had reunited in the first place. ¡°You have no idea what I¡¯m about to do to you.¡± >> ¡°And it¡¯s far more severe than what I should be doing as a member of the police.¡± For Officer Alain Konradsson harbored a deep-seated hatred for criminals that bordered on obsession. It was an intense disdain that fueled his determination to pursue justice, and defined his identity. He was all too familiar with the position Callista had been thrust into, as he had also experienced when he was just seven years old. Back then, he was a terrified boy, tied up and helpless while his family became victims of the ruthless perpetrators who ransacked their house. Now it was different, as the indelible mark that was left on him manifested itself as unchecked aggression, threatening to dislocate the shoulder of the stalker in the thirst of making him suffer for his crimes. And that was exactly how things should¡¯ve unfolded, if not for the cryptic words that escaped from the man beneath him in a hushed plea ¡ªa call not meant for Alain, but for an entity beyond the realms of his understanding. ¡°I beg you¡­ Spellbound.¡± The experience that followed was unlike anything Alain had ever endured. A chilling laughter resonated inside his head, one distinctly feminine in nature ¡ª yet so utterly devoid of humanity as well. It echoed inside his head like a pulsating ache, as if countless tiny fingers were gripping and tearing at his brain from every direction. His senses were thrown into complete disarray, and he had to muster every ounce of his willpower to suppress the uncontrollable urge to vomit. The sheer agony that rippled through his limbs as all muscles contracted, accompanied by an overpowering nausea, caused in him a wave of sickness that threatened to push him to the brink of shock. As his grip on the criminal weakened, the police officer could feel an invisible force exerting pressure on his chest, pushing him backward. He retched involuntarily, an acrid taste rising in his throat as he tried to struggle against the unseen assailant, fighting to maintain his footing ¡ªbut it was an exercise in futility. Alain¡¯s legs suddenly lost contact with the ground. Suspended in midair, he was completely at the mercy of whatever this creature could be. The world spun around him as a pair of ghostly hands that felt like fabric clamped down on his neck, wrenching his head back so violently that he felt his neck muscles shredding. In his severely disoriented state, it was the piercing pain that informed him he had been slammed into a table, the sharp edge digging painfully into his lower back before the furniture collapsed under an overwhelming force. The subsequent blows that his skull sustained were ones that he was barely aware of, as his vision swam and darkness began to consume it. Unlike his previous encounter with Callista¡¯s stalker, this wasn¡¯t a battle that could be won through determination and grit alone. It eluded comprehension, and escaped the boundaries of mortal resistance. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything faded to a deep, impenetrable black. Saraband -Part 3- Did he consider himself special? No, it certainly wasn¡¯t anything like that. He was just as intelligent as everyone else. At times he pushed through worries with ease. At others, he sunk below the depths of his insecurities. He often got nervous. He hid his vices from his mother, like smoking or masturbating. It took him only a smile to fall in love, and he didn¡¯t apologize whenever he was in a hurry ¡ªindeed, he was no different from countless other souls with whom he shared this earth with. Then why? Why did he feel this way, so utterly devoid of purpose, a social scum that clung to the bottom of society? He had already stopped counting the days in which he had woken up with no real idea of what he was meant to do. He was merely another man, left undone in a sick world. A job or a career was all he lacked, unlike many others who were handed their lives without difficulty ¡ªwas that a prerequisite for fulfillment? The yelling coming from outside his room made him stir under the covers, even when he wasn¡¯t sleeping. It took him hours to gather the energy to get out of bed, and it was only the voice of his mother calling out that dinner was ready what usually roused him to do it. She was already well into her eighties now, and managed to cook more out of force of habit than any culinary competence ¡ªhe didn¡¯t want to waste her efforts, and besides, he did need to eat. Wading around his disheveled room always required some effort. He had to move aside tangled cables and controllers, kick away discarded plates and food trays alongside old DVD cases. The hardest part, however, was trying to shake away the feeling that he was nothing more than a hollow husk of a person, a weight that seemed to grow heavier with each step. Was this all his life amounted to? Was this it? Something this¡­ Empty and meaningless? It was this desolation that haunted him constantly, or at least whenever he wasn¡¯t dissociating his happiness inside the games or anime where he sought escape from the harsh realities of the world. He felt like a poor excuse for a human being. A thorough and complete failure. But no one ever wanted to help. No one cared. ¡°Peter, honey... Can you please put on some clothes whenever you come to the kitchen?¡± His mother¡¯s voice was like a background noise to him, a distant hum that barely registered. ¡°And do something about that beard of yours, for heaven¡¯s sake.¡± He didn¡¯t even bother to look up at her as he took a seat at their small folding table. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter, Mom. It¡¯s just the two of us here.¡± >> ¡°Like every time.¡± ¡°Oh, but this is a special occasion dearie. I even made you chocolate cake for dessert. I remembered it¡¯s your favorite, and all because...¡± >> ¡°It¡¯s your 20th birthday, you forgetful dummy!¡± Perhaps a long time ago, he would have corrected her. Tell her that his birthday had been last month, and that he was already in his forties. That there was no cake waiting in the oven either. But now, he knew better than to argue. His mother¡¯s memory was getting worse and worse each year, and reasoning with her was a lost endeavor. What was the point of it all, when she''d forget everything about it in just a few hours? Dinner ended without anything worth mentioning. They exchanged the same mindless questions and answers they did every other day. He already knew the routine by heart. ¡°How is work going?¡± ¡°I promise I¡¯ll find another one soon.¡± ¡°What happened to this cute girl you were dating?¡± ¡°You watched that in a movie, mom.¡± ¡°When do you think your father will return from the war?¡± ¡°He is... Not coming back.¡± At times, it felt like one big, fat lie. A sick joke orchestrated for laughs. His very own personal Truman Show, doomed to walk through the same senseless routine with no hope of escape. With a heavy sigh of defeat, he helped his mother clean up the table and loaded the dirty plates into a moldy dishwasher. All seemed to indicate that it was going to be another lonely night, dedicated in its entirety to just passing the hours in front of a monitor illuminating the lifeless darkness of his room. A quick double-check on their decades-old fridge told him that he was ill-prepared for such a venture. It was time to stock up on drinks and snacks, one of the few instances in which he left the house during the week. Telling his mother that he was going to be away for a while was a lost cause, she¡¯d get worried in a matter of minutes after crossing the front door anyway. So he simply waited until she got tired to tuck her in bed, her usually low levels of energy taking a brief period longer than usual to deplete. With the intent of getting the chore over and done with as soon as possible, he slid on his pair of trusty flip-flops over the socks he had been wearing for days, put on a worn-down cap featuring a video game company to hide his eyes, and then grabbed the keys to the rickety and rusty old car passed down to him by his late father. Peter didn¡¯t bother changing out of his stained and baggy gray sweatpants and faded black t-shirt, despite them being stained with food remnants and spills from previous nocturnal net-surfing sessions. These were the very same clothes he had been wearing for days, holding patches of dried sweat from his excessive sleep and a few small holes scattered around the fabrics ¡ªbut why bother changing? He saw no reason to care about his appearance ¡ªit was all inconsequential. No one ever really looked in his direction anyway, there was no point in trying to impress anyone. It wasn¡¯t like he resented going out, for as much as he¡¯d prefer to stay inside the safe comfort of his room. While it was still warm on the streets, the sensation of a gentle nocturnal breeze reaching his face was a pleasant one ¡ªa much-needed breath of fresh air away from all the grease and clutter that pervaded his house. Making his way to the discount store, driving slowly through the bustling streets, Peter wondered what the future might hold for him. His mother was the only person he had left in the world, and he knew that she wouldn¡¯t be around forever. He yearned for something more, anything that gave his life meaning or purpose. For now, however, he was stuck browsing store aisles, basket in hand, selecting his favorite off-brand energy drinks and salty snacks to last him until the following week. For as much as the menial task helped distract him from his existential surrender, his top priority was still getting in and out of there quickly. Waiting in line was akin to a miniature limbo, perpetuating his growing sense of detachment from the world. No one bothered to notice him, not even when took a moment to observe his fellow shoppers. Like he was a ghost drifting through without leaving a single trace. Invisibility that might have been preferable when an unforeseen encounter forced him to engage another living person. As Peter returned to his car after paying for his items, he collided with a man who somehow managed to escape his spatial awareness ¡ªperhaps due to a momentary lapse in attention as he checked his phone for an excessive amount of game notifications. Determined to not let the man simply brush him off, Peter adjusted the paper bag tucked under his arm and prepared to scowl and yell at the stranger, but when he finally looked up at him, his expression faltered. Standing before him was a shady old guy who now similarly turned in his direction to face him. He wore jet-black glasses that obscured his gaze, while deep wrinkles creased his face. Despite his age, his expression remained firm and serious, causing a bead of sweat to form on Peter¡¯s brow. His raven hair streaked with white, was combed back and shone with an oily luster. But what truly unnerved Peter were the things the man was holding. A baby in one hand, gripped by the neck as if it were a worthless doll. The other, keeping a tight hold of a screwdriver stained with dried, dark red marks that his mind refused to contemplate the origin of. In that unsettling standoff, the two of them remained locked in a tense silence that lasted longer than Peter¡¯s already frayed nerves could withstand. His heart pounded inside his chest in an uneven rhythm, eventually finding enough courage to speak up. ¡°Wh¡­ What the fuck do you want from me?¡± He tried to sound confident, but his voice cracked under the pressure. ¡°You don¡¯t intimidate me, you worthless scum.¡± >> ¡°Don¡¯t you dare mess with me¡­¡± Peter forced himself to continue, the words tumbling out in a rushed manner. ¡°Because¡­ I¡¯m pretty sure the police would love to hear about that baby you¡¯re holding.¡± Threatening instead of running away immediately was a choice Peter would come to regret sooner rather than later. ¡°You have miserable eyes.¡± The old man¡¯s voice was slurry, in a deep and coarse tone that sounded like a strain in his vocal cords. "Are you also bored of this world?¡± Peter¡¯s legs felt like jelly as he tried to take a step back into his car waiting in the distance; yearning to escape from the inexplicably oppressive energy emanating from the strange man before him ¡ªyet his body refused to cooperate, leaving him rooted to the spot as fear began to take hold. ¡°Want to find out¡­¡± The phrases were spoken with flat, disjointed and monotone inflections, sending shivers down Peter¡¯s spine as they chillingly contrasted the nature of his question. ¡°That which lurks beyond.¡± With a sudden jerk of his neck, the man lowered his dark glasses allowing them to truly cross eyes for the first time. Peter had expected them to be hollow and hazy, lost under the murky waters of substance abuse ¡ªbut they were anything but that. The stare behind the glasses was piercing and fierce, holding an unnerving intensity as it burned through his own. He focused on Peter¡¯s own eyes as if seeking to leave an imprint on his mind, to crawl and build a nest under his skin. As the man continued to stare at him, Peter felt a cold sweat break out on his entire back like a monster¡¯s breath, and he couldn''t shake the feeling that he was being swallowed into a void of darkness. The man''s voice seemed to echo in his mind, repeating the same chilling words over and over. And it was there when Peter finally reached his limit. His pride wasn¡¯t bloated enough to make protecting it worth the torment. His feet finally felt like moving once again, freed from their curse as he sprinted towards his car, clumsily clutching the paper bag filled with the supplies that had initially led him out into the awful outside. Peter¡¯s fingers initially fumbled with the car door handle, but in a matter of seconds, he already had deftly ignited the engine, causing it to rumble back to life. Forcefully stepping down on the pedal, he accelerated away from the parking lot; not daring to spare a backward glance, terrified from the possibility of the old man still watching from a distance ¡ªor even worse, somehow chasing him. It took him speeding through several blocks for his heart to finally begin settling down, taking multiple turns off his route before he was sure that there wasn¡¯t any car tailing his. He found himself driving through quiet residential streets, the sort of place where the only traffic came from the occasional passing of a lone car or two. Despite his best efforts to employ logic, to convince himself that it had been just a simple old guy that posed no real threat to him, Peter couldn¡¯t quite shake away the sensation that he narrowly avoided something truly sinister. The irony was not completely lost on him, making Peter nervously smile at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Just a while ago he had been brooding over how uneventful his life was, wishing for something to break up the tedium. Now his body ached with adrenaline, and all he wanted was the safety of his bedroom walls, where the only thrills were safely contained behind a screen. ¡®That which lurks beyond.¡¯ Those words continued to gnaw at the back of his mind. Under normal circumstances, he would have dismissed them as nothing more than a stilted threat, ramblings of a confused old man. But something about the phrase sounded off, even now that it was all behind him. What could he have possibly meant by that? Peter shrugged with triumphing relief. Whatever it was, it didn¡¯t matter anymore. All he had to do was make it home, and the nightmare would be over. Another week of confinement inside his room didn¡¯t sound too bad in comparison to that disturbing encounter. As fate would have it, things were not meant to play out that way. Moving on their own accord, his hands wrenched the steering wheel in a violent spasm, It was a reflex so automatic it felt as if his body were no longer his own ¡ªa wholly uncontrollable impulse that froze his heart in place. He tried to regain control, to steer the car back onto the road, but it was too late. There was no changing the direction his life was now heading towards. The rubber tires screeched as the car swerved off the asphalt, hurtling towards a tree ominously waiting at the end of the street. According to the many action movies he had watched, time was supposed to crawl at an agonizingly slow speed, yet Peter''s eyes widened in terror as only brief images passed before them in a flash. He saw a woman walking with her young daughter, their faces illuminated faintly by the dim streetlights. He could see the car crumpling around him, metal twisting and glass shattering. He witnessed the blood pooling beneath him, crimson red against the drab gray of the concrete. And then, all was replaced by complete, utter darkness. Slowly, Peter¡¯s consciousness emerged from the primordial depths, teased into awakening by the sound of machine humming, a chorus of beeps echoing through an otherwise completely silent room. A flutter of his eyelids, then a deep and dry exhalation. Hesitantly, his eyes opened from the cocoons of slumber, blinking against the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. It took him a moment for his surroundings to come into focus, but gradually, the white-washed walls of a hospital room became clearer, as did the tubes and wires snaking their way across his upper body ¡ªmarred by a kaleidoscope of unpleasant sensations, overwhelming compared to the relief of unconsciousness. This wasn¡¯t the first time Peter had regained his awareness, but each time without fail, he had quickly faded back into the sweet embrace of obscurity. Those brief moments he had experienced in the unclear past now came back to him in the shape of faint memories, luring his rational thoughts to make sense of the scattered pieces. A gentle voice that spoke to him whenever its owner trusted he wasn¡¯t listening, tender touches of soft fingertips against his skin, and the blinding face of an angel. They had once been the only lifeline offered to him like an echo of divine grace ¡ªwhat fueled a stubborn resilience to grasp once again the confines of his mortal coil. But this time, neither that beacon of light nor a surrender to the blankets of sleep would be able to save him from the wreckage he had become. The recollections of the car accident that shattered his life came flooding back, resented in his core like a suffocating vice grip. Tears began to stream down his face as the weight of guilt threatened suffocation. Somehow, he was still there, now lying motionless in a hospital room as an even more broken man than before ¡ªbut at what cost? Two lives had been affected, and most likely extinguished as the price for his survival. The possibility of having become a murderer during that horrible night was something his already weary heart couldn¡¯t possibly bear. For even when Peter¡¯s life was haunted by the phantasm of self-loathing, he had never wished harm upon anyone. It was unfair¡­ Why did he have the right to still draw breath, after having caused so much pain? Yet cracking through the walls of his numbed-down skull like a chisel, Peter heard the sounds of a beckoning voice, echoing inside his mind like the enchanting tunes of a bewitching lullaby. ¡°It¡¯s a lie¡­¡± The words repeated time and time again, in a hauntingly feminine reverberation the likes he had never heard before in real life, dancing in the shadows of sanity. Was it an illusion? A figment of his wild imagination, conjured like a desperate coping mechanism? All that he was certain of, was that it was growing louder and more defined with each passing minute, seeping through the gaps of his fragile psyche. ¡°All those bad feelings¡­ All a lie¡­¡± >> ¡°The nice words¡­ Only those are true.¡± The melody of respite from suffering was seductive, as the voice whispered sweet nothings into his ear. Compelled to seek its origin, his eyes darted around the room in a frenzied daze¡­ Until they finally locked onto the figure staring down at him behind the upper cradle bars of his hospital bed, leaning on his line of sight with a bone-chilling smile. Peter¡¯s heart momentarily stopped in place as he took in the sight of that¡­ Thing. It could only be described as an unsettling oversized rag marionette with uneven and grimy dark blue yarn-like hair ¡ªeasily towering over him even at standing height. Her body was composed of tattered, soot-stained fabric patched together roughly and crudely. She had long elongated limbs beyond human proportions, with articulations and hands constructed from half-translucent doll-like plastic, revealing behind it an intricate network of black, thread-like veins and sinew within. Asymmetrical, mismatched eyes rested on her face ¡ªone composed of a poorly threaded matte pink button, the other more akin to a stuffed plushy plastic one; with a large, irregular pupil that glimmered with an unnerving purple hue. It reflected Peter¡¯s terrified expression back at him, yet it was void and lifeless, as if it could hungrily swallow light itself. A wide slit ran across where her mouth should be, adorned by crude stitches that appeared more like an attempt to silence her than anything else ¡ªa handiwork that separated itself from any natural configuration by how raw and unnatural it was. It contorted into the shape of a smile, making Peter realize that it was no mere mannequin placed there as a morbid prank. That thing¡­ She... Was alive. His voice distorted into a loud, bloodcurdling scream, tearing the silence of the hospital halls like a knife through cloth. Its sound blared in Peter¡¯s eardrums as he jolted in horror, his entire being aching to escape the creature before him. But as soon as he attempted to step away from the confines of his hospital bed, his weakened legs crumbled beneath his weight, sending him violently down to the cold, sterile floor. In his reduced position, his breathing became ragged gasps, forcing his eyes to look away from the creature¡¯s grotesque visage. From the corner of his vision, he could see her sway slightly towards him, as if savoring the sound of his cries, and its unnatural smile widened further into a grin that sent a fresh wave of terror through Peter¡¯s veins. She wasn¡¯t trying to hunt him, simply satisfied with relishing in his fear. All of his instincts demanded that he curl up into a ball on the floor and hide, yet his mind raced with desperation attempting to come up with something to build distance from the monster that had invaded his refuge. Helplessly shifting from his crawling position to stretch his hands towards the closed door, yet before he managed to reach salvation, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through as a pair of hospital workers rushed in instead ¡ªtheir voices laced with urgency as they helped him back up, despite his incoherent babbling and flailing limbs. Settling him on the opposite side of the room from the terrifying specter, the doctor and nurse finally addressed him, informing Peter that he had sustained severe injuries as a result of the car accident, most severe of them all being a cranial fracture. He had been unconscious for nearly two months. They proceeded to discuss of the surgeries he had undergone, of the lengthy recovery process he now had to look forward to, and the extensive rehabilitation treatment plan that lay ahead. However, most of these details slipped through the cracks of Peter''s distracted mind, his gaze fixated on the barely moving, yet vividly tangible creature waiting behind his hospital bed. Neither of the hospital staff members appeared willing to acknowledge her presence, leaving Peter to question whether the alleged skull fracture might have had an irreversible impact on his very sanity. It was as he tried to draw their attention to the monster lurking in the corners that he suddenly recognized the face of the young nurse, who was now looking at him with a worried expression. She was the one¡­ The single, immaculate being that had been his bastion of hope amidst the throes of unconsciousness. Desperate for comfort, he reached out and grabbed the nurse''s hand with trembling fingers, squeezing it tightly and closing his eyes due to his inability to keep bearing the agony of his new reality. Then, he felt it once more ¡ªthe softness of her palm against his, and the warmth that seeped through his skin, soothing his tormented soul. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. When he finally gathered the strength to open his eyes and read her nametag, Peter was struck with a newfound appreciation that diminished everything he had ever felt before. She was the most beautiful creature that ever graced his worthless existence. Her name¡­ It was Callista Nilsson. As promised, his rushed recovery process proved to be far from easy. Being around the holiday season, his doctor at the LeMans Hospital seemed less than invested or cautious when it came to his condition. As a result, Peter struggled with the relentless pace of his therapy sessions and each grueling exercise ¡ªyet he persisted, driven by a newfound resolve. Callista¡¯s care and support provided him the solace he had been craving for ages, a comfort that eclipsed even the ever-present creature intermittently haunting his periphery like a vengeful wraith. Peter knew that he was nothing more than a patient in her eyes, yet he so heartrendingly yearned to be liked by her, to know her better. He longed for the day when he would regain full coordination of his legs and perhaps share a dance. Whenever her fingers grazed his skin, he felt like a renewed man. Words whispered by the otherworldly voice seeped into his mind like tar filling empty cracks, growing increasingly insistent with every passing day. They assured that his love was right, that it was pure ¡ªand above all, perfect. And whether it was because of his convictions, or instead a surrender to that profane toxin¡­ Peter eventually accepted those claims as truth. Only then, the name appeared inside his head like an epiphany. She was Spellbound. The guardian devil that had latched onto him at the same time he found his angel. She never attacked him; instead, she remained vigilantly by his side as a dedicated sentinel. Too afraid of being committed to a mental asylum to confide in anyone about her presence, Peter simply submitted to her presence, overlooking the terror that gripped him whenever he glimpsed through rents in her fabric skin. Behind the tattered facade loomed a hollow darkness that reverberated with faint whispers, as if within a dilapidated cathedral. At times, Spellbound¡¯s abyss resonated with haunting echoes of laughter ¡ªnot outright sounds, but rather vibrations that unsettled him to no end. At other times she vanished into thin air, her disappearance often coinciding with Callista''s presence. It made the nurse feel all the more like a ward against the malevolence lurking all around him. Tonight was one of such instances. ¡°It appears we¡¯re in the same boat together, Mr. Kimball.¡± The words caught him somewhat ill-prepared, and for a moment, Peter was at a loss of how to respond. While they usually engaged in conversations regarding his condition and progress, it was unusual for Callista to divert from professional matters. ¡°Is there no one you¡¯d like to visit on this night as well?¡± She added, a hint of melancholy in her voice that stirred his heart. Taking a moment to seat herself by his bedside, Callista returned his gaze, her eyes filled with a quiet sadness. But, really, it shouldn''t have come as a surprise. It was Christmas Eve after all, and the two of them were confined inside cold hospital walls. ¡°Please¡­¡± He began nervously, pausing a moment to try and steady his ailing chest. ¡°Call me¡­ Call me Peter.¡± Perhaps by allowing her to use his first name, he could offer a hint of comforting familiarity during this imposed solitude; or at least, that¡¯d be what he¡¯d say if someone were to ask ¡ªtruth was, he also cherished the possibility of hearing his name on her lips. Callista humored him with a brief smile and a light chuckle, but her troubled expression soon returned. ¡°I really don¡¯t think I should, Mr. Kimball.¡± >> ¡°Least rumors that I¡¯m coming onto patients may start being spread by them as well.¡± Well, it was worth a shot; however, her remark paired with a sigh did leave him wondering in curiosity. ¡°Excuse me? Them?¡± ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry. Please, pay it no mind. It¡¯s just mindless hospital ward gossip.¡± Despite her suggestion, Peter couldn¡¯t help but think about it. He had never stopped to consider it before, but perhaps Callista, aside from sharing his loneliness, also had her own trials to endure. It was a glimpse of vulnerability that left him reeling; He hated the thought of anyone giving her a hard time, especially considering her kindness and beauty. Yet it made sense¡­ That she attracted both disdainful looks and infatuated admirers like himself. But now that they were holding a silent moment of contemplation, there was also another worrying subject he had been neglecting on his constant admiration of her. One he couldn¡¯t delay any further. ¡°Miss Callista¡­ May I ask you something?¡± He began hesitantly, his fingers clutching tightly onto the bed sheets. ¡°What¡­ What happened to those two?¡± A small sound of confusion came from her mouth, as the nurse tilted her head questioningly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I don¡¯t think I¡¯m following properly. Which two?¡± It was a painful conversation to continue. All this time, Peter had unwaveringly believed that the police hadn''t come to arrest him due to his recovery process from the head injury. But that never truly soothed his worries about the possibility of having ended two lives that night ¡ªan idea that, alongside Spellbound, kept him awake at night. "T¡­ The mother and her daughter¡­" Peter forced himself to continue, trusting in Callista to neither hide the truth from him nor to deliver it too harshly if the worst had come to pass. "The ones¡­ I ran over." The nurse''s brow furrowed, not only expressing her confusion but also her own growing apprehension. "I don''t know what you mean, Mr. Kimball," she clarified with a serious tone that made him certain this wasn''t an attempt to misdirect him. "You were the only one involved in the accident. You drove straight into a tree." >> "If anyone else was hurt, we would have known. This hospital is the only one close to where it all happened." Feeling his blood freezing inside his veins, Peter stared off into nothingness without focus, struggling to process the revelation. The contradiction bore down on him like a physical force, as his recollection of that night came under intense scrutiny. For as brief as the flashing scenes had been on his eyes, the image of of the woman and the girl in his headlights was seared into his memory, just as much as the puddle of blood that ran under the crumpled steel frame ¡ªtoo large to be his own alone. All of them were being called into question by the new reality presented by Callista. How could this be possible? How could he have gotten such an important detail wrong? Doubt swirled within him like a whirlpool menacing to drown him ¡ªyet he never placed mistrust in the nurse even once, despite the mounting uncertainty. To Peter, her words were gospel, unassailable and well-intended truth¡­ But, if that were to be the case, then... How many other things was he also mistaken about? What else else was a lie?¡­ Could he trust his own eyes and thoughts anymore? No... It couldn''t be possible. The panicked faces that haunted him, even through the darkest periods of unconsciousness before his awakening, were far too real to escape. That guilt he had been feeling all this time¡­ It couldn¡¯t have been for nothing. It felt as though the very ground beneath his feet was shifting, his grip on reality crumbling like a sandcastle battered by the relentless waves of a storm. Time lost meaning for a minute as he remained unmoving, shoulders slumped and features etched with despair. It was likely enough to make anyone uneasy, especially someone as kind as Callista. ¡°I¡­ Have to go now, Mr. Kimball.¡± She announced in a voice wavering with nervousness as she rose from her chair beside him. The motion left Peter feeling desolate and abandoned, even before she had fully withdrawn her presence. ¡°Please, just let me know if you need anything, okay? I¡¯ll be here all night, so don¡¯t hesitate to call.¡± Oh, how desperately he longed to unburden himself, to lay bare the chaotic tumult of everything he felt about her. To express how deep his love was, that it transcended well beyond mere attraction. How he needed her by his side at that moment ¡ªand for all those yet to come as well. And yet, defeated and brokenhearted, Peter hesitated to heap his troubles upon her shoulders. Yes, Callista had her own challenges to face, and it would be grossly unjust to add his disturbing and unsorted ones to her worries. Before letting his heart in the open, he needed to untangle himself out of his own disaster. With the door once more closing to leave him utterly alone, his forehead succumbed into an open palm, as the dull throbs of his brain resonated against the walls of his injured skull. ¡°Did I not tell you¡­¡± The voice of Spellbound blended with his thoughts, as it so often did, offering an easy alternative to the torment. ¡°¡­ About all the lies?¡± >> ¡°Trust in me¡­ I¡¯ll guide you through confusion.¡± It felt like a treacherous hand extended in his direction, tempting Peter to surrender to the illusion Spellbound offered. He wanted to deny it, to insist that he wouldn¡¯t listen to false promises, and that he¡¯d find his own way. After all, even when he felt battered and broken, he had found the willpower to carry on in Callista ¡ªtaking the shape of a love that should make the specter¡¯s seduction insignificant in comparison. And yet¡­ He couldn¡¯t bring himself to say no to her. For the path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, fraught with potential turmoil... And even in this second chance at life that he had been granted, Peter wasn¡¯t sure he possessed the resilience required to face the darkness on his own. Whether they lead him astray, away from the truth; or deliver on the blissful satisfaction and fulfillment she offered each time¡­ Peter wasn¡¯t strong enough to refuse the respite that the comforting lies from the demon doll tempted him with. His eventual discharge from the LeMans Hospital after a full recovery came little under a month after Christmas Eve, but in all honesty, he had come to dread such a day. Not only did it mean he would no longer have an excuse to see Callista, but he would also have to face the repercussions that he had been ignoring this far. Consequences, that could be seen as mundane when compared to the otherworldly experiences he was subjected to inside the hospital walls, in his infatuation with Callista and his fright over Spellbound ¡ªa presence that he was now more or less used to. But.. how could he not feel intimidated by the real-world horror stories lying in wait, filled with cruel and cold facts he wasn''t yet ready to face? His version of the events, as it turned out, was held with little regard by the police. They had already gathered all the information they needed during his two-month coma, or at least enough to fine him for all the damages caused by the accident. Having never bothered with health insurance, Peter now found himself also responsible for the entire medical bill. Payment plans or delayed time frames proposed for it didn¡¯t change the undeniable fact that this wasn¡¯t something he could ever afford ¡ªor at least not by relying on his father¡¯s veteran benefits that he and his mother survived with. And speaking of which¡­ Upon finally returning to his abandoned house, Peter realized just how much he had neglected a particular problem for all this time. The original beneficiary of all his income ¡ªhis mother. Due to his inability to care for her during his hospital stay, social workers assessed her needs in his absence and concluded that their house was no longer suitable for her to reside. Diagnosed as unable to live independently, she was taken away and placed in a long-term nursing home. Which would have been fine if she were to be returned to him upon his discharge¡­ But, to make matters worse, the authorities were now initiating the legal proceedings to establish conservatorship over his mother¡¯s affairs ¡ªall in the name of ¡®ensuring that the decisions regarding Vivien Kimball''s health and finances are made in her best interests.¡¯ Or in other words¡­ They were planning to seize her money and rob her of the safe familiarity of his company, tearing her away from the comfort of the home they had always shared together. In a panic, Peter withdrew all the remaining funds in her account, fearing that they would soon take even that from him. It wasn¡¯t much, considering his pre-hospitalization penchant for frittering away money on mobile games. And all of this didn''t even begin to address the issue of repairing or replacing his mangled car. The weight of it all was so overwhelming that Peter¡¯s mind recoiled, unable to acknowledge the enormity of problems before him in full capacity. Trapped in a world that felt like a suffocating prison cell, he yearned for the safety and attention he had found within the hospital walls, where Callista¡¯s presence was all that filled his reality ¡ªthe place where he met true joy for the first time in his life. How much he had wanted her then¡­ And oh Christ, how much more he craved her now. Whenever he wasn¡¯t wailing in his misery, thrown in bed he often sought solace in sleep, hoping that in dreams, the two of them might reunite. Peter¡¯s biggest fantasy was that she would come knocking on his door, to rescue him from the storm of ruination that had made his life its permanent resting place. He couldn¡¯t bear it any longer¡­ Not on his own¡­ Not without her... ¡°Then why did you abandon her?¡± Spellbound¡¯s voice, once merely tantalizing, now also beguiled Peter, preying on his weaknesses, reminding him of all his faults, of all his wrong choices. ¡°If you had allowed me to guide from the beginning¡­ You could have avoided all this anguish.¡± >> ¡°It¡¯s not too late¡­ Let¡¯s make everything right...¡± The insurmountable weight of his troubles made it more and more difficult not to succumb to the melody that Spellbound¡¯s whispers offered, her voice weaving around his weary soul, enchanting him inch by inch. ¡°Haven¡¯t you realized, dear Peter? Your Callista loves you as well..¡± >> ¡°Can¡¯t you remember? The way her eyes lit up every time your hands met?¡± No¡­ That couldn¡¯t be true. He was anything but a burden; and he had always been a failure. In his forty years of life, all that he had ever learned was only how to fall. For as much as he wanted to, liking himself was entirely out of the question ¡ªand how to even begin deluding himself that an angel like Callista would look upon him with love rather than disgust? At first, he noticed it ¡ªHow Spellbound¡¯s voice slithered through his memories like a poisonous cloud. But he was already too drained, too devoid of fight, to resist the strange sense of calmness that fell over him. His moments with Callista took on different lights as he found himself basking in the illusion of his reciprocated feelings, one carefully spun by the spectral doll. But¡­ He liked it. The chaos and the sadness that had plagued him now seemed distant, overshadowed by the allure of a much sweeter reality crafted by that spellbinding song. And so, he got rid of his apprehension and allowed himself to follow Spellbound¡¯s footsteps through the depths. One by one, scenes with Callista now played out like a wondrous play inside his mind, each scene more enrapturing than the last. He remembered a gentle way in which her fingers ran through his hair, as she cared for him during his recovery ¡ªtender touches that now also seemed to hold a hidden promise of love, all thanks to Spellbound¡¯s influence. He recalled the sound of her laughter, its melody taking on a new meaning as the entity tethered to his side suggested that it was all for him, a secret shared between two lovers. The late-night conversation that they once held during Christmas Eve, once no more than a simple exchange between a nurse and her patient¡­ Now turned into a passionate declaration of love, twisted and reinterpreted by seductive whispers. Unable to resist the tantalizing illusion, Peter lost himself in the dance, allowing Spellbound to lead him further and further away from the harsh realities that awaited him on the other side of the mirages. At some point, all of them flipped, becoming the much-preferred truths of his dreams. The line keeping the fantasies at bay had become irreversibly blurred. Under his clouded senses, the next steps in admiration for his beloved came as naturally as breathing. At first, Peter was naturally nervous, unfamiliar with all the nuanced complexities that being in a relationship entailed. He followed Callista from a safe distance, capturing her image in photographs and watching her every small gesture from afar. These moments fed Spellbound¡¯s blissful concoctions, providing him with the fodder for comforting dreams each night. Some things he observed left him worried, like the times when she was subjected to the harsher ends of awful social interactions; enough to make him feel compelled to do something about it. But first, he needed to learn more about her. After discovering where Callista lived, he peeked through her windows while she slept; and then aided by Spellbound, he infiltrated inside, maneuvering through the shadows with utmost care. He invaded her privacy, and pried into her personal spaces ¡ªall in his goal to maintain as close to her as possible, for protection. He inhaled her exhalations, moving discreetly to avoid being detected. He acted as an unseen observer, piecing together the puzzle of her life by sifting through dresser drawers, and creaking open the doors to secret rooms. Though she remained unaware of his vigilance, he made sure to understand her deeply, ensuring her well-being from behind the curtain, leaving no trace of his departures behind. She depended on him, even if she didn''t know it yet, their connection solidified in the depths of the eternal unknown. With the unbreakable bond sealed by Spellbound, their fates intertwined indefinitely. Through thick and thin, they''d remained inseparable, woven together by forces beyond their control. Whatever the circumstances, be they right or wrong... He was the only one Callista would ever belong to. The things he did in her name were atrocious, as he delved into the darkest confines of her past. Finding those people proved to be no easy task, but for her sake, Peter hesitated at nothing ¡ªno effort was too great, no price too high. Yet, he found himself longing¡­ Craving for more. He yearned for Callista to be awake while he touched her, to embrace and caress her with full awareness. ¡°Then take her¡­ Draw near¡­ Accept audacity¡­¡± Spellbound¡¯s words were like a venom urging him forward. With a racing heart, Peter stepped out of the darkness, approaching her at a moment when she seemed especially defenseless, during a dog walk unfolding in unnaturally late hours of the night. Her reactions, however, created a strange dissonance between his altered psyche and his perception of reality. When Callista ran away from him, he refused to believe it, convincing himself that she waved happily at him once they crossed stares from behind her window. There was something going on, and so, Peter reinstated himself that he needed to stay vigilant to protect his angel, changing his position to ambush anyone who might dare to harm her. Hidden in the darkness of her backyard, he remained silent as he clung to her dog, falling to the floor with her phone clutched tightly. Witnessing her anguish was a torment that threatened to burst his heart, and he desperately wanted to reveal himself to offer her shelter. ¡°Wait¡­¡± It was Spellbound¡¯s voice that held him back. ¡°Someone¡¯s coming.¡± Just as predicted by his spectral companion, a uniformed man eventually knocked on her door. Peter watched him with resentful eyes, but even in his delusion he knew he recognized that he possessed everything he perceived himself as lacking. He had a tall and muscular frame, with a square jaw that exuded resolute masculinity. The hair on his head was sandy blond, kept short and neatly styled; But what bothered Peter the most were the man''s clear blue eyes, which seemed to sparkle with lecherous intent whenever they looked at his Callista. Peter¡¯s chest rose and fell in an uneven, irregular tempo. His breathing came out in rapid, heavy spurts, as every second kept from enacting what his impulses demanded felt like a torture, nerves brimming with anger and jealousy. ¡°Look¡­ She¡¯s uncomfortable¡­¡± >> ¡°Are you going to let him hurt her?¡± Indeed, Callista¡¯s expression as the man squeezed her shoulder revealed an unease that Peter never wanted to see on her face. And so, unable to take it any longer, his fury erupted like magma from a volcano as the blonde intruder pulled the nurse closer, attempting to hug her. Peter would have crashed disastrously against the glass wall separating Callista''s backyard from the main hall if Spellbound hadn''t placed herself in between first. She decimated the crystal before it could make contact with him, solidifying her position as his benefactor and partner in this pivotal moment of his display of pure, true love. The clash between Peter and the uniformed mad unfolded in a chaotic and disjointed manner, exacerbated by occasional lapses in focus caused by adrenaline and the dense miasma clouding his mind ¡ªbut the pain was still felt loud and clear, as he eventually found himself starting to lose the battle. Any word spoken by the man was distorted into blank noise in Peter¡¯s ears, but he had no intention of communicating with him anyway. All that mattered was triumphing, to shield Callista from any kind of danger. ¡°Help me, please¡­¡± He whispered through gritted teeth as he was immobilized against the ground. ¡°¡­ I beg you, Spellbound.¡± Everything that happened afterward remained mostly obscured in Peter¡¯s head, despite the many traces of intense strife left behind in the aftermath. Rising to his feet once more, he felt warmth trickling from his nose, swiftly wiping it away with the sleeve of his raincoat. He had all the faculties he needed to confirm if Callista was okay, and after a quick search, he found the nurse cowering behind the kitchen counter, trembling and paralyzed with fear ¡ªtheir shared glances spoke volumes, now that the tall intruder had finally been dealt with. Peter smiled at her reassuringly, and she soon enough did the same. ¡°Mr. Kimball¡­ No, Peter¡­¡± Hearing his name on her lips was a moment he had been longing for since forever, and it had finally happened. There was no need for any distance anymore. ¡°Thank you. Thank you so much for saving me.¡± Peter felt weakened and dazed, but he pushed through it, drawn to Callista''s presence like a moth to a flame. Her smile was intoxicating, filling him with a euphoria he had never known ¡ªone that made his heart feel ready to explode. ¡°There¡¯s no need to thank me.¡± He replied, bubbling with joy. ¡°Protecting you is all that matters to me.¡± >> ¡°You don¡¯t have to worry about anything anymore, I¡¯m here.¡± It was like finally breaking free from shackles. There were no further pretenses, no more barriers between the two of them. ¡°Don¡¯t hold back¡­ She¡¯s all yours¡­¡± Spellbound¡¯s voice inside his head as she reunited with him sounded a little different than usual. It was more exhilarated, more frantic and ecstatic than before. Peter figured it was because of how much that moment meant to them both. But he wanted to savor things slowly, to let Callista know just how much he loved her first. ¡°How did you know I needed you?¡± Callista asked him, her voice laced with confusion and gratitude. It was understandable, their relationship had been somewhat distant up until this point, but that would be corrected from now on. ¡°Shh¡­ Callie¡­¡± He responded, closing the distance and meeting her gaze ¡°I know everything.¡± He reassured her with the most comforting smile he could muster, trying to ignore the growing irritation caused by the liquid still seeping from his nose. ¡°From the room you like to keep closed and hidden, to the people that wronged you in the past.¡± >> ¡°I made them pay for you.¡± Peter continued, his voice overtaken by conviction. ¡°In the same way that I want to help add to your collection.¡± His words earned a beaming admiration from Callista. Yes, this was how his life was supposed to go from the start. He was thankful to Spellbound, for finally making this a reality. ¡°Oh, Peter¡­ I love you!¡± And then his angel moved forward, ready to be fully embraced by him¡­ But¡­ Something felt strange. There was a searing, excruciating pain coming from his stomach as they finally came together. His smile faltered, even though Callista¡¯s remained, with his hand instinctively moving to the source of the agony ¡ªa knife, buried deep into his flesh by her own hand. Saraband -Part 4- Stricken by fear, Callista saw with disbelieving eyes as Officer Konradsson was violently suspended in midair by a completely unseen force. She had never seen anything like this before, and so she ended up paralyzed in place, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end as the impossible continued to unfold. Her mind was racing to comprehend the sight before her, but she wasn¡¯t alone in her bewilderment. Perhaps with a sharper instinct for danger than her, Choccy squirmed desperately inside her arms until he finally broke free, seeking shelter beneath the nearby furniture, scared and whimpering. With her robust walnut table being reduced to rubble by the vicious impact of the police officer¡¯s large body, the nurse realized that she had to prepare for the worst, even if she continued to assume that her only protector was still alive. But what could she do? She had no idea what was even happening anymore. Turning away to the door was a temptation that was hard to resist, especially since she couldn¡¯t trust any more help to get there in what could easily become her final minutes alive ¡ªbut there were two crucial factors keeping Callista from escaping. First, her body was trembling far too much to retrieve Choccy from his hiding spot, and the distance between her and the intruder still on the floor was too small. She was absolutely not going to abandon her puppy to fend for himself. And second¡­ Even if she could have brought herself to run, Callista knew that there was nowhere else for her to go. Regardless of how terror continued gripping her heart, threatening to jump away from her chest at any minute now¡­ This was her home. She was going to stand her ground and defend it herself, even if everything else failed. Forcing her legs to stand upright against the tide of panic, she stumbled from the entrance hallway and positioned herself behind the kitchen counter. Her hands trembled as they frantically searched across the utensils, finally settling on a large kitchen knife. Its cold metal pressed tightly against her chest, she turned to face in the direction of the two men once more. The tense silence that blanketed the room after the supernatural conflict was suffocating, and with shallow, shuddering breaths, she watched her stalker rise from the floor to look at her. The hood of his raincoat had fallen from his face amidst the conflict, finally revealing his features. And much to her shock, it was a face she recognized. ¡°You¡­ You¡¯re Mr. Kimball¡­ From the hospital.¡± Her words came out under shaky exhalations as her heart raced painfully under her ribs. ¡°What¡­ What are you doing in my house?¡± Despite the noticeable differences in his appearance, there was no way she could be mistaken. His patchy beard was shaven, making him look younger than he really was, but the balding spots circling around his dark hair were unmistakable. Those same small, sunken brown eyes were watching her every motion with a hazy and unfocused gaze, one she remembered all too well from her time caring for him at the hospital until one month ago ¡ªas creepy as always. At first, she wanted to believe that his attention came from a desire to be polite and caring, but it was a product of her naivet¨¦ and pity. She couldn¡¯t delude herself any longer. The way he savored her with his gaze brought along a horrifying sensation that sent chills down her spine. But it was the feigned softness of his voice that got to her the most, an effect that had become even more unsettling now that Kimball had invaded her privacy. As he began speaking, she tightened her grip on the knife, her knuckles turning into a white color. ¡°There¡¯s no need to thank me. Protecting you is all that matters to me.¡± He said, slowly advancing towards her. There was an unnerving disconnect in his lips and eyes that made him feel like a walking puppet, stripped straight out of a nightmare. ¡°You don¡¯t have to worry about anything anymore.¡± >> ¡°I¡¯m here.¡± ¡°Do¡­ Don¡¯t come any closer!¡± She tried to warn him, putting the knife as a barrier between the two of them. But much to Callista¡¯s dismay, the threat didn¡¯t even seem to register under his unfocused gaze. Feeling frozen like a deer in headlights, she was forced to take in every remaining detail of his appearance. Even during his hospital stay, Kimball had given her the feeling that he was unkempt and nonchalant with personal hygiene ¡ªbut his current state exceeded the bare minimum. A strong body odor reached her nose, as if he hadn¡¯t bothered with a shower in far too long. Similarly, the heat trapped under his large raincoat made the sweat pooling in his over-worn clothes even more noticeable¡­ And was that¡­ Dried blood mixed in as well? Yet despite how disturbing and nauseating being this close to him felt to Callista, it was Kimball¡¯s following words that finished shattering every hope she had left to resolve the ordeal in a peaceful manner. ¡°Shh... Callie. I know everything.¡± He¡­ ¡®Knew everything¡¯? What¡­ What did he mean by that? ¡°From the room you like to keep closed and hidden...¡± Callista¡¯s blood turned colder inside her veins as her grip on the knife weakened. No¡­ That place was supposed to be for her eyes alone. ¡°¡­ To the people that wronged you in the past.¡± All of that... was meant to stay buried in the dark corners of her past, never to be uncovered by anyone. ¡°I made them pay for you.¡± >> ¡°In the same way that I want to help add to your collection.¡± The world around her dissolved into a meaningless blur as her heart grew heavier. Neither the invisible ghost, likely still lurking nearby, nor the unmoving body of the police officer lying in her ravished house held any significance ¡ªthe only thing that did was the man standing before her, and the secrets he had taken from her without consent. She had to silence him before he exposed any further. ¡°Shut up!¡± Her voice tore through the air in a harrowing scream, fueled by a surge of terror transmuted into fury. She surged forward, closing the already shortened gap between her and Kimball in a single stride. Employing every ounce of her resolve, she fiercely plunged the kitchen knife deep into his abdomen. ¡®It¡¯s¡­ It¡¯s happening again.¡¯ Callista¡¯s thoughts echoed inside her mind, in a cacophony of disbelief and regret. ¡®It wasn¡¯t supposed to be like this.¡¯ Tears clouded her vision, streaming down her face, but she didn¡¯t let go of the knife. Her unstable trembles made the blade waver disturbingly against her stalker¡¯s flesh, as she gripped the hilt tightly still amidst her emotional strife. In the fleeting seconds in which they remained frozen in that position, stretched into what felt like a painful eternity, her eyes hesitantly sought Kimball¡¯s, finding in them a reflection of a crumbling world. It was as though her actions caused his very existence to be torn asunder ¡ªin a dissonance from reality that made Callista¡¯s lips quiver uncontrollably. Lockdown that was brought to an abrupt halt when a manic laughter exploded through the recesses of her mind. The banshee wails felt like icy tendrils slithering their way through Callista¡¯s brain, forcing the nurse to crumble to her knees as she desperately tried to shield her ears from her relentless noise in a futile effort. The unbearable sound disrupted her thoughts until turning them into a jumbled mess, with her body responding in kind with a sickened paralysis. Her body rocked forward as though all of her insides were being flipped and turned inside out. ¡®This must have been what Officer Konradsson went through as well.¡¯ Callista forced herself to think, to keep a trace of focus from being entirely overwhelmed ¡ªmore out of stubbornness than actual complete cognitive ability. ¡®So¡­ What should come next is¡­¡¯ Her efforts to prepare physically and mentally were cut short as her body was viciously thrust backwards, driving her away from Kimball. Before she could brace herself, Callista collided with the unyielding surface of the kitchen sink, crushed under the weight of an insurmountably yet always invisible force, one whose magnitude she had quaint hope of matching. Pain coursed through her nerves, accompanied by a sense of vertigo that caused her awareness to spin wildly out of control. It was a nightmare made manifest, stirring a primal fear of being subjected to the whims of something that kept itself beyond her comprehension. Desperately, she pushed her hands against the oppressive unseen entity, using the rough sensation of a malleable, ragged fabric-like body against her palms as an anchor to keep her consciousness from slipping away into the void ¡ªa small but crucial lifeline seeking a chance to escape her hold, no matter how slim. Hope that would be mercilessly extinguished by the implacable creature that held her down. She felt her neck being gripped violently, with enough strength to suffocate, before being ferociously brought to the floor. The blunt impact was heavily resented by her head, the harsh treatment causing her brain already throbbing in pain to suffer even more. There was no mistaking it. Whatever this thing was that she couldn¡¯t see, it was without a doubt connected to Peter Kimball. It had intervened in his defense not once, but twice now; and what¡¯s more, he appeared completely unaffected by the mind-bending laughter that had subsumed both her and Officer Konradsson. But that meant¡­ That she had no hope of fighting back against him. She was completely at his mercy ¡ªone she had no reason to expect after stabbing him. Was this how her life was meant to end? The fleeting question danced through her mind as her vision began to dim, each interrupted breath a desperate fight for oxygen. Fingers, plastic and artificial in their grip, continued denying her air¡­ And yet, despite the chokehold, Callista¡¯s thoughts echoed against the encroaching oblivion. If given the chance to hold one final regret¡­ It would be the countless days she wasted being worried sick over others¡¯ perceptions of her. From her parents to her peers and superiors, so-called ¡®friends¡¯ and mentors ¡ªCallista mourned her unyielding devotion to conformity, of hiding her true self out of fear of being betrayed once more. Yet in the frightening threshold between life and death, Callista also found herself enveloped in a profound and soul-cleansing sense of liberation. No longer would she be bound by anyone¡¯s standards, there was no need to subject herself to whims imposed by others and the judgment of what they deemed appropriate. It was a bitter freedom, attained only by paying the highest price there was ¡ªher life. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Her legs ceased their motions, and the hands that had been clutching onto invisible wrists fell limply to her sides. Callista had given up, her mind left to idly contemplate what mystery could be waiting on the other side. ¡°Stop!¡± A blood-curling, anguished scream reached her ears, barely audible and overshadowed by the laughter still deafeningly ringing on her mind; however, not long after it thundered across her home, her breathing resumed, interrupted only by coarse coughs. Her throat ached as her lungs filled with oxygen again. ¡°Not her! Anyone but Callie!¡± Callista struggled to make sense of what had just happened, her ability to fully interpret the scenario unfolding before her eyes hindered by a profound loss of focus. It was Kimball, engaged in a visceral confrontation with the invisible monster that acted as his guardian ¡ªa man lost between the roles of executioner and unlikely savior. And in a matter of seconds, the gruesome sight of Kimball¡¯s blood pouring from his stomach after he removed the knife Callista herself had lodged into him forced her back into awareness like a sudden bolt of clarity. The surrender that she had so thoroughly accepted only moments ago morphed into an unyielding refusal, clinging to survival tenaciously as if keeping her grip on a cliff-side by the edge of her fingernails. No, she was wrong. She didn¡¯t want to die, not yet. There were still so many unfulfilled desires still beating within her heart, each one testifying to the life she yearned to lead. Still gasping for air, her lungs burning with the agony of renewed breath, Callista steadied herself under trembling limbs as Kimball continued grappling back the monster. Crawling back to her feet, she attempted to run towards the shattered wall frame connecting to her backyard. Her frantic and anguished sprint, however, was doomed to fail due to the heavy impairment caused by the nausea still corrupting her senses. With a cruel twist of fate, a mere misstep onto a stray shard of wood from her shattered table was all it took to send Callista hurtling forward towards the unforgiving ground. Her arms, rendered utterly useless, offered little to no defense as she collided face-first with the cold floor. The impact sent a sharp pain through her already fragile frame, mixing tears with blood and the fear that still gripped her heart. Whatever distance she managed to build felt too short on her terrified psyche, and it wasn¡¯t aided by how the world never ceased to swirl haphazardly around her. With effort, she turned herself to keep her eyes on the aggressors, finding Peter still there, straining himself as he fought to restrain the invisible creature ¡ªat least until he too fumbled forward, as if the monster he had been holding back suddenly vanished into thin air. Transfixed by his silhouette under dim lights, Callista could only watch as Kimball also seemed to be convincing himself that the unseen creature had disappeared. Her heart raced in her chest, observing every move with dread as he temporarily knelt on the floor, visibly struggling with the pain of his open wound as he fought to steady his breaths. When he finally looked up and locked sights with her, it triggered a very clear aversion in the nurse. She was terrified beyond belief of his eyes, not helped by the bloodied knife he clutched in his hand. Despite the fact that he had intervened to save her, Callista didn¡¯t want him anywhere near her ¡ªKimball already fully turned into a figure that inherently terrified her. As he began stumbling towards her under wobbly feet, holding onto his bleeding abdomen, Callista similarly mirrored his slow, agonizing march. Her breath hitched in her chest as she scrambled backwards, her feet slipping on the floor as they tried to push her away from him, at least until her hands landed on something sharp scattered beneath her. ¡°Callie¡­ It¡¯s okay¡­¡± In spite of everything, his voice was still bent into the overly soft pitch that made her skin crawl, now tainted by the sheer insanity gleaming in his eyes. ¡°This?¡­ This doesn¡¯t matter¡­¡± He continued glancing downwards to the trail of blood he left behind with every step. ¡°I¡¯d gladly give my life away for you¡­ My dear.¡± ¡°I¡­ I never asked for that.¡± Callista recoiled, her fear and resentment bubbling to the surface. Though she already suspected that Kimball¡¯s words were born from delirium, she agonizingly acknowledged his words as truthful. ¡°If only you had stayed away from me, none of this would have happened.¡± But just like the last time they exchanged words, Kimball appeared to be hearing a different message entirely. His lips curled into a sickening smile as he staggered closer, his eyes locked onto hers with unsettling fervor. ¡°Yes¡­ I love you too, darling.¡± It didn¡¯t matter how strongly she rejected him. It didn¡¯t matter how much he was bleeding. ¡°Come¡­ Let me hold you¡­ Just this once¡­¡± He just continued forward in his delusion, interpreting her words to his liking. It was frustration what forced Callista¡¯s right hand to seek around the shattered glass resting beneath her for a weapon, but it was darker intentions that compelled her to tighten her grip on a larger, triangular shard. In the ephemeral silence that reigned in the room, Callista weighed his declaration of love ¡ªmisplaced as it was. She did at least trust that Peter Kimball harbored no desire to hurt her, and just perhaps¡­ All of the events that had unfolded on that awful night were nothing but a horrid series of unfortunate mistakes. But all was the same to her. He knew of the things she wanted to keep hidden¡­ More than enough reason for¡­ Callista could feel the edge of the glass shard digging into her palm, still ensnared and trembling beneath the shadowy veil of refrain. A sharp pain traveled across her hand, and a trickle of crimson warmth timidly made its way towards the cold surface beneath. Was she truly prepared to make another attempt on his life? Or could she find the will in her to let him live, in spite of all that he uncovered? With each passing second wasted on hesitation her stalker crept closer, all until his presence loomed ominously over her once more, casting a menacing shadow across her terrified expression, reduced to the floor. No. She didn¡¯t want to do it¡­ She didn¡¯t want to hurt anyone. Why was life subjecting her to this ordeal, just like that godforsaken night ten years ago? Good intentions would provide no escape now. Her eyes steeled as Peter began lowering his form gradually and unavoidably, and the pain on her bleeding right hand began to fade. All that was left¡­ Was waiting for an opportunity. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare lay a finger on her, you vile creep!¡± The harsh, guttural scream of a man echoed through the living room, hidden from Callista¡¯s view. It was immediately followed by the deafening blasts of gunfire, each one causing Kimball¡¯s body to arch in agony as three shots made him recoil in place. Blood splattered onto Callista¡¯s face as Kimball flailed, preventing himself from collapsing on top of her only under the support of weakened arms. That was it. This was her chance. Lacking any ounce of emotion, she raised the hand clutching the crystal shard from the floor and drove it mercilessly in an upwards motion aimed at Kimball¡¯s throat, not stopping until it was buried completely, being rewarded by the gruesome sounds of resistance that his jaw bone and teeth offered to the outlines of her improvised weapon, as they collided with one another. She refused to take the risk of the gunshots not being fatal. He had to die, for her sake, right then and there. For a fleeting moment, Callista and Kimball crossed gazes one last time, their bodies locked in that macabre intimacy ¡ªpainted red by a shower of blood pouring on her face. Summoning the last vestiges of his resolve, Peter managed to lift one hand, uncannily steady given the numerous mortal wounds that littered his body; reaching out to gently caress the side of Callista¡¯s face. Despite the fact that she was the one taking his life, and having stolen from him the chance to ever smile again by mutilating his tongue¡­ She could have sworn she saw another spark of affection in the unwavering, intense gaze of a ravaged man. At least until it was all swallowed by the cold grasp of death, his eyes finally sliding into lifelessness as he slumped to her side, landing next to Callista who could only sit there, breathing in ragged gasps under an unyielding, harrowing dread. She already knew that the image of his final expression before passing would continue to torment her nightmares for nights to come. Her eyes then sought those of the police officer, who lay on the floor in a similar manner to her own, giving a knowing remorseful look behind the barrel of his smoking gun. There was blood trickling down his head, and the expression on his face suggested he was still withstanding a lingering, intense ache. A small sigh of relief escaped from Callista¡¯s lips, as she realized that Officer Konradsson seemed to have heard none of Kimball¡¯s damning words. ¡®At least I won¡¯t have to kill him too¡­¡¯ Were her thoughts, releasing the knot that had formed in her shoulders. Reprieve that was short-lived. As Kimball settled into a disturbing stillness, a disarming cackle pierced through her ears, drowning out all other thoughts ¡ªthat same haunting laughter she had heard before, signaling the return of the invisible banshee. She realized she wasn¡¯t alone in her suffering; as it appeared that Konradsson was enduring the same torment. He clutched his injured head in obvious agony; as every piece of glass in her apartment still in one piece began to shatter under the intense pressure. The force was enough to fry her electronic devices, plunging the room into darkness as every single light source flickered and died. Without Peter there to hold the specter back, the two of them were left at its mercy. Yet whatever fate awaited them, be it death or judgment¡­ Callista was ready for it to come. But instead of claiming her life as she anticipated, like the unseen reaper she thought that creature to be, the voice slowly faded away; her laughter turning into wails of sorrow before disappearing altogether. Caught between relief and lingering dread for the unknown, Callista and Konradsson remained frozen in their position for what felt like ages; her brain still resenting the excruciating throes of anguish that the spectral cries left behind like palpable scars. As the reality of what had transpired began to sink in, the full extent of their impact began to weigh on her heart, just as much as the gravity of her actions. Could it truly be over? Could she finally leave it all behind and move on? She knew that she had done what she had to¡­ But the burden of guilt was a heavy one. The blood now staining her hands could never be completely washed away. Choccy¡¯s barks brought Callista out of her daze, the boisterous sounds that his paws made as he came out of his hiding spot serving as a lifeline that kept the nurse from succumbing to unconsciousness. Tardy reaction that soon plunged her right back into dread as she looked around, realizing that his frantic energy was not directed towards Kimball¡¯s lifeless husk ¡ªNo, the dog¡¯s focus was fixed on a new ominous presence breathing down their necks. Despite having found her desperately needed respite, Callista¡¯s blood froze inside her veins as panic resurged within her. The heavy thud of leather soles echoed through the room, making the field of scattered shards of broken glass crack under their weight. Step by step, a shadowy figure shrouded by the pitch blackness drew nearer, until finally coming to a halt beside her. Her eyes strained in the dark, anguished to discern at least their silhouette, but it was to no avail. ¡°So he was unable to control it¡­¡± A deep, gravelly voice reached her ears, but her energy was sapped, too weakened to try and raise her own voice. Was this an unending, ever-living nightmare? ¡°A shame¡­¡± >> ¡°Must have been a troublesome Punisher.¡± Failing to interpret any of the absentminded ramblings that didn¡¯t seem to be truly intended for her, Callista gradually adjusted to the oppressive darkness, enough to finally make out some features thanks to the faint moonlight seeping in from outside ¡ªand another, more unsettling source of luminescence. It was a man, his formal attire and dark sunglasses smeared with grime, appearing almost too mundane considering all the otherworldly occurrences¡­ But it was the large infant clambering onto his chest that truly unnerved Callista. The child possessed delicate features, making it difficult to discern their gender at a glance. Their rosy lips curled into an eager smile, revealing tiny, sharp teeth; and their wispy, sparse hair resembled a silver halo around their head. Clad in an oversized black onesie dress that dwarfed their tiny frame, it seemed as though whoever dressed them paid little attention to measurements. And the reason as to why Callista could observe so many minute details despite the obscurity was the very same that rendered her incapable of looking away. The infant¡¯s expressive, large eyes were colored in a light shade of indigo that emitted a faint, iridescent glow; casting an eerie shadow around them paired with an intangible aura of menace. It was a chilling blend of both mesmerizing innocence and terrifying avidity that left the nurse completely immobile ¡ªlike prey before a predator. ¡°Well¡­ No matter.¡± The older man continued muttering to himself, as he continued to hold the child and recklessly raise a black gun to scratch his forehead with its barrel. ¡°He probably awakened these two during the process.¡± Despite having his two hands busied ¡ªone with the baby and another carelessly wielding the firearm; Callista felt how Kimball¡¯s body was lifted from her. She couldn¡¯t properly see it under the encroaching penumbra¡­ But she was sure of it. There was the faint outline of a massive, inhuman shadow disengaging the corpse from the floor. ¡°Don¡¯t move an inch!¡± It was the strained voice of Officer Konradsson that interrupted the collection, clearly forcing himself to speak despite the fright and incapacitating nausea. His grip tightened around his own weapon, a desperate attempt to maintain a last remnant of agency. ¡°Who are you!?¡­ What is all of this!?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t even try it, boy. You don¡¯t have any use to me dead.¡± The man with the child replied coarsely, turning his back on them as he stepped back into the darkness, followed by Peter Kimball¡¯s lifeless body. ¡°You¡¯ll know soon enough.¡± >> ¡°If you don¡¯t follow this fool¡¯s fate, that is.¡± And as abruptly and invasively as he had entered their lives, the man similarly disappeared, leaving behind the haunting aftermath of the conflict. Her home now remained violated by the ghastly remnants of violence, marred by blood and broken furniture etching a cruel narrative. Completely overwhelmed, Callista could only manage to close her eyes, focusing on regulating her breathing as the harrowing experience finally took its toll. Exhaustion consumed her, and she gave in to unconsciousness, momentarily finding solace in the empty darkness, free of any more unseen monsters. Saraband -End- Disoriented and unsure of exact time or place, Callista found herself within the familiar confines of hospital walls ¡ªthough she was lying in bed this time around rather than tending to patients like she was accustomed to. How long she had been awake wasn¡¯t something she could readily answer, but similarly, she couldn¡¯t fall asleep no matter how hard she tried. The air hung thick with the familiar scent of antiseptic she knew all too well, but it was also tainted by the distinct metallic stench of stale blood, potent enough to stir her senses. Not only did it make Callista feel sick to her stomach, but it also brought her intense unease and guilt ¡ªserving as a reminder of all the violent choices that now coiled around her heart like a vice. Echoes of that fateful confrontation haunted her thoughts, blending with the sterile environment of the hospital room, and still feeling the shadows of her stalker looming nearby. The lines between past and present blurred, leaving Callista grasping for a sense of stability amidst all the confusion. So she sought escape from the suffocating stench, getting up from the hospital bed for her bare feet to meet the sterile coldness of the tiled floor. As she did so, a strange sensation pervaded her body ¡ªshe felt lighter, smaller, her gaze falling closer to her curling toes than she remembered from this new vantage point. Dismissing the disquieting feeling, Callista pushed open the door, and immersed herself in the vastness beyond. It was a labyrinth of endless corridors and rooms, filled with blank faces who paid her little mind, consumed by waves of uncertain chatter the young nurse could not decipher, isolating her even more from the surroundings. The figures of doctors and nurses around her felt larger and taller than normal, strides carrying them forward with indifferent purpose, never truly looking down in her direction; marching oblivious to her loneliness and discomfort. At least until that same voice, soft-spoken and yet so shudder-inducing, resounded in her head ¡ªcalling her name in that dreaded, unasked-for intimate manner. ¡°Callie¡­¡± No one, not her parents or her colleagues ever shortened her name in such a manner; so the realization that him was still around to prolong her torment sent Callista into a growing spiral of panic. She pushed aside the faceless creatures that cared not of her plight, and began running blindly without direction or thought. As she sprinted, her hand grew heavier with each step, and a glance revealed her fingers gripping a pair of scissors as if they were the anchor tethering her life... Those sharp edges she could never forget ¡ªthe same ones she used to carve a wound in June''s face a decade ago. Nothing had truly changed, had it? Once again Callista found herself fleeing from conflict after her hands had been stained with blood. Was this her inescapable fate, doomed to repeat itself time and time again? Was there truly nobody she could trust out there? Were they all just waiting to harm her when given the chance? Her flight felt endless, and it was only when her surroundings shifted entirely around her eyes that Callista forced herself to stop. Gone were the hospital corridors of her adulthood, replaced by a courtroom comprised of her beloved companions, mutilated and scattered across the floor ¡ªtheir plush stuffing torn and violated. In the far corner of the dimly lit room, a broken mirror reflected her distorted image, its shattered glass edges dripping fresh droplets of blood. There, in the mangled crystal, stood her own vulnerable and scared visage, trapped in the body of her fifteen-year-old self, clutching onto the scissors that had sliced apart her childhood happiness. It didn¡¯t matter that she had finished nursing school. It didn¡¯t matter that she had a job, or the means to fend for herself. It didn¡¯t matter that she had her own home. She had never outgrown all those deep cutting scars that still haunted her from those days, preventing her from trusting others. Perhaps¡­ She never would. The voice caught up to her then, disgustingly calling her name once more. It carried along a suffocating presence and a malevolent intent that thickened the very air around her. He was still lurking in the shadows, just beyond the edge of sight, but his twisted whispers continued to caress her ear, the darkness gaining mass as it left delicate, skin-crawling trails on her face ¡ªtaunting her in a sickening reprisal of the moment she took his life. But Callista refused to let things remain as they were, and she wouldn¡¯t wait for anyone to stand out for her sake either. No matter how many times it took, she would silence them. She would carve her own path, even if it meant doing so through the flesh of others. Steadying her resolve, she headed once more into the darkness, wielding the scissors firmly until finally witnessing ¡®them¡¯, turned into a grotesque chimera of past faces, mangled beyond recognition by her hand ¡ªowning traits of both June and Peter; their macabre countenance holding a monstrous grin while they clutched a tattered plush bear under blood-soaked hands, as if to mock her further. Callista¡¯s mind recoiled with fear, but her feet refused to retreat. Instead, they pushed her forward, condemning her to repeat the same tragedy once more. The scissors transformed into the kitchen knife, as she plunged it deep into the demon¡¯s chest. Instead of gushing blood from their wound, her attack was met with blinding rays of light assaulting her from every angle, searing her eyes as it eradicated the vast blackness ¡ªcausing her personal tormentors to dissipate like smoke in the air. Now illuminated, her world unveiled an army of faceless figures, trampling over the cotton graveyard without regard while chanting her name in mindless, diffuse voices. They swarmed her, suffocating tides of flesh and warmth invading her space. She didn¡¯t want them near ¡ªshe wanted them as far away as possible; but they paid no heed to her pleas, relentlessly drowning Callista as if she were their unwilling salvation. Only the bloodied, torn mirror kept its place in the distance, reflecting her overwhelmed figure. But it was no longer Callista that saw themselves on the other side of the glass ¡ªneither girl nor woman. She had transformed into a monstrous creature, one just as horrid as June and Peter had become. Every hand that touched her melted and amalgamated her form further, forging an abomination that lacked even the eyes to cry with¡­ ¡­ Or a mouth to scream. Upon finally waking, Callista was drenched in a cold sweat, her body shaking uncontrollably. The ghostly sensations of a thousand fingers trying to get inside her flesh lingered, but she desperately tried to push the disturbing feeling aside as she sat up in bed, covering her face under trembling palms. It wasn¡¯t a hospital room that welcomed her this time, but simply her bedroom, the orange light filtering in from the outside world world telling her it was already well past noon. As much as she would have liked for the entire ordeal to have been just an ill-conceived nightmare, the sight of the broken glass shards and bloodstains splattered across her floor told her there would be no such respite ¡ªwalking across the abandoned battlefield after rising from her restless slumber, devoid of any remaining willpower. Tears welled up once more at the borders of her swollen eyes, but Callista did her best to fight them back. Reality was so barren, so painfully hard that it invaded her heart with a profound sense of desolation, leaving her unsure of what to do next or how to even begin regaining some semblance of normality. Fortunately, a small ember of joy swiftly came to greet her, forming a weak smile on her lips as she confirmed that Choccy was still safe and sound, despite all odds ¡ªhappily bouncing around her feet, wagging his tail in resounding obliviousness of Callista¡¯s plight. Perhaps she needed him by her side more than she should admit, giving the dog a nudge filled with meaning before resuming her examination on the aftermath of that dreadful triple metre dance that transpired in her house the night before. Despite having committed murder just a handful of hours ago, there seemed to be no traces of activity of any sort in her home, every piece of evidence remaining virtually untouched, save for a message written on the back of a police report form. ¡°I hope you had a proper rest, considering the circumstances.¡± It began ¡ªleft behind by Officer Konradsson, she presumed. ¡°Please, try not to worry too much, I¡¯ll do my best keeping everything under wraps to the best of my abilities. There are too many questions left unresolved to burden you even further with police questioning or investigation procedures.¡± >> ¡°And you¡¯ve gone through far too much already.¡± >> ¡°I care about you, Cal. We¡¯ll make sense of it all, I promise.¡± Right¡­ Last night had been so tumultuous that she hadn¡¯t had the chance to properly ascertain the police officer¡¯s claims of their shared past. That his name was Alain, and that the two of them had attended high school together? She was a little too embarrassed to confess out loud that she had no recollections of him. Sincerely, she wanted to keep him at an arm¡¯s length too, if possible. But alongside the note¡¯s passages there was a phone number also jotted down, an indication of his intent to maintain contact on her own terms. It appeared that Alain was trying to let her dictate the pace of their exchanges, just as he was giving her control over how the world would treat Kimball¡¯s passing in her home ¡ªto the point of even giving her the chance to disregard consequences altogether. A bit out of line, and certainly diverting from police professionalism¡­ Yet in her own hesitant manner, she found herself appreciating it. ¡°I¡¯m going to investigate everything I can on my own, but you¡¯re the only one I can talk to about what happened without sounding crazy. So please, reach out when you feel ready.¡± Were the last words written by the police officer, leaving a bitter taste in Callista¡¯s mouth as she set the paper aside. ¡°I don¡¯t doubt he¡¯s a good person¡­¡± She muttered, eyes downcast and weary. ¡°¡­ But he¡¯s demanding too much of me. How could I possibly be of aid in all this nightmare?¡± Just a few days ago, the most outlandish phenomena she had to deal with were the whispered urban legends that spread like haunts across hospital hallways; open secrets about a mad surgeon who spirited away corpses from the morgue before being discharged a long time ago ¡ªor other ridiculous tales she had no intentions of entertaining. Yet now, her reality was... ¡°I wonder¡­ Is he also being chased by one of you¡­ Things?¡± Callista¡¯s exhausted gaze drifted over her shoulder, settling upon the unnerving phantom lingering behind her. She had sensed the shift in the atmosphere before even laying eyes on the figure, making her think that prolonged exposure to them had granted her a faint perception over those previously unseen horrors. Likewise, Callista had already deduced that it had been one of those creatures that attacked her and Officer Konradsson in defense of Peter Kimball. But¡­ were they also responsible for his descent into madness? Her mental preparation was one of the main reasons why she didn¡¯t panic at the sight. Another one was that her heart was simply too drained to muster stark reactions any longer. Studying the creature¡¯s countenance meticulously despite her shallow breaths, Callista attempted to compare its features to what she had perceived through touch alone during the previous night¡¯s violent confrontation. While it possessed an unmistakably feminine form, its body lacked anything that resembled either plastic or fabric ¡ªleading the nurse to infer that this particular apparition was a different one from Kimball¡¯s. It could only be described as a monstrous and mechanical mermaid-like figure, highly reminiscent of antique machinery left to rot beneath the sea. The twisting coils of metal that shaped her frame were corroded and discolored from water damage, giving off an illusory scent of wet iron. But on closer inspection, Callista realized that she lacked any true odor ¡ªinstead, she heard a faint ticking emanating from within her husk, like a dormant bomb waiting to detonate. The spectral mermaid floated above her head with joined metal legs dissipating into the air before reaching the floor, her face obscured by a cracked and expressionless iron mask. White saltwater trails seeped from the fractures and darkened eye-holes, like teardrops rolling down hollow cheeks. Despite the hints of something more terrifying lurking beneath the iron containment, with its surface littered by haphazardly distributed steel plates and jagged metallic ridges struggling to hold the structure together, Callista felt a strong reluctance to approach and peek beneath the mask. Some secrets were better left undisturbed. ¡°So I¡¯m just¡­ Stuck with you? Until the day I also die?¡± She spoke in a small voice to the towering, silent figure. Something about her exuded a very different and distinct presence from Kimball¡¯s specter; the one and only comparable experience she had. ¡°You won¡¯t try to hurt me, will you?¡± No response from the phantom, her intentions kept unclear like murky waters. Yet¡­ Beyond Callista¡¯s understanding, the entity¡¯s name seemed to coalesce within her mind of its own volition. She didn¡¯t understand the true nature of the bond they now shared, but it felt as if a form of communication transcending mere words was taking root between them. ¡°Your name is¡­ Siren?¡± Her question came out hesitantly, unsettled by the notion that her thoughts may no longer be solely her own. Upon hearing her name uttered aloud, Siren lifted two of her six arms towards Callista, while the other four she had remaining shackled behind her back ¡ªbound by chains terminating in solid iron convict balls the size of her clenched fists. The hands continued their inexorable path until they enveloped Callista¡¯s, the coarse and rusted texture of her fingers sliding across the still open wound marring the nurse¡¯s right palm. A numb, vacuum-like pain surged through her cut until it reached the height of her wrist, as Siren¡¯s fingers stopped on the laceration. It birthed an unsettling discomfort that was quickly usurped by a humid sensation that seemed to seep from within her own body, drawn magnetically toward the phantom¡¯s metallic grip as it surrounded her injury. Callista watched in a trance as the ethereal moisture wicked across her wound, knitting and sculpting the torn skin as it was reshaped before her very eyes, new tissue blossoming in the wake of Siren¡¯s unnatural healing. Coaxing the injury to slowly close itself, the humidity felt viscous on her fresh skin stretching taut as if newly formed. A faint hissing resonance accompanied the process, like the escape of pressurized steam. When at last the haunting regeneration completed its work, Callista¡¯s hand bore no mark of the glass shard cut ¡ªflesh rendered unblemished and whole once more; albeit she still didn¡¯t feel completely comforted by the morbid miracle. ¡°All right, I get it. You¡¯re not my enemy¡­ Necessarily.¡± But what exactly was Siren, and for how long would she be forced to deal with this unasked-for companionship? Both of them questions that Callista doubted she¡¯d be able to answer on her own. What options did she truly have, though? Reaching out to Alain, who was likely just as lost as she was? Track down the mysterious man with the baby, despite having no idea who he was or where he might be? Neither of those choices sounded remotely appealing to the utterly depleted young nurse. She couldn''t shake the feeling that she was being pulled further and further into a never-ending rabbit hole, like a thin reed adrift on a dark ocean. The last few days had certainly been complex for Officer Alain Konradsson. To begin with, there was the matter of reporting the events that had taken place during the 10-32 dispatch of that fateful night, and containing the resulting fallout. Perhaps he had been a bit too hasty in overlooking his duties as a member of the police, but his primary objective never strayed from making things as easy as possible for Callista, hoping that by doing so she might see him in a more favorable light ¡ªa goal he doubted to achieve by being the one to take her into custody. Additionally, the things he experienced firsthand in there far exceeded the limits of his understanding of reality; and his own personal sense of justice wouldn¡¯t allow him to place any blame on Callista for doing whatever it took to defend herself from the otherworldly forces that assaulted them. Telling a series of lies to his superiors ended up being a necessity in order to protect her, claiming that a nasty fall while pursuing the stalker was the cause of his injuries. He became the laughingstock among his colleagues as a result, but for Alain, it was a small price to pay if it meant ensuring her well-being. Yet despite his attempts to be supportive and non-intrusive, for Callista to seek his aid out of her own volition and see him as someone she could trust¡­ He surely had expected her to contact him more promptly than that ¡ªand not the agonizing silence that stretched from dawn till dusk as he stared expectantly at his silent phone. But all of that was really, just the mere surface of his deep-seated anxieties, regrets and inner-turmoils. Another presence demanded immediate attention. At first, it manifested itself as a darkened silhouette flickering at the periphery of his vision. A fleeting shade that could be dismissed as a trick of the fading light. By the fourth night, however, the entity that was now chasing him had become entirely too vivid, in all its morbid decadence. Alain didn¡¯t know exactly what he was, or what it wanted from him; but a name manifested in his head as if it had always been there ¡ªBane. Bane was monstrously large, standing well over him with an intimidating height of approximately nine feet. His physique was imposingly muscular, with veins that appeared on his flesh like thickened cords of tar strung across his bulging arms and barrel chest. Open sores sporadically burst forth across his body, oozing a viscous black substance akin to oil or old, cankerous blood. Patches of rough, cracked concrete overlaid stretches of his rotten flesh in a blasphemous parody of skin, constantly peeling away in flaky layers to reveal the raw exposed tissue beneath that never appeared to heal. His head was devoid of any recognizable features, and gruesomely covered by disorganized tangles of barbed wire coiled around where a face should be, particularly around his mouth, resembling an agonizing muffler ¡ªsave for just enough space left vacant for two deep-set orbs glowing in subdued gray tones to shine through where eyes typically rested. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. The specter¡¯s very presence seemed to leech the warmth away from the air around him, an ominous chill pervading the space around the towering, grotesque apparition. It was as if his immense mass defied the natural laws that governed corporeality itself, bringing a permeating foreboding sensation in his wake like a miasma of anguish. Alain¡¯s convictions, however, refused to be devoured by Bane¡¯s gaping maw of terror. Maybe it was mere stubbornness that prevented him from submitting to torment without a fight ¡ªor perhaps, simply sheer stupidity. Regardless of reason, the young police officer was determined to unravel the inscrutable purpose behind Bane''s existence, and if possible, a means to banish the malevolent creature entirely. It couldn¡¯t all be a meaningless ordeal, his heart wouldn¡¯t allow it. There had to be a reason, a rationale to cling to. So his first instinct was to search for any similar cases that might shed some light onto his paranormal circumstances. Trying to pinpoint a relevant lead by searching blindly was not much different from hunting for a needle in a haystack of files, so Alain saw no better recourse than to directly petition his highest superior at the CPD. Traversing the precinct with Bane hovering behind him always proved to be a challenge. More than once, Alain found himself actively avoiding his colleagues¡¯ proximity, including his partner Manfred. He dismissed his evasive demeanor with forced indignation over the continued jokes played at his expense ¡ªlike he was trying not to stumble and fall once again, or other improvised antics he came up with on the fly. As a result, he was understandably apprehensive about having a private conversation with Chief Malvirta. While the veteran commander enjoyed widespread respect and admiration from his subordinates due to his easygoing nature and his approachable leadership, it was also true that at times, he was remarkably insightful to an almost uncanny degree. It would take Alain considerable effort just attempting to hide how on edge he felt by having other people around Bane ¡ªeven when no one appeared to see him. So when Alain was finally allowed inside the office after knocking on the door, a shiver ran down his spine as the Chief¡¯s keen and sagacious brown eyes glanced towards the space Bane¡¯s grotesque form occupied in the distance, lingering there for a brief but strained moment before fixing directly on his own increasingly anxious gaze. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, my boy.¡± Malvirta¡¯s voice cut through the silence, directing him a faint, apologetic smile. ¡°Can you remind me your name again? It appears to have slipped my mind.¡± >> ¡°You know how it is. Memory isn''t what it used to be thanks to old age." The casual words brought an incredible wave of relief crashing over Alain, though he quickly cleared his throat, steadying his voice before responding. ¡°Sir! I¡¯m Officer Alain Konradsson!¡± The rookie straightened his posture, offering his superior the most formal salute his addled mental state could muster. ¡°I joined the forces around six months ago.¡± Luckily, the old man seemed to have no reactions to Bane¡¯s presence either, and was simply trying to gather his recollections around him. Not that he had achieved anything of substantial merit yet, but being forgotten so easily still stung ¡ªespecially when despite his claims, Malvirta appeared as lucid as ever. ¡°Ah, yes. You¡¯re the one who took that nasty fall during service a while back, weren¡¯t you?¡± Malvirta¡¯s question was punctuated by a brief chuckle that exacerbated Alain¡¯s chagrin. ¡°Are you sure everything is alright up there, tough guy? You never reported to the infirmary, did you? Despite his advancing years, Vigo Malvirta carried himself with an undeniable aura of regal authority. His facial features were ruggedly chiseled and sharp under his slightly wild yet still strong gray mane; and while Alain and Manfred had discussed before whether or not they could beat the Chief of Police in a fistfight, having that burly physique up close now had the rookie officer second-guessing such bravado. He was certainly no feeble or senile ornament of the department resting on laurels behind a desk all day. In more ways than one, Alain had come to admire him as well ¡ªeven if they had never shared any truly meaningful dialogue like this one was shaping up to be. ¡°No, sir, it¡¯s not necessary. I¡¯m doing fine, really.¡± Alain resumed with a small sigh, bobbing his head in a differential nod. He knew that he had to focus on the matter at hand and leave his insecurities behind, but it was easier said than done with Bane¡¯s presence looming in the background. ¡°Are you sure? You look more than a little tense to me. Perhaps a little vacation would do you wonders.¡± The veteran was quick to interrupt him, his tone adopting a friendly, albeit scrutinizing mien as he leaned forward over his desk, holding Alain¡¯s gaze as if studying him. ¡°I¡¯ve always considered proper rest and exercise an integral part of becoming an exemplar enforcer of the law.¡± >> ¡°I want you to look and feel your best, young man, so that mishaps like the last one don¡¯t ever repeat themselves.¡± ¡°Yes¡­ Thank you for the advice, Chief.¡± Even when delivered on tranquil terms, the words carried a subtle undercurrent of paternal admonishment that Alain couldn¡¯t ignore. But it wasn¡¯t enough to deter him from his quest. ¡°Actually, I wanted to ask you something.¡± >> ¡°Has there ever been a case left unresolved under very strange conditions?¡± Alain continued, struggling to identify just how much to tell Malvirta without sounding deranged. ¡°Do you think perhaps I may be granted access to skim through the archives? ¡°Strange conditions? That¡¯s an oddly vague way of phrasing things.¡± The old man quipped back at him with a raised eyebrow. ¡°What? Did having your head shaken up make you consider chasing a career as a detective?¡± >> ¡°Or is it simply a youthful desire to dive into mysteries?¡± Alain was unsure how to answer his queries without letting the entire lid open¡­ But he had to refrain from confessing. Callista¡¯s safety may well depend on his word choices here ¡ªso he took a considerable pause, as he tried to weigh his response properly. It was a gap large enough for Malvirta to interject once more. ¡°Well, now that you mention it, there was a very strange incident indeed, several years ago.¡± Perhaps as an attempt to alleviate his escalating awkwardness, the old man¡¯s gaze drifted upwards in a pensive manner. It had an immediate effect on Alain, whose heart rate quickened considerably. ¡°I¡¯m not against youngsters offering their help in giving fresh new perspectives to old cold cases, you know?¡± >> ¡°Might even help clear that head of yours from all the action you must be seeing daily.¡± >> ¡°So how about that, do you feel up for the challenge?¡± Malvirta asked, offering him an earnest smile. ¡°Yes, sir!¡± Alain was quick to answer with renewed vigor and a spirited grin, as Vigo procured the permits and directions he needed for his own investigation to start, sliding them across the desk and finally into his reach. He was unsure if it was something he imagined or actually experienced, but Alain could have sworn that he heard something akin to a fly buzzing faintly around his ear ¡ªstrange considering their closed environment and the current season, but not something that warranted his immediate attention at that point in time. ¡°And get some rest while you¡¯re at it, son.¡± As he pivoted on his heel to depart, Malvirta¡¯s voice issued one final piece of fatherly advice. There was a knowing smile in his face, one that left a strange sensation in Alain¡¯s gut feelings. ¡°You¡¯ve got the look of a man being haunted.¡± ¡­ If only he knew how accurate that assessment truly was. Leaving the chief''s office, Alain couldn¡¯t help but feel a sense of excitement. Venturing into uncharted territory or not, he was making progress, bit by bit. Even when Bane continued to follow him, always present, he refused to let fear control him. Now, all that he had left to do was unearth a substantial clue regarding what those creatures were ¡ªsomething he could perhaps tell Callista to instigate a reunion between the two of them. Isolating himself in an unused archival room within the precinct, Alain gathered the physical documents pertaining to the case file HT-455; it appeared to be on a strict need-to-know basis, the records even kept separate from the digital database ¡ªa peculiarity that left Alain wondering why exactly had Malvirta entrusted him with the information in the first place. The case dated back seven years, and was centered around a grisly double homicide discovered in an abandoned house, located within the notoriously violent Cretierfield slums by the northern edges ¡ªMidwich Valley. While Alain himself had written reports that began just like that before, any parallelism that he could draw with any of his prior cases ended there. Two unidentified females were the victims, their identities proving impossible to uncover despite exhaustive DNA sampling and cross-reference efforts. It was as if neither woman had even existed before their mangled corpses turned up abandoned in the city. Turning through the pages, scribbled notes in an unfamiliar yet meticulously ornate handwriting littered the documents. Some proposed deductions Alain could recognize, like human trafficking or illegal immigration; but one cryptic scrawl in particular left in his chest a lingering disquiet ¡ª¡®Work of a Punisher?¡¯ Punisher? Alain couldn¡¯t help but wonder if the name referred to an entity similar to Bane. It was too coincidental for those very same words to have been uttered by the shady glasses guy that appeared after the Stalker¡¯s death. Was the detective leaving those notes behind also aware of the creatures that operated beyond normal perception? Is that what they¡¯re called, Punishers? The elegantly scribbled annotations accompanied grim descriptions of the abandoned house¡¯s condition upon discovery, as well as the mutilated state of the two victims. While the numerous sets of footprints found indicated the involvement of at least five other individuals, every single forensic trace had gone utterly cold ¡ªall of the potential perpetrators vanishing without a trace never to be heard or seen again, and any evidence that could lead to their identification lost to the annals of time. Turning the page one final time, what Alain then stumbled upon turned his heart into lead in his chest. The crime scene photographs of the victims as they were found, an atrocity committed by means and cruelty outside the bounds of human depravity¡­ What could even leave a body like that? Well, now he understood why the deduction that Punishers were involved had been scrawled by the detective whose precise signature adorned the reports ¡ªone C. Cavendish. But no sooner his mind began to actually process that record of perversity, something seemed to shift in the atmosphere behind him. Bane, who had been standing silently in a corner of the room, suddenly cracked his bones while his body contorted in a grotesque fashion, twisting as his concrete flesh moved aside for an absurdly long appendage to protrude from his back. The limb was similar to a large black spider leg covered in barbwire, and it moved in a slow and rhythmic way behind him, echoing the beat of some ghastly war drum before Alain¡¯s eyes were drawn to the abyssal glimmer of Bane¡¯s gray empty sockets. A growing sentiment of dread took hold of him, unable to shake the feeling that a terrible condition had been met; but before he could brace for its consequences, Alain Konradsson¡¯s conscience had already been violently wrenched outside his body. Sensations akin to being ripped apart coursed through him, his mind being torn asunder from the familiar confine of physical form. The archive room was no longer, melting away in a vertiginous vortex. And then he found himself in that abandoned house in Midwich Valley. The sound of footsteps approaching. The creaking of the old wooden floorboards under the weight of many intruders. The sense of panic rising in his chest. And the inability to either move or speak. Those senses, that body ¡ªneither were his own. Terror. Pain. Helplessness. His own past anguish came back in full force. No, he couldn¡¯t be here again. He wasn¡¯t a child anymore. It wasn¡¯t supossed to be like this anymore, he had become a police officer to prevent nightmares like that from happening before him. Then why? Why was such cruel impunity allowed in the world? Why was he forced to feel this¡­ Powerless? It was just like when he ended up being violently handled by the malevolent force shielding Callista¡¯s stalker ¡ªfailing at protecting the woman he loved when it mattered the most. Alain desperately prayed for a way out, to be spared from this nightmare; but he remained mute and helpless, an unwilling passenger on a tide of torment as the attackers descended upon him. Blood splattered the walls as flashes of visceral brutality and profane atrocities played out in unchecked frenzy. The sickening sounds of flesh being torn apart, and the pleasure contained within the laughs that ruptured in his head like a maelstrom, rejoicing in the torture while clashing against the backdrop of a suffering so intense that it threatened to consume him entirely. All that despair¡­ It was simply far too much. A waking avulsion to experience the pinnacle of human anguish. Was this supposed to be his penance for trying to delve too deep inside the abyss? Or was it merely a cruel curse for all the crimes he had failed to prevent? Was this agonizing communion what it truly meant to have a Punisher by his side? A sudden, discordant trill pierced through the overwhelming onslaught; the melodious ring of his phone, wrenching him back to reality as the vision abruptly dissipated like a burst bubble ¡ªHe was once more within the safe confines of the archive room. His heart was racing wildly, and cold sweat drenched his body, as Alain looked around wild-eyed, half-expecting Bane¡¯s grotesque visage to have shifted into something even more horrid¡­ But for a change, there was nothing. Only empty stillness, except for the vibrations of his phone, which continued to go off unattended. Alain willed himself to draw a shuddering breath, then another ¡ªhis trembling hands fumbling towards the source of the noise in his pockets. He couldn¡¯t allow fear to gain control, not now; but the gap between repeating that mantra inside his head and stopping his quaking fingers was a large one. Be it coping mechanism or genuine hopefulness, the fact that he was receiving an incoming call from a previously unknown number proved sufficient to dispel many of the demons trying to take hold of his psyche in one swift, decisive motion. ¡°Callista!¡± Even to his own ears, his voice sounded desperate and shaky ¡ªa reflection of his currently unstable mental state. He didn¡¯t have the certainty if it truly was her on the other end of the line¡­ But perhaps, and more than he cared to admit, he may also just needed to hear the sound of her voice again. ¡°Yes! Officer Konradsson!¡± Alain¡¯s eyes slipped shut as allowed himself to be embraced by the cadence, her flinching visage playing behind the lids and creating a fleeting smile on his lips. In these turbulent, nightmare-shrouded times, this girl was the only thing he had that offered sanctuary. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­ Am I calling at a bad time?¡± Despite Callista being the reason for his descent into this paranormal madness, he could never bring himself to resent her even one tiny bit. No, he would walk this path over and over again if it meant still being graced by the sound of her voice. ¡°No, really¡­ You have perfect timing.¡± He was probably sounding far too unhinged if he still held any expectation of impressing her, but Alain was likewise too far gone to retain any proper handle on his feelings. ¡°I¡¯ve just been having¡­ Some hellish last few hours.¡± ¡°You¡¯re seeing one too, right?¡± The fleeting respite her call granted him evaporated like a cruelly tantalizing mirage as she said those words. Back on his senses, the gravity of the subjects brought to the conversation pulled Alain back to reality. ¡°One of those¡­ Punishers?¡± So Callista was just like him? As happy as he was to know they shared circumstances¡­ His gut still twisted with worry over the prospect that being paired with one of these godforsaken monsters ended up being more than she could handle. But with that being said¡­ ¡°You¡¯re calling them Punishers as well?¡± He questioned, his voice adopting a sharper edge than intended. ¡°Where did you learn that word?¡± Her hesitation stretched out in unbearable silence, each fleeting second feeling eternal to Alain. He wasn¡¯t casting on the fact that in the week they¡¯d been apart, it was likely that Callista had begun her own investigation ¡ªbut the prospect of the potential dangers she might encounter while at it into made his marrow run cold. ¡°Yes, it was taught to me by Vincent Genessier¡­ Of all people.¡± Callista¡¯s tone as she replied was remarkably nonchalant, as if trying to downplay something hard to believe. Mostly though, she sounded as if grappling with the fact that he, too, had been exposed to the term. Vincent¡­ Genessier? Despite the name ringing a distant bell inside his head for a reason he couldn¡¯t quite narrow down, the murky waters of memory were swiftly overshadowed by a surge of emotion far more immediate and potent. Jealousy. ¡°And who is this Vincent exactly?¡± Despite trying his best to maintain an even tone, a feeling of disgruntlement was hard to keep in check, seeping through the cracks of his composure. ¡°Ah¡­ I guess you haven¡¯t heard of him.¡± Her voice carried a hint of disappointment, as if this guy¡¯s name should be widely known. ¡°Well, who he is doesn¡¯t really matter.¡± >> ¡°The important part, is that he claimed to know about what all of this means... And how I should move forward.¡± So there were others like them, burdened by the presence of these spectral tormentors? Even if they could share experiences, the rookie officer felt a pang of unease at the prospect of associating with such dubious characters ¡ªespecially since the events leading to their current state were far from a peaceful walk in the park. ¡°Did this Vincent guy reach out to you somehow? How did he know that you had a Punisher?¡± His questions were driven by more than just jealousy now. They were laced with genuine concern. Even if his feelings remained unrequited, his desire to keep Callista safe was far stronger than any wounded pride. ¡°You haven¡¯t met with him, have you?¡± Well, perhaps it was jealousy too. ¡°Yes¡­ It¡¯s about that. He called me out of nowhere, and I have no idea how he managed to get his hands on my phone number or any of my information. He claims to hold all the answers, but I don¡¯t trust him enough to go to the Atrium Towers alone...¡± Yes. That was the sensible choice. Fuck this Genessier clown, the sooner he was out of their picture, the better. ¡°So I was thinking¡­ Would you consider accompanying me, Alain?¡± She inquired, her voice hesitant ¡ªas if she needed to ask at all. ¡°Absolutely!¡± The response came to him in a fraction of a second, without any real thought. His mind was now a whirlwind of simple, impulsive reactions, driven by the fact that this was the first time she had used his first name since their unlikely reunion. Callista took a moment to respond, probably taken aback by his overzealous reaction¡­ But it truly was no exaggeration. He was willing to follow her anywhere, be it another state or even country, to these so-called Atrium Towers. ¡°He requested my presence tomorrow morning at 10. Shall we meet there then?¡± She finally added, igniting a burst of ecstatic joy to bubble within him. ¡°Understood I¡¯ll be there waiting for you.¡± Alain finally replied, dialing back on his intensity to be replaced by a renewed sense of purpose. ¡°And hey¡­ Thank you for trusting me, Cal. I won¡¯t let you down.¡± Vincent Genessier, huh. He¡¯d sing praises to him if he even knew who the guy was. A mysterious figure for sure, yet one whose intervention had yielded an unexpected boon ¡ªthe final bridge between him and Callista. Though veiled in open-ended questions, Alain could not deny a swell of gratitude towards this stranger, for he had inadvertently played a substantial role in bringing them together. As the call ended, Alain¡¯s exuberance settled into a steady resolve. He glanced at the photos strewn over the desk one final time before closing the files and taking them with him, a fierce determination now taking root within him. Sure, while thoughts of Callista inevitably crept in, as they so often did since their reunion, the two victims were not forgotten. This was just another step towards unraveling all of the enigmas. Alain vowed to ensure that no further tragedies ever repeated themselves, not if he possessed the power to intervene. A debt was owed to those poor women¡­ And to the justice that still needed to be served. Punishment III: Anesthesia
PUNISHMENT III ANESTHESIA
This... This was never supposed to happen¡­ Unable to calm the frenzied, arrhythmic cadence of his heart, each stuttering beat served Brennan as a visceral reminder of the nightmare he had inadvertently unleashed; ending up suffocated as he stared at the lifeless body sprawled across the floor. A small puddle of blood seeped from her head like a faint, morbid halo; the crimson liquid accusingly mocking his stunned disbelief. His trembling hands reached out, clinging to the desperate hope that this was but a cruel trick of his mind ¡ªthat at any moment, Beverly¡¯s eyes would snap back, and she would soon scold him for overreacting, as she usually did. Yet she remained deathly still, his widened eyes fixing on her blank ones, kept in a perpetual, silent rebuke. The icy grip of shock squeezed the breath out of his lungs as the full, leaden gravity of his actions finished settling like an oppressive weight upon his chest. ¡°I never¡­ I never meant for it to end this way¡­¡± The words tumbled from his trembling lips, a feeble entreaty to the uncaring void that now stretched before him, vast and unforgiving. ¡°God¡­ What have I done?¡­ Bev¡­¡± The day had transpired like any other, an unremarkable procession of trivial mundanity. As usual, he attended his marketing management lecture at college and paid little attention. Their afternoon date was meant to be a brief respite, a moment of connection on the ever-widening chasm that now divided their once-shared vision. Like it was often the case, her frustrations had boiled over at some point or another during their evening, and she started berating him for his failure to secure a part-time job during the winter break ¡ªas the two of them had previously agreed. The argument continued escalating when they arrived home with the kind of practiced familiarity that came from countless repetitions. Her voice raised in pitch, and her gestures became increasingly heated and physical. Beverly had always possessed a penchant for throwing hands, as quick to strike as her tongue was to lash. Brennan had long since resigned himself to being the recipient of her abuse, convincing himself that enduring her outbursts was a small price to pay for the moments of tranquility that followed in the wake of her apologies. Then¡­ Then why? Why did it go so different this time? He only wanted her to listen, for them to talk it over once more from the beginning. Lack of strength paired with a shaky emotional state overwhelmed him ¡ªthat brief, momentary lapse of weakness proving catastrophic. When he instinctively pushed her back, relinquishing control just once to the anxiety that so often took hold of him during confrontations, he had never fathomed the horrific consequences that would follow. Brennan never meant to hurt her, let alone this badly. How could he have guessed that she would trip like that? The sight of her crumpling, her head striking the unforgiving edge of the coffee table with a gruesome thud as her neck twisted in an unnatural direction, replayed behind his eyes in a sickening loop, searing itself into his consciousness. This¡­ This wasn¡¯t his fault, was it? It was a feeble mantra, a desperate attempt to absolve himself of culpability, even as the damning evidence lay before him, forever silencing the woman he had dated since high school. Yes, it was true that in recent years their paths had diverged at some point, the distance between them growing ever wider as they navigated the uncharted waters of adulthood. Unlike him, Beverly had ambition, a clear design for her life. She was a restless force, a vibrant flash of light cutting through his constant dusk. As she began to dress sharper and act in a fiercer fashion, her attempts to shape him into someone worthwhile often ignited fierce arguments that he begrudgingly acquiesced to. He was terrified of losing her ¡ªof change. She was his sole tether, his only constant¡­ Yet now¡­ He took her hand within his own, squeezing it tightly as if to permanently imprint the still lingering warmth that gradually abandoned her still form. He could have tried to check her pulse, perhaps attempt to reanimate her with clumsy, improvised techniques gleaned from movies¡­ But truth be told, he was so frightened by the repercussions that he didn¡¯t even bother. Just a handful of hours ago, all that vexed him were the unremarkable motions with which he carried out his existence ¡ªtrapped between dreams of luxury while wallowing in complacency. Enrolled in Business Administration at his parents¡¯ behest rather than any genuine desire, the combined weight of their expectations, Beverly¡¯s aspirations, and his own indolence had conspired to keep him shackled to a life he neither wanted nor understood how to escape. Everything was a tapestry of wasted potential and unfulfilled dreams, his aimless drift through experiences leaving him unprepared for the soul-crushing reality that now confronted him. Beverly¡¯s life abandoned her soft lips in the shape of a streak of blood, plunging Brennan into a nightmarish trip of guilt and consequence with no return. The deafening silence that enveloped the room acted as witness to Brennan¡¯s feeble pleas, and the weight of Beverly¡¯s lifeless hand in his own anchored him to this grim development. He envied himself from merely one day prior ¡ªblissfully ignorant and content to bask in the illusion of safety that mediocrity afforded him. A false sanctuary, now breached by the trudging funeral dirge of fate. ¡°So is this¡­ Goodbye, Bev?¡± The words felt alien on his tongue, as he spoke to her lifeless form. The only way he found to cope with this gut-wrenching devastation as the clock kept on ticking, uncaring and unbothered. ¡°Please, tell me¡­ What should I do now?¡± There was no need to double-check. No need to futilely search for a pulse that he knew, had already fled her broken body. Brennan was certain of her death, but even if some faint sparks of life yet flickered within her, calling the police or an ambulance remained an unthinkable proposition. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. He was only twenty years old, far too young to resign himself to the unforgiving confines of a prison cell. He would never survive in there. But then¡­ What other options remained? Was simply ending it all a preferable resolution? The call of oblivion beckoned, a tempting invitation to submit entirely to the rapture born within loss, to relinquish his very soul rather than face the consequences. Was there truly no other way? Morbid notions crept unbidden into his consciousness, a serpentine whisper that coiled around his fraying sanity. Dispose of the body. Erase the evidence. Their apartment, rented out Brennan¡¯s father, was certainly a nice one, but security often lacked. He was sure that there was no one watching by the reception hall to bear witness to his and Beverly¡¯s arrival, no prying eyes to offer damning testimony. Yes, if someone asked, all that he needed to do was to spin a tale ¡ªclaim that the two of them had separated after quarreling on the streets. Then, it was just a matter of playing dumb, to start anew unburdened by the weight of this transgression, left only to tightrope atop the moral abyss that this macabre solution teetered him upon. But could he truly bring himself to such depravity? To desecrate the woman he once loved, no matter how strained the threads of that affection had become? What other choice did he have left? Truth of the matter was¡­ He was too afraid to take his own life, and confessing to the crime would be too harsh, for he was a victim in this whole ordeal as well, was he not? Perhaps¡­ Perhaps he had stopped loving Beverly long ago, their relationship devolving into a mere performance of domesticity ¡ªa hollow pantomime of connection that had faded out since the carefree days of their youth abandoned them. The thought struck him like a physical blow, leaving him reeling still. Had his feelings really eroded to such an extent? Or was this another attempt to find an escape from the inescapable, to anesthetize himself against the anguish that threatened to devour him whole? Indecision gripped him, each potential course of action carrying consequences too terrible to fully digest. The dead weight of his existence was quickly crystallizing into a singularity of despair, every breath bringing more regret and self-pity ¡ªa part of him even envied his dead girlfriend, for she was spared from this mind-rending torture. Beverly¡¯s brother and his best friend ¡ªOscar, would undoubtedly come knocking on their door to check on them sooner rather than later. So whatever the fuck he ultimately decided on doing¡­ It couldn¡¯t wait even a single day. Brennan¡¯s gaze flickered between her still form and the countertops that lined the kitchen, his mind already mapping out potential implements to aid in his macabre task. He brought himself back to his feet and approached the butcher knife, its blade honed to a razor¡¯s edge, shining with a perverse promise. Or perhaps the hacksaw tucked beneath the sink, now calling for him ¡ªits teeth tailor-made to separate flesh from bone with brutal efficiency. Moving frantically, Brennan couldn¡¯t help but to be drawn by his own gaze, reflected in the mirror at the end of the kitchen counter. Tremors ran through him as his stomach rolled with sickened revulsion at what he saw looking back. Despite considering himself nothing but a mere husk of a man even from beforehand, the eyes that stared back at him from beneath the chaos of his untamed brown curls were not the usual half-lidded ones glazed with disinterest that Brennan usually carried. Instead, they were eyes fed with insanity, replacing the characteristic lethargy that his paper-pale countenance usually carried ¡ªindeed, it was as if the devil itself had risen from the pits of hell to stare at him from the windows to his soul. Even his typical adornments seemed to have taken on a sinister aspect ¡ªa full array of black piercings studding his lips, nose and eyebrows. Their metallic glints mocking the gravity of his circumstance as a reminder of his immature acts of rebelliousness. Was this truly the path he was willing to tread? To dismember and discard Beverly like trash? All in a desperate bid to evade justice? Despite his conscience recoiling at the prospect, a deeper, more primal part of him recognized the brutal logic behind this course of action. Better to endure the anguish of mutilating her corporeal form than to surrender himself to an existence defined by interminable suffering and confines of cold steel and concrete. Yes¡­ Beverly loved him, didn¡¯t she? Maybe¡­ This is what she would have liked for him to do if things spiraled so thoroughly out of control. The decision cemented itself before him, an inescapable inevitability borne of the most primitive instincts for self-preservation. He didn¡¯t know if he had ever truly loved Beverly, not in the way she deserved¡­ But in that moment, bereft of all other options, his regard for her became an afterthought, a mere footnote in the increasingly twisted annals of his desperation. ¡°God-fucking-dammit¡­¡± He cursed to himself, his fingers trembling as he grabbed wads of paper towels to contain the spreading blood, while the other hand gripped the hacksaw with white-knuckled intensity. ¡°This is exactly why I don''t like taking responsibility for shit!¡± Beneath the veneer of indifference he had so carefully cultivated, a simmering resentment festered within Brennan¡¯s heart, fueled by the taunting laughter of his friends at his expense while they completely ignored the deep-seated traumas he still grappled with. They had always said he was inherently incapable of caring for anything or anyone, teasing that he could kill a plant just by standing beside it for too long ¡ªa self-fulfilling prophecy of negligence that he would have never imagined manifesting itself in such a horrible manner. But these were not mere jests any longer, Brennan concluded as he began wiping at the blood pooling around Beverly¡¯s ebony hair, realizing then with a sinking sense of dread that the thin paper towels would prove woefully inadequate for the task at hand. The metallic scent of her life¡¯s essence assailed his senses as it dripped through the sodden handful clenched in his trembling right hand, reaching his nose in a revolting manner. Did he need full towels then? Would he need to flush the blood down the drain? Was that even safe? And what would he do once he had completely serrated her flesh? Surfing the web for answers was untenable now ¡ªwhat if the police made a connection when inevitably investigating Beverly¡¯s disappearance? He had never done so much as pick apart a chicken before¡­ And now he had to think of what the fuck he would do with a human brain, heart and intestines. Questions invaded his mind one after another, in a never-ending myriad of post-apocalyptic notions. They never seemed to reach a resolution, each new query stemming from the last to drive him deeper into the depths of madness. ¡°Goodness gracious, Brennan. You appear on the brink of unravelment!¡± Remarked a voice in impeccable crispness, the words uttered with a sophisticated and gentlemanly tone, immediately sending a shiver down his spine. No way, there shouldn¡¯t be anyone else in the apartment to see him, jittering with a hacksaw in hand beside his motionless girlfriend. ¡°Are you finding yourself adrift in the tumult of your mind, my dear boy?¡± They had no roommates, and Oscar didn¡¯t possess a key to gain entry by himself. So who was the one speaking?! Who was the one who saw?! The queries blared through his crumbling psyche like wailing sirens as he frantically darted his eyes around the small apartment, desperately seeking the source of that disembodied utterance. A cold sweat broke out across his brow as the silence that answered his panicked search seemed to mock him with its stark emptiness. Had he truly begun hallucinating, his tenuous grasp on reality slipping through his fingers like grains of sand? ¡°Oh, come on now¡­¡± The refined voice chided, laced with an undercurrent of dark amusement. ¡°Can it actually be that your perception has been rendered so profoundly skewed just at the glimpse of a little blood? Merely lower your gaze ever so slightly¡­¡± Following the instructions, Brennan¡¯s disbelieving eyes finally landed upon that¡­ Abomination. A creature that should have never been allowed to walk on earth, now crawling atop of Beverly¡¯s corpse to present itself before him in all of its unholy glory. Was it that after embracing immorality, he had opened the gates of hell itself for demons to cross over? Anesthesia -Part 2-
Brennan knew just how stupid it would be to submit to panic, to potentially alert any of their neighbors with a disproportionately loud noise ¡ªa luxury he couldn¡¯t afford considering his newly attained status as a killer. Stifling the scream that threatened to tear from his lungs, however, proved to be an insurmountable challenge. Recoiling from his position, he bluntly kicked out with his feet, jolting backwards until colliding with the soft structure of the couch. His hands instinctively lashed out at the monstrous apparition, hurling the only weapon he had in his hands at the abomination ¡ªthe hacksaw. Eluding the improvised projectile proved no tall task for the insect-like creature, its elongated hind legs propelling it through the air in a blur of a motion, landing with unnerving poise atop the sofa¡¯s armrest to face Brennan from its newfound vantage point. ¡°While one must adapt to the circumstances presented, your taste in decor, Brennan, leaves much to be desired.¡± Thin lips of a vaguely humanoid face continued to ridicule him in that disgustingly genteel tone, utterly at odds with its grotesque visage. ¡°Though I suppose one cannot expect refined sensibilities from a tumultuous boy¡­¡± >> ¡°I would like to avoid following the footsteps of dearly beloved Beverly, if possible.¡± With a delicate gesture, it smoothed a non-existent wrinkle on its sleek exoskeleton, a grotesque parody of human mannerisms. ¡°Certainly tragic¡­ But then again, tragedy often begets opportunity, does it not?¡± The thing resembled a giant-sized cricket, easily rivaling a small dog in sheer dimensions. Its chitin exoskeleton bore a sickly, nicotine-stained color, as if tainted by years of decay. Barbs and spikes covered its body in sharp contrast to the muted hues, their inky-black sheen glistening with an unsettling wetness. At the front end of its elongated abdomen, segmented and ridged like some nightmarish millipede, a twisted mockery of a person¡¯s face rested. Sunken cheeks and deep-set sockets framing eyes that were unnaturally human in shape and aspect, as if they had been ripped from some hapless victim and crudely grafted into that monster in defiance of all natural order. ¡°That¡¯s it¡­ Now I¡¯m really losing it.¡± Brennan was no stranger to the mind-bending effects of psychotropics. Oscar had often introduced him to some strange new substance for the two of them to indulge in, much to Beverly¡¯s chagrin. On numerous occasions, he had found himself overtaken by hallucinogenic trips and out-of-body experiences. But never quite as viscerally vivid as this grotesque apparition now invading his reality with such a profound nonchalance He would have continued retreating from it, or perhaps even tried to kill it instead, if not for the fact that he could barely keep his hammering heart from escaping the confines of his chest. ¡°Who are¡­ What are you!?¡± He demanded to know, scrambling for the small knife he kept tugged in his pocket ¡ªa paltry attempt to keep some distance and a semblance of defense from the creature. Rather than acknowledge his threats or his palpable fright, however, that thing simply offered him a curling, condescending smile. One he would have normally reviled, if not for his dire need for someone, something, to wrest control away from his trembling hands. ¡°Is that question meant in earnest, Brennan-boy?¡± As if faintly amused by some mundane aspect of their interaction, the monster utilized a pair of oversized palps flanking its maw to groom its similarly large antennae, the entire animalistic ritual appearing supremely disturbing when filtered through those humanoid facial features. ¡°Is there even a need to ask?¡± ¡°What¡­ What do you mean by that?¡± ¡°Look inside yourself my boy.¡± As its speech slowed down to a skin-crawling pace, the weight of the creature¡¯s gaze seemed to bore into Brennan¡¯s very soul, sending cold shivers down his body. Certainly, reflected in the overgrown insect¡¯s eyes, he found the twisted mirror-image of his own burgeoning insanity. ¡°You already know who I am.¡± ¡°I¡­ Already know?¡± Brennan¡¯s voice trembled with disbelief. How could that be? Sure, he possessed many underappreciated talents, but extrasensory perception was not among them. And yet despite that, just as dictated by the monster, a name materialized within his mind, letter by letter, manifesting itself like an insidious intruder. ¡°N¡­ Needle?¡± He muttered tentatively, his lower lips quivering at the implication of some unseen bond tethering him to this grotesque aberration. ¡°That¡¯s right! Exceptionally done, compadre!¡± The mocking lack of seriousness in the creature¡¯s tone was an intoxicating one. It was something the frightened young man needed like air to breathe ¡ªfor maybe it meant that this descent into madness was not the sightless pit he feared. ¡°But I shouldn¡¯t be taken aback by your prowess.¡± >> ¡°You¡¯ve always been too astute for lectures and conventional guidance, haven¡¯t you?¡± Needle¡¯s words carried a sinister undercurrent, sliding ever closer as its six legs twitched and scuttled in a slow tempo. ¡°This whole Beverly debacle? Merely a minor impasse. You still retain that brilliant mind of yours, all you need is a gentle nudge in the right direction, and everything will realign itself.¡± The creature''s poisonous praise wormed its way into Brennan''s psyche, tempting him to surrender to the seductive lure of its twisted validation. Yet, with each agonizing inch that Needle crept nearer, he felt increasingly like prey ¡ªa hapless creature ensnared in the predator''s sights, awaiting the inevitable pounce. "Now, Mr. Prodigy..." The monstrous cricket whispered with anticipatory glee, reveling in the tension before the kill. "Would you care to uncover the origins of my namesake?" ¡°Back off!¡± Brennan warned before Needle crept ever closer, his grip tightening on the knife as a feeble semblance of control. ¡°I don¡¯t need to know, and I won¡¯t let you manipulate me with your lies either.¡± Needle¡¯s mandibles clacked in amusement, clearly aware of the fractures in Brennan¡¯s false bravado. ¡°Lies? Oh, Brennan-boy, you wound me.¡± It crooned, tone dripping with feigned hurt. ¡°Is that how you speak to someone birthed by¡­ How did you so eloquently put it before?¡± >> ¡°An embrace of immorality?¡± Brennan felt his handle on reality slipping by the minute as the creature recalled on his very internal monologues. So this thing was¡­ A manifestation he had brought upon himself? ¡°You came¡­ To torment me, right?¡­ After what I did?¡± It made a twisted sort of sense. For as accidental as it might have been, what he had resolved to do out of desperation was as unforgivable as it was depraved. ¡°Torment?¡± Needle clacked back, chuckling darkly. ¡°Oh, no, Brennan-boy. You misunderstand.¡± >> ¡°I¡¯m not here to torment you. I¡¯m here to liberate you.¡± ¡°But¡­ I thought you¡­¡± ¡°I¡¯m not some demon tasked to punish.¡± Needle interrupted before he could even formulate a rebuttal. ¡°You and I, Brennan-boy, we are one and the same.¡± >> ¡°We share a connection deeper than words, stronger than existence itself.¡± Needle''s eyes glinted with predatory hunger, sensing Brennan''s wavering resolve. The young man¡¯s hand trembled, the knife¡¯s edge wavering as he teetered on the precipice of surrender. ¡°Yet, digressing into matters of such superficiality would be a wasted effort at present. We are, after all, engaged in far weightier discourse.¡± As Needle continued, the trajectory of his gaze landed on the corpse still sprawled in his living room, a grisly subject that Brennan had been subconsciously avoiding since the monstrous cricket¡¯s appearance. ¡°Dwelling solely upon the past would be a mistake. No, we must look to the future, to the choices that lie before us.¡± Brennan eyed the creature warily, sensing a veiled threat beneath its eloquent words. "Choices?" he asked, his voice guarded. ¡°What choice is there to make?¡± "Why, the choice to cooperate, of course.¡± It replied smoothly, pinning Brennan with an unsettlingly intense stare. ¡°Or to suffer the consequences of defiance. The decision, my dear Brennan, is yours to make.¡± ¡°So what if I don¡¯t?¡± What little defiance remained it was poured into Brennan¡¯s words, yet there was no longer any bite behind his facade. He was acutely aware, deep down, that he had already crossed a line from which there was no return ¡ªa realization that did not diminish the primordial dread that filled him at the thought of surrendering to Needle''s machinations. The repulsive creature, however, did not react with frustration or anger. Instead, it merely regarded Brennan with an unsettling calm, as if all his resistance had been foreseen and accounted for. ¡°Well, the way I see it¡­ You can keep wailing in your suffering to your heart¡¯s desire, get caught and imprisoned¡­¡± Needle narrated as if it was no one¡¯s business, at least until his human eyes glinted with malevolent promise. ¡°Or you can let me take control¡­ And I promise you, Brennan¡­¡± Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. >> ¡°Everything will be just fine once more.¡± Brennan''s breath was momentarily caught in his throat, the weight of Needle''s words bearing down upon him like a suffocating shroud. The creature wasn''t pushing, it wasn''t forcing him ¡ªand that was what made its offer all the more insidious. ¡°Right, all fine.¡± Brennan scoffed with sardonic intent, his voice straining against Needle¡¯s pull. ¡°And you were speaking about cooperation, weren¡¯t you?¡± >> ¡°Then? What do you want from me?¡± Despite his undeniable and growing need to give in to the oversized insect¡¯s whims, Brennan was still searching for any hint of deceit in Needle¡¯s demeanor. Beneath the veneer of forced sophistication cloaking his cryptic words, he could still identify a morbid hunger burning in those unsettling eyes. Even more than that, there was a nagging feeling that he was being played as a pawn in some twisted game whose rules remained maddeningly elusive. Still skeptical, the young man steadied himself, bracing for whatever dark bargain lay ahead. ¡°Oh, I merely seek some¡­ Fuel, so to speak. Nourishment. Sustenance.¡± ¡°You want¡­ food?¡± Brennan couldn¡¯t help but question in disbelief. It sounded almost ludicrous, that a monster had invaded his life solely to request a meal. ¡°What is it that you want to eat?¡± Of course, he never expected Needle to ask him for stale leftovers inside the fridge¡­ But even with that mental preparation¡­ ¡°This time, given that it¡¯s your first time¡­ I¡¯ll make it uncomplicated for you, Brennan-boy.¡± Needle¡¯s mandibles parted in a grotesque facsimile of a smile. ¡°I shall simply partake of something from your departed girlfriend here. That¡¯ll suffice.¡± The creature¡¯s utterance hung in the air like a malevolent fog, its full implications taking root in Brennan¡¯s mind with excruciating slowness. His gaze flickered from Needle¡¯s twisted visage to Beverly¡¯s lifeless form, the pieces falling into place one by one with dawning horror. ¡°You cannot be serious.¡± He exhaled, a wave of revulsion twisting his gut. ¡°You intend to¡­ Eat her?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a trivial exchange for the bliss I offer, is it not?¡± Needle countered smoothly, utterly unfazed by Brennan¡¯s visceral reaction. ¡°A mere trifle compared to the unfettered freedom that awaits you.¡± Brennan recoiled as if struck, his grip tightening around the knife as he brought it dangerously close to his temple, clutching at his hair. ¡°This is just¡­ Insanity.¡± He stammered, shaking his head in denial. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t¡­ We can¡¯t!¡± ¡°Cannot?¡± Needle echoed, his elegant tone laced with sardonic amusement. ¡°Or will not? Come now, Brennan-boy, don¡¯t be coy. You were already mutilating the poor girl inside your head before I chimed in with a superior alternative.¡± >> ¡°Don¡¯t you dare play the innocent with me. I know your true nature.¡± The words, added with such a grim certainty, chilled Brennan¡¯s blood to an icy degree. It was an accusation he couldn¡¯t deny. ¡°Think of it. No more guilt, no more restraint.¡± Perhaps sensing his impending submission, Needle resumed its predatory advance, sidling ever closer as each silken syllable coiled around his fraying psyche. ¡°Just the untrammeled pursuit of your deepest desires, free from inhibition. A euphoric realization of your authentic self.¡± >> ¡°To cast off the shackles, to be unburdened by consequence or morality. With my help, you can transcend such petty concerns, Brennan.¡± Needle just¡­ refused to relent, mercilessly pressing further and further against his already flimsy resolve, crumbling beneath the creature¡¯s psychological onslaught. ¡°Isn¡¯t that what you¡¯ve always craved? The liberty to live as you truly wish, unfettered by the expectations of others?¡± His ego was already fragile from the outset. Even as a part of him vehemently refused to sign such a devilish deal, the larger one found itself inexorably seduced by Needle¡¯s profane offering. ¡°All you have to do¡­¡± Needle whispered directly into his ear, having already crept its way up to his shoulders. ¡°¡­ Is to let me in.¡± ¡°But what if there¡¯s¡­ No way back?¡± There was bile rising in his throat. He felt sick, on the edge of puking. ¡°What about my humanity?¡± To resist Needle was to cling to the tattered remnants of his volition, to struggle against the tide of darkness that threatened to consume him¡­ But to surrender was¡­ ¡°Humanity?¡± Needle chuckled, the sound making Brennan¡¯s eyes tear up in defeat. ¡°My dear boy, you¡¯ve already lost that.¡± >> ¡°The true question is¡­ Will you give yourself willingly and spare yourself the agony? Or will you wage a war you cannot possibly win?¡± The words hung in the air, carrying the weight of a death knell. Brennan''s shoulders slumped, all resistance draining from his body as the enormity of his circumstances crashed down upon him like a suffocating avalanche. At that instant, he realized with nauseating finality that he had already journeyed too far down to feasibly turn around. Yes, the option presented by Needle was about survival, of self-preservation at any cost ¡ªno matter how high the price imposed on his soul. With a trembling hand, he let the knife slip from his grasp, clattering to the floor in surrender. ¡°Please¡­ No more.¡± Brennan¡¯s voice was little more than a hollow rasp. He was utterly and thoroughly defeated. ¡°I accept¡­ Do anything you want.¡± Thoughts of ending his own life had crossed his mind barely moments ago, but he was forced to admit that he did not possess the courage to see such an act through. If this twisted pact with Needle was to be his ultimate undoing, then so be it ¡ªat least the burden of choice would finally be lifted from his shoulders. ¡°You¡¯re doing the right thing, Brennan-boy.¡± A low, rasping voice laced with malevolent satisfaction emanated from Needle¡¯s grotesque maw, as it extended one of its spindly legs gesturing for him to proffer his arm. With trembling hands, he complied, rolling up the sleeve of his oversized hoodie to expose his pale flesh, littered with prior markings. ¡°As I knew you would.¡± The cricket then leaned forward, its mandibles parting in an unnatural wideness that seemed to defy the boundaries of its physical form. Brennan gasped silently as he beheld the sight within that cavernous abyss ¡ªa single, impossibly large needle, gleaming with ominous intent. It was rusty and stained with a sickly brown hue, the tarnished surface evoking the memories of syringes used and reused multiple times. A visage he was far too accustomed to, for such evil tools had littered his bathroom waste bin on more occasions that he cared to recall. Brennan¡¯s eyes narrowed as they fixed upon the abominable proboscis, taking in the true form waiting at the end of Needle¡¯s promises. A thick, viscous liquid oozed from the tip of the pointed sharp edge, a ghostly iridescent purple fluid that seemed to pulse with an unnatural, eerie glow, as mesmerizing and repugnant in equal measure. Each droplet that trickled down carried a pungent aroma ¡ªa sickly sweet scent intertwined with undertones of vinegar and decomposition. He couldn¡¯t fathom what such an abominable substance would do to his system once it invaded his body, but he diverted his thoughts elsewhere by force. Beverly¡¯s lifeless form remained sprawled there as a shell devoid of the vivacity that once graced her features. A pang of remorse cut through the resignation that had enveloped Brennan¡¯s mind, and he bid her a silent farewell ¡ªa final, wordless apology for all the mistakes that led him to this point of no return. The acute pain of Needle¡¯s proboscis piercing his flesh caused him to clench his fist tightly. With a gentleness that belied its abundant malevolence, however, the monstrous creature guided the tip to puncture one of the countless and messy injection marks that marred Brennan¡¯s forearm. But no prior experience could have prepared him for the myriad of sensations that followed. It was like an alien presence, viscous and palpable, igniting his veins ablaze from within as it gnawed and corroded the tissue walls around it, displacing his blood in a needy race to surge through his system and contaminate every corner it could reach. Brennan groaned through gritted teeth, tensing his muscles as he tried to withstand the initial agony. It felt as though his body was being dissolved from the inside out, every fiber in the path of the foreign substance undergoing an abnormal, excruciating metastasis. Through the haze that distilled his consciousness amidst the torment, brief shocks of lucidity punctuated the madness, scattered moments of clarity that allowed him to hear Needle''s rasping laughter echoing in the background. The sound seemed to dilate and expand, blending dread and comfort into a dissonant harmony that reverberated through his very being. This was his deliverance, the blanket of oblivion he so desperately sought after. As the unholy communion between Brennan and Needle continued, the last remnants of his former self began slipping away, bit by bit. The boundaries of his consciousness and the realm beyond blurred, reality itself melting within the distorting corruption. Colors and shapes bled into one another, the edges of the world fraying and unraveling before his mind¡¯s eye. His hold on the linear progression of time became warped, each moment simultaneously and an eternity and a mere flash, collapsing into an ephemeral perpetuity. He was adrift in a sea of sensory overload, a kaleidoscope full of sounds vivid in colors, and sensations enraptured with melodies that defied plausibility. Pain and fright were just distant memories of the past, his identity being rewritten as he became one with the cosmos, touching the very essence of ecstatic divinity. Guilt? Remorse? All such mortal constraints evaporated in an instant, replaced by a sense of complete enlightenment, and the freedom that accompanied it. None of those trifling emotions held any power over him anymore, mere echoes of a life he had transcended. He was calm and joyful, swimming on the vast currents of the interwoven universe, his consciousness a mere vessel for the higher forces that now communed with him. He laughed, he danced, and he orgasmed ¡ªHow many times? Who cared to count? Like emerging from a chrysalis after a long metamorphosis, his eyes were alight with euphoric insight. There was only the shared hunger, the primal craving that could only be sated by fulfilling Needle¡¯s demands, now unlocked for him to understand and conduit, beyond trivial matters like madness or sanity. Inside the vibrant cosmos that dressed him, a feast was served to both him and Needle, one composed of the dismembered remains of his former self, mirrored within the features of a mortal girlfriend now rendered completely irrelevant. It was as though neither of them were human anymore, unworthy of consideration for his superior cognizance. Those flesh constructs were nothing more than stepping stones, one of the many sacrifices he was willing to make in pursuit of completion and perfection. Needle extended an invitation for him to enter its church of decadence and fornication, one he accepted with the grace of nobles and royalty, as they feasted together in degeneracy. For in that fleeting moment, Brennan Palisade was no longer ¡ªthere was only bliss, tearing, hacking and slashing. He could rip everything apart with his teeth and bare fingers alone. It was easy, he was strong. It felt good. And so he ate, gorging upon godhood itself. Anesthesia -Part 3- It was a hungover the likes he had never experienced before. Just saying that he was suffering from dehydration and a throbbing headache would be a ridiculously gross understatement. This was akin to every cell in his body initiating a revolution against him, screaming out in anguished unison. He was experiencing a primordial, chemical sense of instability ¡ªas if he was being forcibly caged back into a vessel of flesh and bones after being allowed to taste an encompassing spiritual release. His skin felt tight, constraining, his soul too vast to be contained by boundaries any longer. An incessant buzzing in his ears and behind his eyes made the world seem to undulate around him, tastes and smells assaulting his senses completely out of context ¡ªthe metallic tang of pennies clashing with the saccharine aroma of decaying flowers. How long had it taken to gather enough strength to rise from the floor? He didn¡¯t count. It could¡¯ve easily been hours, if not almost the entirety of the day. His phone had awakened him from incessant ringing multiple times, but its battery had long since run dry, leaving him in the silent penumbra as the sun disappeared in the horizon once again. Dragging himself up from an unspecified layer of grime on the floor, composed of brownish and reddish tinctures he didn¡¯t feel like deciphering at the moment, Brennan stumbled a couple of times before finding support on a nearby wall. Just what HAD he done last night? Flashes of cerebral delirium and physical transcendence made him clench his teeth as he fought a roiling nausea, squeezing his eyes shut and focusing on putting one foot in front of the other towards the bathroom. His stomach felt heavy, still full from who knew what; and his clothes were all tattered and torn, exposing most of his skin ¡ªwhich was covered with a gooey substance clinging to him like a secondary skin. Stumbling against the bathroom door frame, his trembling legs threatening to give way beneath at any time, Brennan finally made his way to a water source, and by consequence, also a mirror. The sight that greeted him back was one of utter dereliction ¡ªa haunting reflection of depths plunged yet not remembered. His typically unruly bird¡¯s nest of brown curls was matted and tangled, streaked with viscous strands of drying bile and coagulated blood, giving him the appearance of a feral creature more than a man. Sunken cheeks only accentuated the sickly pallor of his skin, even paler than usual, as if any remnants of life had been leeched from him. Beneath the perpetually half-lidded brown eyes, dark circles and hollows made him look like a walking corpse. Sure, he was already lanky to begin with, his frame boring the vestiges of someone not yet entirely grown into adulthood, but the juts of bone peeking under the ripped holes of his vintage band t-shirt were even more frail looking than usual. Yet the catalogue of unsettling anomalies didn¡¯t end there either. Furrowing his brow, Brennan leaned in closer to the mirror, unsure of what to make of a jarring detail that stood out in his face like a sore thumb. One of his lip piercings had been somehow¡­ displaced, the metal ring now embedded in a superficial hole below its spot, as it if had been ripped through the flesh in a violent frenzy. The surrounding tissue, however, had already scabbed over in a thick, twisted line, seemingly¡­ Healed? Despite how recently it must have occurred, the wound had been cauterized by some unknown force, leaving behind only an echo of mutilation. With a weary sigh, he handled the blackened iron piercing with his uneven pulse, extracting it from the skin over his chin. He then proceeded to assess the damage done on his clothes, which appeared even more desecrated than his body. Unable to bear the repulsion evoked by the unspeakable yellow and viscous chunks of fluid lingering upon him, Brennan slid out of his torn jeans, only to discover a deep crimson stain in the groin area of his boxers. Panic seized his throat in an instinctive reaction as he fumbled at the waistband, peeling back all the remaining layers of fabric to reveal¡­ only smooth, unblemished flesh beneath. He was completely unharmed, despite the visceral evidence of the contrary. Standing there, naked in the bathroom and Adam¡¯s apple bobbing, Brennan was left just to ponder. What kind of insanity had he committed the previous night to leave him like this? All of the memories he retained made even less sense under the cold light of his bathroom. He needed to retrace his steps, piece everything together. It had all begun after he had given permission to pierce his arms to that thing¡­ ¡­ What was its name again? ¡°Oh, Brennan, please. I don¡¯t want to see you naked.¡± Needle¡¯s resonant tones pierced his jumbled up thoughts, a ray of clarity amidst confusion. ¡°Put on some clothes for decency¡¯s sake.¡± He made a sharp turn from his position to quickly face the direction of the deep and melodic voice, and there it was ¡ªthat same demonic cricket, its elongated limbs unfolding from the bathtub as it materialized from thin air. He was sure it hadn¡¯t been there moments ago. ¡°You!¡± Brennan pointed an accusing finger at the creature, ignoring its admonition about clothing. ¡°You said it would all be fine if I let you do as you pleased!¡± ¡°Yes, I did.¡± Needle regarded him with its horridly humane black eyes, an amused tilt to its gentlemanly manners. ¡°And where is the fault in that? Somehow it isn¡¯t?¡± ¡°Excuse me!?¡± The refined lilt in its voice only served to infuriate him further. He flung his arms out, gesturing to his tattered clothes and the streaks of filth coating his body. ¡°What part of any of this is ¡®fine¡¯ to you?!¡± One of Needle¡¯s spindly appendages waved dismissively as he chuckled to itself in a low, grating sound. Every motion coursing through it from the gesture made its engorged abdomen palpitate in an unpleasant fashion. ¡°But you seemed like you were having the time of your life last night.¡± >> ¡°You didn¡¯t, Brennan-boy?¡± The tormented young man opened his mouth to retort, but he found himself frozen in an anguished pause. The recollections trickled back in ¡ªthe sensations of utter euphoria and physical transcendence unlike any high he¡¯d ever experienced before. For fleeting as it was, he had been more than mere flesh, more than a mortal man. Needle wasn¡¯t mistaken; it had been a bliss beyond words, a complete uncaging of the self. Brennan¡¯s skin prickled with the ghost of that freedom, already starting to feel pangs, craving for it again yet trying his best to resist. ¡°I¡­ No¡­ I don¡¯t mean that.¡± Brennan meekly responded, at least until he tried to fill his chest with air once more to appear larger than he truly was. ¡°But you still tricked me! Ending like this isn¡¯t what I wanted!¡± ¡°Oh¡­ Isn¡¯t that easy?¡± Needle¡¯s tone shifted tensely, becoming insidious and accusatory. Its words sliced through the air like a razor, leaving Brennan''s lower lip quivering in fear. ¡°You do things and then you shift blame onto others.¡± >> ¡°Much like you did with Moxie.¡± How or why that monster knew of his dog were questions he couldn¡¯t even afford to ask, as the sins he had tried to bury deep came back to haunt him. No matter how many years passed, the memories remained seared in his mind ¡ªMoxie panting in the backyard on that rueful summer when Brennan had decided to play with the neighboring kids rather than caring for his pet. And the eventual acrid stench of Moxie¡¯s decaying after he finally found out¡­ The relentless heat having finally taken its toll. All because of his own negligence. ¡°Shut up!¡± Brennan lashed out, frantically sweeping the contents of the bathroom sink onto the floor, refusing to acknowledge Needle¡¯s cutting truths. ¡°That¡¯s not the same thing! And I was just a kid back then!¡± His parents and the vets were in the wrong when they pinned the blame squarely on his young shoulders. He wasn¡¯t playing the victim, he wasn¡¯t trying to make excuses. Yet, despite his protests, the disappointed scowl etched onto his father''s face and the worried, pinched expression worn by his mother still flashed vividly in his mind, refusing to leave him alone. ¡°It was too much for a child?¡± Needle pressed, its word dripping with venom as it tore through Brennan¡¯s turmoil. ¡°That¡¯s the narrative you weave for yourself, is it not? Do you not grow weary of the charade?¡± The creature''s elongated limbs unfurled from the bathtub, its movements deliberate and menacing as it continued its relentless assault. ¡°It¡¯s the same tiresome act you performed after the tragic loss of dear Beverly. The same sorry defense you¡¯ve clung to ever since, never taking accountability for anything or anyone, not even for the voices inside your head that are aware of all your faults.¡± >> ¡°That¡¯s the path of least resistance, right? To disengage, to allow entropy take its course while you drift through life, unattached and unaffected, leaving only misery in your wake.¡± His legs, already wobbly from the start, gave out until he crumpled to the cold tile floor, his shoulders hunched in defeat. He raised his gaze towards Needle, hoping the monstrous creature could offer some twisted path of redemption like last time¡­ But only more condemnation rained down upon him. ¡°Do you realize now, Brennan-boy?¡± It sneered at him. ¡°You kept on resenting poor Moxie even after his demise¡­ In the same way that you hated dear Beverly for not playing along with your act.¡± >> ¡°You ruin everything you touch, so why not simply¡­¡± Needle¡¯s coup de grace was interrupted by a loud banging on the apartment¡¯s main door, followed by a familiar voice calling out. It made the demonic cricket recoil, its eyes narrowing with visible frustration at having its monologue cut short. ¡°Brennan!? Bev!? You guys in there!?¡± It was Oscar. His closest friend since high school ¡ªthe one person he could always confide in, the one who could offer different perspectives and alternatives to his doomsday scenarios. The same guy who had first introduced Brennan to the warmth of alcohol and drugs, igniting a spark within him that yearned for the same unfettered existence. Oscar was the older big brother he never had, the one he admired for his free spirit and hoped to emulate, even if just a little. Oscar had now become an unwitting escape route, his get-out-of-jail-free card away from Needle''s incessant assault. With a glimmer of hope in his eyes, he scrambled to pull on a pair of discarded jeans from the laundry tray, his movements frantic yet purposeful. He had to get away from the monster, had to find solace in the company of his friend, only then would things start looking up. Breathing heavily, Brennan prepared to move away from the bathroom, steeling himself to open the door and let Oscar in. ¡°That is a very bad idea, Brennan-boy.¡± The sound of Needle¡¯s voice so close to his ear made him flinch. The monstrous cricket had landed on his shoulder as if it were the most natural perch ¡ªits weightless form far too close for comfort. ¡°You don¡¯t want to let anyone in here.¡± Certainly, those were nothing but lies, the same type that Needle has been spewing ever since disgracing his life with its presence. A sickening mind game, or a ploy to isolate him further from the outside world. Moreover, he couldn¡¯t ignore the loud bangs growing more insistent by the moment ¡ªOscar was a muscular and strong guy, it wouldn¡¯t be outlandish for him to try and break the door down if he didn¡¯t answer soon. Only to pull up short in all of those thoughts, a strangled sound catching in his throat once he finally turned into the living room once again. It was a like a grotesque parody of a flower in full bloom, laying there in a tangle of bloodied hair, butchered flesh and shards of bone amidst the detritus. The corpse was so desecrated that he couldn¡¯t tell if it was human or animal remains anymore ¡ªif only he didn¡¯t knew her beforehand. Beverly¡¯s lifeless body was splayed out like a gruesome eruption, flayed chunks of meat torn from her structure and strewn about like macabre petals. Her skull had been pried open at some point, the delicate matter of her brain scooped out and mostly missing, barring some scattered chunks sticking to the floor like smeared fat. Dried crimson streaked every surface his eyes landed upon, creating sticky darkened pools on the hardwood and soaking into the cushions. Realizing that she was incomplete, the fullness in his stomach that he had tried to ignore before suddenly felt not only purposeful, but also heartrendingly disturbing. He clamped a hand over his mouth to keep the rising bile contained from spilling over, all of the pieces landing together despite his desperate attempts to push them apart in denial. Brennan fought back the urge to scream, not wanting to alert Oscar to the horrors that awaited within the apartment¡¯s walls. Sadly, as he took a stumbling step away from Beverly¡¯s mutilated corpse, his foot ended up stepping on a severed hand, and he went crashing to the floor with a dull thud ¡ªall attempts at silence rendered useless. Before the impact, Needle launched itself from Brennan''s shoulder, its elongated limbs gracefully landing on the blood-soaked coffee table. The creature''s movements were almost mocking, taunting Brennan with its effortless poise amidst the carnage. ¡°Brennan? Hello?¡± Oscar¡¯s muffled voice carried through the door, angered and concerned. ¡°I know someone¡¯s in there, man. Open up!¡± There was a tense pause as Brennan remained unmoving, punctuated solely by panicked gasps for air. It was a barrier too thin that he relied on to separate his life from total collapse. ¡°All right, that¡¯s it. I¡¯m calling the cops!¡± Needle''s bulbous eyes bored into Brennan with smug satisfaction, like it knew this reckoning was inevitable ¡ªanother step of a plan masterfully orchestrated. It was only a matter of time before he caved completely to the weight of his actions, to the brutal reality he could no longer avoid. Brennan wanted to cry out, to beg Oscar for help in escaping this waking nightmare¡­ But where to even begin explaining? What kind of spoken language would serve to convey that it was his sister¡¯s mutilated corpse what decorated his living room in a morbid exhibition of viscera and bone? As the sounds made on the other side of the door faded, probably as a temporary retrieve before much more chaos ensued, Brennan was left alone once more, surrounded only by the hellish aftermath. There was nowhere to run, no one to plead to for salvation¡­ Except¡­ ¡°Needle¡­ Please¡­¡± Curling inwards, Brennan began to weep, calling out to the monster¡¯s shadow looming over his head. ¡°Fix me up¡­ One more time.¡± >> ¡°Make everything pleasant again.¡± Another quietude fell over the room as Needle seemed to savor his utter surrender. The monstrous cricket had him eating from the palm of its segmented hand, and the two of them knew it. ¡°Of course I¡¯ll help you, Brennan-boy. I¡¯m your only true friend, after all.¡± It finally quipped, its tone mockingly paternal. ¡°But remember¡­¡± It nodded towards Beverly¡¯s desecrated remains. ¡°Last night was a one-time deal.¡± >> ¡°Your dead girlfriend here has nothing of value to me henceforth. If you want another dose¡­¡± >> ¡°Then you¡¯ll have to do exactly as I say from now on. No questions, no hesitations.¡± Brennan didn¡¯t even pause to consider. His hands were shaking, his whole trembling from withdrawal from the sublime escape he¡¯d tasted. He needed that blissful release more than oxygen now, his escalating despair demanded it. ¡°Yes.¡± He hated how pathetic and broken he sounded, but there was no helping it now. ¡°Anything. I¡¯ll do anything¡­¡± >> ¡°Just¡­ Don¡¯t leave me alone with all of this.¡± Needle''s eyes gleamed with sadistic approval as it drew nearer to him. Brennan knew his task before it was even demanded, tightening his right hand into a fist as he extended his bare arm, ready for the toxin to flow through his veins once more. ¡°Then, let¡¯s get to it, shall we?¡± Whether it was the chemical composition of his body having changed in a short period of time, or simply because Needle administered a more subtle dose into his system, the sweet euphoria blooming through his veins this time didn¡¯t feel quite as all-consuming or incapacitating as before. Brennan could still retain some tenuous grasp on reality, allowing him to navigate the real world with still dazed, yet conscious eyes. With Needle climbing onto his shoulder again, whispering guidance that Brennan didn¡¯t even think to question, he just focused on chasing that blissful high, letting it numb him of worries, horrors and anxieties. On the monstrous cricket insistence, Brennan crossed to the apartment¡¯s window and threw it open, inviting the cool night air to caress his frame. He climbed out onto the exterior ledge with fluid grace, deftly shimmying up the building¡¯s veranda in effortless acrobatic motions that defied human capabilities. Fear of falling would have normally gripped him, yet he remained utterly unaware of such trivial concepts like gravity or danger. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. He leapt from building to building, his bare feet pale against the rough concrete yet undaunted by the dizzying heights. His focus had narrowed to simple pleasures ¡ªthe crisp breeze ghosting over his naked torso, the solidity of the rooftops as he stepped upon them, and the glorious absence of thought or responsibility. For however long that bliss lasted, he was unshackled from the confines of his pathetic mortal form. Embracing his re-found transcendent freedom, Brennan surrendered fully to Needle¡¯s lead as they traversed across the city skyline in an inhuman display, leaving only impossible footprints behind. Beverly, Oscar, parents, his studies and the past. All of them mere names and matters he chose to leave behind, receding into the horizon just like the building he had been calling home until now. It was rebirth, shedding the shackles of his former life like a serpent would do so with its skin. There was a million of shimmering possibilities, half-formed wishes and obscene dreams yet unknown to him but soon to be realized. His trail was one of gleeful uncertainty, a journey with no defined destination save for the next thrill or pretty sight to enrapture his senses with. One or two times, he stumbled, crashing through unclear obstacles in a strepitous disaster that should by all means have left his bones shattered. Yet not even a military missile could pierce the heavy steel casing of his euphoric high. He simply picked himself up and marched on, recovering without effort. Flashing lights from ambulances and police cars painted his name across the night sky, fleeting iridescent streaks that branded Cretierfield as his own personal playground. He moved through the blinding chaos until finding his sanctuary in the basement of a nightclub, a ghost amidst the churning mass and the background neon strobes ¡ªa supernova out of phase with their base reality. Surrounded by the faceless crowd and bass pulsations, Brennan felt like freedom given breath, like the insatiable hunger that drove the universe ever outward into unexplored infinities. Voices drowned by the thunderous music, petty human concerns held no sway over him ¡ªhe could afford to be unaware, to let their fleeting dramas play out without consequence. They could all retain their shapeless form for all he cared, their vapid existences beneath his lofty contempt¡­ At least until suddenly, one indistinct figure coalesced into something more¡­ Lovely. Petals of crimson satin, flushed with inner light like a wildflower in full bloom. There was an intoxicating perfume mixing in with all the sweat ¡ªthe scent of warm flesh and sin. ¡°Don¡¯t you seem like a fun one?¡± The silken voice was a velvety caress against to his ears as the rosy apparition danced closer, feminine curves grazing his naked torso in tantalizing delight. ¡°Mind if I cuff you for tonight?¡± ¡°I¡­ I can''t wait...¡± Brennan trembled amidst pants and gasps from all the adrenaline coursing through his veins. ¡°I want your petals to water my garden in blood.¡± The feverish words tasted foreign on his tongue. Were they murmurs induced by Needle¡¯s suggestions, or his own depraved desires given voice? ¡°Please¡­ Be my rose...¡± ¡°You¡¯re really fucking wasted, aren¡¯t you?¡± A silky laugh escaped the rose-woman''s lips, amused and intrigued. ¡°We get your type all the time in here. It¡¯s what makes the Pixipoint Club such fun.¡± Statement that was punctuated by a downwards trail performed by her delicate hands, fingers wrapping around the fabric over his crotch with hungry need. The spike of physical sensations was barely felt through Brennan¡¯s drug-addled numbness, for other possibilities altogether were the ones igniting his cravings. Beyond her awareness, this living rose was temptation incarnate, daring him to indulge in raw, brutal desires. To force her flora to unfurl in crimson ecstasy, to scatter the petals of her flesh across the writhing dance floor. Lowering his mouth to the juncture of her neck, Brennan inhaled the heady fragrance of her perfume, further unraveling himself in her. ¡°That¡¯s it, Brennan.¡± Cutting through the haze, Needle¡¯s voice resounded inside his mind as the monstrous creature crawled from his body and onto hers, position itself on the back of her shoulders. Perhaps he would have been revolted by its form under normal circumstances, but right now¡­ Brennan was past caring about its abysmal silhouette. ¡°Keep her that way¡­ Close and vulnerable.¡± Like a bee drawn to nectar, any self-restraint he could¡¯ve possessed dissolved in the sweet warmth of this nebulous girl, as she melted against him when their limbs intertwined, fevered and pliant beneath his wandering hands. His tongue explored the thrumming pulse just beneath the satin skin on the nape of her neck, and Brennan felt like he could practically taste her lifeblood, so close and so inviting. It was just too exquisite to resist. In one savage motion, his teeth sank deep into her tender flesh. The girl¡¯s breath hitched in a gasp of surprise, and immediately afters, nails raked harsh lines down Brennan¡¯s back as her body tried and fail to put distance between them ¡ªthe pain only inflaming his ardor even further. A guttural groan vibrated up from his chest as hot arterial spray painted his tongue. Her sweet blood was ambrosia, a forbidden fruit from the garden he now defiled with rabid abandon. It trickled down his chest like a nurturing rain, embracing him as a lover¡¯s caress. Vaguely, Brennan registered shouts and screams from the crowd as his atrocity became hard too horrific to ignore. Hands clawed at him, trying to tear him away from the bleeding rose he clutched possessively. Grinning, his teeth peeled back from the bloodstained neck as entire chunks of tissue were ripped by his savage motions, exposing the pulsing artery beneath. She was his prey, and he would let no one steal what was his, not until every petal had been plucked and consumed. The tumult surrounding Brennan intensified into a seething mob of flailing limbs and strident protests. Fists and feet collided against his body multiple times, but in his stupor, he only registered them as little more than whispers when compared to the discordant symphony he created and unfolded. All that mattered was the way in which meat yielded to the insistence of his caving fingers¡­ That, and the refined chuckle of Needle reverberating through the fog. ¡°Brennan-boy¡­ You¡¯re such an impatient fool.¡± The cricket¡¯s tone held a mocking disapproval, yet it was clear that it too was drinking from the escalating pandemonium with a glee akin to his own. ¡°You need to cultivate your patience, my dear lad.¡± Patience? Such an abstract concept, completely lost to Brennan as his entire being was consumed by a frantic surrender to impulse. The frenzy of violence became an outlet, a way for his body to catalyze that carnal high into a tangible medium. With each vicious tear of limbs and snaps of bone between his savage hands, he experienced fleeting instants of the sublime. He wasn¡¯t sure when he had moved on from the rose-woman¡¯s form after tearing her asunder, diving into the butchery with wild efficiency. The screams replaced the music to conform a chaotic chorus, fueling delirium as he transformed into the eye of a storm. Rapid pants flowed through his system like a bellows stoking the inferno, breathing in destruction through the lens of distorted perception. This was his baptism by fire¡­ And it was so fucking glorious. Brennan threw his head back, his mouth open in a feral smile of sheer pleasure. Only Needle¡¯s crisp, refined laughter was capable of piercing his euphoria, but rather than stop him, it egged him on to discard every last vestige of restraint ¡ªits own mouth full in their shared feast. At least until his entire surreal ecstasy screeched into a jarring halt, as if the entire world had slammed the brakes on him. One moment he was the vortex of the hurricane, and the next he was being viciously launched backwards ¡ªable to interpret only half of the brutal force that collided with his body. He crashed through the rickety structure of what must have been the nightclub¡¯s stage, jagged wood and twisted metal tangling with his limbs. He groaned in profound agony, as a wave of pain he had believed himself impervious to washed through him, rupturing against the shores of his awareness. The living purple hues of Needle¡¯s poison ebbed inside his veins like a retreating tide, leaving him disoriented and half-broken to the cruel confines of reality once more. Every breath was a labored rasp in his ravaged chest, struggling and failing to rise from the rubble, his arms giving out from under him ¡ªhis weight far too much for his dislocated joints to support. ¡°Rise and shine, Brennan-boy.¡± Needle¡¯s voice sliced through his faded consciousness ¡ªsharp, unwavering, and uncharacteristically serious. The cricket crept into his view, spindly legs standing by his side as its eyes remained laser-focused on a threat still out of view, appraising it with cautious tension. ¡°I¡¯m going to require your complete faculties for what lies ahead.¡± Despite his battered state, the words chilled Brennan like a bucket of freezing water. He dragged himself to sit upright as his body reformed itself haphazardly under protesting wheezes of suffering, his head swimming as the disorienting fragments of the surroundings slowly assembled into a full shape. The first sensation registered through his skewed senses was the acrid, foul taste coating his mouth. He gagged, struggling to swallow down the piece of¡­ Something meaty and viscous still lodged in his esophagus. Bile burned at the back of his abused throat as he fought against the powerful urge to vomit up the lingering remnants. Finally, hawked up a bloody chunk and spat it aside, gasping for air. It was only then that he could finally ascertain the enormous figure slowly walking closer towards him. He was an immense mountain of a man, his bulky frame composed more of layers of fat than muscle. Grease-stained jeans threatened to split at the seams around his midsection ¡ªthe waistband cutting deep angry grooves into his distended belly. A sleeveless shirt did little to contain the rolls of tan skin and flesh spilling out beneath his filthy biker jacket. ¡°So who the fuck do you think you are, you fucking sonuvabitch?¡± In his forced awareness, Brennan felt like each of this man¡¯s heavy steps made the floor tremble, enraged blue eyes staring at him with practically no humanity left, under a rounded and puffy face, a wiry and unkempt lock beard covering his double chin. Terror lanced through Brennan, cutting through whatever lingering chemical haze to let sheer cold clarity set in. This wasn¡¯t a brad trip or a hallucination, but a very real menace instead. ¡°You mess in my turf! Fuck with my cattle!¡± His words were punctuated by heavy slams of his hands against his chest, rumbling the wild chaos of greasy black hair attempting to stand high on his head, dyed on the tips with deep red hues. ¡°I should fucking dismember you for even rearing your fucking head on my territory!¡± >> ¡°Tell me one good reason I shouldn¡¯t gut you right fucking here.¡± The once vibrant nightclub was in ruins around them. The dance floor and seating areas were now a gallery of shredded bodies and spilled viscera. His own handiwork, Brennan presumed, committed in the throes of his all-consuming frenzy. ¡°Stay still.¡± The monstrous cricket whispered from the shadows of the rubble. Before he could react, he felt the sharp point of its proboscis piercing his back ¡ªa new dose of the toxin flooding his veins. He couldn¡¯t completely suppress a full-body flinch, but only a faint groan was extended from his mouth as his companion¡¯s hypnotic voice overrode the instinct to recoil. ¡°On my cue¡­ You pounce.¡± >> ¡°Do not falter, we are not the prey in this encounter.¡± An exchange that seemed to occur completely outside of the fat punk¡¯s awareness, his meaty hands moving to clench around Brennan¡¯s throat as he ranted. ¡°I know for a fact that no one is stupid enough to walk like this into Tools n¡¯ Corpses territory, not without a death wish.¡± Cold sweat beaded on Brennan¡¯s brow as those dead eyes bored into him. What did he see staring back? Some skinny kid in way over his head? ¡°Are you from Midwich Valley? Did that bastard Ross send you?¡± >> ¡°Are you some kinda fuckin¡¯ kamikaze or something?!¡± Releasing him momentarily, the mountainous and overconfident man seemed to get lost in his own ramblings, his beefy arms crossing as he seemed to ponder upon something. It was a split second of distraction, and enough for Needle¡¯s piercing command to lance through Brennan¡¯s nerves. ¡°Now!¡± With a feral growl, Brennan launched himself ¡ªhis frame employing far more speed and strength than its scrawny composition should be able to. One moment he was sitting down defenseless, and in the next he tried to drive himself into this foul-mouthed stranger with the force of a train itself. The impact from his charge should have been more than enough to blitz through the man where he stood. Brennan was employing even more conscious might than he had when rending human bodies to shred barehanded. Yet somehow, impossibly¡­ This man held his ground. Brennan¡¯s teeth gritted hard enough to produce sound as he slammed into the pile of fat and muscle, being met with an unyielding resistance. The biker¡¯s legs planted themselves firmly, his boots grinding into the nightclub¡¯s floor as he withstood through sheer mass alone. He could feel the corded muscle straining under the layers of flab as the two of them grappled in mutual effort. Only for the man¡¯s mouth to split into a yellowed and crooked grin ¡ªone that made Brennan immediately realize that both him and Needle had been underestimating this new monster. A new presence manifested in the periphery of his vision with a sound like ripping butcher paper. Brennan¡¯s head whipped around just in time to see a hulking, grotesque figure solidifying from the ether itself. This¡­ Thing, appeared composed of various animal carcasses stitched together in a nightmare patchwork of rancid meat and foul ooze. It had a pig¡¯s head, lolling lifelessly atop elongated limbs that ended in meat cleaver appendages. There was no smell, but the image alone was enough to make his nose crinkle. The pig specter violently shifted through the air between him and its partner, a cleaver arm rearing back in a swift motion aimed straight for Brennan¡¯s frame¡­ And then his world was momentarily overtaken by agony. He gasped, soundless, as the uneven blade diced through his abdomen with sickening force, cleaving flesh rather than slicing cleanly. His body hardly had the time to draw blood before he felt himself airborne once again, this time crashing through flimsy wooden tables near the basement¡¯s walls, slumping amidst discarded corpses. Shock cascaded over him, gripping his open wound with trembling hands to prevent his organs from spilling forth, cruelly held completely aware by the dregs of Needle¡¯s toxin swimming in his organism. Through a growing crimson haze, Brennan made out the swagger of his opponent¡¯s lumbering approach, the menacing outlines of the pig-like creature floating behind his back like a grotesque guardian. ¡°That was no regular blow, alright.¡± The self-proclaimed owner of the place kept a cautious distance despite his overzealous bravado, sizing Brennan up with wary eyes. ¡°I see clearly you ain¡¯t no regular human.¡± >> ¡°Not like I didn¡¯t suspect that from the get-go.¡± He added with an ugly sneer. ¡°What? Thought you were the main character or something, you little bitch?¡± >> ¡°Bad news tough guy. You fight like a little kid learning how to walk.¡± ¡®Where was Needle?¡¯ Brennan resentfully asked himself, abandoned by the monstrous cricket in the most crucial time. Had it scuttled off cowardly while he faced this brute alone? ¡°Wait¡­¡± His aggressor seemed to notice something amidst his frantic glances, a glimmer of self-gratification in that mug of his. ¡°How long since you¡¯ve had it?¡± >> ¡°Your Punisher.¡± ¡°Punisher?¡± Brennan managed to ask, releasing some of the pressure from his wounds as he realized the opened flesh had sealed itself, something he¡¯d rather not let this man notice just yet. ¡°Is that what those things are called?¡± He ended up wincing as the brute let out a loud and mocking laugh ¡ªa sound as ugly as the guy that birthed it. ¡°Oh kid, you got no idea the kinda shit you¡¯ve stepped in, do you?¡± He made a motion with his bulbous face towards the pig-creature hovering at his side, his ¡®Punisher¡¯. ¡°Been rolling with Rottgore since before you were born, fucko.¡± >> ¡°And know what? You need to teach these monsters who¡¯s in control. Otherwise, they eat you alive. Heart first.¡± The creature so-called Rottgore let out a disturbing squeal at the punk¡¯s words. Whether it was in defiance or acceptance, Brennan couldn¡¯t decipher. The only thing he knew was that the two of them had a very different relationship from his and Needle¡¯s. ¡°But I dunno if you¡¯ve got what it takes.¡± The brute leveled him with a final look of utter disdain. ¡°You¡¯re just a fresh-faced runt still shittin¡¯ your diapers.¡± >> ¡°Look at you. I bet you¡¯re even waiting for your little babysitter Punisher to swoop in and save your ass, don¡¯t you?¡± The fat punk¡¯s words struck a chord deep within Brennan¡¯s pride, rousing what should¡¯ve been withered long ago, because¡­ Damn it all, the bastard was right ¡ªhe was waiting for Needle to come and save him, just like always expected others to solve his issues. A familiar feeling of helpless resentment welled up, that same frustration he bottled away after the incidents in the past with Moxie, and more recently with Beverly. Brennan hated how easily this disgusting man had him figured out, hated that such a revolting person could so brazenly mock him. But more than anything, he reviled the truth behind those cutting insults. He had already allowed Needle to say whatever the hell it wanted before. This random guy? No matter how strong he thought he was, Brennan vowed to force-feed every one of those demeaning words back. Savagery exploded once more from Brennan¡¯s chest as sheer defiance took control of his body. It wasn¡¯t something born out of any desire for self-improvement, nor any other misconceived higher moral standpoint. It was a simple and petulant refusal to accept his weaknesses being so crudely stated by a stranger. If this was to be his deathbed, then he¡¯d rather go out in a blaze of useless self-destruction instead of a pathetic whimper. With that goal, Brennan dredged up every last searing drop of Needle¡¯s toxin clawing through his veins, harnessing its unnatural power in one final, desperate burst. He launched himself at the punk¡¯s direction once more ¡ªlacking any semblance of strategy or even much thought; just rage and reckless abandon fueling his attack. Rottgore swept in to intercept him, cleavers slashing in a horizontal arc that would bisect a normal man with ease. But Brennan was already twisting with inhuman reflexes, retreating in millimetric precision to avoid the swinging blades as the beast interrupted his advance. Frustration continued to build as his reckless charge was cut short time and time again. With the pig-beast insisting on shielding its partner, the cleaver appendages were swung every time Brennan tried to close the distance, each lunge avoided by a hair¡¯s breadth. Well¡­ If that fat fucker wanted to hide behind his monstrous bodyguard, then so be it. He simply needed to batter his way through the abomination first. He feinted left, allowing one of Rottgore¡¯s slashes to whistle past before whipping back with a vicious overhand haymaker. Brennan poured every last ounce of his phantasmagorical strength into the blow, feeling his knuckles connect with a sickening crunch. The pig-creature¡¯s head whipped sideways with the force of the impact. For one delirious moment, Brennan thought he¡¯d shattered the beast¡¯s skull entirely, but Rottgore merely shook itself and turned its dead eyes back towards him, undeterred. ¡°Nice shot, runt!¡± A mocking laughter grated on Brennan¡¯s nerves. ¡±But there ain¡¯t no way you¡¯re winning with punches alo¡ª¡° But Brennan had no intention to let either of them get the last laugh. Whatever insult that was forthcoming died on the brute¡¯s lips as his expression morphed into one of surprise, the young man raining an onslaught upon Rottgore by repeatedly slamming his fists into its grotesque form until reducing it to the floor in a crazed frenzy. Each blow landed with a meaty thud, rending flesh as Brennan unleashed the full force of his drug-fueled rage. He was sure he heard cries of pain along the way, but everything was drowned out by the his own roars of exertion, knuckles splitting and bleeding as he made his damn best effort of pummeling the creature. However, before he could reduce it to a rough, pulpy mess, what could only be described as chain of viscera and spinal cords whipped and coiled around his throat, yanking him forward with brutal force. The punk bastard had woven the nightmarish bindings from the corpses littering the basement, using Brennan¡¯s distraction to regain the upper hand. He choked and sputtered, clawing at the slimy chain tightening around his neck. Spikes of bone pierced his skin, growing unnaturally from the segmented vertebrae as they pressed constricted him. They were a strong indicator that this may very well be an effect akin to Needle¡¯s toxin ¡ªhowever, his restricted air supply, as he was yanked with brutal force once more, left his thoughts half-baked. Rottgore recovered somewhere amidst his struggle, letting out an enraged squeal as it rose on shaky limbs, cleaver-appendages raised high, prepared to mutilate its victim beyond recognition. ¡°Do not maim him! I want him alive!¡± Words loudly spoken that Brennan could barely interpret through the escalating panic and urgency gripping him. In that moment, failing to break free from the flesh-molded confines, resignation fell over his shoulders like a divine judgment. He tried, by whatever suicidal and ultimately useless means he had at his reach. But at the end, he was hopelessly outmatched against the synergy that his opponents held over him in such an abhorrent supernatural power. Perhaps if he and Needle could work together in the same manner¡­ The world grew hazy around the edges as Brennan began slipping towards the abyss. He didn¡¯t even completely feel it when Rottgore¡¯s bulk was slammed into his back like a truck running over him ¡ªhis bones contorting and fracturing under the merciless impact. He had only a distant, dreamlike impression of that bastard stepping into his view ¡ªor rather his boot grinding his face into the floor as Rottgore¡¯s spectral form dissipated in a rancid-looking cloud of mist. ¡°You¡¯re certainly a crazy motherfucker.¡± The larger man grunted, sounding almost impressed despite the remnants of their struggle also being felt on his strained voice. ¡°Never seen anyone fight a Punisher bare-fuckin¡¯-handed like that before.¡± >> ¡°Let it be known that Vardon Hogstead is willing to show you mercy, kid.¡± A series of dull thumps reverberated through Brennan¡¯s shattered form as heavy stomps connected with his skull. ¡°But first¡­¡± Vardon continued, his voice merely wisps on the abyss now. ¡°I gotta make sure I beat some proper respect into ya¡­¡± And then he felt his consciousness slipping away, entirely numbed to both pain and insult as his eyes slid shut. Anesthesia -End- Seemed to be like he was a failure at dying just as much as he was at living. ¡®Tis better to have tried and failed, did one so cruelly say. Well, the adage was pure shit as far as Brennan was concerned, wishing he could spare himself the agony that kept his body from performing even the simplest of movements. Despite how gentle the orange glaze filtering through the windows was, the light still felt like stabbing edges piercing his throbbing skull. Vardon or whoever appeared to have left him in what looked more like an abandoned garage than an actual livable space ¡ªcracked concrete walls surrounding piles of debris and bent metal carcasses amongst tools littering the floor. There air was thick with the stench of mold and rust, teasing his nose and making it difficult to drift back into slumber amidst the discomfort. In such a decadent place, Brennan lay exposed, clad in now tattered jeans alone, his skin coated in a mixture of sweat and dried blood that crusted the denim ¡ªboth his own and that of others. He rested on top of a yellowed and stained small mattress, its springs poking painfully into his back through the complete lack of any lining or padding. A grimy glass jar sat emptied by his side, a reminder of how he had greedily gulped down the stagnant water it once contained. The liquid did little to quench his scorching thirst and even less to subdue the sour taste of misery smothering his senses ¡ªor was that acrid flavor coating the walls of his mouth coming from a much more sinister origin? Left alone to navigate the chaos into which his life had spiraled over during the last couple of days, Brennan couldn¡¯t help but confront the unavoidable. It was far more tempting to play dumb, to blame everything on Needle¡¯s substances, but¡­ Reality was hard to deny, even for someone like him. He had actually been killing people during his frenzies, hadn¡¯t he? And much worse than that ¡ªeating them¡­ And enjoying the process, savoring every bite as he descended deeper into the realms of inhumanity. Perhaps sensing how Brennan''s psyche was about to become completely engulfed by regret and far more sinister thoughts, a familiar voice chimed in to interrupt his self-loath, as the outlines of Needle''s chitinous exoskeleton manifested atop a battered metal drawer. "My, my¡­ Just look where you''ve stumbled into now, you silly boy." the ¡®Punisher¡¯ spoke with condescension, its mandibles clicking as it surveyed their surroundings with disdain. ¡°A real classy accommodation indeed.¡± While Brennan was no longer taken aback by Needle''s otherworldly visage, he held little appreciation for the monstrous creature for reasons far weightier than that mocking, crisp tune it spoke with ¡ªsomething he had already come to expect from the malicious entity. ¡°Just¡­ Piss off, will you?¡± Brennan rasped with a raw throat. ¡°I don¡¯t want to talk with you anymore, you twisted freak.¡± ¡°Hah. Such insolence.¡± Needle scoffed, its piercing bloated eyes glistening with amusement. ¡°Are we really going to play this childish game again, Brennan?¡± >> ¡°Didn¡¯t I make clear already that you and I were irreversibly intertwined, bound together by all of the delicious horrors we¡¯ve wrought together?¡± ¡°You make it sound so goddamn poetic.¡± A hollow chuckle clawed its way from Brennan¡¯s parched lips, although it soon dissolved into a pained groan. ¡°But where did you scurry off to when that fucking brute showed up, huh?¡± >> ¡°Too afraid to face him?¡± "You have to understand, Brennan-boy," Needle dismissively waved away his accusations with an air of casual arrogance, as if it could mend the mistrust fostered by its abandonment through silky words alone. "I''m not suited for barbaric clashes. Combat is simply¡­ Beneath me. I''m not built for such crudities, you see?" Brennan considered offering a rebuttal, but what was the point? The wretched cricket would never admit fault ¡ªthat was just one more repugnant trait the two of them shared. ¡°Then¡­ Be straight with me.¡± He said at last, each word feeling like a shard of glass being spat out. ¡°When I¡¯m under your influence¡­ Do I harm people? Do I kill them?¡± It was a question he dreaded voicing, for even if some delusional part of him still clung to the possibility that it was all merely tricks of Needle''s toxins, he could no longer ignore all the truths clawing at the edges of his consciousness. ¡°How many?¡± Brennan pressed on, dread flowing inside him like a cold sludge. ¡°And have I¡­ Have I been eating them?¡± His questions were met with a trill of laughter that made his skin crawl. ¡°Are you actually serious, Brennan-boy? Playing the fool again, are we? How charmingly decadent.¡± But he refused to be staved off by the creature¡¯s flippant derision, leading Needle to heave an exaggerated sigh of resignation. ¡°One of my gifts is to shield you from such unpleasant musings, my dear boy.¡± >> ¡°To preserve what tattered shreds remain of your fragile psyche, sparing you from the harsh light of the truth and¡­¡± Fury detonated in Brennan''s chest, lending him a sudden surge of vigor that overrode his physical limitations. He lurched upright on the filthy mattress, indignation taking over his features. ¡°That¡¯s not your choice to make!¡± Brennan interrupted Needle from speaking any further with a shout and a finger pointed at the creature with surprising ferocity. ¡°I can¡¯t just keep blundering along while you keep me in the dark about everything!¡± >> ¡°I have a right to know the truth!¡± Needle seemed to weigh his rare burst of defiance for a moment, an unsettling glimmer flickering in its eyes. When it finally spoke, its tone dripped with practiced nonchalance ¡ªa parent humoring the tantrum of a petulant child rather than granting his justified demands an ounce of validity. ¡°You¡¯re a wreck, Brennan.¡± Needle clucked its tongue in a poor imitation of paternal concern. ¡°Why not extend your arm and allow me to alleviate some of that distress? >> ¡°I wasn¡¯t able to properly indulge yesterday, and you did burn through a considerable store of my juice¡­¡± Its gaze glittered with predatory hunger as it raked over the patchwork of puncture markings littering Brennan¡¯s pale flesh. ¡°I must admit, I¡¯m feeling rather¡­ Drained.¡± >> ¡°A fresh infusion would do us both good before we resume where we left off.¡± ¡°No!¡± Brennan recoiled, curling his arm protectively against his bare chest. ¡°I won¡¯t allow it to happen again!¡± ¡°And what, pray tell, do you mean by it?¡± Needle cocked its head in an unsettlingly human-like display of curiosity. ¡°Please, do explain.¡± ¡°The killings!¡± Brennan spat the words like rotten meat caught in his throat. It was only this conviction that momentarily banished the fog of temptation clogging his mind ¡ªhis last bastion of humanity left. ¡°I refuse to enable any longer this¡­ This nightmare!¡± ¡°Oho¡­¡± Was the verbal response born out of Needle¡¯s undisguised smug satisfaction. ¡°For a moment, naive me could have sworn you referred to being drugged." Brennan''s jaw clenched until he could feel his teeth grinding together. The creature had him dead to rights, and they both knew it. No matter how vehemently he might protest, Needle''s dark laughter rang with complete and bitter awareness. ¡°Listen here, Brennan-boy.¡± Needle¡¯s voice took on a sinister timbre, embodying a somber presence that fed upon his desperation. ¡°You don¡¯t get to make choices anymore.¡± >> ¡°From the very moment your twisted soul was linked to me, from the very instant in which you allowed the first drop of my toxin to course through your veins¡­¡± >> ¡°Your fate was irrevocably decided.¡± As Brennan felt his legs faltering once more, Needle leaned in closer, its words now delivered in a hauntingly slow whisper. ¡°You are mine now, Brennan¡± >> ¡°I own every quivering fiber of your pitiful existence.¡± Whether it was fear or rage, or a mixture of both, a tremor lanced through Brennan as a response to Needle¡¯s gloating declaration of complete dominion. He shouldn¡¯t ¡ªcouldn¡¯t simply resign himself to become this wretched thing¡¯s puppet, its plaything to torment as he wished. Summoning his dormant ferocity, Brennan¡¯s hand shot out, snatching up the empty glass jar at his side. He drew his arm back, coiling every ounce of his failing strength to hurl the makeshift projectile directly at Needle¡¯s horrid visage. Yet the Punisher swiftly jumped away, dexterously clinging to a wall with its six spindly legs as he regarded Brennan¡¯s outburst with an amused expression. ¡°Another impotent act of defiance.¡± It was a cruel exchange, doomed to never gain an upper hand to this cruel monster. ¡°I suppose I shouldn¡¯t be too surprised.¡± >> ¡°You feeble humans are all the same, resorting to the basest instincts when dealing with powers and delights beyond your comprehension.¡± >> ¡°I thought you would be different from all the others, Brennan-boy. That you¡¯d be smarter than this. Guess I was mistaken.¡± Despite the relentless duress that strained Brennan¡¯s mental state, something about Needle¡¯s scathing words struck a dissonant chord within him. The creature was being¡­ Contradictory ¡ªbut how exactly? Before he could put his finger on the discrepancy, Needle¡¯s shape rippled and distorted before vanishing before his eyes, its departure most likely prompted by the steel groan of the garage-room door creaking open. A dim wash of grimy orange light filtered in, ushering the silhouette of yet another unknown face into Brennan¡¯s chaotic new existence. ¡°You seem to be in high spirits, all things considered.¡± The newcomer remarked in a sarcastic manner as he stepped into the squalid space. Brennan eyed the intruder warily, understandably cautious of this new cartoon character being added to the cast ¡ªespecially considering his skirmish the night before. His gaze narrowed, scanning the stranger in an attempt to decipher if he posed yet another source of danger amidst the never-relenting turmoil. He was lean and fit, but there was also a noticeable sense of menace radiating from his deceptively slim frame. His hair fell over his angular features, rogue strands of silverish-grey, with long black roots showing at their base, partially covering the dark circles under his sharp eyes. ¡°I¡­¡± Brennan rasped, unsure of what to make of this man¡¯s presence, and his eyes drifting towards the tray he carried, covered with a fancy food dome that hardly seemed fitting considering his overall grungy looks. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, who¡­¡± ¡°Kiel. Kiel Adcar.¡± The man interrupted, hints of arrogance coloring his crisp diction. It wasn¡¯t exactly a welcomed trait, as Brennan already had enough of such self-important characters with Needle alone. ¡°Second in command to the esteemed Vardon Hogstead and his merry band of corpse-crafters.¡± >> ¡°But you can simply call me bro if you feel like it.¡± There was something off-putting about Kiel, if that was even his real name. A disconnect between his apathetic demeanor and the actual words being uttered. He sounded, in all sense of the word, more than just a little bit insane, wavering between nonchalant and manic. ¡°What do you want?¡± Brennan asked, cutting to the chase. He wasn¡¯t there to make friends, much less any sort of bros. ¡°I already got enough of¡­¡± ¡°Varken told me about the number you performed at the Pixipoint.¡± Interrupting him from speaking any further, Kiel¡¯s thin lips twisted in an awkward attempt at an amicable smile that failed to reach his dull brown eyes. ¡°You¡¯re a straight-to-business kinda guy, aren¡¯t you? I can respect that. No need to mince words or play games.¡± >> ¡°So tell me¡­ How familiar are you with the culinary properties that certain body parts hold when extracted from the freshly deceased? After being properly seasoned, of course.¡± ¡°Huh?¡± Brennan¡¯s face contorted in an expression of sheer perplexity, left reeling from Kiel¡¯s accelerated speech. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, what do you mean exact¡­¡± ¡°Right. Varken is the way I call Vardon. You don¡¯t need to worry about that, the guy doesn¡¯t even know what it means.¡± Kiel just kept talking, unfazed by Brennan''s confusion ¡ªprattling on as if entertaining another maniac like him was the highlight of his day. ¡°He¡¯s easy to manipulate and convenient to have around.¡± >> ¡°But that¡¯s not the important part here.¡± In a stilted motion, he did his best attempt to look sophisticated as he removed the steel lid from the tray he had brought with him, presenting a disgusting concoction of a culinary fare, as if it were the most grandiose of displays. A crease furrowed Brennan''s brow as he struggled to process the sheer absurdity unfolding before him. Not that it seemed to matter ¡ªKiel barreled forward with his monologue with a dramatic flourish, disinterested in allowing his audience to interject. ¡°Inviting to embark on a gastronomic escapade to the avant-garde, where the boundaries of artistry refuse to be defined by the mundane, behold ¡ªan extraordinary ode to the virile essence of masculinity itself, lovingly crafted by my own visionary hand.¡± Served upon on a cracked porcelain plate, adorned with other tiny scatters of greenery, and nestled amidst a scattering of innocuous flower petals ensconced in a veil crisp of a nasty-looking golden batter¡­ There laid an unmistakably engorged cock. It was placed right in the middle, presented as some sort of centerpiece to this parody of cuisine ¡ªhopefully, it was a cooked one, but Brennan refused to stare long enough to actually tell. ¡°Tender meat, selected with utmost discernment, accompanied by wild orchid blossoms offering a delicate floral whisper.¡± Kiel carried on, not deterred by Brennan¡¯s slack-jawed revulsion. ¡°Spiced with a hint of saffron-infused sea salt and drizzled with a sauce reminiscent of sun-kissed amber.¡± He inhaled deeply, as if savoring the make-believe aromas he tried and failed to evoke in him. Was he actually proud of this¡­ Atrocity? ¡°The first bite, a revelation. The last, a lingering reverie. My creation beckons the indulgent soul to savor the forbidden, to dive into the sublime.¡± >> ¡°I call this dish¡­ The Freudian Slip.¡± Overtaken by both disgust and a complete and utter lack of words, all Brennan could manage was a strangled sound somewhere between a gag and a disbelieving laugh. Did this depraved lunatic even comprehend the meaning behind the ostentatious words he was using? Perhaps he would have been horrified, but this situation was so outlandish, so ridiculous, that it was almost impossible for him to remain tense. ¡°I apologize, there must have been some sort of mistake.¡± He finally managed to speak, seizing his opportunity as Kiel''s expression soured as an immediate response. ¡°I¡¯m not really into this kind of¡­ Cuisine.¡± There was a weighted pause as disappointment gradually replaced the misguided pride that had previously brightened the face of the deranged chef ¡ªa title Brennan granted him on very loose terms. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. ¡°Pff¡­ No need to say anymore, I get it.¡± Kiel muttered, a ray of hope filling Brennan as the man seemed more dispirited than angered by the rejection. Perhaps he could still level with this guy after all. ¡°You¡¯re just like Varken ¡ªa gluttonous pig.¡± His words carried a strong lace of disdain as he lowered his cursed tray onto the nearby red metal drawer with a clatter. ¡°Where is the joy in eating like a savage in frenzy, when life can offer so much more?¡± A heavy sigh escaped him, paired with a dramatic shake of his head. ¡°It¡¯s sad, I expected to change your ways¡­ But I guess I was stupid. The bite marks you left behind were those of an animal.¡± >> ¡°I had to clean after your mess, you know? Least you could do is show some gratitude.¡± Brennan felt his throat constrict his breathing as the implications of him eating raw human flesh were so casually delivered by Kiel, piercing through the denial he still desperately clung to. His mind immediately tried to retreat, forever perpetuating his attempts to bury the visceral truth. "Alright, stop!" Brennan¡¯s voice cracked for mercy, raising a trembling hand. "Just... Tell me what the hell is any of this!?" Kiel regarded him with an expression of thinly veiled contempt, as if addressing someone particularly slow-witted. "Oh... Yeah, Varken did mention that you probably were a complete rookie. You¡¯re not just knee-deep in it, you¡¯re practically swimming in shit, isn¡¯t that right?¡± >> ¡°I guess it can be daunting to figure out where to begin. Let¡¯s break it down so a retard like you can follow along.¡± As the gray-haired man took a step back, he snapped his fingers in an indolent gesture, the space behind him beginning to distort and ripple like a heat mirage. A ghostly, amorphous figure slowly coalesced ¡ªa swirling vortex of muted dark hues resembling a localized void, devouring any light it touched. Any distinct features within its shape remained obscured and ever-shifting. ¡°You see it, don¡¯t you?¡± Kiel said with a severe look as he nodded at the corrupted space. ¡°This, my ill-informed friend, is a Punisher.¡± >> ¡°Where do they come from, and what do they want? Your guess is as good as mine.¡± He admitted, all of his previous flourishes replaced by a complete lack of regard, as if these otherworldly beings were but a mundanity for him. ¡°They¡¯re all unique, so there¡¯s no point in trying to draw equivalencies between yours and mine. And you can damn well be sure that I won¡¯t be telling you what Silent Room here does.¡± >> ¡°Not before I know if you¡¯re trustworthy enough. >> ¡°In this world you stumbled upon, letting the wrong people know your weaknesses might very well be a fucking death sentence.¡± Brennan¡¯s already unstable mind refused to process everything fully ¡ªit was all just far too bizarre. He could only gape mutely at the amorphous anomaly Kiel had summoned, his understanding not wrapping completely at the way it undulated along the edges of his perception. Luckily for him, the gray-haired thug didn¡¯t seem inclined to allow him the space to formulate any question. He simply resumed his diatribe, clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice. ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong. These things are a bitch to control.¡± Sentence by sentence, Kiel¡¯s flimsy facade of sophistication gave way to crude vulgarity. Another display of an erratic duality from the man before him. ¡°But they can also give you an immense amount of power to wield as you see fit.¡± >> ¡°You¡¯re part of the gang now, which means you better start shaping up. That pissy fit you were throwing at your Punisher when I came in? That shit won¡¯t fly here.¡± As Silent Room disappeared into the same void from where it once erupted, Kiel leaned forward, his voice taking on a sinister timbre as a threat slithered through his words. ¡°Make that fucking thing submit to your will. Keep it in check by any means necessary. Am I making myself clear?¡± Brennan¡¯s shoulder slumped as all of the overwhelming proclamations began sinking his stomach¡­ Yet, there was a fundamental flaw in all of the assumptions being thrown his way. ¡°I¡­ I do appreciate the information, but¡­¡± He began his retort, not even aware of the way his lower lip trembled subconsciously. ¡°I don¡¯t remember ever agreeing to take part in whatever the hell you guys are involved with.¡± Kiel¡¯s reaction was an immediate roll of his eyes and an exasperated sigh. ¡°You have a really thick skull, don¡¯t you?¡± The rhetorical question was paired with a shake of his head. ¡°Do you think you actually have a choice here? Oh, wait¡­¡± He paused as a cruel smile took shape on his lips. ¡°I suppose you do have one to make.¡± >> ¡°You can either light yourself on fire whenever we tell you to, or we can hand you over to the police and let them stick whatever they want up that conceited ass of yours.¡± Moving back, as if there were no more exchanges to be made between them, Kiel¡¯s pale eyes glittered with a mixture of sadism poorly concealed behind the apathy. ¡°These monsters I was telling you about? They don¡¯t just randomly appear for any self-pitying sad sack. You did something, Palisade. Something horrible enough to warrant a Punisher, even before you went feral on our turf.¡± >> ¡°So whatever pathetic boy-scout facade you¡¯re trying to pull off here won¡¯t be fooling anybody. Least of all me.¡± A chill took over Brennan¡¯s core as Kiel¡¯s scathing derision washed over him. Sure, they might not know the full extent of his sins ¡ªnot yet at least; but if they already had his last name, it was only a matter of time. He had left Beverly¡¯s corpse to fester in the abandoned apartment he now could never return to. Whether he liked it or not, he had to accept his new reality as a degenerate member of this wretched underbelly of society. As the grim realization settled like a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach, Brennan¡¯s face sank into the palms of his hands. The heavy groan of the iron door pierced the stifling silence, but Kiel paused on the threshold, seeming to consider his next words carefully. When he finally spoke, there was a tentative undercurrent lacing his previously somber timbre. ¡°Things might look dire now, but it ain¡¯t all over. Be thankful that you fell into our hands and not the dogs from la Medula. With Mr. Ashford around you never quite know for sure, and trust me, those guys are fucking brutal. I know that first hand.¡± >> ¡°So don¡¯t make things harder than they need to be.¡± Was that a hint of empathy bleeding through his usually despondent voice? Was he that pitiable, to make Kiel¡¯s tone soften like that? ¡°Varken might be a swine, but he can handle the cops fine. All you gotta do is get your shit together, y¡¯hear?¡± >> ¡°And eat something while at it, you look like utter shit.¡± >> ¡°That Freudian Slip I made you? I read online that it tastes like Chorizo.¡± Maybe it was his already tenuous grip on reality finally slipping completely, but that parting quip managed to dissipate some his despair ¡ªalthough mostly to ignite another wave of indignant confusion. ¡°Wait a minute¡­¡± Brennan stopped him, jabbing an accusing finger at the proud disembodied erection haunting his periphery. ¡°You mean you haven¡¯t actually eaten this nasty shit before?!¡± Kiel''s eyes narrowed in annoyance, as if Brennan had just asked something tremendously idiotic. ¡°Of course not, you dense fuck.¡± He clapped back with undisguised disdain. ¡°What? Do you think I¡¯m some kinda cannibal psycho like you or Varken?¡± And with that, Kiel turned to slam the door behind him, the resounding clang of the iron reverberating through the decadent resting space. He was now left alone to his own devices, lacking any means to dispose of that nightmarish meal taunting his vicinity. Brennan ended up pondering on Kiel¡¯s words until the sun completely disappeared from the distant skies ¡ªboth the condemning bad, and not-quite-reassuring good. He had nowhere to go, he had no money, he was surrounded by strange and clearly dangerous individuals, and he lacked even a phone or any other means to pass his lengthy hours of confinement. And yet, he found himself clinging to the possibility that not everything was as hopeless as it once seemed. He was alive, wasn¡¯t he? And from what little Kiel had told him, there were others who had learned to thrive despite being haunted by entities similar to Needle. Therein lay the crux ¡ªsetting aside the thug¡¯s ostentatious insanity, a couple of his remarks were left simmering in Brennan¡¯s head, just like that disgusting plate he left behind. He needed to find a way to somehow bend Needle to his will, a task far more easy to propose than to achieve. An anxious itch he couldn¡¯t quite place thrummed beneath his skin as his thirst continued to intensify with every passing minute, aggravating his anxiousness. He felt reluctant to venture from the cold confines of the garage-room, fearful of what fresh horrors might be waiting on its exteriors after finally achieving a frail sense of safety and peace inside the soulless concrete walls. At least this place afforded him a small, questionably sanitary bathroom to slake his dehydration and finally scrub away some of the grime adhered to his skin. Yet he remained oblivious to the way his fingers twitched with unconscious restlessness ¡ªa subtle harbinger of the sinister undercurrents at play beneath his flesh, hungrily seeking for more bliss to be scraped off his veins. Right on cue, as Brennan emerged from the decayed bathroom in the same tattered jeans and a small dirty towel slung haphazardly over his damp curls, Needle had already materialized again. The cricket Punisher was idly prodding the vulgar display of Kiel¡¯s avant-garde culinary eccentricity, seemingly entertained by its absurdity. ¡°That Kiel fellow is a curious one, don¡¯t you think?¡± Needle began, its unsettling presence being one that Brennan still felt reluctant to accept as a constant in his life. ¡°I trust you¡¯re aware his overtures are little more than thinly veiled attempts to deceive and exploit you.¡± >> ¡°You¡¯d do well by discarding his poor excuses for advice as the meaningless rubbish they are.¡± It spoke as if imparting a great wisdom that would be foolish of Brennan to disregard, at least until its eyes swiveled back towards the food. ¡°By the way, are you planning on partaking in this concoction he so lovingly crafted for your sake?¡± There was an undercurrent of smug condescension laced through Needle''s words, a sense that it believed itself to be operating on a higher intellectual plane. Still, the Punisher wasn''t wrong, he was unsure of how much of Kiel¡¯s words to actually take seriously ¡ªbut not like Brennan wasn¡¯t acutely aware of the cricket¡¯s own agenda and its penchant for manipulation. ¡°If you¡¯re so certain of his bad intentions, then why didn¡¯t you bother showing yourself to contradict him?¡± Brennan countered him bitterly, although he also didn¡¯t even want to start considering eating Kiel¡¯s parody of cooking. ¡°I have some dignity left, thanks. Knock yourself out.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve been over this before. I don¡¯t like repeating myself unnecessarily.¡± Needle bluntly cut him off, clasping his mandibles in anticipation. ¡°And don¡¯t mind if I do.¡± In sharp motions, the spectral creature pierced the disembodied member with one of its barbed appendages and hurled over its fanged maw, catching and devouring it with a series of wet, guttural sounds that filled Brennan¡¯s with disgust ¡ªgorging upon the flesh in a gluttonous manner. ¡°Hm¡­ He made it sound as if this Freudian Slip held some semblance of notable qualities.¡± A scoff issued from the back of Needle¡¯s throat as it casually flicked the flower petals and golden batter aside with a disdainful swipe. ¡°Alas, reality is that gastronomy is yet another area in which our tragically deluded friend falls irredeemably short.¡± >> ¡°The exterior was hopelessly over-salted and the core shamefully overcooked. A culinary disgrace, really.¡± While Brennan had limited himself only to stare, caught momentarily in sickened disbelief; Needle¡¯s sardonic critique did give him the fuel to press the Punisher further. ¡°Yeah? You¡¯re a coward, I already figured as much. You fill your disgusting mouth with insults now.¡± He crossed his arms with disapproval, realizing just now how hard it was for him to prevent his nails from sinking in his skin with no conscious provocation. ¡°But you couldn¡¯t be bothered to show your grotesque face until Kiel was gone. Were you that afraid?¡± >> ¡°The truth is that I can¡¯t trust a single word you say, isn¡¯t that right?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be so overly dramatic.¡± Needle laughed at him, grooming the legs recently employed to handle the¡­ fine cuisine. ¡°Are you that threatened by the prospect of me hurting your new boyfriend¡¯s feelings?¡± ¡°Are you serious right now?¡± Brennan couldn¡¯t mask an exasperated scoff to burst forth. ¡°Making childish comments like that? I expect immaturity from those deranged freaks¡­ But you as well?¡± ¡°Oh, you might try to deceive yourself, Brennan-boy.¡± The Punisher smoothly interjected, like if the entirety of its speech were nothing but baits to lure him with. ¡°But that desperate ploy doesn¡¯t work on me.¡± >> ¡°The reason you''re defensive about your dear Kiel is that you¡¯ve found in him yet another poor soul to pathetically cower behind.¡± It fixed his gaze on him with its piercing bloated stare, drinking in the discomfort that left Brennan shivering. ¡°One more feeble attempt to avoid confronting all of your glaring shortcomings, all off your failures as a human being." He opened his mouth, but it was pointless. He didn¡¯t know how to answer, and Needle knew it ¡ªpressing on with his casually cruel cadence. ¡°You¡¯d like that, wouldn¡¯t you? To have someone else call all the shots while you simply play along. Comfortably hidden from judgment, from accountability. From all the consequences and suffering your selfish actions bring forth.¡± The words hung heavy in the stagnated air, they were all accusations he couldn¡¯t deny, worming their way beneath Brennan¡¯s skin which continued to itch uncomfortably. Yet he clenched his jaw, determined to not be swept under Needle¡¯s sinister logic ¡ªhe had to be strong, at least this once. ¡°Then what¡¯s the alternative?¡± He bit out at last, hating how strained his voice sounded under all his quivering. ¡°Relying on you instead? When you¡¯re just as full of lies and manipulation as all of them?¡± ¡°Lies?¡± Needle¡¯s infuriating chuckle reverberated across the closed space. ¡°I¡¯ve never lied to you, my dear boy.¡± >> ¡°Did I not say as much in the past? You and I, we share the same tainted essence. There is no other entity that cares about you more than I do.¡± And there it was again, staring him right in the face. That same ugly contradiction Brennan faintly grasped at earlier, before Kiel¡¯s interruption whisked it away from his mind. It now blazed before him, one decisive bullet to fire against the Punisher. ¡°You¡­ You said something before¡­¡± Brennan tried to recall the exact words Needle used, but his brain was acting alarmingly shaky. A cold sweat was beginning to run down his back, and he wasn¡¯t sure if it was due to fright or not. ¡°Something along the lines that¡­ I was like all the others.¡± >> ¡°If you and I are the same¡­ Then what does that mean?¡± Needle''s mandibles clacked in a display of barely-contained annoyance. It was the first time that it sounded entirely genuine, as he finally escaped the confines of its carefully woven narrative. ¡°Hah¡­ You¡¯re not nearly as bright as you give yourself credit for.¡± It chided with unfiltered resentment, carrying within its voice the promise of a yet unspoken threat ¡ªsomething he didn¡¯t doubt the insect-like Punisher would soon rectify. ¡°Yes, you are correct. You¡¯re not my first host, Brennan.¡± >> ¡°And with the way you insist in carrying on, I very much doubt you¡¯ll be the last.¡± It was a tense standoff, one that he was certain was a pivotal point in their dynamics moving forward. ¡°Is that what you want then? You want me to discard you too?¡± >> ¡°Leave you to wallow in the squalid depths of your rudderless existence?¡± The thought left Brennan both frozen in spot and unsteady on his feet at the same time. To have Needle simply vanish from his life¡­ To never again be subjected to its torment and venomous words¡­ It should have been a hopeful prospect ¡ªa tentative first step back towards the normalcy he believed irrevocably lost. But as he tried to voice this desire, his tongue felt like dead weight under the gravity of what it meant to part ways with Needle''s toxin. It was more than just losing the pain; it was also relinquishing the fleeting moments of liberation, that intense high that momentarily silenced his doubts and made him feel truly alive. ¡°I¡­ No.¡± The admission was practically torn from his throat, as his fist clenched impotently at his sides. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to leave, damn it!¡± >> ¡°But you need to come down from your high horse! Just once, submit to me, you twisted piece of shit!¡± The thunderous peal of Needle''s laughter erupted inside the walls like a physical force, a joy that only unnerved him further. ¡°Didn¡¯t take you for such a skilled comedian, Brennan-boy.¡± Needle sneered as a response. ¡°As if such imbecilic notion could ever come to pass.¡± >> ¡°You¡¯re too weak Brennan. Too cripplingly frail of will and conviction. You will never be able to control me.¡± Its ceaseless baying crashed over Brennan in dizzying waves, each mocking syllable sapping what little fortitude remained as his head pounded with mounting intensity. Second by second, more and more worrying physical sensations began to take insidious root, creeping through his veins in cold ruthlessness. He felt a gnawing ache in his chest, and his mouth felt dry with a thirst that no amount of water could ever satisfy. It was if his very soul was begging in its knees for more of Needle¡¯s toxin, despite knowing full well its potentially destructive effects. ¡°You¡¯ve noticed it already, haven¡¯t you?¡± Needle¡¯s laughter finally subsided, but the cruel tone remained ¡ªits eyes resembling those of a spider savoring the helpless terror of its ensnared prey. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter how fervently you try to ignore it.¡± >> ¡°Your basest strata has already been rewritten to suit my whims, to conform obediently to all of my desires.¡± A sentence cast on the air like a tangible miasma, saturating Brennan¡¯s senses until they blotted out all else. Yes, he could feel it ¡ªthe ravenous craving emerging through his marrow, his muscles, and every agonizing cell crying out for the venomous relief that only Needle could provide. ¡°You cannot live without me, Brennan.¡± >> ¡°And you will surrender everything, mind and body, to do exactly as I command without a single fail.¡± His body was already anguished well past the endurable limits, his resolve hanging by a frayed thread. To resist any further invited a torment he could scarcely fathom¡­ So what choice did he have left? ¡°For the time being, this circus of degenerates you¡¯ve found yourself surrounded by is¡­ convenient enough for my designs.¡± Not even considering the minimal possibility of defiance, Needle continued on with casual indifference. ¡°But you better start working on that pitiful attitude of yours while I give you the chance.¡± As it began dissipating again, it teased him with the rusty malevolence of its barbed proboscis glinting like a holy relic, away from his grasp as his fingers failed to reach its translucent form. ¡°Because I won¡¯t be alleviating your anguish this time, no matter how desperately you grovel on the floor for it.¡± >> ¡°Not until I''m confident you learnt your lesson.¡± Just like that, all of his attempts failed, as they always did. The delusion of autonomy, stripped away. He had no choice but to follow Needle through this labyrinth of broken glass, finding himself in a neighborhood he could no longer escape ¡ªfate sealed, as the convulsions of withdrawal began to overpower him. Punishment IV: Null Absolute PUNISHMENT IV NULL ABSOLUTE No name was given to them. Family was a concept yet to be grasped. Language remained a mystery strictly denied. There was only the eternal march of time under the sun¡¯s merciless and scorching glare, herded around like cattle with other small ones like them. Their pen reeked of human waste, vomit and rotting decay ¡ªthe very ground they trudged through, the soiled earth their bed. The larger ones shoved and clawed for the moldering fruit and gruel scraps thrown carelessly at them by the pale overseers. The weaker ones were trampled or starved, no matter their cries of anguish. Each day¡¯s survival demanded fierceness, a willingness to bite in ferocity if needed. They did not know why they were kept there, only that existence meant constant violence. Mere shadows of the overseers incited instant panic, as all of them scattered before the long lines that flailed viciously, cracking as they sliced through the air. Those taken and chained, usually the larger and stronger, were never seen again ¡ªdisappearing in the horizon aboard towering fortresses that defied the sea surface. Night brought a cold dampness. They huddled together, a mass of trembling flesh atop the filth. The weak ones sometimes smothered beneath. Dawn brought a fleeting reprieve before the heat¡¯s slow return, and with it, the same forms of horror. Wake, hunger, fear, thirst, pain, sleep. The cycle repeated endlessly ¡ªand nothing existed beyond those boundaries, for worse punishments awaited those who tried to escape. Yet even in that abysmal domain, they already differed subtly from the others. While some wailed and keened mindlessly at every fresh torment, they watched with unnerving stillness ¡ªas if they could perceive the ominous undercurrents of darkness lurking just beyond their brutal reality. When rotten fruit scraps were flung, the others descended into a feral maelstrom of grasping hands and snapping jaws. But they waited, unflinching, fascinated by the intangible shapes of misery born and drifting outside the writhing mass of flesh seeking putrid sustenance. Only after the struggle subsided would they calmly retrieve whatever pieces remained trampled into the muck, accepting that meager bounty with the same dispassionate patience. At night, while others shuddered and whimpered through decaying teeth, they lay inscrutable ¡ªpeering inwards at visions concealed behind their hazy, dead eyes. They felt the cloying miasma of suffering saturating the air, seeping into their very beings¡­ But they were unbroken by it, studying its ebb and flow like ocean tides. Both overseers and the others like them took notice. To those eyes, they were unchildren ¡ªa thing outside the natural order. When the sticks rained indiscriminately, they never attempted to evade them, barely reacting to the pain. Blows landed with dull thuds as if against a leather sack, an eerie absence chilling their coarse laughter into nervous murmurs. Unmoved by the torment surrounding them ¡ªwhether shielded by some innate power or madness; their mind remained in distant contemplation, the periodic passage of suns and moons in the skies meant little. All until that morning, in which they herded them as well onto the beach. They could sense the ominous presence in the briny air as they approached the sea fortress, engorged with its profane cargo. Though they¡¯d seen the vile transports from afar before, never had them witnessed one so grotesquely overflowing, birthing forth bodies smaller than their own to walk onto the sands in their replacement. For the first time, a primal dread coiled in their hollow core, compelling them to resist as their turn came to join that somber line. Yet their famished frame proved powerless against the coarse hands binding wrists and ankles. Their defiance earned only violence from the towering pale overseer. Whether it was death or oblivion that awaited beyond the boarding plank, they was forced to embrace it like any other other brutality before. Crossing the threshold onto the heaving deck, a foul fog seeped from the very wood beneath their bare feet, perhaps only to their eyes. Rats, flies and other vermin populated the bloated corpses piled up, empty gazes returning theirs as the bodies awaited their ultimate fate amongst the Stygian depths. This fortress¡­ It was malevolent. A conduit for shades and miseries older and stronger than they were capable of fathoming. It was¡­ A floating tomb. The crew of pale ones bellowed like demons, flailing their weapons as they drove their piteous souls into the sweltering lower decks where even more awaited. Misery compounded upon itself as they were chained and crushed together, naked flesh bruised against deteriorated metal and timber. Air turned to a fetid nebula of sweat, vomit and loosened bowels ¡ªthe stench clinging to the wood even when the dead ones had been previously removed, fated to be thrown on the following legs of this cursed voyage. There was no need for cleanliness or thoroughness. It took mere hours for more to succumb to the suffocating heat and filth of the cramped hold where they were packed, head to feet. During every second of the trip, fear pierced and obliterated their youthful torpor. The distant memories of being trapped in one of these instruments of torment before resurfaced within that mouth of unutterable evil. Why were they made to endure it again? What new nightmares awaited on their final destination? Would the sands ahead prove even more blighted than those left behind? Each passing day was another step down onto a nether hell, seamlessly blending the torments of the living with those of the dead. While their limbs were bony enough for the chains not to grate their skin, others were not so fortunate. The filth-crusted floors fermented with life over the discarded corpses, stirring movement amidst the bodies reduced to cattle, bringing forth cascades of swarming afflictions. Lice, flies and other miasmic parasites laid eggs within the open sores and orifices torn by the tightened shackles embedded under swollen flesh. Periodically, them and the others on the exterior layers were dragged above, forced to either labor, dance or sing for the overseers¡¯ entertainment. For any perceived lack of strength, will, or even sheer sadistic delight, indiscriminate lashes rained down amidst a cacophony of laughter ¡ªas if reveling in torment delighted the pale monsters. It was during such instances that they first tasted grains, rice, dried fish and salted meat ¡ªthe first true meals he could ever recall; accompanied by the anguished but novel singing sounds of their people¡¯s voices. Yet many refused both sustenance and performance, minute acts of rebellion that were met with merciless consequences. They watched ears sliced off, and the defiant being cast living from the floating fortress¡¯ boards after succumbing to either sickness or starvation. In the impervious waters, they joined the ranks of those already dead, their parting souls glimmering faintly before dissipating. Within the hold¡¯s depths, inferno reigned supreme. The endless galling of chains, the groans of the dying, the shrieks of the women, and the sounds of small ones tramped or suffocated in the necessary tubs of murky water ¡ªall the sounds etched themselves anew into their consciousness, never to be forgotten again. Any corporeal sense of time they had left ceased to exist in that floating purgatory. The shadowed whispers beckoned to join them, from a realm their youthful mind could not yet grasp ¡ªan instinctive affinity that promised them understanding over this maleficent world¡¯s true fabric. Perhaps they wouldn¡¯t have mourned death¡­ Was the counter-intuitive notion growing stronger until the pitching and rolling stilled, an inhuman howl rumbling the timbers where their existence carried on against all odds. For when the colossal fortress finally halted, those who could still see were met with fresh obscene grins and new sticks to beat them with, as they were forced to disembark upon a place like nothing they had ever known. Squinting against the harsh glare, they took long moments to process the uncharted surroundings sprawling before them. Strange new scents assaulted their senses ¡ªone unlike the dense, vegetative reek of the pen or the beaches around it; but something drier, sharper, mingling with the still overpowering stench of their rotted cargo. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. In the near distance loomed alien structures, their angular and ornate designs contrasting sharply against the natural curves of the rolling landscape. The sand beneath their feet was different too, giving way to scrubby hillocks punctuated by gnarled bushes and large plants utterly foreign to their limited experience. Amid such drastic change of environment, the putrid reek being carried to their face by the wind grew even fiercer, drawing their gaze to the necrotic putrescence mere meters away. Here and there, bloated corpses in various states of disintegration decorated the shoreline in a grotesque display ¡ªsome stripped of flesh by beaks and claws. Not given the relief of rest, the rude shapes interrupting the skies solidified into an orderly cluster as they were herded closer to them. Elaborate dwellings and larger buildings of blanched wood erected on top of the trails, from where human shapes bustled about in garish attires and heavy boots ¡ªvery different from the sullied white fabrics that kept them from complete nakedness. Across the muffled din of this unusual landscape, raucous shouts erupted as the other fully garbed men traded angry words near the waterline. They understood not their tongue, yet anger and violence required no translation. They seemed to argue with the crew of previous overseers about the festering corpses fouling the beach, or perhaps a tardiness in their arrival? Chaos only continued to intensify as more lavishly dressed pale figures converged from the strange outbuildings, barking harsh orders. Their bellowed commands were punctuated by the crack of leather on exposed flesh as they moved the newly arrived forward, and outside of the baking soil. They were separated into groups ¡ªsome hustled off by their decorated handlers, while others were set upon with buckets and rags. They found themselves shoved into one such cluster, coarse bristles scraping away the caked filth as frigid water sluiced over their weakened body. It was an indescribable shock after the endless broiling torment of the floating fortress¡¯ confines. Some collapsed to the ground, retching and shuddering as months of accumulated toxins and parasites were forcibly purged. Once the meager ritual of cleansing was completed, they were carried to a shaded outbuilding and thrust into troughs brimming with a strange, viscous gruel far richer than anything he could recall. They shoveled the warm prepared meal hungrily by hand, feeling a faint pang as their withered stomach first balked at the nourishment by devouring every piece given to them ¡ªmouthful by mouthful. Sated yet still wet, they were lined up for assessment by bewigged overseers circulating with ledgers. Probing fingers inspected their skin while barked queries determined age and condition. When their eyes met, the leer the pale man turned momentarily befuddled before hardening into resolution. After more indecipherable words, spoken through initially quivering, yet increasingly detached lips, they were separated and manacled once more. An inchoate sense of displacement fell over them as they were brought into a less populated room ¡ªthe intangible fingers of darkness overwhelming every corner as an unnatural heat reached their face. The spectral whispers were stronger there, an ominous chorus of chanting voices that crawled like shivers on their bruised skin ¡ªwere they embracing them, or were they warning them to try and escape? They had evaded this part of the ritual before during previous torments ¡ªbut that would be no more. They led the march, bringing them first while others of their kin, also separated, stood back in preparation; while the hovel¡¯s perfume of smoldering cinders drifted on the air like a set of fangs ready to bite. Forced to their knees, they gripped tightly at whatever stone or dist was in reach, yet their fingers lost all sense as a charred instrument descended upon their right shoulder blade. Its unearthly radiance sent them into an agony unlike any other. Their shrieks carried beyond the outbuilding¡¯s interiors as their flesh was seared, rent and blistered, filling the walls with the smell of cauterized meat. The branding irons carved out their gruesome pattern and symbols into their being as they fell, sobbing and trembling. Drifting in and out of a waking delirium, the sickly-sweet stench of their burnt flesh overwhelmed even the background miasma born from accumulated anguish. Rough hands gripped them under their shoulders, dragging their useless form from the branding pit, and back into the pitiless glare outside. Voices echoed indistinctly around them, muffled by the thunderous ringing in their ears from their own screams, torn from the soul he once thought numb. They were vaguely aware of being propped upright, something warm and viscous forced between their bloodless lips. Bitter, salty fluids dribbled down their chin as their jaws worked mechanically, the mere act of swallowing a trial arduous enough. Whenever their recalcitrance became too burdensome, stinging slaps shocked them into compliance. Blearily cracking their eyelids, they found themselves surrounded by impassive overseers, gesturing for their eating to be doubled under edicts that cared not for their awareness or desires. Their ruined back erupted in molten agony as they were wrenched upright and hustled off once more. Another strange aroma assaulted their senses not long after another intrusive pair of hands moved across their body ¡ªthat of oil and animal fat. Slimy palms glided over their flesh in firm, methodical strokes, slathering every exposed inch. The pungent unguent seeped into their brand¡¯s oozing wounds painfully, aching fiercely before granting a slick, shimmering veneer. The hands didn¡¯t limit themselves to solely cover them in oil, as the sounds of scissors too close to their ears for comfort snipped away as strands of hair fell down to their feet. By the end of that unknown ritual, their entire form gleamed with an obscene luster, wounds and bruises concealed to the best efforts of that glistening facade. Floating in and out of consciousness, they could only watch impassively as strange hands remade their broken vessel into something perversely unblemished. A living trompe l''oeil to be displayed, their grievous suffering veiled behind that decorative veneer of false vitality. It was then that they realized, vacillating in and out of consciousness between that shuddering numbness and the still-present ghosts of pain. They were a thing, not a person ¡ªfor even an animal might be given more consideration. A breathing creature only similar in appearance to the pale overseers that handled them, but ultimately nothing more than merchandise to be processed and packaged for the highest bidder. Though how exactly remained a mystery lost to the haze of their clouded senses, they undeniably continued standing on their trembling legs. At some point or another, any coherent understanding of their surroundings had dissipated entirely ¡ªreduced to an unaware witness to all the discussions and environment shifts transpiring around them. The blurred sensations of being jostled and prodded gradually faded into a merciful, blank abandonment. When their senses finally rejoined reality, they found themselves resting on a thin pallet in a dimly lit space. Gone were the acrid stenches, from the rotten or burnt flesh, to the rancid oils. Instead, musty scents of aged wood and damp earth wafted through the still air, mingling with the aroma of unknown spices distilling an unfamiliar semblance of warmth. Shallow breaths brought to focus a reassuring lack of anguish searing through their body for the first time they could recall. Though stiff and leaden, their limbs responded without screaming jolts of agony at the slightest motion. Peeling back the rough-spun blanket, they inspected themselves with trepidant bewilderment. Their blistered skin had been covered under coarse linen wrappings, imbued with strange, pleasant-smelling ointments lingering on the fibers. The ruinous brands of shackles were still angrily visibly on their wrists, but there was no longer any steel weighing down their body. Even the myriad of smaller lacerations they sustained had been treated in what seemed to be an effort to prevent further festering. Glancing around, they took in their surroundings with the furrowed uncertainty of one emerging from a lengthy delirium. The barren, windowless space contained many other identical pallets spaced amid the deep shadows; and feeble lantern light seeped from an open doorway, accompanied by the murmurs of distant voices. Drawing the blanket tighter, they nestled themselves into its cottony embrace. Whatever profane rituals and transactions had filled the void from their last recollections seemed almost irrelevant now. They had survived¡­ and for the moment, that was enough. For fleeting as it may be, they were given a moment to exist away from torment. The creaking of footsteps approaching from the lantern-lit doorway, however, reminded them of how short-lived their reprieves were fated to be. They instinctively tensed, shrinking back against the rough wall as a silhouetted figure stepped through the threshold. She was a woman different from the ones they¡¯d laid eyes upon before. Her deep umber skin had been rendered leathery beneath the sun¡¯s harshness, and thick dreadlocks framed her weathered features ¡ªhair now graying but still predominantly jet black. Simple loose clothes dressed her stout and heavyset frame as she turned to face them. Though surprise registered in her face at finding them awake, there was no alarm in her eyes. Etched by difficulties, they held an aura they could easily perceive, that of a gentle inner strength brought forth like the tunes of a peaceful melody. With a previously undiscovered grace, she crossed the cramped space and knelt beside their pallet, radiating a warmth they didn¡¯t comprehend but which instinctively calmed their mounting panic. They shrank back further, clutching the blanket protectively as the strange woman leaned in with a clear intention. Despite their babbled protests, she deftly enveloped them in a profound embrace, hugging them firmly as their body went rigid with dread. Such contact, devoid of any malice or infliction, triggered something deep within their psyche that they were unable to process. She offered no words, as if already knowing their insignificance to them. Instead, tenderness became the language of choice to help them understand. Tremors ran through their entire being as long-buried emotions found sudden, overpowering release. Hot, stinging streams began coursing down their cheeks, eyes closing shut as ragged sobs escaped from their trembling lips. And she simply held them tighter still, her coarse fingers cradling their head as she shushed and cooed ¡ªthe first instance of compassion they had ever experienced; and the same with which she would continue to guide them in the days, months and years to come. Gradually and gently, she taught them the meaning of each spoken syllable. That she was Mammy Moonlight. That they were their family. And that their name was Enuill. Null Absolute -Part 2- Plantation life demanded no meager effort. From before the first rays of dawn until dusk¡¯s fading light, Enuill endured the suffocating heat, toiling knee-deep in the muddy fields. Men, women, and children alike labored endlessly alongside him, tending to the crops that stretched towards the horizon. The merciless sun scorched Enuill''s back, soaking their ragged shirt with sweat until the coarse fabric clung to their slender frame. Their hands had already grown calloused from hacking at the soil with a crude hoe, or from sinking them deep into the earth as they did their part nurturing the demanding plants ¡ªyet they never paused or gave up to the hardships. For as grueling as this existence could be at times, it still paled in comparison to the abhorrent hell they had been subjected to aboard the wooden fortress at sea ¡ªwhich they could now identify as a ship; though for Enuill the term floating tomb still felt more apt. Here, there were moments where the lash mercifully did not fall, when the pangs of hunger eased with small but sustaining rations, and they could at least rest their weary body on a humble bed to call their own. They did have a Master, and he did have a name, they had been told as much multiple times. A detail that was barely deserving of their attention ¡ªMaster was Master, and that was all they needed to know. Far more important than any of that was the embrace of Mammy Moonlight, waiting for them once the brutal day¡¯s labor had finally ended. The name given to her by the pale ones was another meaningless bit they paid no mind to ¡ªfor her moniker and the concept it embodied were far more fitting to her nurturing spirit. Almost immediately after their arrival, Moonlight swiftly became the biggest comforting light in their shattered world. Around the night¡¯s campfires, she spun the tales of her long, harrowing journey to this place ¡ªthough its many nuances often eluded their young understanding. Enuill knew she had fled the dangers from a distant land across the waters many, many years ago, carrying few possessions save the ancestral strengths imbued by her foremothers. Seeking refuge on these shores, she instead found herself bound to work just like they were, owned by a wealthy pale healer. Despite all of the injustices they had felt all too well in their own flesh whittling down her spirit, the two children born during her stay there brought immense joy into Mammy Moonlight¡¯s life. Yet even that was cruelly ripped away from her the day her old master, seeing no more value in her, decided to separate them ¡ªtheir fates uncertain after she was deemed too problematic to keep. It was a deep wound that reflected itself in her eyes during quiet, moonlit nights. A scar on her soul that perhaps would never truly heal. That same profound awareness over suffering was the fuel for the determination and empathy with which Mammy Moonlight shielded both them and the other children from the plantation¡¯s harsh brutalities. With gentle wisdom, she guided them through desolation ¡ªteaching them how to pull their weight around the quarters, how to avoid the ever-present threat of punishments, and most importantly, how to stay alive. Defiance burned with fierceness in her deep voice, ensuring that their masters could never quite extinguish their innate humanity. To the pale overseers, they might not be more than mere disposable laborers ¡ªa reality made plain each time newly stolen children, like investments purchased to reap profit from misery, were ruthlessly driven to toil alongside them no matter the bloodline. Only compassion could break such vicious cycle, the same kind that was given freely by Moonlight, who extended her resilient spirit as a bastion of love against the corrosive lashes bearing down upon them. In her tender eyes, Enuill saw a mother¡¯s fury blazing, determined to keep the fire stoked within every child under her care. It was a light they couldn¡¯t help but to end up fascinated by, its radiance shining bright amidst the many sorrows around them. Naturally, Enuill found themselves drawn to every facet of Moonlight¡¯s life, lingering long after the other children had nestled under the comfort of worn blankets, and drinking from the culture that they didn¡¯t know had been withheld from them for so long. They liked to observe the other dozens of slaves in the quarters, dancing around the focus point of the hounfour kept carefully under closed rooms, a symbolic tree trunk from which the spirits gathered and joined the celebrations ¡ªdark brown eyes transfixed by the ethereal currents that ebbed and flowed to the rhythms of crude instruments and swaying voices. Enuill¡¯s introspective nature never quite changed. Silent and distant, they simply limited himself to remain bewitched by the many shapes the Lwa took when moving in tandem with the music. It was not just the inky blackness they had always perceived this far, but a vibrant canvas of colors dancing alongside men and fire-cast shadows alike ¡ªfiery crimsons, deep indigos and flashes of blinding white all interweaving in chaotic yet harmonious strides around the Potomitan. A keen perceptiveness to the unseen realms that did not go unnoticed by the other enslaved, and crucially, by Mammy Moonlight herself. They had grown accustomed to rejection for the qualities that set them apart, to the beatings his affinities rewarded¡­ But this time, it wouldn¡¯t be the same. For she was more than just the nurturer of the children in their downtrodden community. Mammy was their Mambo ¡ªtheir priestess, healer and spiritual guide; imparting the ancestral knowledge carried over from her distant homeland. To her insightful gaze, Enuill¡¯s attunement to the spirit world that blanketed all of their shared existence was not a deviance from the natural order ¡ªit was a gift, a blessing with which they could decipher the meticulous designs of the gods, otherwise concealed from naked eyes. Under her tutelage, they could finally begin naming the cosmos thrumming under the otherworldly energies. She taught them of the deities, too many to even start to count, yet ever-present and watchful over the natural world. Continually reborn, their immortal essence flowed like a great river through cycles of death and rebirth, their ineffable influence able to reside anywhere, even in the most mundane of objects. While other children played, she imparted them secrets of how to honor and commune with the spirits of the dead, of their unique attributes and their cosmic alignments ¡ªand how chants and offerings welcomed their presence into their lives. Enuill learned how to harvest and blend rare herbs, bones and other sacrificial remnants into healing balms and shielding charms, their proficiency and devotion to her traditional preparations awarding them knowledge into ancient remedies ¡ªand the warding and channeling of the forces lingering in the dark. But she also cautioned them of the need to wield such power with mindfulness. While the Lwa¡¯s blessings could empower and defend, their favor could also be turned towards malicious ends if guided by the impure intentions in which the evil ones fed upon. There needed to be wisdom when focusing one¡¯s actions towards the aid of the community, never invoking the spirits where they could be used to bring harm. Following her teachings, Enuill¡¯s fledgling gifts blossomed over the span of four years. Their perspicacity towards the unseen evolved into a finely tuned intuition ¡ªa sixth sense that was just as perceived by their fellow enslaved who came to treat them as a spiritual guide despite their young age. It was a profound connection that elevated Enuill to a place few could truly comprehend, allowing for the final coils of fear and uncertainty to fully untangle within them. They understood their capabilities were a calling, not an affliction to endure. By embracing the world beyond the mirrors, they could become a beacon of protection ¡ªof healing and hope amidst their unrelenting torment. That night should have been just another instance where others recurred to their or Moonlight¡¯s aid in alleviating suffering. Little did they know then of the indelible mark it would leave behind to shape their future. Saturday¡¯s dusk loomed, heralding the impending day of rest for the overseers and their professed faith. While Enuill harbored no disdain for the religion of the pale masters, which preached principles of compassion not entirely discordant with the child''s own beliefs, they keenly recognized its hypocrisy ¡ªwith enslavers perverting their scriptures to justify the very cruelties they imposed. Still, many members of the community practiced their teachings, and the young guide remained receptive to explore them further. Such evenings, however, granted them their few instances of tranquility. They meant scarcer patrols, allowing them for larger rituals and ceremonies to take place with diminished supervision. As Enuill did their own part with the preparation of rites, they were approached by one of the many burdened men. Though names often eluded their focus, few were as observant of the plights afflicting those around him as they were. Not like they needed to hear his story beforehand, the evidence of the trail he had followed was clear as crystal through the scars etched in his body. His larger and muscular frame bore the brutal legacies of every punishment the pale masters could devise, so long as it did not impair his ability to work the fields. His back was a lattice-work of ruptured whip scars. Multiple branding wounds marred his body ¡ªnot as a sign of ownership, but for sheer agony¡¯s sake. His left ear was crudely severed, and between his legs was hidden a grimmer mutilation still ¡ªthe overseers had subjected him to public castration some days before. Now this brutalized figure presented himself before Enuill, mouth gagged by an iron muzzle to prevent him from speech or even the ability to properly consume food and water. And all for the unforgivable offense of wanting to see his wife and children, from whom he had been separated. That was the way of the masters ¡ªto prey upon any perceived weakness, be it family bonds or unity between the enslaved. They sought to isolate and subjugate at every turn, for they feared the strength that could be mustered if those chains were ever broken. Enuill seldom spoke, their introspective silence a shell hardened over years of strife both suffered and witnessed¡­ Yet they required no words to perceive the darkness festering within their abused brethren. The spiritual venom lingered to his side, accumulated anguish and sorrow simmering into a fury that threatened to boil over into something far worse if left unchecked. Without the need to brace themselves, the young guide reached out with a tender palm and lay it against the muzzle¡¯s scorched metal, its rusted steel imbued with the echoes of torment and resentment it had facilitated so thoroughly over years upon years. Their older brother did not flinch when their fingers reached him, for Enuill moved with the natural serenity of a tranquil river¡¯s stream. Such metaphysical toxins could not be tended with mere bandages or cataplasms. It was only by purging the taint with love and dedication that the tortured souls like him could hope to endure. In a gentle nod, Enuill began the ritual by reverently lighting candles to summon the protective forces of the Lwa. Plain earthen bowls were filled with fresh rainwater and herbs, their aroma sweetening the cramped sanctuary¡¯s musty air. Beside the symbolic facsimile of the ancient tree, the unjustly condemned knelt along with Enuill, his frame swaying under silent tremors. Echoing the songs taught to them by unwritten tradition, whispered across mystical lineages, the young guide channeled the black undercurrents to cross over to their body ¡ªlike shadow fireflies seamlessly moving through the night. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. Under their dictated tempo, the ritual¡¯s healing momentum intensified as they also began feeling lightheaded under the heavy aromatic scents of white sage and frankincense. As the two of them sunk their senses under the encompassing scents and sounds, Enuill expunged the corrosive attachments for their confinement ¡ªluring the dark energies inside a bottle filled with black liquid, keeping their unearthly calm as they swiftly and tightly sealed it under cord and rope. Just undoing the spiritual burden would not be enough, and the iron restraints in his face began to creak under Enuill''s fingers as they carefully manipulated them. They cupped the sides of their brother''s face, allowing the cool current of the curated water, infused with consecrated rue and lavender, to soothe his dried and bloodied lips. Their goal was to uplift their brother into a fit state for physical recovery to begin, and so they finished by applying pastes mixed by his own hands across the wounds¡ªa soothing balm of aloe and calendula. It was a shame they couldn''t feed him, but they feared that the gag could end up causing even more damage. Trembling hands gripped Enuill¡¯s own, drawing them close until their foreheads touched ¡ªIndeed, they were all beings bound together by shared agonies yet bound together through even deeper threads woven under the cosmic loom of starlight. This was their purpose. If they were able to pull the solitary souls back into the warmth from the void¡¯s ravenous maw, even if it was one at a time, then their path would be one of persevering light amidst the interminable darkness. In the culminating ritual, the muzzled brother finally regained control of his senses, tormented howls and chants giving way to shuddering gasps as catharsis reigned supreme for them both. The phantom rhythmical thrum of ceremonial drums still pulsed through Enuill¡¯s consciousness as they carefully tended to the mutilated survivor now resting in the aftermath of the healing rites. They shared one final, meaningful hug; and then their attention was captured by the approaching figure of Mammy Moonlight, who had joined them along the way, accompanied by other members of their family, bright expressions adorning their faces. Her gentle voice announced that they needed to take a respite from their usual proceedings, declaring that it was the turn of the season to celebrate their arrival into the world. Enuill turned their head quizzically until the Mambo¡¯s smile widened further. Though the two of them knew that the exact date of their birth would remain a persistent unknown, she had deemed that mid-summer evening as resonant enough with life¡¯s cycle to enshrine their annual celebration of renewal, estimating it to be around their twelfth one. Or in other words¡­ She wished to celebrate their birthday. With deft movements, Moonlight presented them a humble and small rounded care adorned with spare fruits and nuts collected by hand ¡ªmodest adornments which Enuill tried to search for deeper significance, yet failed. This time, there was no profound or subtle meaning¡­ It was simply a pure demonstration of her unbound love. Enuill blinked a couple of times as their emotional core wavered. This night was about celebrating them? They couldn¡¯t help but end up stunned, even when it filled him with an odd sensation, like the widening of their heart. There was the already known wetness of tears starting to form at the corner of their eyes ¡ªbut this time, they weren¡¯t born of sadness. Were them really valuable enough to be commemorated? To have them honored in such a way? Whatever further self-reflection they could¡¯ve fostered was swept away unfinished as the slave quarters erupted into a tumultuous burst of energy. The cadence of feet stomping the ground echoed in Enuill¡¯s chest, amidst claps and percussion produced by their body or spoons. The shaking of hollowed gourds and makeshift shakers joined the musical swell, overlaid with lilting voices raised in powerful melodies. The bodies began swaying, and the feet shuffled in time on the hard-packed earth as celebration took hold. With the euphoric combination of fiddles and banjos weaving through the air, the music resonated in a primal rhythm, enveloping Enuill in defiance against the oppressive silence of the night. While they had not only seen but also participated before in festivities like this one¡­ It has never been at such grandiose scale of raucousness. Enuill felt light-headed, the ethereal throbbing of distant drums and thick plumes of wood-smoke from the braziers casting everything into a hazy fever dream state. The earlier communion with the spirit realm was still to fresh in all the layers of their subconsciousness ¡ªtheir already acute senses growing even more heightened and over-stimulated. Flashes of color began to dance around the people at the periphery of their sight ¡ªinky black shadows twisting in time to the beats, brushing and grazing all of their forms in intimate manners that no one else but Enuill seemed to perceive. Some of the instruments and tokens fashioned from bones, feathers and other earthly remains were taken from the spots they were hidden, woven into their garments and wielded in the frenzied dancing. Strange herbs and roots Enuill had yet to know the names of filled the heated air with pungent aromas and vapors that seemed to seep into their very being. Yet none of it struck Enuill as jarring or unsettling, who melted into the practices of their people made manifest as if it was their natural place ¡ªignoring the rising temperature and the cold sweat wetting their back. They just allowed themselves to be overtaken by the elemental pulses, clapping and stomping in ceremonial patterns that came instinctively to them by the persistent rattles shaking the thickening miasmas into yet newer forms. Mirrored eyes peering at them from within the empty sockets of skulls; gnarled wooden visages splitting into rows of fanged maws; silhouettes of their brethren fragmenting into dissociated anatomy ¡ªthey all collided in a phantasmagorical cyclone of sublime chaos. Tendrils of vermilion smoke enveloped Enuill like a mantle, then erupted into billowing clouds that took fleeting anthropomorphic shapes before dissipating just as rapidly. They felt just akin to Papa Legba, standing at the threshold of mortal coils and grasping even further beyond the spiritual crossroads. All the faces around them blurred and faded into the background as they became hyper-acute. The world seemed to come to a standstill, with both the shadows and the distant music conspiring to turn their unmoored eyes to focus on the entity materializing from across the veil. It was a massive black serpent larger than Enuill themselves, undulating with a faint iridescent sheen like that of an oil slick. Its coiled form was easily the length of several men, thick as a tree trunk with overlapping obsidian scales. As it navigated in a constant current across the slow-moving frames of their brethren, vague human skulls and eyes emerged from the ever-shifting scales before being subsumed once more. Drawing itself up, the towering serpent¡¯s six eyes transfixed on the small guide''s gaze, the slit pupils gleaming in a purple glow as mesmerizing as it was suffocating. Its scaled coils tightened possessively once it reached Enuill''s frame, constricting their body in a spiral embrace. They could feel sharp spines of black metal grazing their skin, jutting randomly across the Lwa¡¯s length as they curved wickedly, echoing the pulsations made by its muscular body with faint chiming. Despite being fully prepared to be engulfed by the spirit, instead it seemed to contract and adjust itself perfectly to match their small frame. What was once a gargantuan viper now became a vaporous yet tangible second layer, turning itself into a living cloak comprised of constantly writhing eyes and spines ¡ªthe ethereal fabric undulating and pulsing as if restraining something terrible beneath the surface. Enuill could feel the penetrating coldness of the metal spurs sinking onto their spirit as the Lwa¡¯s manifestation molded itself to their body ¡ªyet there was no fear; only a discomforting sense of transcendence as the spirit realm communed with their corporeal body. Would they now be able to move and act as an extension of this ancient, primordial force? There was only one way to prove it. Though seemingly no one seemed to notice anything different about them, or even the manner in which the Lwa veiled them from toes to neck, a collar of spikes stretching like fangs on the contours of their head ¡ªEnuill was lucidly conscious of the metamorphosis they had undergone. And if they wished for anything in their current condition¡­ It was to ease the suffering and liberate those who had endured the same torments as they had. What better target for their power than the very symbols of their oppression weighing them down? Their sharp eyes fell upon the man whom they had recently treated, doing his best to partake in the shared jubilee despite the iron muzzle still clinging to his face. A dormant anger flared within them as they reached towards it, feeling as if their fingers were the very fangs of the Lwa being viciously unleashed against the metal atrocity. It only took for their fingers to graze upon the rusted surface of the torture device ¡ªand in the blink of an eye, a hairline of darkness appeared over the unforgiving iron before rapidly devouring it in a spiral of emptiness. Like a black hole consuming matter, the muzzle simply ceased to be ¡ªreality itself being rewritten under their will. Where the abhorrent gag had once inflicted its cruelty, leaving the man¡¯s lips torn, swollen and bloody from its restraints, now only unblemished flesh remained. Raw gashes knitted themselves back together under Enuill¡¯s influence, reforming the tissue as good as it originally was. Yet no one showed any sign of noticing the supernatural occurrence ¡ªnot those still dancing, nor the once-afflicted himself. Celebration simply continued filling the air, oblivious of the miracles he was now capable of performing. It was as if the vile instrument of subjugation had never existed in the first place, stunning Enuill with realization. Both the young guide and the primordial serpent coiling its otherworldly essence around them pulsed with eagerness, basking in the intoxicating first taste of the venom with which they could now reshape their collective plight. One by one, they waded through the feverish trance-like state, allowing their newly-attained ability to attune with each member of the dance. Wherever they perceived tangible evils they could delete, Enuill reached out to heal and expunge them through the ferocious hunger of the void. And so they all continued, filling the night with vibrancy and feverish energy in an anthem of defiance. Enuill didn¡¯t realize it themselves, but they had begun smiling ¡ªan expression of sheer innocence that had been robbed from them for far too long; lost amidst the harmonies and the clapping building steadily into an overwhelming crescendo. Until an abrupt, thunderous bellow shattered the rapture. ¡°What in the hell¡¯s caterwauling is this heathen ruckus!¡± The music and dancing ground to an instant, startled halt. Heads whipped around in shock and fear towards the source of the stark interruption ¡ªthe silhouette in the crackling firelight where one of the plantation overseers stood; musket firmly gripped with face-contorting rage. ¡°Y¡¯all think ye can carry on like them savage uprisers down in the islands!? Conjuring yer satanical witcheries and calling down evil spirits!?¡± It was a disruptive voice dripping with hate, perhaps incapable of uttering a single syllable in their direction without overflowing crudity. Flecks of spit flew as he gesticulated wildly towards the gathered slaves ¡ªwaving his weapon like an emblem of absolute authority. ¡°Ye niggers are all the same! No different than the dregs from the mountains! Ye think ye can do as ye please, dabbling in yer hoodoo and yer sorcery!?¡± >> ¡°Who¡¯s behind all this madness!?¡± To Enuill, who was still submerged in the undercurrents of their trance, the overseer¡¯s ranting diatribe slurred and warped incomprehensibly as it continued. The disjointed words and obscenities flew over their head, as they didn¡¯t even bother to parse meaning from the incoherent torrent of malice. All they could perceive¡­ Was someone in the way ¡ªan obstruction to be eradicated. With bold, unfaltering motions, Enuill navigated towards the pale man. They felt light, the metal spines adorning their cloak clinking menacingly as their bare feet glided over the surface. Their body moved with the seamless fluidity of a serpent slithering through the people in its path. Before the startled armed man could react, the young guide was already too close to him to be stopped, their empty eyes reflecting the oblivion that had reigned in their soul due to the overabundant abuse. Raising their small hands, they focused once again their will through their fingers, channeling the ferocity with which the Lwa had allowed them to delete all physical embodiment of their subjugation. They wanted to undo him just as they had with the shackles and torture devices before ¡ªunable to care if he was a person or not. Yet¡­ Nothing happened. Their heart sank in place, as the darkness refused to swallow that man whole. Had the Lwa abandoned him? Where was the power they had employed so readily mere moments ago? ¡°Well, I¡¯ll be damned¡­¡± The overseer¡¯s speech cut off tensely as finished processing the small guide¡¯s brazen approach, his harsh features twisting into an incredulous sneer. ¡°Thought ye could wave them devil bones ¡®n charms at me, didn¡¯t ye, runt?¡± In one abrupt motion, the musket rose and fell with a resounding thud ¡ªthe butt of the weapon striking against Enuill¡¯s upturned face. A scream of both panic and anger pierced the stillness, Mammy Moonlight¡¯s denial lancing through the dark night. There was nothing she could do now. It was too late. ¡°We aim to learn ye a lesson, clear and strong, ¡®bout the consequences of dabblin¡¯ in witchcraft. This here drunken brat will serve as an example!¡± Enuill had only a single fragmented second to realize the weapon would strike them in the ground once more, the throes of pain detonating in their consciousness, leaving a muffled ringing behind. There was a thunderous boom eclipsing their senses as their eyes went black ¡ªnerveless release sending their body bonelessly down to the dirt. Null Absolute -Part 3- Their eyes peeled open with immense effort, the blinding sunlight stabbing needles into their battered awareness. Coughing weakly, they tasted the familiar flavor of stale blood coalescing with the dryness of their lips and throat. Just how long had they been left unconscious and under the elements¡¯ mercy? Attempting to make sense of their blurred surroundings was utterly swamped by confusion. With the familiar wet-soil scent of the plantation being nowhere to be perceived, Enuill seemed to be propped upright instead, suspended by bindings securing their wrists and ankles to¡­ Wood? As consciousness began to stir back fully, their entire body began screaming in agony. The throbbing ache in their head pounded relentlessly, as flashes of the previous night¡¯s horrors replayed in disjointed fragments. They were sure that the bellowing crack of the musket slamming into their skull was not the only beating they were subjected to even after everything faded to black. Craning their suffering neck, Enuill¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief as they recognized the sacred trunk of the symbolic tree. Ropes bound their limb against the aged timber, its surface marred by dried streaks of their own blood. Their revered Potomitan had been taken from its place¡­ To be perverted like this. The groans of exertion drew their gaze forward, where two of the pale overseers strained against the weight of the defiled icon, half-carrying and half-dragging it across the uneven terrain with the young guide dangling beneath. Bobbing shapes not far behind them resolved into more of their kind ¡ªa fully armed patrol escorting Enuill''s brethren in a bedraggled line. Despite their mind-numbing agony, Enuill instantly recognized the dejected eyes of their fellow enslaved ¡ªMammy Moonlight among them, lips moving in silent pleas as tears carved streaks through the similarly beaten-down grime on her face. The familiar cadences of all their native tongues reached the child''s ears, mixed with the jeers and insults slung by the four overseers escorting them by musket point. A part of Enuill begged to ask for help¡­ But with pained realization, they desisted from ever trying ¡ªit would only lead to a larger tragedy. This was a Sunday, was it not? The irony wasn¡¯t lost on the young guide. Look at how thoroughly and extensively the pales had been roused in the depths of their holy day. And to what end? Enuill knew full well where that expedition into the wilderness would take them, but it was still a hard task to prevent their eyes from watering. More than anything, Enuill resented how the centerpiece of their Hounfour was being desecrated so utterly in such a way. They certainly must have some awareness of its importance¡­ So along with the guide, they were also trying to worsen the blow by defiling their spirituality itself ¡ªto break them all beyond mere physical torture. The unfamiliar boil of hatred flared in the child''s chest once more, trying to burn away any vestige of fear. They would pay for this defilement, by all the powers Enuill could bring themselves to bear. Straining their bonds, the young child attempted to open themselves to the spirit realm like they had done the night before, their mind instinctively trying to recall the sensations of the Lwa¡¯s inscrutable presence. Yet they found themselves clutching at emptiness, their gift faltering at the most crucial juncture. The serpentine coils of emptiness had abandoned them, leaving Enuill more alone and powerless than they had ever felt before. So the procession carried on undisturbed across the rugged terrain. Every step through the trees made their body sway, accentuating the bite that the ropes began carving into their skin. With every passing minute they regained more and more of their lucidity, bringing forth the suffering, searing their battered frame in a manner they were no longer able to ignore. Not soon after their neck and head began resenting the effort to keep themselves upright, the men leading the march crested one final rise ¡ªmaking Enuill¡¯s eyes subtly widen in wonder at the view. It was a vision they had glimpsed before only through the worn-down photos adorning the slave quarters¡¯ walls ¡ªLake Aqueveque, one of the few names that Enuill ever bothered to remember. Now face to face with its waters, all images failed to capture even a fraction of the splendor unfolding ahead. The breathtaking expanse shimmered under the mid-morning sun, vast mirror-still waters emanating a disconnected sense of serenity within them, despite all the harrowing circumstances they were caught in. It seemed more mirage than reality, with its glassy surface reflecting the vibrant emerald forest, rimming its shores in such pristine clarity. Enuill had never really liked large bodies of water, however¡­ Unlike those they had seen before, no briny scent or festering decay marred this place, nor did the shadows of floating fortresses interrupt the horizon ¡ªonly the curves of lush green fringing the towering mountains, surrounding it in a protective embrace stretching down its outlines. White peaks pierced the flawless azure of the skies, with wispy clouds casting their shade across the verdant canopy. Dominating the stunning vista, an islet boldly interrupted the middle like an apparition would, its uneven and tree-lined crests surrounded by turquoise waters ¡ªbeckoning Enuill with an otherworldly energy of sheer raw and unspoiled purity to which they felt tiny in comparison. The ripples of the sacred resonated inside their soul, leaving everything else to sink into gentler thoughts. For this beauty¡­ Enuill wouldn¡¯t really mind dying for. An illusion that was mercilessly shattered as their aching body was flung forward. They crashed against rough wooden planks with bone-jarring force, the groan of stressed timber echoing through them. As their vision was forcefully ripped from the landscape, they found themselves at the end of a long pier extending across the glassy depths of the lake. The overpowering weight of the Potomitan¡¯s trunk had been slammed down atop them, driving the air from their lungs to falter. Yet Enuill withstood the pain and cries trying to work their way out of their mouth ¡ªreduced to the torpor that had dominated their early existence, resisted only by the grit their teeth held. Dimly, they perceived the figures coalescing into mismatched groups by the shorelines. There was a crowd of well-dressed people along the more common overseers and Enuill''s brethren, sneering down their noses at the spectacle; and a single form detaching itself from the throng to strode out onto the pier¡¯s edge with a cold sense of purpose. Even from their prone vantage point, and all the blood rushing to their ears, Enuill¡¯s gaze burned the man¡¯s features into his mind, as they had also done many times before ¡ªthe primly adorned wig, and the rich garments befitting one of such caste. It was Master, who had arrived to pass his judgment. His blue eyes glittered with disgust as they raked across the broken forms of his enslaved property. When that harsh gaze finally fell upon Enuill, there was a mixture of revulsion and fright echoing in the old man¡¯s face, unnerved by the child''s unmoving, inscrutable exterior ¡ªat least until he cleared his throat to address the gathered group. ¡°This¡­ Aberration.¡± He began, words laced in disdain as he signaled the abused tree trunk, and perhaps also Enuill themself crushed beneath. ¡°Is a particularly vile corruption that simply cannot be allowed to take root upon the Lord¡¯s haloed path.¡± His reedy voice was carried clearly across the hushed lake shore, as Master walked back and forth along the weathered planks of the pier with an indignant poise. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°For far too long, we have allowed the indolent negro population to indulge in their pernicious pagan rites and unholy perversions.¡± >> ¡°I once held the belief that such leniency would instill obedience.¡± Leniency? He had the gall to diminish their desperate efforts to preserve their humanity and identity as a mere whim of his leniency? ¡°But alas, I fear it has now reached the repugnant depths of seducing even the youngest heathen minds with the lures of heresy.¡± Master continued, as his tone hardened. ¡°We should have taken stringent actions long ago, to prevent such depravity from festering amidst the never-ending perils brought forth by the Vil¡¯Tah sorcerers and their demons¡± >> ¡°Execution has never been my preferred course of action.¡± Of course, that would mean fewer workers to exploit. ¡°Yet I can no longer afford to show further toleration, lest it continue to perverse your benighted minds down the paths of eternal damnation.¡± Master¡¯s face was as stern as granite, his next words ringing out like a death knell heralding Enuill¡¯s demise. ¡°This is our line in the proverbial sands. A stand against any who would stray from the light of the Lord. You would all do well to burn the lessons of this day deep into your wretched souls.¡± >> ¡°For I shall not hesitate to exert my faith in such uncompromising manner again if the need for further correction were to arise.¡± At that moment, as a heavy silence took over the beautiful scenery, Enuill began resigning themselves to fate ¡ªcruelty laid bare before God¡¯s alleged radiance. If there was a lesson he could draw from all their life¡¯s experiences, was that divinity itself had already abandoned them to torment, indifferent to suffering as the tranquil waters beneath. ¡°Well? You heard me. Cast that wretch into the depths where it belongs.¡± Master¡¯s voice interrupted the quietude once more, this time with impatient detachment. ¡°I¡¯ve no desire to be affronted by the brat¡¯s dead eyes a moment longer.¡± As the two leading men gripped the Potomitan trunk pinning them down, their grunts of exertion reached their ears with a desolate sense of finality, holstering Enuill¡¯s body along until they were suspended over the pier¡¯s precipice. Given a full view of their audience, Enuill stared back at them deeply, wondering what kind of thoughts could the pale folk gathered behind their executioners sustain ¡ªboth towards such a cold-hearted spectacle and their always despised indolence. Or was it something else they sought to accomplish by looking back one final time? Their gaze drifted across them absentmindedly until finding Mammy Moonlight¡¯s face once more. Tears were streaming down the older woman¡¯s face as she tried to take an anguished step forward, her mouth working wordlessly to their deafened ears. Not like it mattered, the overseers were well prepared ¡ªweapons leveled to bar her approach before it could even truly begin. Both their eyes met one final time. The beloved matriarch of their large family and the youth she had nurtured back from the inhumane blackness. There was so much Enuill wanted to convey in that final moment¡­ Regret, Sorrow, but most of all, an apology for every effort towards fixing what was fractured, ending up so easily discarded in such a short time. Enuill tried to say everything there wasn''t words for into that single, silent look. Their resignation¡­ Their gratitude for the light she showed them¡­ And their solemn wish that she persevered carrying it where they could not. All destined to shatter once Master bellowed his sharp commands. The Potomitan shifted beneath them, as Enuill closed their eyes to draw a final, bracing breath of the warm summer air. Thoughts of the spirits watching reached their head, wondering if they were waiting for Enuill to cross over into the ethereal realm. Would their soul shimmer like those who found themselves discarded during the sea-fortress voyage? Or was stillness their sole reward for enduring so much on their way there? Questions that were fleeting as the time they had before gravity took over. The uneven smoothness of the spiritual symbol, now reduced to an instrument of death, coarsely collided against the wood planks ¡ªdistorting the horizon beyond their joined eyelids. During that eternal heartbeat, Enuill imagined themselves truly flying away. But in this land, no prayers ever amounted to anything ¡ªand all wings were already cut off by the truth. The strike against the waters created a harsh wake of sound, abruptly shortened as their entire being was submerged into deep blue. The shocking chillness drove some of their air to escape from their nose in a stream of bubbles, as they sank beneath the reach of the sun. Lake Aqueveque¡¯s dark embrace closed in, drowning out all light and noise from the world above, and pressing in from all sides with liquid weight. Even their ragged gasps were muffled, instinctively forcing themselves to hold whatever breath their straining lungs were capable of. But sooner rather than later, an overpowering cold leeched all warmth from mind and body, numbing all the fiery agonies as the veils of reality thinned ¡ªthe gentle currents acting like whispers caressing their consciousness as they drifted to the bottom. Trapped between life¡¯s increasingly fragile grip and the pull of unseen tides, an insidious lethargy seeped into their mind, offering the ultimate escape from suffering ¡ªif only they gave their lungs a rest and exhaled that final breath. They felt listless in that final chance to look inward, repeating the question that remained unanswered since the conception of their ego. Was there ever a reason for their birth? The purpose they thought to have attained felt distant now ¡ªthose centered around their supposed capability to become a beacon against their torment, a rallying light of hope¡­ How arrogant that belief now seemed. A childish delusion born out of innocence. They had failed at changing anything, at protecting anyone; and now their supposed ¡®calling¡¯ ended thoroughly asphyxiated as it sank down towards the abyss. Truth was, their existence held no greater significance. It was a momentary flicker, as fleeting and irrelevant as all those thrown into dark waters before them. They were nothing more than just another discarded soul amongst untold multitudes, sacrificed to feed the rapacious hunger of the soil. Wiser would be to stop their futile thoughts ¡ªto let oblivion claim them. Perhaps in the void¡¯s absolute emptiness, they could finally find the peace and solace denied to them in this life; and await whatever journey awaited their spirit when taken in by the Lwa. Despite their wishful thinking, of their surrender and acceptance, involuntary gasps of breath forced the water to enter their organism. Gradually, their eyes grew dimmer and hazier as everything began to fade into murkiness. The distant rays of the sun reflected on the surface, their reach failing to penetrate far enough to where Enuill journeyed. Everything began fading into nothingness. But in that moment, as death loomed certain, something stirred within them ¡ªa spark of defiance, an unwillingness to give in just yet. They didn¡¯t want to die, and so their heart pounded faster in resistance against the inevitable. There were still so many things they wished to see, so many experiences they had heard in tales that they longed to have. They yearned not to only heal the afflicted, but to liberate them entirely. To bring complete and utter ruin upon the oppressors. It was only then, as their brio began to falter, that they felt it ¡ªthe constraint of the ethereal serpent¡¯s obsidian scales coiling around their frame once more. This time, it was even more encompassing than before, beyond the grasp of a mere cloak. The viper¡¯s essence shifted and distorted in seamless fluidity, slithering past Enuill¡¯s mouth and drowning them in its inscrutable blackness. It was a corruption of their being far more powerful than anything even the lake itself could ever inflict. Where the freezing waters had turned their senses numb, the serpentine void now swallowed them in a viscous grip that penetrated their very core. Their flesh felt overlapped and tampered with by a foreign influence, smothering their sense of self. It wormed its way down every fiber, forcing Enuill to grit their teeth, unable to resist it. Involuntary spasms ended up limited by rope knots, tightening around every muscle seizing from the Lwa''s invasion. Enuill¡¯s eyes rolled back as all oxygen abandoned their lungs ¡ªconsciousness fracturing across sensations they could no longer comprehend. The child felt a sudden tremor ripple through the remnants of their sensory awareness as the Potomitan pole struck the bottom of Lake Aqueveque with a muffled thud. The impact sent vibrations through the icy waters, jarring their possessed form momentarily as an anchor to an already distorted reality. Yet it was but an ephemeral sensation, as a metaphysical dominance stronger than death itself took over their body and soul. Everything disintegrated with a vertiginous pace, consumed by the blackness crossing over planes of existence. Enuill then knew of the Lwa¡¯s true name, right before complete devourment. Hexameron. Null Absolute -End- It took them around six days to finally navigate their way outside the lake¡¯s depths, but when they had finally done so, Enuill had already finished changing into something else ¡ªsomething inhuman. Not long after they rose from the shorelines, they employed the moonlight-illuminated surface of the water as a mirror reflection to themselves, their expressionless features staring back with sharp otherworldliness. Water did not cling to them at all. Hexameron¡¯s long black mantle form blanketed the entirety of their body aside from their face, as they found themselves effortlessly phasing through the lake, unfettered and impervious to anything tangible. The vaporous cloak ended in a thick tail moving menacingly back and forth, trespassing through solids without any sign of resistance. While it had shifted towards a half-translucent gleam, their skin did not show any sign of damage or water suspension, and they no longer had any need for oxygen either. Their pupils, now even thinner and more focused than before, had turned supernaturally pale. They had no sign of life in them, forever an echo of their transcendence from mortal coils. All pain, fear, and fragility of their former human existence had been shed like snake skin, replaced by a profound aura of power and lethal grace. No prophets could now disturb their serenity. Under the gaze of the voyeur god, Enuill turned him witness to immaculate devastation ¡ªto their ascension towards freedom. Despite their broken wings¡­ They lived again. Spiked edges clinked metrically in the collar of their obsidian tunic as they turned towards their back, eyes examining the craggy maws of what appeared to be an underground passage in the heart of Lake Aqueveque¡¯s islet. It exuded unmistakable currents of darkness from deep within, the same encompassing essence that had lured Enuill there like a beacon under the currents would. Yet, for as much as they wanted to explore whatever forsaken wonder to be met at the end of such passage, they had other matters to attend to. For the judgment cast down upon them had been left unfinished, despite the way in which their heart was brought to stop, veins kept frozen. Their task was to dictate a last litany for the bleeders of their tortured spirit, and to terminate every last shackle of servitude ¡ªready to present them all with their secretly self-written alternate ending. Softly, gracefully, Enuill unearthed the virtues of lucidity from the ruins. They would have revenge for being disowned and banished. Hexameron¡¯s inky black shroud undulated with a life of its own as they glided across the quiet surface of the Lake. Enuill¡¯s bare feet left no ripples, no disturbance upon the mirroring waters ¡ªwere they a ghost? A wraith? It mattered not. Their white eyes stared unblinkingly ahead, traversing the placid lake until it was gradually replaced by the mainland, morning mist parting in their wake as they drew near. Familiar sightings of the plantation¡¯s fields and its dwellings extended before them. Even from afar, they could perceive the tiny figures of their brethren already driven to toil under the brutal labor. A cold sense of detachment washed over Enuill. They remember the daily torment too vividly, but now¡­ They were beyond such trappings ¡ªmoonlit-colored iris in the shadows of the tightropes. Slipping in amongst the workers like a reaping specter, they phased between the rows of crouched figures, hacking at the unyielding soil with crude tools. Enuill¡¯s ethereal form passed through their sweating, broken bodies utterly unimpeded and unnoticed. Seemed like none could perceive the entity stalking their midst. They took in all of their shared anguish inside their withered spirit, breathing in all of the oppression. Mammy Moonlight¡¯s familiar face was similarly dragging a crude plow, as the dead child approached to sense the tremors of her weakened stance. Recent lashing wounds marked her back, signaling that their overseers had intensified their cruelty after Enuill¡¯s passing. A hand was stretched towards her as the ghost guide made a conscious effort to become real, yearning to touch and be touched, undoing their cloak to softly pull on her dress ¡ªyet when her cry-swollen eyes were finally given a chance to turn in their direction¡­ There was no sign of recognition. ¡°Mammy? It¡¯s me.¡± Enuill said, gingerly and timidly with a barely heard voice, despite an incapability to break free from the hollow emptiness of their lifeless gaze. ¡°I made my way back.¡± The older woman flinched abruptly, her entire body shaken by surprise from the unexpected contact. Despite their unspoken goodbye at the gallows¡¯ end, Enuill was there. However¡­ ¡°C¡­ Child! Where did you come from!?¡± There was the familiar warmth in her voice despite her hushed urgency, as she went down to her knees to rest a hand on their shoulder. ¡°Are you lost? What happened to you?¡± The words, spoken with panicked worry made Enuill¡¯s spirit sink inside their unnatural body. They had feared that such a thing would happen ¡ªthat she could not remember him anymore. Just like how Hexameron had rewritten reality after the iron muzzle¡¯s erasure¡­They had similarly ceased to exist. All traces of their former life were now gone and void. A flicker of what could¡¯ve been dismay ghosted across Enuill''s obscured features before the emotion was ruthlessly snuffed out, subsumed by a voracity for righteousness burning within. Clenching their fists, Hexameron¡¯s blades flexed outward as if preparing to strike, the mantle manifesting itself all at once. Moonlight looked dazed for a moment at the now empty space before her, posture corrected not soon after with a conflicted expression. Their brethren could not see the new truth they had become ¡ªbut there was no need for them to understand the power they now commanded. ¡°It¡¯s okay, Mammy¡­¡± Enuill whispered, attempting to grip her fingers tightly, yet failing. ¡°I¡¯m going to free you all. You don¡¯t have to do anything.¡± So be it. Even if they could not join Enuill¡¯s revolution willingly, they would guide them behind the curtains ¡ªno depth too steep if they needed to bridge it to rectify all. They would make the oppressors witness the terror in their very flesh¡­ And perhaps then everyone would finally be unshackled from the lies that bound them. With purpose bordering on zealotry, Enuill turned their hollow gaze upon the few strutting enslavers making sure that their family remained broken. Soon, they too would understand the full consequences of their transgressions. Enuill''s iridescent gaze fell upon a rusted sickle lying discarded in the dirt nearby, its curved blade caked with dried mud and filth. Without hesitation, a tendril of darkness drifted over and grasped the tool, bringing it towards the hand peeking from under the mantle. The steel seemed to groan in malign eagerness as their grip tightened around the wood handle ¡ªit was an ironic device to sever all ties with. For as big as they thought themselves to be, the men hectoring their brethren with bullwhips resting in waist were little more than disposable foot soldiers ¡ªmindless cogs in the merciless machinery of those above. While Enuill could never bring themselves to see them under mercy or consideration¡­ It was the true architect that needed their attention the most ¡ªthe corrupt being that gave shape to this empire of suffering. The lavish house looking down on them was almost like directly taunting for attention, resting on top of a low rise above the fields. It was the place where they knew the so-called ¡®Master¡¯ resided, relishing in conveniences paid for with the blood of their people. It was time to repay that despondent man for so casually condemning them to die. Like a vengeful spirit, Enuill felt their feet leaving the ground as they rose into the air step by step, all sense of mass and corporeal restraints being sloughed away. They took a moment getting used to having nothing beneath, but then they proceeded to shift like a ghost slicing through reality, an unbothered anomaly given just enough substance to roam the earth. No shadows marked their passage, and no ray of the sun could warm their essence, soaring over the tilled fields while leaving both the hateful and the repressed behind with implacable purpose ahead. In a matter of minutes, their head peeked through the walls of the plantation manor, subtly materializing into a coalescence of semi-solidity. They quickly found naturally themselves dominating such changes of corporeality, coming almost as easily as they had once breathed. The obsidian mantle flared as They trespassed barriers, no more substantial than curtains of vapor. Enuill¡¯s eyes widened slightly as they accustomed to the interior lights of the opulent study room. In there, hunched over a desk surrounded by papers was the unmistakable figure of their target. Darker intentions obscured their features, edging closer unnoticed to hear the old man muttering to himself, a quill flicking on empty space as he reviewed previous scratches piously. ¡°¡­ In this victory, we reclaim our spot as the free children of the Lord, for all men are granted equality under His grace, regardless of land. We stand not just as victors in battle but as champions of liberty, where every man, woman, and child can breathe the sweet air of freedom¡­¡± The blatant hypocrisies dripping from his reedy voice made the ravenous hunger within Enuill¡¯s new existence flare even stronger. His was a mind that could never be taught righteousness ¡ªthe insidious doublespeak and the false pied mere tools to obscure a rotten soul drowned in crimes against the soil. As ¡®Master¡¯ continued his self-serving ranting while penning more grandiloquent calls for atonement and memorials, Enuill fixed him with a hate-filled stare. Whether his god justified such delusions or not mattered very little to them ¡ªno more than noise to be canceled. If it was salvation he yearned for, he was free to beg for it after all falsehood was broken. As a couple workers retreated from the office, Enuill tightened their grip on the rusted sickle until it creaked, allowing their mind to be overtaken by an all-consuming murderous intent. With ¡®Master¡¯ finally alone save for the ghostly presence watching him from the shadows, the dead child allowed their fingers to creep forward from under their ebon cloak. Unnatural chills emanated from the rift created within the black fog of their manifesting essence. Acute to all reactions, they could sense the hairs on the back of the old man¡¯s neck stirring, caressed by freezing whispers from the abyss. Their fingers were but a premonition of death¡¯s icy touch. The hand of the ¡®Master¡¯ stilled on the rag paper, droplets of ink dripping down unevenly as he became aware of the shift in the air currents. His crinkled face twisted in confusion and sudden trepidation, turning his form in the chair under trembling legs to face the source of unsettlement. A cry of shock and revulsion viscerally burst from his parched throat. Wild, panicked eyes swept over Enuill¡¯s impassive form, taking in the unholy visage of writhing shadows and the unstable geometries taking shape in their cloak. But it was the sight of those piercing and blank white eyes, devoid of any shred of humanity, that made his voice fail in terror. ¡°Who¡­ Who are¡­ What manner of monster!?¡± He finally choked out, hands gripping the armrests in a death grip as sweat beaded on his brow. ¡°How did you get in here!?¡± Such irrelevant questions held no more significance to Enuill than a fly¡¯s buzzing. They leaned in closer, the serrated edges of Hexameron¡¯s spines undulating almost in tangible amusement, leaning in with a voice utterly devoid of empathy. ¡°What am I?¡± Enuill¡¯s handle on human language had always been fickle at best. Yet for this one instance, they were savoring each word instilling fright as a haunt returned ephemeral flesh. ¡°Is that fear?¡± >> ¡°Stay still¡­ Let the eyes rest.¡± Their voice was disjointed, an echo of an imitation of Moonlight¡¯s intonations as she hushed them to sleep, only with far more ominous intent. ¡°Shut them close. Join this darkness.¡± As Enuill spoke in that disquieting, hollow tone, they continued creeping closer until both their form comprised together with the old man¡¯s. For as incorporeal as their body could be, the deeply seated horror from such a profane invasion soon enough triggered a more stark reaction from the ¡®Master¡¯. Well, not like it surprised Enuill in the least, for violence was the language that monsters such as this man knew the best ¡ªmere instinctive reactions bred from a lifetime of subjugating through authority and brutality. With a strangled cry, ¡®Master¡¯ snatched up the inlaid ivory pen from his desk and thrust it towards Enuill, seeking to pierce the neck of the aberration manifesting in his private study. In abrupt motions, the tiny but sharp edge lashed out¡­ ¡­ Only to pass through Enuill¡¯s form as if they were composed of illusory vapors and shadows, their semblance fleeting in physicality. Both the pen and the shoulders charging it forward phased through their small frame, devoid of any resistance or impediment. Their core felt a spark of joy as the old man crashed into the wooden floor, however, their outer layer was so numbed that no expression was truly conveyed. ¡°Can¡¯t hurt me. Can¡¯t kill me.¡± Enuill intoned, moving towards the older man correcting his position on the floor, eyes fixing on him like a concentrated maelstrom. ¡°If you wish to know, I can tell you what I am¡­¡± The child specter continued, enjoying the flavor of his fright. ¡°¡­ A god in the making.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Those reverberating whispers were paired with a hand moving downward, the edge of the rusty sickle leading the charge as they approached the old man with horrifying fluidity. Before ¡®Master¡¯ could even flinch, both tool and hand had pierced his stomach, passing through flesh and bone as easily as smoke through lattice ¡ªyet they didn¡¯t harm. Not yet. ¡°To resist is useless. It¡¯ll only make you sad.¡± >> ¡°So hush now¡­ That death is coming.¡± With the finality of a guillotine drop, Enuill¡¯s intangible fingers coalesced into brutal solidity inside the old man¡¯s body. The eyes of the tyrant bulged in shock as agony eclipsed his senses, the scorching hotness of blood and ruptured organs searing the dead guide¡¯s skin. In a viciously efficient upwards motion, both the hand and the sickle carved a swift and merciless ragged path from entrails to sternum. A spray of gore and viscera erupted forth as the torso was forced open, with Enuill momentarily closing their eyes to savor the screams unimpaired. The wail of pure, unfiltered suffering was one of the first things Enuill had found to be undeniably exquisite ¡ªbut since they didn¡¯t want to alert any of the inhabitants of the manor, they silenced it abruptly and decisively. The blade lashed one more time, moving in a lateral swipe aimed at the old man¡¯s windpipe, lodging itself momentarily against the frail resistance of flesh. Wet gurgles took control of the room as the throat ended up nearly taken from his body, releasing another obscene fountain of crimson across the study ¡ªone that Enuill selectively chose to avoid, having no intention of letting such disgusting liquid to taint him. Yes, this was more like it. No more pretty rhetoric in which to cower from retribution. As the disemboweled man let his head fall with a thud, already leaking its putrid lifeblood across the ornate carpets, so did Enuill ascend to stare him down unblinkingly. There was no longer ire swirling inside them, but rather a morbid satisfaction of a good deed finally done ¡ªterrible and implacable over the carnage. ¡°I¡¯m afraid no hell awaits you.¡± Enuill intoned their words with the delicacy of a lullaby, white eyes spotless and perennial despite the viscera adorning the floor. ¡°But neither does the god you pray to.¡± Gargled sounds from the old man¡¯s mutilated throat accompanied their murmurs. Since they were the being taking his life away, the young guide descended upon him, hushing and tenderly giving ¡®Master¡¯ his final rites. ¡°No need to be restless. Take comfort. I¡¯ll make everything right.¡± For as much visceral resonance that enacting this vengeance produced in their ruined soul, Enuill did not consider themselves as consumed by an insatiable appetite for bloodshed ¡ªlike all those pale monsters were. If they were slaying this one particular beast, they were doing so with a very clear motive and purpose in mind. Hollow white eyes gazed undisturbed at the soon-to-become remains, fascinated by the last instances of life being exhaled, unraveling and dispersing like ashes on the wind. Soon enough, there was nothing left behind but an empty husk, devoid of even a flicker of sentience. And that¡¯s exactly what Enuill had been waiting for. When their powers were newly born, the maws of Hexameron had run short of their goal of consuming the overseer in their way. The reach of emptiness had been stopped, proving ineffective against flesh when trying to unmake alive matter ¡ªbut ¡®Master¡¯ could no longer be considered among the living now, could he? Spreading from beneath the obsidian mantle, the grasp of darkness unfurled once more, with Enuill closing their eyes in preparation for the large meal ahead. Behind their eyelids, they could sense the infinite expanses of the insatiable void calling for more, ready to swallow even the faintest sparks of ignis fatuus that remained within their prey. Reality itself halted to a shuddering stop, groans of flesh drifting through the air as a series of interlocking layers of black coalesced around the diminishing cadaver. The newly-formed vortex bit down in ethereal streaks of light-devouring emptiness ¡ªserpentine fangs of the abyss given free reign. Wherever the singularities touched the rapidly cooling corpse, sickly gray tendrils of Hexameron¡¯s essence could be felt leaching away in inky gossamer strands. Like a cancer being burned away by an impossibly intense coldness, the old man¡¯s very soul was being siphoned into the abyssal realm. Bit by infinitesimal bit. Bite by bite. Only when the entire process had been brought to an end did Enuill gaze upon the aftermath. Their always unwavering eyes drifted through the space left emptied in the absence of a corpse, however, blood still stained both the carpet and the wooden flooring. There was a distant rumble they could not quite decipher, as if all the karmic weight of that monster¡¯s atrocities were attempting to coalesce into something new ¡ªhistory rewritten in the annals of reality. Looking at their own hand, the ghost couldn¡¯t pick up any substantial change in their being. Prior usages of Hexameron¡¯s ability had reformed tissue and undone the damages caused by the item being devoured. Seemed to be like it had some very clear limits they were yet to unearth ¡ªthey couldn¡¯t recover a life once lost, though they didn¡¯t care much for their own. Tilting their head almost contemplatively, Enuill moved away from the discarded vestiges of blood and towards the study¡¯s window, hoping for the vantage point in which them and the other subjugated were so casually stared down from before. ¡®Master¡¯ had been eternally devoured, of that they had no doubt. Their reckoning had been enacted¡­ But what did that exactly entail for the many lives that were kept beneath the plantation owner¡¯s thumb? Surveying the fields did not raise any superficial sign of change. The manor itself appeared untouched, a bastion of opulence that would take them too much effort to devour¡­ But still, something did feel amiss ¡ªa discordant note yet to be properly identified. A more thorough examination over the people themselves began to slowly unravel the still unfolding nuances of this new reality. Those enslaved, one by one, began to look at each other with emanations of confusion and uncertainty rippling through their body language, a muddled haze of forgotten purpose cloaking their collective consciousness. Some paused mid-motion, tools hovering trepidantly as they exchanged bewildered glances, the rhythms of their ceaseless labor disrupted. Others continued their tasks with a glazed, almost trance-like determination, driven by a muscle memory Enuill could not erase. Soon enough, they would also stop. The steady cadence of overseer barks and whip-cracks similarly muted, falling just the same into a shared stupor along with the workers. It was as though a veil had been lifted, exposing the hollow facade of their existence ¡ªa construct built upon layers of enforced subjugation and accepted norms. Enuill couldn¡¯t help but grow excited, their intervention having torn through those atrocious illusions, leaving everyone adrift in a sea of new possibilities, grasping for meaning in a world that had been irrevocably shifted. A slow-acting poison that gradually sunk the fields into chaos. The tools clattered to the ground, their purpose forgotten, as the laborers abandoned their posts. Some drifted aimlessly, unmoored from the relentless cycle that had defined their existence up to this point. Others, however, were far more swift to salvage an objective from confusion. Whispers of memories stirred ¡ªrecollections of loved ones taken away, of lives severed by the cruelty of bondage, now with nothing to stop them from reclaiming them back. In purposeful strides, they began to unite, drawn together by an inexorable pull. Whether it was by the distant call of the places they were originally taken from, or simply by sharing the elusive possibility of freedom, there was no halting their march once it was truly set into motion. The authority of the overseers had been rendered hollow, all attempts to reassert a vague control ringing empty. They also had no idea of why they were there in the first place, so any halfheartedly yelled order simply fell on deaf ears, drowned out by the swell of murmurs ¡ªa rising chorus of determination. Satisfaction elicited a smile from Enuill, who continued observing the unfolding scene with grim comfort. It was their intervention that had been the catalyst, but they did not have a need to conduct all on their lonesome anymore. As the crowd steadily gathered momentum and numbers, soon enough they became a mass too powerful to be contained; and so the ghost guide simply allowed themselves to moderate from the sidelines, drifting down the manor¡¯s heights and merging with them as a concealed warden. This new era wasn¡¯t Enuill¡¯s alone. While they had been the one to unravel the chain, the reckoning upon this tainted land was only just unfurling, and it would be built by all their joined hands. As the crowd surged forth, so did the ethereal sentinel bearing witness to their emancipation follow. Leaving the confines of the plantation behind, they all ventured into corners hitherto unseen by the young specter. In these new places, the pales mingled with their own kind in larger numbers, their lives playing out in complete disregard of the pain they imposed so absentmindedly. Some of them cowered from the multitude, but others reacted with open hostility, brandishing weapons and spouting vile imprecations. But there was Enuill to keep them at bay. Moving invisible and implacable, all threats were dissipated into nothingness by the mere touch of their fingers, consumed by the void they now effortlessly commanded. Muskets and blades disintegrated into nothingness, leaving their wielders agape in impotency. Without their weapons, they had no longer any means in which to stop them. The young guide felt like a force of nature given form, so much that it was hard not to relish in this heady rush of vindication. Each obstacle to be obliterated, and every obstacle surmounted, was a brand new flavor spreading through their numbed-down senses like a liberating frenzy. As the high tide of freedom crested, sweeping across the heart of the entire settlement¡­ It was but eventual that they would cross a last stand conformed by their enemies gathering in similar great numbers. Whether it was warranted or not, whether they had an owner or not, fear turned to desperation and viciousness. It was almost like the pales could not accept the concept of seeing them free. And such fragile tension shattered before Enuill could do anything about it. Gunshots blared across the air, charging it with the acrid stench from the smoking barrels. The lethal volleys were unleashed mercilessly into the surging crowd, birthing a pandemonium of screams and outrage that cared not for the ghost guide¡¯s attempts to recover control. One by one, the bodies crumpled to the dusty ground as their brethren began to fall. Crimson bloomed across the worn fabrics in grotesque patterns, though the surge of the newly liberated pushed defiantly onward, even when they lacked any substantial means to retaliate against such brutal containment brigade assembled to crush their insurrection. Undeterred by the cracking of muskets, or perhaps even bolstered by them, their people showed their refusal to falter ¡ªto not surrender what little ground they had claimed. Defiance similarly blazed Enuill, an inferno of resolve that could not be as easily smothered. They poised themselves to strike, eager to do everything in their power to prevent any life from succumbing to demise. Amidst the throes of flesh and violence, a solitary figure yelled in opposition, desperately trying to quell the escalating conflict with upraised hands and a deep, penetrating voice demanding attention. Enuill¡¯s ethereal essence froze as Mammy Moonlight¡¯s weathered features pleaded for restraint, for wisdom to overcome the escalating hatred on both sides. Despite the whip-scored expanses on her back, she moved with the same strength and poise that had for so long been a symbol of perseverance to the dead child¡¯s eyes. For a fleeting moment, the youth deluded themselves into thinking that her impassioned words might de-escalate the conflagration, lest it finished burning everything away¡­ But the crack of a rifle came as merciless and certain as always, sinking such fickle hope for peace right back into oblivion. Numbed by shock, Enuill could do nothing more than watch, as the musket ball punched through the air and obliterated Mammy Moonlight¡¯s throat and left shoulder into mere chunks of torn flesh. Her eyes went wide, immediately falling to the ground as weak hands grasped at the ruined muscles, crumpling on herself as countless other feet stomped their way past her. Though they cried out, no sound coming from Enuill¡¯s lips managed to reach anyone¡¯s ears. They felt fragile once more, like mere glass in the wake of that indiscriminate savagery. Wave after wave of anguish and regret deluged the ghost child¡¯s senses, all of their cherished memories with their beloved matriarch coming back to haunt them in brilliant clarity ¡ªher nurturing guidance, her warm cheek whenever they kissed it, her effervescent spirit in spite of all of the pain, and her stubborn refusal to let their collective soul be broken no matter how dire the circumstances. All of it¡­ Extinguished by one careless shot amidst so many others. Helplessness and despair consumed them rapidly, shuddering and recoiling from all the emotions they were no longer able to control, nor which they tried to. They wanted to be undone under the maws of Hexameron just like they had done with the ¡®Master¡¯ before ¡ªfor this resolution was of their own conceited doing. Enuill could no longer care about the conflict. All that mattered was getting their unstable form to Mammy Moonlight¡¯s side, clutching onto her despite knowing full well how the red pooling beneath her symbolized her life fading away. The rest simply collapsed inwards to that single brutal point, of an irreplaceable light unjustly snuffed out. Half-translucent and trembling hands reached out, trying to grasp hers and reaffirm the connection that had served for so long as his sole solace¡­ Yet they could not touch. Try as they might, Enuill¡¯s eyes were unable to manifest the tears that welled up from the profound depths of their broken soul. They wanted nothing more than to keen their anguish into the uncaring god above, but even that was denied. Despite being reborn from pain, peace, death, lies, sadness and innocence¡­ Enuill¡¯s heart was not much more than a masquerade. An inhuman whisper unable to care anymore, even as the last member of their family fell bloodied and broken ¡ªcollaterals from the unjust and unequal confrontation the young guide had so irresponsibly begun. So they remained in place, unable to cradle Mammy Moonlight¡¯s lifeless form as the chaos subsided around them. They were utterly, irreparably broken, their mind splintering into fragmented shards that could no longer piece together individual thoughts or coherent motivations. Day after endless day, night after interminable night, they knelt in the streets, unmoving, unmoved. The corpses were eventually cleared away, the fighting concluded, but still Enuill kept their solitary, unyielding vigil. They could not fully let go, could not tear themselves away from the last traces of their people lingering in the soil, even when they experienced no needs or cravings. There was no one single enemy to blame, no clear objective for their anger to lash out against. The whole world, all of this vile reality seemed rotten to the core. A hideous, self-perpetuating typhoon of cruelty, overfed on hollow justifications. And perhaps¡­ Perhaps they themselves were simply another puppet in this loathsome spectacle. In soul-withering defeat, they realized that their quest for liberation had ended in nothing more than one more exercise in senseless tragedy. What kind of hope was there to enact, what lasting change could they make, when the stars above appeared engineered to grind their bones into dust? Their power, the all-consuming maws of Hexameron¡­ They had been just as insufficient to erode away the shackles. Just like Mammy had warned them¡­ Power alone would never be enough to change a thing. Enuill saw now that the world operated on transient half-truths and institutionalized lies far beyond their current capacity for reason or understanding. They were but a mote of impermanence in an implacably uncaring universe. A walking ghost story already severed from history. And so, as the aimless passage of time continued to blur past in an incomprehensible smear, Enuill began to similarly drift. Their phantasmal form was unable to age, incapable of change, so they simply coursed across the land like a lost specter with neither purpose nor direction. They witnessed more of humanity¡¯s bottomless capacity for malice and greed as backgrounds and perpetrators changed. Bore witness to both unconscionable atrocities, as well as some individual stories of love and resilience¡­ Yet, they always refused to interfere beyond superficial, immediate manners. For not even the original inhabitants of the land, who had embraced a similar spiritual resonance to what Enuill had done, could even come close to seeing the true pointlessness and uncertainty behind their worldly worries. Some part of the dead child had already accepted their fundamental insignificance ¡ªthey were simply a brush too small against the enormous canvas of humanity. At some point or another¡­ Even memory began to fail, the burden of grief too harsh to bear across the agonizing decades turning to centuries. Perhaps if they better understood the grander clockwork of creation operating behind the veil, where Hexameron and the other monsters like it originated from, they could finally find the fulcrum point to leverage true freedom for every breathing being. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they would remain forever wandering, a supernatural and persistent watcher, helpless and unwilling to combat the juggernauts of entropy and fate. It was something that Enuill had already resigned themselves to ever find a resolute answer for ¡ªat least not until even they ended up eaten by another primordial entity like them, a victim to larger and more ravenous fangs. However¡­ Whether a part of a larger design of causality or a mere trick of chance, a man with a clear vision eventually walked before their path, across lands too far away from the lake waters that robbed Enuill of their original breath. The ghost child was never freed from their desolating lack of faith in humanity. It was imprinted far too indelibly in their vaporous, intangible fibers ¡ªbut if this man¡¯s plan was to be trusted¡­ Then they didn¡¯t mind sullying their fingers with the issues of the living one final time. Punishment V: Killing Moon PUNISHMENT V KILLING MOON Despair made her heart ache once the van¡¯s metal door slammed shut with a resounding clang, devouring all light from the outside world¡­ And sealing their fate with its echoing finality. She was scared, incredibly so. It was such an overpowering fright that Koral couldn¡¯t help but extend her trembling fingers towards Kirana, clenching her sister¡¯s hand tightly. The familiar sting of tears threatened to take hold, as it so often did whenever no one else was looking. The twins weren¡¯t alone inside the confines of the vehicle. Treated just like cargo, many other children huddled together, either clinging to one another in trepidant uncertainty, or cowering in the worn plastic and rusted steel corners. ¡®It wasn¡¯t fair¡­ Not now, not like this¡­¡¯ The reprimand was repeated inside her mind as the van¡¯s old engine roared to life with some struggle. Yet despite the sickening turns of her stomach, the wheels soon enough lurched into motion, every bump and dip in the dilapidated asphalt making them all jump and sway within the near-pitch blackness. Danger lurked at every corner. This was something the young girl understood all too well, even at her eleven-years old. The streets were all they had ever known, so naturally, they didn¡¯t merely had to learn how to navigate them to survive ¡ªthey had to bend them to their whims. A pair of identical blonde girls with striking aquamarine eyes, a rarity among the typical traits of the country, was a surefire way to startle shopkeepers and to distract the city folk. While Kirana played the polite and gracious role, Koral was the rowdy, sneaky and aggressive one ¡ªdarting in to swipe whatever valuables she could while her sister diverted attention. Their contrasting personas perfectly complemented their thieving trade, honed to a razor¡¯s edge by years trudged upon unforgiving alleys. But for Koral, it wasn¡¯t much more than that. A mere facade. For despite her best efforts of keeping a strong outwards front, and Kirana¡¯s refined display of fake vulnerability¡­ It was the latter one who kept an indomitable will and unshakable conviction between the two. Time and time again, it was her sister who had to dry her tears, offering an unwavering smile in the face of hardships and keeping them safe whenever they had to flee from the authorities or unsavory grown-ups. Naturally, she was the mastermind behind their daring escape from the orphanage. While it was true that she also rejected the mere chance of the two of them being separated, at times Koral felt like she was simply going along with her older sister¡¯s meticulous plans. Yet to her eyes¡­ Few sights were as beautiful as Kirana¡¯s honey hair, flowing freely as they ran under the twilight glow of the evening sun. Indeed, if this were to be just another one of their usual coordinated schemes¡­ Koral was certain that things wouldn¡¯t have spiraled so disastrously out of control. But their twelfth birthday was rapidly approaching, and she craved for nothing more than to give her sister a fleeting illusion that their lives were not a constant struggle, scraping by in the mud just for something to stave off the hunger. For that, she needed money, yet still¡­ She should have known better than to try to swindle alone in the city¡¯s most dangerous corners. The risks she took were foolish, targeting the adults that were entirely out of her league ¡ªrecklessness born from a naive desire to prove that she could also be strong if she so wanted. So why? Why did Kirana follow her? Why did she have to stand up alongside her once she was caught? Why was she now sharing the catastrophic consequences of her stupidity? ¡°Don¡¯t worry, dummy.¡± Sensing the guilt gnawing at her thoughts, the older twin forced her own breath into a steady stream as she enveloped Koral¡¯s shoulders in a protective embrace. Their link as twins had always been like this. There was nothing she could hide from her perceptive attention Kirana always knew. ¡°No matter what happens, no matter where they take us.¡± >> ¡°We¡¯ll always be together, ok?¡± Her softly murmured words carried a soothing cadence, tranquilizing Koral¡¯s heart despite the unsettling creaks and groans of the vehicle¡¯s ancient chassis. ¡°So don¡¯t you cry anymore. There must be a way out.¡± Gathering her fragile resolve, Koral looked around them with more discerning eyes. There were approximately ten other children in varying states of distress. Some whimpered softly, their faces streaked with fresh remnants of tears, while others stared vacantly, eyes hollow from who knew what kind of horrors they had been forced to endure during their abduction. The air was thick with the mingled stench of stale sweat, fear¡­ And also another unmistakable scent ¡ªthat of both recent and dried blood. She shouldn¡¯t be too surprised. She had heard the stories before through hushed rumours and warnings¡­ About how those taken by the northern Cartel were never seen again. To end up living such tales firsthand was something Koral had thought herself and Kirana too resourceful to ever face¡­ Yet now, in the dim light filtering through the cracks of their weathered prison, she had to confront the reality that they were no different than the others they were trapped with ¡ªthose she had once dismissed as foolish for even getting caught. From a boy far too small, clutching onto a tattered stuffed animal like a lifeline, to a young woman who reacted fiercely whenever other children approached her. All of their disheveled appearances and the still-recent marks of hurt in their bodies signaled a very clear message ¡ªwhatever hell they had been thrown into had only just begun to bare its fangs. Yet amid this waking nightmare¡­ Kirana remained as her anchor, a solitary point of security in a sea of anxiety. Against her best wishes to appear strong and reliable, Koral clung to her sister, enough for her nails to dig into her skin. Not even once did the older twin protest¡­ Nor did the ominous and uncaring rumble of the wheels ever cease, carrying them all deeper into the abyss of the unknown. While her handle on the passage of time was loose inside that claustrophobic metal cage, Koral sensed they must have been on the road well over an hour, and way more than enough to leave the familiar streets of their home city far behind. After she had finally calmed, Kirana gently released her embrace as she allowed Koral to catch her breath on her own, the older of the twins probing both the door and the thin interior walls with testing fingers. Perhaps this was her own way of coping with the mounting panic, channeling it into a meticulous examination of their prison. Sadly, no amount of searching appeared to yield any promising result. They remained hermetically sealed inside, with no escape hatches or weaknesses to exploit, even if the only thing awaiting them on the other side was the high-speed blur of the asphalt. But even as Kirana returned to her side wearing a disgruntled expression, the younger sister knew that the frustration simmering behind her eyes meant that she had no plans to accept this development without a fight. She refrained from voicing any potential strategies aloud, leading Koral to rationalize her tense silence ¡ªperhaps she was yet to formulate a definite plan for their extreme situation. Believing that such a breakthrough was imminent, Koral waited for Kirana with bated breath¡­ Yet no clever scheme ever came out of her lips, not even when the van gradually juddered into a complete halt. It must have been hours they had been on the road inside that purgatory of motion, one that now appeared merciful when pitted against the heavy silence that fell on their collective shoulders ¡ªbroken solely by the fearful shuffling of other children shuddering in anticipation, as well as the opening and closing of doors paired with heavy steps against the ground happening right across the thin steel barriers. Same footsteps now inching closer and closer, making Koral¡¯s heart lodge in her throat. It was only Kirana¡¯s voice that managed to break the paralytic tension threatening to engulf them all. ¡°The moment that door opens, you run.¡± She said, her tone utterly serious and unflinching as her eyes bored into the menacing gate. ¡°Don¡¯t give yourself any chance to think, just keep moving your legs. Run, no matter what.¡± Cursing the unfairness of Kirana unveiling her plan at the last possible moment, Koral had no chance to even object before the locks clicked open. In a fraction of a second, her sister charged forward, slamming her shoulder against the door and ramming it against the face of whoever stood on the other side. Clenching her teeth, Koral burst through the sudden opening, leaping from the elevated surface and wincing as she hit the ground hard, knees immediately protesting the impact. Her eyes needed some moments before adjusting to the intense, harsh lighting reflecting on the sun-baked soil, yet she pushed herself upright despite them and broke into a desperate sprint ¡ªheart thundering in her ears. The world blurred around her as she ran, ragged gasps for breath tearing at her throat, and the arid air burning her lungs with each panicked inhalation. Escape was her singular driving force for the time being, repeating her older sister¡¯s words like a mantra. Koral could hear more pairs of feet stomping the ground not far from her, yet she barely even dared to look their way, catching only glimpses of her surroundings in her peripheral vision. The vast and endless expanse of the desert, interrupted solely by a brutal concrete building, its exterior bleached bone-white from prolonged sun exposure. Coils of rusty barbed wire lined up menacingly, and in the far distance, she could see the tiny figures of the men she would soon enough be forced to elude as well. But more important than any of those details, even more than the immediate thugs giving chase to both her and the other children seizing their chance to escape¡­ All of their shared shouts blended into indistinguishable noise as Koral realized that Kirana was not among them. Her legs jolted to an abrupt stop as her eyes desperately scanned the chaos for any sign of Kirana in a frenzied state. She knew it was wrong, that it was against her sister¡¯s instructions, but she couldn¡¯t help herself ¡ªher body simply refused to carry her further. And then she found her. Whether it was a consequence of her initial daring stunt or a conscious decision to stay behind as a decoy, Kirana was struggling against multiple pairs of arms trying to contain her. She employed knees and bared teeth in ferocious attempts to make her capture as difficult as possible, but they were grown-ups, and she an eleven-years old. At that moment, Koral realized that if she had in her the capability of sneaking past the Cartel members giving chase or lying in wait¡­ It would mean deserting her twin sister to a brutal fate. And that was something every single cell, every fiber of her being, vehemently refused to allow. A primal scream tore from the young blonde¡¯s throat as she whirled on her heels, hurtling back towards the fray with reckless abandon. Self-preservation was eclipsed by an overwhelming drive to reach Kirana¡¯s side ¡ªall consequences be damned. They would not be separated, not here, not ever. If they were to suffer, they would endure it side-by-side, defiant to the bitter end. That was her conviction. Stronger than any man or woman that would dare raise a finger against them, firmer than any potential danger, or even death itself. An unyielding resolve that overpowered her fears, forged in the crucible of the harsh slums they called home, and tempered by years of struggle and survival against all adversities. But also one that would end up ruthlessly snuffed out by a fierce blow directed at her head, interrupting any future assault in its tracks. A sickening crack echoed through the parched air, reverberating in Koral¡¯s skull as something hard and unforgiving collided with the side of her face. Her world exploded in blinding agony, as her vision abruptly fractured into a thousand shards of distorted lights and shadows. Hotness trickled down her cheek, mingling with the salty taste of her tears as the force of the impact whipped her neck violently. Her knees buckled and her feet left the ground, and soon enough, she was gasping for breath that refused to fill her lungs as the dry dust clung to her bloodied face. Disorientation fully enveloped her senses, all sounds and vibrations distorting into a discordant jumble. She tried to blink, but her left eye refused to cooperate, as her sight became completely obscured by a veil of crimson. The world continued to tilt precariously as the fractured images bled into one another, clinging to consciousness by the edge of her nails as she refused to be consumed by the encroaching darkness. Somewhere in the distance, she could make out Kirana¡¯s muffled cries, fueling her desperate attempts to remain aware of everything despite the searing pain that bolted across her now shattered skull. Hoisted up unceremoniously and carried with disregard, the blank ringing in Koral¡¯s ears made it difficult to discern much beyond the angered admonishments being thrown between the Cartel¡¯s members. Whether they were directed at her, or the man who had struck her down, was a detail drowned by her sister¡¯s anguished screams piercing the fog. Time became an abstract, unmeasurable construct as Koral stubbornly fought against the ebb and flow trying to swallow her like a live tide. She was only of how she was eventually brought inside the building, away from the sun¡¯s searing glare as the cacophony of the remaining children still being herded and captured outside faded into the distance. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. While her left hemisphere was an indistinguishable mess of deep red and black, the young blonde¡¯s unfocused right eye made out the blurred form of a bald man, approaching her soon after she was callously tossed onto the cold concrete floor. His dark-skinned finger wove before her face, struggling to even properly track the sluggish movement. With similar bluntness, her ruined left eye was forced open, a surge of searing agony driving Koral to whimper piteously. She didn¡¯t need a diagnosis to deduce she wouldn¡¯t be using it anytime soon. ¡°Shit, man¡­ You fucking blew the little bitch¡¯s eye, I think that shit¡¯s leaking.¡± The bald man¡¯s tone carries a casual dismissiveness, almost sarcastic in its indifference. ¡°No mercy, huh?¡± ¡°We¡¯ve got a good batch going.¡± Another voice responded with an audible sneer, as if she was nothing more than damaged merchandise to be sold at discount. ¡°Who cares if one or two gets a bit banged up along the way?¡± The words hung heavy in the stifling air, their disdain bringing Koral back into agonizing focus out of sheer spite. Even when her trembling form instinctively wanted to curl inwards, she forced herself to look beyond the looming figure of the man above her and sought Kirana, watching helplessly as her sister was similarly dragged into this merciless hell. ¡°A shame. You had a pretty face.¡± She was told, coarse fingers disgustingly ruffling Koral¡¯s already blood-soaked hair. ¡°Guess you won¡¯t have that going for you anymore.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t touch my sister!¡± Kirana¡¯s blood-curling scream rang out as she thrashed against the restraining hands restraining both her arms and legs, yet still buckling wildly. ¡°What did you do to her!? Leave her alone!¡± Even as her body demanded to be freed from suffering by surrendering to oblivion, Koral¡¯s impaired gaze locked with her sister¡¯s, pretty aquamarine eyes boring into her remaining one with despairing urgency. For as brittle as her awareness was¡­ The flickers of rational thought sliced through shock ¡ªtaking everything in heart-rending clarity. ¡°Feisty, this one.¡± A voice grated as Kirana was brutally slammed to the ground, a ruthless boot grinding into her throat to hold her firmly in place. One by one, more of the captured children were brought inside and shoved to the sides. An unwilling audience for the incoming atrocities. ¡°You gave me quite a hit back there, whore¡­¡± >> ¡°Better make sure I repay you in kind.¡± Already cursing her existence, Koral understood full-well what was about to happen. They would make an example out of her and Kirana, a vicious reminder to ensure none of the others ever entertained the notion of opposing their captors again. ¡°Damn man, are you sure you wanna do that to her?¡± The bald man questioned, though he didn¡¯t sound particularly conflicted. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we just focus on the busted one? She¡¯s damaged goods anyway.¡± Koral¡¯s trembles ceased at once, her blood freezing in her veins as a tangible, asphyxiating horror sank into the pit of her stomach. She realized, with dawning dread, that just perhaps it was only she who would pay the price of all mistakes. With what little remained of her waning strength, she raised her head so her eye never left those of Kirana. Seconds fleetingly stretched into eternity, as she gave a solemn nod, her battered lips curving into a grim, apologetic smile. ¡°No!¡± Kirana forced her addled mind to action, sinking her teeth viciously into her captor''s leg and taking the brief opportunity to spring back to her feet. Tear-stained eyes brimming with defiance, she lurched towards Koral, desperately trying to place herself as a shield by kneeling in a protective stance. "I''ll do anything. Just don''t hurt my sister anymore!" Once more, the younger twin cursed how unfair Kirana was. She was only a bunch of hours older¡­ So then why? Why was she so hell-bent on keeping that big sister charade? Why did she have to be this radiant, even now? ¡°Shut the fuck up, Milo!¡± The much older and deeply angered man coiled back after recovering from the bite, staring daggers into Kirana as even more men began to surround them fully ¡ªas if to smother them further into hopelessness. ¡°I can¡¯t do the already fucked-up ones.¡± >> ¡°Besides, look. This little shit wants to have all the fun for herself.¡± Koral tensed as the bastard¡¯s shadow engulfed them, his silhouette blotting out all else as he grabbed Kirana¡¯s legs, dragging her body across the floor. The younger twin similarly wanted to cry out, to beg both the Cartel members and Kirana for a different resolution¡­ Yet her voice was stolen by the blinding panic constricting her throat, and her motions being kept subdued by the grip of the man called Milo. ¡°Stay put.¡± His tone was strange, completely lacking in empathy even as his grip on Koral softened just enough to avoid further harm. ¡°You don¡¯t have to watch this.¡± Whatever naive hope of keeping Kirana safe from this fate was eradicated with brutal swiftness, as a large fist connected squarely with the older twin¡¯s temple in a sickening burst of force. The blonde girl¡¯s struggles ceased into a sluggish halt as the back of her head slammed into the unforgiving concrete beneath, falling into disturbing stillness that sent tremors through Koral. That ¡®she didn¡¯t have to watch?¡¯ Who the hell did that man think he was!? As soon as his finger moved to cover her remaining eye, the younger twin jerked her head, baring her teeth as she bit down his hand ferally. She didn¡¯t need his twisted sympathy, nor did she want it. Milo let out a silent grunt before shaking before wrenching his hand, shaking off her teeth. Yet he didn¡¯t deliver the death-sentence Koral so desperately craved if it could mean sparing Kirana¡¯s life. ¡°Fine, do whatever you want.¡± The bald man sighed, with Koral¡¯s head already numbed enough that she barely registered the pain of his fingers tightening in her blood-matted hair. ¡°This is the world you¡¯re in from now on.¡± >> ¡°Make sure to remember it vividly.¡± Trapped and powerless in the face of torture, Koral could only watch in impotent anguish as the remaining men converged around Kirana¡¯s motionless form like a pack of rabid vultures, descending upon carrion¡­ And with clear tears falling from her right eye, and blood-red ones streaking down her left¡­ Koral swore at that moment that she would make them pay for this ¡ªbe it at the cost of her own life, or even after her death. So even with her impaired sight, the younger twin kept her gaze unblinkingly fixed ahead, refusing to look away from the unfolding horror. She watched as Kirana¡¯s beautiful aquamarine eyes, once so vibrant and full of determination, now met hers ¡ªthe two sisters sharing a moment of unspoken connection in those final moments of innocence. Their gazes never parted, all the world contracting around her form, even when Kirana¡¯s frame began rocking and convulsing from the brutalities being inflicted upon it. Perhaps she should¡¯ve looked away. Spare herself and her sister even that small dignity¡­ But she owed it to her to bear witness. To make a tally of all transgressions in preparation for the reckoning she would eventually rain on their shoulders. At times, the men shouted vile taunts and snarls that Kirana deserved this for daring to attempt an escape. That this was their corrupt idea of justice. Koral understood on some level that this was a scare tactic, meant to intimidate the other children into submission ¡ªbut even if it wasn¡¯t, their monstrous discipline could go fuck itself. Fuck their cruel logic. Fuck their justice. Fuck them all. A cold, hard knot of rage took root in Koral¡¯s chest, hardening her resolve even as it displaced what little sanity remained. A seething desire for vengeance burned away all else as it spread like wildfire through her veins. But that wrath was gradually eclipsed by a suffocating chasm of despair when Kirana¡¯s vibrant eyes began to dim, their light fading beneath the spreading crimson stain on the concrete. Her twin tried to desperately reach out with a hand now missing its fingers, and Koral mirrored the futile gesture in complete desolation. If they could not touch physically¡­ Perhaps their spirits could do so one last time. And then Kirana was gone from this world. Koral didn¡¯t need confirmation ¡ªshe knew it immediately in the depths of her soul, as if a vital piece of her heart had been violently torn away. An empty husk was all that remained where her beloved sister¡¯s vibrant warmth had once shined so brightly. No amount of vengeance could ever salve the desolation that hollowed out Koral¡¯s heart as Kirana¡¯s eyes went blank and sightless. She could fantasize about retribution endlessly, but she understood then that she was just as culpable as those vile Cartel members. It was her who had been originally captured. Her who had allowed Kirana to attempt that final, fatal gambit. Her lack of strength that left her unable to protect her other half. Her who had taken for granted her twin¡¯s constant companionship, keen wit and lustrous life force¡­ ¡­ But she could contemplate how to punish herself later ¡ªonce every single one of those sadistic bastards was buried six feet underground. Unsure of how, Koral¡¯s remaining eye abandoned Kirana¡¯s unmoving body to fixate upon the men. Their smug, piggish faces were twisted in unfettered sickness, or even twisted enjoyment at the depravity they had wrought. Their hands were still glistening with her sister¡¯s blood, their bodies well-fed and sated from the spoils of their evil deeds. A primal loathing roared through her being like a caged animal locked in the depths of her core. She hated them. Hated their features, their sneers, their very existences ¡ªwith every fiber of her being cursing them to death. And from that towering tsunami of wrath, something new and monstrous took shape. As if blessed to harbor Kirana¡¯s now adrift soul within her own, Koral felt an incandescent power surge forth within. An ethereal specter, given form by her unbridled anger and guilt, projected outwards ¡ªdriving itself straight towards the murderers like a vengeful apparition. The formless maelstrom erupting from Koral¡¯s reduced frame rapidly took on a distinct shape, solidifying into the large silhouette of an adult woman swathed entirely in a layer of fabric-like black skin with erratic glistening of scales scattered unevenly across her. Over this seeming suit hung tattered strips of white material, fluttering like remains of a shredded dress. Above all, it was the being¡¯s head that filled Koral with awe and a hint of fear. A tumultuous mane of hair cascaded from it in waves of blues and white like a negative picture ¡ªlush phantasmagoric strands spilling and waving in their sheer abundance, obscuring any defined facial features to leave only an interrupted impression of her slim feminine form. In a seamless, blurred motion, the specter¡¯s arms extended with unnatural dexterity, her limbs ending in viciously sharp points like needle blades. Koral could only watch with parted lips, struggling to draw breath, as those wicked black lances stabbed mercilessly the nearest cartel thug towering over Kirana¡¯s corpse. The being seemed to hover just above the ground, propelling itself with ghostly intangibility while her sword-like feet scraped the concrete floor. Violence faded into a feverish crimson haze in the mind¡¯s eye of the young blonde girl. The sprays of riven flesh and ropes of viscera fell to the ground as the avenging force began to lay waste, unstoppable and mercilessly. It was a mural of utter carnage unfolding in a frenzy too rapid for Koral to comprehend. All she could process from the first crucial moments was only the gratifying crescendo of screams abruptly choked into bloody gurgles, one by one. At least, until more comprehensible words reached her ringing ears. ¡°The bitch awakened a Punisher!¡± One of the men fumbled in shock as they began scattering from the homicidal whirlwind. For most, it didn¡¯t seem like they could actually perceive the presence of the monster ¡ªonly reading her position through the arcs of blood being forced out of their torn flesh. ¡°Milo, the fuck are you waiting for!?¡± >> ¡°Kill her! Now!¡± ¡°Psh. That¡¯s why you don¡¯t go around kicking potential wasp nests without consideration.¡± The always detached cadence of Milo¡¯s voice responded, making Koral¡¯s eye widen as she remembered his presence next to her. She had stupidly forgotten about him in the blinding surge of rage¡­ Yet the bald young man appeared unnaturally calm despite the hellish massacre still unfolding. ¡°This is just the way it goes in our line of work. Nothing against you in particular little one.¡± >> ¡°Orders are orders. Otherwise it¡¯s my neck on the line.¡± The blue-haired monster turned towards her then, the endlessly cascading strands parting briefly to reveal the vague impression of lips opening to scream. But Koral didn¡¯t have the chance to even hear it before the deafening blast of a gun clap drowned everything in the blink of an eye. In that endless instant, her world went utterly black. An impenetrable void where not even the faintest glimmer of light penetrated. No sights, no sounds, just the illusive sense of floating adrift in a limitless expanse of oblivion. Had she died? Transcended into another plane of existence? Koral couldn''t tell. There was just¡­ Nothing¡­ ¡­ At least until everything abruptly snapped back into place. Her hands were clawing at the concrete floor once more, her body completely paralyzed in the wake of that deathly experience. Her killer seemed just as stunned and disoriented as she was ¡ªfor it had certainly happened. She had been shot in the head, the lingering smoke wafting from Milo¡¯s barrel confirming it. ¡°Why is not stopping!?¡± One of the Cartel thugs cried out in a panic. ¡°Did you fucking miss, cabron!?¡± Koral raised her trembling eye to find the ethereal blue-haired specter still present, those endlessly lashing tendrils of ghostly tresses whipping about with furious intensity as they constricted and sliced through the men, perpetuating the brutal carnage. "Did not!" Milo snapped back, his face contorted in a rare show of visible turmoil. "I shot her at point-blank!" "Then do it again you stupid son of a bitch!" The other man bellowed ¡°Kill her as many times as it takes to¡ª¡°. His words were abruptly drowned out by a deafening thunder. Without warning, streaks of searing incandescence diced through the open gates, the brilliant rays of light cutting through the madness like solar flares. Hissing cries of agony erupted as super-heated beams cauterized flesh from bone, charring and silencing any in their path with gruesome finality. The blinding radiance poured forth in an overwhelming deluge, mercilessly consuming everything in its path as it rapidly advanced across the compound''s interior. Even Milo did not escape the judgment, sent back from his position above her ¡ªthough the young girl was certain he had done something to intercept the attack. For Koral? She could only cower and shut her eye against the blistering onslaught, her other senses overwhelmed by the reek of burnt ozone and the sounds of calcined bodies violently convulsing. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the fiery onslaught ceased ¡ªan eerie, scorched silence falling over the scene of smoldering devastation. Koral cracked her eye open once more to find the blue-haired specter''s rampage had ended, the apparition now floating protectively before her with its tendrils splayed in a gesture of unearthly elegance. A new figure strode purposefully through the settling smoke and embers, seemingly untouched by the inferno they had unleashed. He was an older man, wearing a long cream trench coat despite the exterior¡¯s heat, though it appeared to sag at one of his sides. Partly obscured under a white fedora hat and the serious expression underneath, his weathered features appeared almost gentle ¡ªthe gleam of his deep-yellow eyes offering a solace that Koral desperately needed. On one of his shoulders rested a large golden eagle-like entity, its body holding as a centerpiece a rotating sphere reflecting light and shapes, emanating an unsettling radiance in a kaleidoscopic manner as sharp talons and a hooked beak surrounded the ensemble. It appeared like another creature similar to her monster, yet neither of them carried even the tiniest hint of danger as the old man walked near. Still struggling to make sense of all, Koral couldn¡¯t even flinch as the tall and muscular man knelt before her, giving her tiny shoulder a tender squeeze under his large hand. The motion parted his open trench coat, revealing underneath a tidy black suit¡­ And the fact that he was missing an arm. ¡°It¡¯s ok. I¡¯m here now.¡± Were his short words, carried through with a sense of loss that shook Koral¡¯s brittle foundations. Unable to contain herself anymore, tears burst forth as if a dam had finished breaking. ¡°My name¡¯s Apollo.¡± >> ¡°What¡¯s yours?¡± There was just one more thing she picked up then about that silver-haired old man, before emotions took complete control over her ¡ªhow utterly cold it felt around him. His was a far reaching light that could never warm her like Kirana. Killing Moon -Part 2- Even as the car navigated through the bustling streets of Punta Luzbel, a city which Koral had never seen before, the girl found herself utterly disconnected from her surroundings. The vibrant color of the sea shimmering in the distance, or the bustling sounds of honking horns as well as the people going around with their day amidst the disheveled streets ¡ªnone of them managed to evoke any sense of childlike curiosity in Koral, too emotionally stunted to derive any interest from them. She simply held her head low as old man Apollo continued driving silently with only his right hand ¡ªthe only one he had. An entire day had come to pass since her world had been torn asunder, since the flames of hell had engulfed her life, leaving only charred remains of what once was. Koral¡¯s heart remained trapped in a state of rigor mortis, unable to find even the faintest glimmer of solace amidst the ashes. Kirana¡¯s tangible and still form was now beyond her reach, robbed from her after committing so many unspeakable atrocities, and piled among the scorched corpses of her murderers. Whatever fate awaited their bodies was one that the blonde¡¯s fractured mind could scarcely even begin to fathom ¡ªnot did she want to. Most of the dark hours had been brimming with night terrors and nightmares, refusing to leave her head even as the rays of the sun replaced the light of the moon. Apollo had seen that she received the most basic of medical treatments ¡ªtaking the shape of bandages that now encircled her head, completely obscuring her ruined left eye; yet the excruciating phantom of pain had begun its relentless haunting the moment adrenaline was drained from her veins. She could now name the place where the kidnappers had taken them to ¡ªPunta Luzbel, the city ruled and enforced by the Medula Cartel. Police held no true authority here, and the corners of alleys where full of old tales of brutality and their twisted manner of retribution. Naturally, her fate would have been very swiftly decided in a merciless manner if not for Apollo¡¯s intervention. Not like she particularly cared too much. In the hollowed chambers of her heart, Koral found herself devoid of both much will or any meaningful reason to live. With both Kirana and her attackers dead, the young girl felt adrift in a sea of pointlessness, stripped away of purpose and identity, leaving not much behind but an empty husk. That was the reason why Koral didn¡¯t bother asking for neither Apollo¡¯s identity nor objectives for saving her, even as her future descended upon whatever his design was. The weight of her grief was too immense, too all-consuming, to allow for such trivial curiosities to take root. At first, she had entertained the idea that maybe he was a detective, or a solitary vigilante who understood the enigmatic nature of being like the blue-haired phantom. However, Koral knew better than to indulge in such childish fantasies. The unforgiving reality was etched into the lines of Apollo¡¯s weathered face, a grim reminder that he was no hero from a storybook. After all, for as tense of an exchange that had transpired between them, the old man had ultimately chosen not to pursue further hostilities with the thug that survived, the bald man called Milo ¡ªa silent acknowledgment that whatever Apollo was, he couldn¡¯t be much different from the monsters who had stolen her sister¡¯s life. Not like it made any difference to question it. The world had already revealed its true colors, painting a canvas of cruelty that left no room for naivety. Perhaps sensing her desolated indifference, a palpable aura of listlessness that clung to her like a shroud, it was Apollo who attempted to break the ice from behind the steering wheel. His voice carried a hint of paternal worry, a discomfort that Koral found herself bristling against. She had never been good at receiving condescension from adults. ¡°Are you afraid?¡± Was his softly-spoken question, the words hanging in the air like a wisp, ephemeral yet also a bit suffocating. ¡°I¡¯m not.¡± Koral answered with a sigh, her shoulders unable to muster the strength to sit upright, even if she were to have any inclination to try. ¡°I just¡­ Don¡¯t care anymore.¡± Her words were followed by another heavy silence between the two, so in the end, it was the young girl who decided to continue the conversation. ¡°Can I trust in you, Apollo?¡± She asked, tightening her fists as she felt the pungent sting of tears harming her yet-to-heal left eye. ¡°Are you not going to kill me, for what I did?¡± A part of her craved death, a release from all that pain threatening to consume her whole. Without Kirana by her side, she felt incomplete, emptied. That¡¯s why, regardless of the answer Apollo would give, she wouldn¡¯t resist her fate any longer. ¡°My goal is for you to survive.¡± He appeared to be a man of few words, sighing just the same as her, as more open landscapes gradually began replacing Punta Luzbel¡¯s streets. ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean you should trust me.¡± Apollo¡¯s golden met hers for a brief moment, a glimmer of something indecipherable flickering within their depths. ¡°The most important lesson you must learn is that no one is trustworthy enough to leave your life in their hands.¡± But then¡­ If he truly meant those words, shouldn¡¯t she be doubting whatever teaching he was trying to impart her in the first place? The train of thought left Koral reeling for a moment, giving up before there was any sense to be made. She didn¡¯t understand him, and that ignited her frustration. ¡°Do you have children, Apollo?¡± Koral asked back, not even a hint of hesitation as she changed the topic into something she could more easily poke him with. ¡°Another crucial one is to never ask unnecessary questions.¡± He quickly replied, his voice carrying a subtle edge. ¡°Humph. I feel sorry for them if you do.¡± >> ¡°You¡¯d suck as a dad.¡± A small, entertained sound escaped from Apollo¡¯s mouth, but mixed alongside the amusement there was also the lingering hint of melancholy hiding underneath. It was something that Koral couldn¡¯t quite comprehend at her young age. She didn¡¯t exactly dislike him though, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. ¡°You really have no respect, do you?¡± He finally replied, his words carrying a gentleness that seemed at odds with his prior severity. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, one that didn¡¯t appear entirely out of place despite the layers of coldness he wore like an armor. ¡°Why don¡¯t you try calling me Mr. Apollo for once?¡± ¡°As if.¡± Koral scoffed, rolling her eye with practiced apathy as she crossed her arms over her chest. ¡°Consider yourself lucky I call you anything at all.¡± She had already bared enough of her soul to the old man¡¯s gaze, as he consoled her tears and helped her carry out the parting rites with her sister. As much as she didn¡¯t hate Apollo, that was already more than enough of exposing the maelstrom raging within. The time to continue her anguish would come once she was given enough space for misery to suffocate her in private. There were many things that she wanted to question him about as the lustrous black car marched on. From transcendental ones like how what were monsters like Apollo¡¯s eagle supposed to be, to trivial ones like if missing an arm made it any harder to drive ¡ªyet Koral refrained from voicing any at all, her attention instead being called to the looming figures of large and lavish houses slowly appearing in the horizon. Sun rays beat down harshly upon the opulent villas that dotted the landscape, each a monument to wealth and excess that Koral had only glimpsed through the flickering of television shows. Lush gardens overflowing with vibrant blooms and ornate fountains adorned the sprawling estates, a stark contrast to the desolate alleyways and crumbling tenements that had been her only reality this far. As the car wound its way through the exclusive enclave, Koral couldn¡¯t help but notice the menacing figures of men copiously distributed across the area, their watchful eyes following the vehicle closely as it moved along. And it was inside one of such villas that the car finally began decelerating, making Koral already feel out of place even when she hadn¡¯t taken one single step outside yet. The young girl¡¯s jaw dropped, her eyes widening as they fully stopped before the grand edifice of gleaming white marble, perched high on their path like a crown jewel. Countless windows nestled between pillars sparkled like captured stars, allowing tantalizing glimpses into the lavish interior as Koral absentmindedly followed the silent Apollo, her gaze moving from one opulent detail to the next. Twin staircases, elegant and curving outward like embracing arms, descended from the sprawling house¡¯s main level to a patio below. Their handrails were adorned with vibrant red roses that trailed down to the stone path, winding through immaculately manicured gardens. At the center of it all, a current of water cascaded into a large and crystal clear pool adorned with floating petals, the gentle sound of the stream a soothing counterpoint to the oppressive tension she felt across the men in suits stationed like statues. The sheer extravagance that surrounded Koral, while not enough to completely distract her from pain, did certainly manage to make the air in her throat feel heavier. This was a world wholly alien to her, a realm of luxury and indulgence the likes she could have only dreamt of before. The lives of those at the top were a universe apart from the places she knew, a chasm of privilege and wealth that now that seemed utterly insurmountable. As Apollo dictated their steps with a quick and confident pace, Koral found herself following his lead gingerly, her small frame dwarfed by the towering mansion. Had it not been for him guiding them forward she was certain that she would have faltered, too overwhelmed by the grandeur to even dare to approach ¡ªor perhaps even swiftly ejected before she could even set foot inside. Counting the stories and balconies of the building above her head, the two of them climbed one of the staircases, its steps guiding them onto a spacious outer terrace from which the cascade originated. In there was a medium-sized pond adorned with vibrant lotus flowers, their delicate blossoms floating serenely atop the rippling surface. Large, colorful fish darted beneath the lily pads, their scales glimmering under the sun filtered through the latticed overhang above. Yet more striking than any material object, more captivating than the meticulously crafted gardens or the intricate tilework underfoot, was the woman resting there, seemingly awaiting their arrival. While she was covered in dazzling jewelry and fragrant blooms, her inherent beauty was one that left Koral enraptured. In the wake of their approach, the woman was minding a crystal chess board laid upon a low terrace table. The pieces had tiny roses of various colors and states of vibrancy captured inside their tempered glass, and while she appeared amused by them, she soon enough raised her eyes towards Apollo with an unfaltering smile. ¡°Miss Valerica.¡± Apollo took out his hat and bowed his head for a brief moment before taking a seat in front of her, his large stature descending into one of the stuffed lounge armchairs ¡ªthough his shape was still taller than Koral¡¯s. While there were more than enough resting places for the small blonde to join the two adults, she instead kept her sheepish ground behind the silver-haired old man. ¡°I¡¯ve come, as per your request.¡± ¡°Is that how you decide to open this conversation?¡± The woman called Valerica replied with an entertained tone, one that didn¡¯t completely undermine her strong and confident presence. Despite how youthful she looked when compared to Apollo, there was very little room for doubt regarding which of the two held a higher status. ¡°Are you suggesting I should ignore the stray kitten you picked up along the way?¡± >> ¡°Having a soft spot for children is quite an attractive trait. Wouldn¡¯t you think so, Solano?¡± In Koral¡¯s mind, Valerica could have easily graced the chapters of a telenovela. Her olive skin held a radiant glow, and high cheekbones accentuated the sharp, angular lines of her jaw. Her lips were painted a shade of deep crimson, adding to her poise and drawing the girl¡¯s gaze with mounting curiosity. So engrossed she was with her features, that Koral missed most of the subtle power dynamics woven into their conversation, nuance escaping her immature perception. ¡°I never intended to hide her.¡± Apollo replied, not sounding tense despite the smothering presence of the woman scrutinizing him. Perhaps he was used to this kind of situation. ¡°Otherwise I wouldn¡¯t have brought Koral with me.¡± ¡°What a lovely name, very fitting.¡± The young girl tensed up instinctively when the emerald green of Valerica¡¯s attention fell onto her unsuspecting shoulders. They were framed by long, dark lashes that fluttered every now and then within their captivating gaze ¡ªcunning eyes, suggesting a level of calculation that Koral could only fail to imagine. ¡°You¡¯re welcome to stay with me for the afternoon, little beauty.¡± >> ¡°But as for you, Solano¡­¡± Her voice dropped down to a somber, chilling tune. ¡°You should know better than to jeopardize my operations.¡± >> ¡°If you have a valid reason¡­ You¡¯d better start explaining yourself right now.¡± Her hair was a fiery mix of dark-brown and copper crimson, cascading down her back and the sides of her face in lustrous waves, loosely curled as they framed her features with an elegance that seemed almost ethereal. She wasn¡¯t tall, at least when compared to Apollo, but her lithe figure remained imposing, accentuated by a designer suit tailored to her frame. In comparison to her own ragged appearance, with her sun-damaged and tattered plain dress, full of dried blood marks and dirt¡­ What else could Koral do but to end utterly and thoroughly transfixed? Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. So much distracted the young girl was that she didn¡¯t even pay mind to the telltale click of Apollo lifting the safety lock off his gun beside her. Realization struck a moment too late as he raised the barrel, aiming it squarely at her face. The issuing blast caught Koral entirely off-guard. Her body crumpled forward as searing pain lanced through her skull, the bullet rupturing flesh and bone to lodge itself inside her brain ¡ªeverything swiftly engulfed by a pitch blackness devouring her senses. Once more, she was cast into this empty void. Was this how it ended? Had her survival of the previous day¡¯s nightmare been this¡­ Pointless? True, she didn¡¯t know the reason as to why she still drew breath, but to have it snuffed out so unceremoniously felt¡­ Anticlimactic. Well, no matter. She had struggled enough. If death came to claim her now, then¡­ Her resignation was violently shattered as Koral found herself gasping on the floor, a trail of blood marring the pristine tiles beneath her. Somehow, she had cheated death again, the how and why a mystery. Raising her gaze, she beheld the blue-haired specter once more, the sound of an angered hiss escaping from beneath the veiling strands as she was kept at bay by the looming presence of Apollo¡¯s eagle. The old man had just executed her¡­ But to what purpose? With her mind running a million miles per hour, Koral¡¯s eye hardened in spite as she prepared herself to fight for her life once more. Whether she lived or died, she wouldn¡¯t allow anyone to choose it for her. Unlike Kirana, who was robbed of such choice. Yet any urge to resist was immediately quelled, pacified by the delicate touch of Valerica¡¯s hands cupping the sides of her face from the ground, cradling her under the velvety touch of her fingers. ¡°Such a cruel and merciless fate you¡¯ve met.¡± Her melodious voice carried a spellbinding cadence. Koral was dead certain now that this woman was the one behind all her suffering, profiting from the very atrocities issued on her name while she reveled in luxurious decadence. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, you belong to me now.¡± But¡­ Even as her rational mind rebelled, the small blonde found herself entranced by Valerica¡¯s beauty, powerless against the thorned vines of captivation tightening around her heart ¡ªor was there something else at play that she could not yet see? Unseen forces manipulating her vulnerability? ¡°Live for my sake, and I shall ensure all your deepest desires become reality.¡± The blue-haired specter loomed above her shoulders with menacing tension, a promise of impending devastation¡­ Yet Koral couldn¡¯t fight anymore. There was one desolation that rendered her heart to uselessness. She had no crave for luxury, nor power or beauty to rival Valerica¡¯s. There was just one yearning that her soul could not relinquish. ¡°All I want¡­¡± Koral¡¯s words trembled as tears streaked her face, anguish she could no longer contain. ¡°¡­ Is for my sister to come back.¡± A moment of quiet understanding passed between them as Valerica¡¯s fingers gently caressed Koral¡¯s bloodied blonde hair. She exchanged a brief glance with Apollo, turning her soothing gaze back to the distraught girl after confirming her sister¡¯s status. ¡°Sweetheart, I¡¯m sure you miss your dear sister very much. If it were in my power, I would move heaven and earth itself to bring her back.¡± Her voice was dripping with a saccharine empathy that made Koral¡¯s skin crawl¡­ Yet she couldn¡¯t move away from this hollow comfort either. ¡°Unfortunately, that¡¯s what happens when a loved one dies.¡± >> ¡°As agonizing as it is, she¡¯s gone from this world.¡± Koral wanted to recoil from this stranger¡¯s presumptuous words. She didn¡¯t want her speaking about her plight like she had any idea¡­ And yet, no one else had offered before even an ounce of the kindness her broken spirit craved for. ¡°However¡­¡± Valerica continued as she reached out to tenderly tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean she¡¯s gone from your life.¡± >> ¡°Your sister will live forever inside your heart, and you can share your memories of her with me if you feel like it. I want to know all the love you two shared.¡± >> ¡°I¡¯m here for you, ok? To listen, and to help you keep her alive.¡± >> ¡°And who knows?¡± A private smile played across her painted lips. ¡°Perhaps she¡¯s even watching over now, protecting and guiding you from heaven.¡± Sniffling, Koral meekly wiped her tears with trembling wrists, dislodging the bandages previously wrapped around her head. She refused to appear pitiful, not anymore, and certainly not in front of these two adults. ¡°I understand¡­¡± The broken girl reluctantly caved in, survival instincts and desperate hunger for compassion overriding all other worries. ¡°¡­ I¡¯ll do whatever you say.¡± The words felt like glass coming out of her throat. She was aware of how she was repeating the same patterns as she had with Kirana ¡ªsurrendering to hands more eager to take control¡­ But fear kept her compliant. Thinking for herself had only brought disaster. ¡°Well said, my dear.¡± Valerica¡¯s tender smile took on a subtle, predatory edge as her hand drifted towards the paradoxical splatter of blood pooling on the tiles. ¡°I knew you were a smart girl the moment I laid eyes on you.¡± In an eerie motion, the Cartel Ringleader sank her fingers into the crimson puddle, despite it being only a thin surface across the floor, drawing from it what appeared to be another translucent chess piece like the ones she had been toying with earlier. Encased within was a delicate half-withered flower, its oceanic blue petals seemingly imbued with a faint inner luminescence. Its miniature elongated shape was streaked with subtle veins of violet and midnight blue, emanating an undercurrent of danger amidst beauty, even in its fragile state. Valerica¡¯s rapt attention became consumed upon this new addition, rising gracefully as if dismissing Koral¡¯s presence as no longer worthy of notice. She examined the pawn with clear appreciation, as one might appraise a precious jewel. ¡°Your Mania Blossom is a Datura¡­¡± She murmured, turning the piece to admire it from every angle. ¡°Quite promising. I have high expectations that you¡¯ll promote to a better piece if given time.¡± ¡°I intend to train Koral.¡± Apollo interjected firmly, as if cued by the ending of this strange ceremony. ¡°And make her a part of my division.¡± ¡°So the little wildflower will become one of your Sicarios.¡± The Ringleader¡¯s emerald eyes flicked briefly to the old man before returning to her prize. ¡°Aren¡¯t you a cruel one, Solano?¡± >> ¡°I won¡¯t object.¡± She added before Apollo could reply, a secretive smile played across her lips. ¡°If you¡¯re the one supervising her, I¡¯m certain she will grow into a most reliable member of la Medula.¡± As the silver-haired geezer thanked this boss, he extended his hand to rest on Koral¡¯s shoulder, as if to subtly tell her to retreat. The girl, however, resentfully jerked it away. Though the tension had been defused after Valerica¡¯s intervention ¡ªthe two spectral beings dissipating into ethereal mist; Koral hadn¡¯t forgotten the old man¡¯s gunshot without warning. She¡¯d make him apologize in due time for the offense, even if her life hadn¡¯t been permanently extinguished by it. Rising to her feet unaided, Koral¡¯s finger drifted towards the displaced bandages, drawn by the flickering sensitivity behind her eyelids. Gingerly, she traced the area, wincing as her exploration confirmed that she still had the eyeball ¡ªthough sight had been cruelly robbed from it. ¡°This matter is the reason for your summon.¡± Valerica¡¯s commanding tone redirected Koral¡¯s attention, as the two adults carried on with their babble. ¡°Rafael, bring the boy.¡± With a couple of curt gestures from her jeweled fingers, the tensely poised men stationed along the terrace¡¯s edges snapped into brisk motion, exchanging words until another child was promptly ushered before them ¡ªKoral discerning that he couldn¡¯t be more than a few years her senior. ¡°You can call him Kyros.¡± Valerica introduced him, her focus already drifting back to the chessboard, moving pieces along with fascination. ¡°He has a Punisher too, just like your Koral.¡± This so-called Kyros possessed olive skin a couple of shades deeper than Valerica¡¯s, his sharp features setting him apart from the many other children Koral had seen before. His eyes were a piercing clear shade of brown, intense and almost feral, had they not been rendered hollow by some unseen burden. Dark raven hair fell in messy strands that framed his face and reached just below his earlobes. Yet the most striking aspect of this strange boy, beneath a dirty and plain linen shirt that clung to his thin frame, were the kaleidoscopic ensembles of markings adorning his limbs. On his left arm, crimson glyphs coiled in intricate spirals, while azure and more straight angular runes mirrored them on his right. Their vibrant, almost three-dimensional quality made Koral skin crawl ¡ªthey didn¡¯t look like tattoos, but more like living scars that appeared to breathe with every subtle movement. She was sure she caught them shifting and undulating subtly, as if imbued with a life of their own. ¡°So I¡¯m running a kindergarten now¡­¡± Apollo sighed, though Koral could tell his annoyance was superficial. ¡°Is there anything else, Flor?¡± ¡°You catch on quickly, as always. Such a good trait to have.¡± So wait¡­ Did that mean this Kyros freak would also be joining her ¡®training¡¯? ¡°I may even be somewhat envious. Wish I had such a capable teacher by my side when I was a bud.¡± Apollo parted his lips, but the words died unspoken as he shook his head, reining in whatever reproach had nearly spilled forth. ¡°The three of you may leave now.¡± At Valerica¡¯s dismissal, the old man rose swiftly from his chair, a hint of relief etched into the lines of his face now that this meeting was coming to a close. ¡°But I do have a warning for you, Solano.¡± >> ¡°Make sure you don¡¯t abandon these ones¡­¡± As those words hung heavily in the air, the old man turned to the stairs without hesitation, the empty sleeve of his coat swaying under the abrupt movement, completely unfazed by the scorching rays of the sun. Koral gasped, realizing that she was being left behind, but after a few halting steps she paused ¡ªKyros had remained rooted in place like a statue. Tugging insistently on his arm in an effort to break his catatonic trance, Koral¡¯s eye met Valerica¡¯s one final time, with the Ringleader¡¯s unnerving smile both bewitching and disturbing her. ¡°We¡¯ll see each other again, moonflower.¡± She stated with certainty. ¡°You¡¯ve yet to tell me about your sister, have you?¡± A shudder rippled down Koral¡¯s spine as she swallowed hard, unsettled by the undercurrent of dread that Valerica¡¯s words stirred within her. It was difficult for the girl to believe that mere moments ago, she had so readily agreed to follow the Ringleader¡¯s bidding ¡ªa surrender that now felt akin to making a deal with the devil himself. Steeling her resolve, Koral refused to stumble or hesitate, unwilling to show weakness in the face of such a frightening woman. She continued tugging insistently on Kyros¡¯ arm until he began following of his own accord, the two children hastening down the white marble staircase in pursuit of Apollo, who was lighting a cigarette. ¡°That could have gone worse.¡± The old man began, his softening voice and trembling lower lip betraying the nervousness he was trying to conceal under quick-moving feet. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about shooting you, Koral. La Flor is a very obnoxious woman. She would have demanded a demonstration of your capabilities, and that was the quickest manner.¡± >> ¡°I told you before to never trust anyone, did I not? That advice rings especially true when it comes to her.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t forgive you anyway.¡± Koral responded bluntly, her voice carrying a disgruntled edge as she sent a kick in Apollo¡¯s direction, though it failed to even budge his burly form. She stained his pants with dirt though, which was enough of a victory in her book. ¡°The least you could¡¯ve done is warn me, asshole.¡± ¡°Would that have made it easier on you?¡± Apollo responded, unbothered by her petulance. They were talking about shooting her in the face. Perhaps he had a point, however¡­ ¡°Excuse me!?¡± Koral replied with exaggerated indignation, though the fire in her tone began to dim as memories of the pain and the fright of the void resurfaced, exacerbated by the dull throbbing of her still-aching eye ¡ªwhich she continued to ignore. ¡°I¡¯d like to at least get a choice if it¡¯s about getting a bullet inside my head¡­¡± >> ¡°What if¡­ The not-dying thing didn¡¯t work this time?¡± Her voice trembled, vulnerability seeping through the cracks in her bravado. Apollo responded to those quiet, hesitant words with a weary sigh, momentarily silenced before he directed his attention towards Kyros. ¡°So, brat¡­¡± His tone was coarse and harsh, and very unlike the one he had used with her so far. Perhaps he didn¡¯t have much fondness for children after all, and she was the only exception? ¡°What¡¯s the name of your Punisher?¡± Kyros, who still looked out of it, remained muted until their steps towards Apollo¡¯s car had diminished the opulent mansion¡¯s outline in the distance. ¡°Aethyr.¡± The black-haired boy finally uttered, driving Koral to voice her curiosity on the subject for the first time. She made a conscious effort to appear more upbeat, not wanting Kyros to get any wrong impressions about her ¡ªnor to expose vulnerabilities further. ¡°A Punisher is one of those ghost things, right?¡± This much was a given, or so she thought with a raised eyebrow. ¡°They have names? How about your bird, Solano? How do I know which one is mine''s?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t call me by that name, thank you very much.¡± Apollo swiftly retorted, tossing the half-consumed cigarette to the ground with a flick of his wrist, seemingly more eager to escape into the sanctuary of his car than to continue smoking. Maybe his nerves had calmed down, thanks to her of course. ¡°The name of the eagle is Sunshine Recorder. We¡¯ll be working together from here onwards, so remember it well.¡± >> ¡°As for yours¡­ That¡¯s something you should already know. Look inside yourself for the answer.¡± Koral¡¯s brow furrowed at the old coot¡¯s cryptic comment. To ¡®look inside oneself¡¯ sounded like one of those cheap suggestions peddled by the scam diviners of the streets. And yet, against her better judgment, she found herself following his advice, closing her eye and attempting to dig through the tumultuous layers of her thoughts in search of a resonant echo ¡ªa connection to the blue-haired monster. The simple act of shuttering herself from visual input ignited a visceral reaction in the young girl. Flashes of Kirana¡¯s final moments, scorched into her memory with searing clarity, resurfaced to haunt her with terrifying speed. Koral trembled, her entire frame racked by anguish¡­ Yet she pushed through the anguish, forcing herself to face the onslaught even as her teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. And just like Apollo had said¡­ It was there, poorly veiled beneath the fresh memories of hell ¡ªa presence both familiar and foreign, lying in wait for a chance to bare her blades against the world once more. ¡°I know the name.¡± She managed to say, struggling to control the cold sweat that beaded on her brow. Her two eyes opened, though the right one remained haunted by the visions that danced in the black obscurity. The word emerged as little more than a tremulous whisper, laden with the weight of a truth she could scarcely comprehend. At that moment, Koral understood that the path before her would be one of silence ¡ªpaved with the echoes of muffled screams, those she wanted no one else to listen to. ¡°It¡¯s Hush.¡± Killing Moon -Part 3-
When her new circumstances as a member of the Cartel finally settled in her mind, Koral had braced herself for a world of relentless darkness, suffering and toil ¡ªHowever, reality was that her life would actually be cloaked beneath comfort and luxury instead. Gone were the days of stealing and swindling on the unforgiving streets, her tattered clothes replaced by a wardrobe she was allowed to handpick from whichever store she wanted. The pangs of hunger that had once been her constant companion were quieted by a steady supply of bought meals, of rich flavors she had only smelled from the outside windows of restaurants. Even her living environment boldly defied her fantasies, in the form of a lavish hotel suite outfitted with every amenity she could think of. The hum of air conditioning was a pleasant contrast to the precarious places she had previously called home, while the flickering images of a large television set and games promised an escape into places beyond her reach. It was a fierce departure from the harsh existence of her past, one that should have brought her immense relief and gratitude. Yet the opulence never managed to completely shake the lingering emptiness that gnawed her heart. All of the material comforts provided by Apollo and Valerica were undeniable, a far cry from the squalor she had endured so long¡­ But these luxuries served only as a thin veneer, a facade to distract her from the void that had taken root in her core. Koral wished she could share all of that with Kirana. No matter how finely woven the silk veil draped over her gaze was, just like the medical patch concealing her ruined eye, it could never fully numb the ache simmering beneath the surface. But it did serve as a potent distraction, a means to occupy her attention during the waking hours, and to stave off the nightmares that lurked in the shadows once the lights faded to black. More intriguing than any tangible indulgence, however, was the enigmatic presence of the boy who could be considered her peer of sorts, as mismatched as they were. From a tender age, Koral had harbored a deep-seated dislike for those of the opposite sex. What sparse interactions she had endured with boys had been invariably unpleasant ¡ªfrom the rude and brutish antics of the immature, to the dangerous and threatening advances of the older ones; emboldened by their situation. For two young girls forced to navigate the harsh underbelly of society, her and Kirana¡¯s striking appearances and vulnerabilities had always invited unwanted attention. Yet Kyros seemed to defy her preconceived notions, drawing her curiosity once the initial reservations faded over the span of days spent in shared company. To begin with, he seldom spoke. His grasp on their shared language appeared tenuous at best, and many times Koral found herself thrust into the role of translator, attempting to bridge the divide between Kyros and the other adults around them ¡ªa task made all the more arduous by the ineptitude of their supposed handlers. Despite the boy clearly being older than her, the burden of guiding him through this new reality often fell squarely on her slight shoulders ¡ªa responsibility she took with a small, but burgeoning sense of pride. And as the emptiness that once clouded his eyes gradually began to dissipate, the subdued sense of wildness she had initially perceived in him returned in a more visible shape. To Koral, Kyros had an aura akin to that of a feral animal, plucked from its natural habitat and thrown into unfamiliar surroundings, which made every tentative interaction all the more rewarding ¡ªlike a challenge to get such an oddball more or less tamed. Or so she tried to perceive it, as a way to keep her from thinking on the multitude of questions still left unanswered. Once the two of them were successfully housed, Apollo parted to remain absent ever since, busied with who-the-hell-knew. She was hesitant enough to not voice her inquiries to the Cartel members who reared their ugly mugs every now and again, and similarly, she highly doubted the hotel staff would possess any meaningful knowledge. But routine would finally be disrupted during that day. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the elusive silver-haired geezer deigned himself to appear, rousing Koral from sleep at an unusually early hour and summoning her to the dining area while he stayed occupied in the kitchen. Kyros was already seated at the table, though that fact came as no surprise. He was usually up and about well before she awakened, just like a chicken did at the crack of dawn. The aroma of sizzling bacon and sausages wafted in the room, stirring Koral¡¯s stomach into eager anticipation. While their meals were typically large and varied, there was something distinctly different about the prospect of a dish prepared by Apollo¡¯s own hand. And so she shot a furtive glance towards the clueless Kyros, a mischievous smile forming at the corner of her lips. ¡°Hey, idiot.¡± Koral said to the boy, emboldened by Apollo¡¯s nearby presence. He surely must have questions about their past ¡ªjust as they did about him. With the old fool within earshot, she couldn¡¯t resist to urge to prod. ¡°So from which hellhole did you crawl out of anyway?¡± >> ¡°Your name is super weird, you know that? Is it even real?¡± Kyros frowned at Koral¡¯s questions, his brow furrowing as he remained stubbornly silent to her teasing once the girl sat in a chair in front of him. Yet she remained undeterred, her casual smile slowly turning into a smug grin. ¡°There¡¯s no point in playing dumb with me.¡± She pressed on, pointing at his face unabashedly. ¡°I know you understand at least that much.¡± >> ¡°So tell me your story. You should feel honored I¡¯m asking in the first place.¡± Despite her goading, Kyros attempted to remain resolute in his silence, though Koral could sense how his defenses began to crack. With a heavy sigh, he finally relented, as if admitting defeat. She knew he didn¡¯t have it in him to deny her. As the words began to tumble from his lips, though, Koral felt her confidence waning. ¡°I¡­ Don¡¯t know.¡± He uttered, a hint of hopelessness in his voice. Perhaps if it was anyone else, such a response might have been met with her skepticism, but Koral recognized the authenticity of such despair ¡ªfor she had tasted its bitterness herself. ¡°Can¡¯t remember.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t remember?¡± She repeated, tilting her head with a worried expression. The notion of amnesia sounded like an overused trope, but in their world full of strange monsters capable of the impossible¡­ Koral could only imagine the terror of forgetting the memories that sustained her. ¡°There must be something in there, no?¡± >> ¡°Anything, anyone?¡± The prospect of having Kirana taken away from her in such a cruel manner sent a shudder down her spine. Surely, it couldn¡¯t be that bad. ¡°I remember the flower lady¡­ But before that¡­¡± As his words trailed off into a tell-tale silence, Kyros¡¯ gaze lowered, his rough features etched with a profound sense of loss. Pressing him further seemed cruel, so instead Koral tried to abruptly pivot into a different topic in an attempt to soothe the turmoil she had stoked. ¡°T¡­ Then¡­ How about those things? The Aethyrs?¡± She reached across the table, her small finger pointing at the intricate patterns tracing down his arms. ¡°If you know their name, certainly you must have an idea of what they do?¡± >> ¡°How do they feel like? Do they hurt?¡± Kyros seemed a bit startled by the sudden shift in subject, his haunted gaze lifting from the void to fixate upon the swirling patterns etched in his flesh. He hesitated, glancing briefly towards where Apollo¡¯s back before resigning himself to respond. ¡°They don¡¯t hurt.¡± He calmly spoke, raising the red forearm to follow their winding path with his fingertips. Seemingly responding to his touch, the shapes that stopped at the height of his wrists shifted slightly. ¡°They feel¡­ Warm. Breathing. Alive.¡± >> ¡°And when I focus enough¡­ they¡­¡± Gritting his teeth, Kyros clenched his left hand into a tight fist in preparation for an abrupt display. The crimson spirals adorning that arm suddenly erupted, flesh parting as wicked blades burst forth in jagged points. Though still looking like drawings floating in the air, the spikes also looked deadly sharp, their serrated edges propelled outwards as if from some internally driven force. They also appeared quite painful, yet no blood came out of the ruptured flesh, and Kyros showed no signs of pain ¡ªonly tense concentration in his brow. Koral flinched instinctively at the startling transformation, her eyes widening as she took in the grisly sight. ¡°Huh¡­¡± She murmured, her appraising gaze sweeping over the array of spikes. ¡°Cool.¡± ¡°Can be taken out too.¡± Kyros said swiftly, perhaps spurred on by her evident interest. His finger traced the edge of one of the middle blades before gripping it firmly, then pulling it out with a sharp sound ¡ªlike withdrawing a sword from its sheath. ¡°Though they come back if left alone.¡± True to his word, as soon as the spike slipped from his grasp, the wound closed and the blade reformed in its original position, sliding through flesh as if intangible. ¡°And the blue ones?¡± Koral pressed, leaning forward across the table. ¡°Do they come out too? Are they shields or something?¡± ¡°No.¡± Kyros negated with his head, before fixing on her eye with an intense stare, locking onto it with his intense brown ones. ¡°It¡¯s more easy to show.¡± >> ¡°Koral¡­ You trust me?¡± The question gave her pause, her eye flicking to the arm extended towards her. For a moment she hesitated, searching for any hint of deception, before recklessly taking his palm and squeezing it ¡ªthough it wasn¡¯t exactly trust that guided her actions. ¡°Sure. Do your worst.¡± Her recklessness stemmed from a complete disregard for consequences. If he intended to betray her, better to have it happen sooner rather than later. Though she wanted to appear brave and unflinching, doubt began building within as Kyros¡¯ eyes slid shut in concentration. Koral felt the angular blue glyphs shift and part beneath his skin, the subtle movement raising goosebumps along her own arms. Yet she felt no tangible difference, neither pain nor physical changes as he exhaled a measured breath and released her hand, leaving a lingering sense of warmth behind. Left somewhat mystified by the ordeal, Koral similarly retreated, stretching her fingers before her gaze to find one of the blue markings now embedded in her palm. ¡°What¡¯s this about?¡± She questioned, studying its shape warily. It felt unsettling, like an unnatural stain marring her skin¡­ But what did it do exactly? ¡°Is it some sort of slow-acting poison?¡± ¡°Nothing like that.¡± Kyros clarified. ¡°How to say it¡­¡± >> ¡°Even if apart, I now know where you are. No matter how far.¡± Koral¡¯s eye narrowed at the implication. So it served as a tracking device of sorts? A means for Kyros to keep tabs on her movements? Was that it? She couldn¡¯t decide if the notion was slightly unnerving or just underwhelming. ¡°Well, what you waiting around for?¡± Koral pressured in a harsher voice, extending her marked palm towards him once more. ¡°Take it away. I don¡¯t want a weirdo like you following my every step.¡± With a puff of air that felt more genuine than any of his typically muted responses, Kyros wrapped her hand between his own, and soon enough she could feel again the subtle shift of the marks beneath his fingers. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. So he could do that assigning-thing as much as he felt like. ¡°Unlike the Withdraw ones, I have to take the blue Add Aethyrs myself.¡± He continued explaining, though she was somewhat beyond it by that point. ¡°Have to be careful. They can run out.¡± >> ¡°And only return if the marked object is destroyed¡­¡± There was a weighted pause lingering in between. Was he trying to be dramatic now? ¡°¡­ Or in death, if it¡¯s a person.¡± Yet more than their exact functionality, Koral wondered how exactly Kyros came to know all of that. Was it mere instinct, or had he used Aethyrs that extensively before? Since he claimed not to remember his past, something Koral didn¡¯t cast doubt on, were they ghostly remnants from a life prior to becoming a kept pet of the Cartel? Not like she dared to voice her curiosity aloud. She had no want to probe too deeply into Kyros¡¯ fractured recollections if it meant triggering the same sadness she had inadvertently unearthed earlier. ¡°Kinda lame, dont¡¯cha think?¡± The girl chimed in nonchalantly, recovering her hand without any lingering sign of the blue glyph ever being there. While her tone remained light and jovial, the swirling madness lurking behind her eye wasn¡¯t. ¡°I can probably kill you with no problem.¡± >> ¡°My Hush is super strong, you know?¡± This was the perfect moment to assert her dominance, to put Kyros¡¯ so-called Aethyrs to shame with a display of her awesome might. Koral was confident that the mere sight of her ethereal monster would reduce the boy''s markings to insignificance¡­ ¡­ Or so she wanted to think, but no matter how fervently she willed it, Hush refused to heed her call. ¡°You two are like wet-eared kids comparing new toys.¡± His interruption a measured intervention or not, Apollo finally joined them with an admonishing tone. Golden eyes focused squarely on Koral, as if trying to convey a silent reprimand for her earlier bravado. ¡°Punishers are not playthings, pair of dumb brats.¡± Despite the harshness of his words, Apollo¡¯s voice lacked any real venom. He may try to act the stern, strict teacher all he wanted, but the two large plates piled high with a hearty breakfast did little to reinforce the illusion of severity. The geezer was all bark and no bite ¡ªa doting grandma at heart, no matter how gruff the exterior. He was stupid if he thought such a feeble attempt could ever deceive her. Not one for decorum, Koral immediately dug into her plate with ravenous enthusiasm, employing fingers more readily than any cutlery. She had waited far too long for it already, her hunger sharpened by the tantalizing aromas that had tormented her since waking. Apollo might be a one-armed fool¡­ But apparently he knew which end of the spoon to use. Kyros seemed to take her unrestrained approach as an unspoken signal, mimicking her actions without hesitation as they both began devouring the generous fare. Apollo, meanwhile, lit a cigarette and attempted to hide an amused smile behind his hands as he watched the pair¡¯s unabashed indulgence. ¡°You say that.¡± Koral retorted through a mouthful of food. ¡°But you adults use these things like toy guns, don¡¯t you?¡± >> ¡°Pointing them at each other no matter who gets hurt in the process.¡± These were assumptions born from her harsh experiences alone, but Koral knew they carried their weight in truth. After all, what other reason could be there for her and Kyros to be treated in this manner? Their goal was clear as crystal ¡ªthey wanted to mold them into living weapons. ¡°You¡¯re right. I don¡¯t intend to trick you.¡± Apollo conceded, his calm admission intriguing Koral. She would have expected him to take the moral high ground, as adults so often did when confronted with unpleasant realities. ¡°But that¡¯s not what I meant.¡± >> ¡°Punishers, you see¡­ They all carry curses.¡± He continued, pausing to exhale a cloud of smoke, the gesture commanding the children to stop momentarily. ¡°And it¡¯s important for you two to discover and control those.¡± >> ¡°If you don¡¯t want to end up insane, that is.¡± Koral was more than ready to interject, to remark on how little she cared about any potential madness, when she already felt her grip on sanity slipping. Though before she could voice her brazen defiance to his norms, Kyros ended up being faster than her. ¡°I think I already know mine.¡± The boy said with a heavy tone, his gaze once more drifting into the empty space beneath the table, as if wrestling some unseen demons. Yet despite such an announcement, the pause that followed quickly exhausted Koral tolerance. Why did he have to be such a drama queen? ¡°Well? Speak up then.¡± Koral demanded, tapping her fingers insistently against the table¡¯s surface.¡°You think I have the whole day to sit around waiting for you.¡± ¡°Koral, you need to work on your patience.¡± Apollo admonished, his granny heart too soft to remain steadfast. ¡°This might be difficult for him to put into words.¡± >> ¡°Listen brat, you don¡¯t have to force yourself to¡­¡± The counseling restraint died on the old man¡¯s lips as Kyros¡¯ hands began to move. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached for the hem of his shirt as he raised it, leading Koral to give out a nervous scoff. The girl¡¯s eyes widened as Kyros hands began to move between the old man¡¯s words. Slowly and hesitantly, he reached for the hem of his shirt to raise it, leading Koral to give out a nervous scoff. ¡°Is this curse of yours related to exhibitionism or somet¡ª¡° Mockery that withered abruptly as the fabrics revealed an atrocious sight ¡ªthick markings that looked nothing alike the ethereal Aethyrs on his arms, and way more like painfully embedded wounds, poorly scarred on his frame. The patterns were caved deep into his flesh, twisting grotesquely across his torso in three distinct, jagged shapes similar to crescent semi-circles. Unlike the vibrant glyphs of red and blue, these black brands appeared lifeless and inert, yet their sheer size and horrific distortion of his skin made Koral divert her gaze involuntarily. ¡°Can¡¯t control these. Named Stone Aethyrs.¡± Kyros began, his fingertips tracing the awful etchings marring his torso with an air of detached familiarity. Even Apollo maintained a respectful silence, akin to a solemn understanding. Meanwhile, she could barely even bring herself to watch. ¡°But¡­ I remember there being more.¡± >> ¡°I¡¯m missing them¡­ Just like my past.¡± His haunted gaze lifted to meet Apollo''s, the unspoken question lingering in the space between them. The old man''s features hardened, his mouth setting into a grim line as he exhaled a plume of smoke. For a few tense moments, the only sound was the smoldering tip of his cigarette. ¡°I heard that you had a limit on how many Aethyrs you could assign.¡± Apollo finally spoke, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the boy intently. So he had been prying their conversation, just like she expected him to. ¡°How many of those blue and red ones do you have?¡± True enough, the arm markings kind of blended together, so Koral hadn¡¯t bothered to count their exact number. Now her curiosity was piqued. ¡°Ten.¡± Kyros remarked. Spreading his fingers in a visual representation of the digit. The simple motion caused his shirt to fall back into place, mercifully enough. ¡°So if we assume that those black ones are the same as the others¡­ There are seven that had been taken from you.¡± Apollo mused, his expression growing pensive as the implications sank in. Koral couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that the old man knew more than he let on, pushing on her nerves whether that ignorance was feigned or not. Well, if he wanted to play coy, she knew just how to force his hand. ¡°What is Sunshine Recorder¡¯s curse, Apollo?¡± Koral turned the attention towards him with an inquisitive look. ¡°Kyros showed you his ugly scars, so might as well return the favor, no?¡± Her tone carried a note of defiant challenge, daring the old man to maintain such hypocrisy in the face of her boldness. If he expected them to bare their souls, it was only fair that he extended the same courtesy. This was the moment in which she anticipated Apollo to backpedal, casting his mistrust upon them by withholding information about his potential weaknesses and capabilities. Yet once again, the old man defied her expectations in a manner that left her reeling. ¡°You¡¯ve seen it, my Punisher can store and fire concentrated sunlight.¡± Apollo began without a hint of reluctance, like this was the most natural of subjects to discuss. ¡°So much that it can scorch a human body at a mere touch.¡± >> ¡°And regarding my curse¡­ Well, it¡¯s a very hungry bird. It saps away whatever warmth I¡¯m able to feel.¡± As if to illustrate his point, Apollo extended his hand towards the center of the table, palm upturned in an unspoken invitation. Koral, though, had no need for the experiment. The chill that seemed to emanate from his very being, the layers of clothing he wore despite the oppressive heat ¡ªit all made sense. She perceived no lie. Kyros was different, though, reaching for his hand eagerly in a gesture that was almost endearing¡­ If she didn¡¯t think of it as revolting instead. ¡°It¡¯s usually more active during the day, and it never reaches the point in which I start to freeze.¡± Apollo continued, way past the point that Koral even asked for. ¡°Recorder doesn¡¯t want me to die. Just to suffer and be miserable.¡± >> ¡°By consequence, its abilities during the night are also¡­¡± ¡°Wait a second! Why are you telling us so much!?¡± Koral couldn¡¯t contain herself any longer, her interruption bursting forth in an outburst fueled by disbelief and indignation. Sure enough, he could still be lying¡­ But her young mind didn¡¯t immediately stop to consider the possibility. ¡°Isn¡¯t that stupidly dangerous!?¡± >> ¡°Didn¡¯t you tell me to never put your life in the hands of others!?¡± There was a measured silence that fell over the old man as he extinguished his half-consumed cigarette on a nearby tray, a flicker of ash trailing in the air. Koral¡¯s scrutinized the geezer''s expression deeply, desperately searching for any hint of deception or manipulation beneath the surface¡­ Yet try as she might, she failed to uncover even the faintest trace of ill intent. ¡°As long as you¡¯re under my care, I want you two to consider each other as family.¡± Apollo said, his voice carrying a solemn weight. The proposition made Koral feel sick in her stomach, her defenses immediately rising. ¡°And while I can¡¯t force you to view me in the same light¡­¡± >> ¡°If it ever comes down to a life or death situation, then knowing my limits will hopefully aid you to make the right choice.¡± While he spoke, the old man appeared¡­ Sad, as if he were mourning something precious that Koral had yet to know. ¡°The one that prioritizes your survival.¡± >> ¡°This world is cruel and unforgiving. Having someone else to depend on, a sibling bound by more than just blood, who will stand by your side no matter the odds or situation¡­¡± >> ¡°That could mean the difference between leading a life worth living or succumbing to a pointless, meaningless death.¡± While it carried a heartfelt earnestness that made it hard for Koral to simply dismiss it, the grandiloquent speech slowly kindled a burning anger within her. Her teeth ground together, frustration mounting as her fists clenched beneath the table. Koral didn¡¯t need a brother, nor did she require such a lousy excuse for a father. She already had a sister, and neither of these two strangers could ever hope to replace her. ¡°I will never see you as my family.¡± The girl eventually spat out, her voice laced with poison. ¡°I¡¯m not going to forget, Apollo.¡± >> ¡°You can play the saint all you want¡­ But you¡¯re also responsible for my sister¡¯s death.¡± Her tone almost wavered, but the constant pain in her chest was stronger, making her voice rise with each word instead. ¡°You were there! You¡¯re strong!¡± >> ¡°So why didn¡¯t you save her!?¡± It wasn¡¯t good, she could barely contain her tears anymore. The room felt so suffocating¡­ Yet she refused to let that weakness show ¡ªnot in front of Kyros. Her nails dug into her palms enough to make them hurt, a sensation that kept Koral grounded in the moment. Whether she had caught him red-handed in his false virtue or not, Apollo remained silent at first, his golden eyes growing dull as if to reflect a turmoil he tried very fiercely to keep concealed. But she was sure the stoic mask slipped ever so slightly, evidenced by an almost imperceptible sigh. For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound being the distant hum of the city outside¡­ A constant reminder of how little it cared to move on without them ¡ªblind to her suffering. However, after gathering his resolve with a deep inhalation, Apollo¡¯s shoulders rose to recover his posture. When he finally looked at her again, his gaze was unflinching, steady. He met her anger head-on, not with the cold detachment she awaited, refusing to turn away from her accusations. Why?¡­ Why did he refuse to just give up on her? ¡°I think I¡¯d be satisfied if you were the one to bring me to justice.¡± Such a remark from him only served to stoke her anger. This wasn¡¯t about justice at all! How could he not get it!? ¡°But as of this moment, you¡¯re not even capable of controlling your Hush, much less laying a finger on me.¡± >> ¡°Look at Kyros, for example. You looked down on him, yet he¡¯s miles ahead of you. He knows what his Punisher does at large, unlike you.¡± >> ¡°He already has a vague idea of what his curse is, unlike you.¡± >> ¡°And while it¡¯s yet to be immediate, the Aethyrs do obey his instructions. Very unlike you.¡± The relentless verbal assault made Koral¡¯s eyebrow twitch. Was he aware that she had tried, and failed, to manifest Hush a while ago? ¡°Good for him. So what?¡± She sarcastically argued, not really one to stay silent and receptive for long periods. ¡°He¡¯s still a loser who doesn¡¯t even know how to switch TV channels.¡± Her jab was met with an immediate response from Kyros, who broke his silence with surprising vehemence. ¡°Don¡¯t say that! I know how that¡¯s done!¡± Kyros clapped back, breaking his silence up to that point. Was he feeling more comfortable around them, or did he simply want them to stop fighting? ¡°All I need to do is ask a very grumpy girl and she does it for me!¡± Whether it was a reaction from the boy¡¯s idiotic attempt at an argument, or how Koral stuck her tongue in his direction with a flip of her middle finger, Apollo¡¯s laughter traveled faintly across the room ¡ªa gesture that he seemingly couldn¡¯t hold back. ¡°You brats are too much.¡± He commented, regarding them with a contented smile that irked her, for how genuine it appeared. ¡°Well, it¡¯s good that you feel so offended.¡± >> ¡°But I¡¯d advise to save that sentiment for the rest of today.¡± A brief pause while he stood up made both their gazes drift onto him, with Apollo¡¯s golden eyes taking on a resolute edge. ¡°From this moment forward, I will forge you into individuals who never allow anyone to freely trample over them, to give you the tools to stand firm and make your own choices.¡± His words seemed to reverberate faintly in the confines of the hotel suite, carrying a promise that resonated deep within Koral, regardless of her doubts. ¡°Not just to stay alive¡­¡± >> ¡°What I want is for you two to become whatever you aspire yourselves to be.¡± Killing Moon -Part 4-
¡°Don¡¯t hesitate. Show no fear.¡± Apollo¡¯s stern words echoed in Koral¡¯s mind as she stalked forward, her steps silent and unassuming across the nocturnal pavement. Across the dimly lit street, Kyros¡¯ face was etched with grim determination, his features taut ¡ªfar tenser than her own. Did she harbor no doubts, no hesitations? Far from it, yet the familiar thrill of peril pulsed through her veins, a call she found herself answering with relish. This precarious tightrope of danger felt more like home than the improvised classroom where the old man shoved book after book into their hands, their pages filled with knowledge she had no interest in retaining. Math, history, literature ¡ªApollo seemed hell-bent on cramming their skulls with every useless fact under the sun. Kyros may have lapped it up like the obedient mutt he was, but Koral refused to be as cooperative. What use did she have for reading or writing, when the only skill that mattered was murder? ¡°Remember what you¡¯ve been taught. There¡¯s no need for mercy.¡± The words, though hushed through a comm device in her ear, instilled in her a subtle undercurrent of excitement. This was it ¡ªtheir first real assignment, a chance to put all of her training and field exercises to the bloody test. Despite the nervous flutter in her chest, she couldn¡¯t deny the electrifying and intoxicating sensation coursing through her either. This night, the waxing moon hung heavy in the sky above, a pale harbinger of the death she would bring. Up ahead, the blissfully unaware lives of their eight targets carried on, oblivious to the machinations the Cartel had set into motion. While Apollo had explained that they were a lesser gang, a violent cancer festering within the community whose eradication would serve as a favor to Punta Luzbel, he had also cautioned that not all future jobs would bear such a clear-cut design. Not that justification mattered much to Koral. As members of the Hitmen division, and Apollo¡¯s proteges, all they needed to be were perfect instruments of ruthless efficiency. He had instilled in them one unwavering doctrine above all ¡ªto never question the orders of those above. Of course, barking orders from the security of opulent office rooms and luxurious mansions was easy. Out here, one misstep, one tremor of doubt, and everything they had been meticulously conditioned to accept could potentially unravel. The weight of the concealed gun inside her clothes felt heavy, inescapable as the internal struggle to fully embrace the cultivated killer they were molding her to become. The plan was already in insidious motion, the pieces aligned with the cold precision born from Apollo¡¯s meticulous calculations. A ninth member of their target group had already been strategically turned ¡ªbought by the Cartel and presented with a cruel ultimatum. To betray his lifelong friends or to vanish beneath the unforgiving soil. The promise of coin and self-preservation had proven enough to sever whatever fragile loyalty had once bound him. With the already inebriated thugs stumbling down the streets, their raucous laughter carried on the night breeze as the traitor herded them like lambs, their destination being one of the many bars owned by la Medula. It was all a perfectly orchestrated stage, the drinks set to flow freely above the intricately laid Aethyr traps waiting to deliver their coup de grace. Yet Koral¡¯s eyes still narrowed tensely as she tracked their sluggish movements. Her task was merely to observe everything unfold neatly, but knowing the script did little to subdue the urge to act ¡ªto strike before the curtain rose. Her fingers twitched with pent-up anxiety that grew fiercer with every passing moment, not aided by Kyros¡¯ disappearance into the opposing crowd, swelling within the bustling night corners of the city. Muffled sounds of shouting reached her ears, making her strain even more. One of the drunken fools had shoved a passing pedestrian, the resulting scuffle escalating rapidly into a full-blown altercation. In a blur of movement, the rest of the gang rallied around their comrade like a pack of rabid dogs, fists flying as the originally isolated conflict threatened to spiral out of their control. Koral¡¯s breath caught in her throat as her finger caressed the cold steel of her weapon. She could almost taste adrenaline on her tongue, her heartbeat thrumming with a staccato rhythm that drowned her rational thoughts. And then she saw it, a glint of metal under the streetlights as one of her targets unfolded a gun of his own. Like a rubber snapping, her restraints came undone, both eyes opening wide ¡ªincluding the one hidden beneath an eye patch. She was the one to shoot first, a deafening crack that sliced through the thundering clamor like a scythe through wheat. Time seemed to still as her first bullet found its mark, puncturing through flesh with sickening ease. A strangled cry rent the air when one of the gang members crumpled, clutching his shoulders. In that suspended instant, every head swiveled towards the source of the gunfire. Koral didn¡¯t hesitate. Couldn¡¯t hesitate at this point. The gun bucked painfully under her small fingers, recoil threatening to make her grasp slip as she spat lead with each practiced squeeze of the trigger. Apollo¡¯s drills continued ringing in her mind, steadying her aim even when the lack of depth made much of her shots miss their objectives, unaided by the chaos erupting. Yelling took over the streets, the infernal cacophony holding the center stage with every person caught in the crossfire bustling frantically. Soon enough, even their desperate cries were submerged beneath overwhelming numbness once the retaliatory strikes found their blank, the pain of being shot at not dwindling even though she had experienced it many times before. One. Two. Three. Four bullets. That was as far as Koral could count before her body dropped to the floor like a broken marionette. Only the sensation of blood pooling beneath her, warm and sticky, continued to tether her in reality ¡ªthe halo of her fading heartbeat that would soon reveal her as an undying monster. At the edge of her dimming vision, she could faintly discern Kyros springing into action. His motions were a silent blur of lethality as wicked red blades erupted from his flesh like the claws of some nightmarish beast. They lanced out with unerring precision, pursuing those who attempted to flee or hide amidst the commotion and executing them with ruthless efficiency. He was better at this than her¡­ Was the thought that flickered through her mind as darkness began to encroach her. But just as expected, death refused to take her. Hush materialized before her in a violent surge, shimmering into existence as the girl rose once more with wounds undone. Blue and white hair waved majestically as her blades shielded her from any further gunshot fired in her direction, Koral¡¯s eye swirling with madness and instinctive bloodlust as their secondary ability was put into action. For fractions of seconds, she saw in them the same apathetic faces with which Kirana was cruelly taken from them. They were all so eager to erase her¡­ So it was only fair that she answered in kind. Defying the course of time, all of the bullets that had previously entered in contact with her were rewound ¡ªthose fired, received or deflected; all of them were swiftly returned to their original trajectories. The laws of physics warped under her influence, the entire street becoming a chaotic canvas of ricocheting lead. Men who had stood triumphant moments ago now fell to their knees, their own ammunition tearing through them in the rampage, damage amplified as Hush reverted or repeated their trajectory in a mad dance. It was one-sided and brutal. Limbs that had once directed weapons at Koral were now shredded by the very bullets they had expelled. Even Kyros, caught in the maelstrom, was forced to defend himself. His blades flashed in a desperate frenzy, slicing bullets out of the air and impaling the rapidly dwindling number of targets to serve him as a living cover. Something that Koral was beyond caring about, her laughter ringing out as she watched the carnage unfold, clashing with the screams and the ensuing gunfire. This was her element, her grim purpose made manifest ¡ªto be an angel of death, painting the streets crimson. She felt powerful and undeniable, an instrument of savagery honed by meticulous tutelage. When the last body fell and silence descended, the air grew thick in the stench of copper and gunpowder. Koral stood at the edge of the battlefield, her chest heaving with exhilaration as she surveyed her handiwork with detached satisfaction. Her gaze drifted to Kyros, the sole figure still standing amidst the sea of corpses. He was panting heavily, his skin glistening with sweat and speckled with red droplets. As their eyes met, Koral saw an expression she couldn¡¯t quite decipher ¡ªthough he soon buckled against a wall to conceal it from her. What could it be that he was hiding from her? No matter. The Cartel was indeed lucky to have her on their side, she mused within sharp intakes of air as the rush of adrenaline ebbed away to leave her trembling in its wake. Her fingers, still trembling, traced the outline of her ruined eye beneath the patch. Did she truly want to keep hiding it? After all¡­ Every damage she took, every death she endured, was a step towards mastering this twisted gift. Those who thought they could wield her like a tool were merely sharpening the blade that would one day sever their own threads of power. A day would come, no matter how distant, when Hush would be aimed not at the throats of petty street thugs, but at the very architects behind Kirana¡¯s death. On that day, she vowed, the streets would run red with the blood of her so-called masters. The thought sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. ¡°You jumped the gun, Koral. We had preparations in place to keep this clean.¡± The monotone sound of Apollo¡¯s gruff voice crackled over the comm, interrupting her vengeful daydreams with their admonishes. ¡°We had preparations in place to keep this clean. Furthermore, two of them were supposed to stay alive.¡± >> ¡°One had already joined the Cartel. The other was to be handed to the Affairs division to make an example of.¡± Koral wanted to argue that she hadn¡¯t forgotten the plan, but that she simply had no choice. Apollo¡¯s reprimands were still faster. ¡°You also got civilians involved and hurt.¡± The words felt like bullets themselves, or perhaps even more damaging than them, since she couldn¡¯t heal quite heal them. ¡°This is just too large a mess¡­¡± >> ¡°We¡¯ll have to rely on those guys to clean after you.¡± Frustrated and defensive, Koral spat on the blood-splattered pavement, seeking for any way to deflect the suffocating blame creeping within. ¡°Simple to call the shots while using me as an arrowhead, why don¡¯t you? Especially since I¡¯m the one who can be spared to get shot.¡± She snarled, her gaze falling on the ground. More than Apollo¡¯s words, it was shame that burned her chest the most. ¡°Well, excuse me if I¡¯m still not used to it.¡± Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. >> ¡°Maybe I should kill myself more often so I don¡¯t react to it anymore, huh?¡± Her bitter retort was met with a sudden and unexpected gentleness. The old man¡¯s now familiar hand ruffled her hair as he passed by, the gesture momentarily disarming her defenses. It was the same hypocritical hand that taught her how to steady her aim as she wielded death ¡ªnow offering an empty comfort that she loathed to admit she was still weak to. Still, Apollo¡¯s attention swiftly shifted to Kyros, the boy¡¯s frame rigid on whatever he stubbornly tried to retain hidden. ¡°Was it also part of your goal to get this dumb brat injured?¡± Apollo¡¯s voice softened as he knelt beside the boy, golden eyes scanning his body with a discerning gaze that seemed more paternal than professional. She realized not soon after that all the blood stains in his clothes were not from their targets¡¯ alone. One of her stray bullets had grazed Kyros¡¯ thigh, leaving a jagged laceration that bled crimson down his leg. Another hole was embedded in his shoulder, flesh swelling as Apollo uncompromisingly exposed it for examination. The wounds looked raw and angry, and Koral knew just how much bullet wounds hurt ¡ªshe had received enough of them herself. Yet Kyros still remained stoic, his jaw clenched tightly as his injuries were probed, eyes screwed shut to prevent himself from reaction, even when it was done gently. Apollo¡¯s tenderness, so at odds with his career as one of la Medula¡¯s Henchmen, made Koral¡¯s skin crawl. He had no business being this soft, not when he was the one turning them into instruments of death. It was a contradiction that never failed to set her teeth on edge. Or was it simply guilt? She wished she could heal him, to undo the damage her recklessness had caused¡­ But sadly, Hush¡¯s ability to undo damage worked solely on her own flesh. ¡°Don¡¯t get so angry. It was a good job, you both won.¡± Apollo continued, his voice carrying a low rumble as he minded his phone, possibly to arrange Kyros¡¯ medical treatment. Words meant to soothe that only stoked her self-loathe. ¡°But that recklessness of yours can¡¯t stay unchecked.¡± >> ¡°Negligence has consequences. See that you never forget that again, Koral.¡± She wanted to scoff. To remind him that it was their doing that made her this way. Wasn¡¯t this what they wanted? The blonde girl opened her mouth to argue, to tell him exactly where he could shove his lessons, but the words died on her lips as she heard Kyros wince for a change. It was a small, pained sound that escaped as Apollo bolstered his smaller frame in his arm ¡ªyet it still echoed in Koral¡¯s ears like a gunshot. Her victory, her moment of power, suddenly felt hollow. The blood on the streets, once a mark of her victory¡­ Now felt accusing instead. She had reveled in murder, in the feeling of being unstoppable¡­ ¡­ But what price was she paying for it? ¡°And that goes to you as well, you silent idiot.¡± Apollo similarly admonished Kyros, though Koral could only think of the scars her impulsiveness would leave behind. ¡°What were you even thinking? To hide her mistakes from her? Do you think that would¡¯ve made her happy?¡± >> ¡°In this line of work, those who see their own safety as an afterthought die very quickly.¡± The words were harsh, but his towering frame carried Kyros seamlessly as if holding a child was second nature to him. ¡°Is that what you¡¯re after?¡± So¡­ It wasn¡¯t out of fear or disappointment that Kyros had turned away from her eye? Was it true that despite his odd mannerisms and resounding idiocies¡­ His loyalty remained that unwavering? As the two began to move away from the scene, Koral hurriedly joined them, the boy¡¯s gaze meeting hers for a fleeting moment. It was a fleeting exchange, in which the girl found neither the accusation nor resentment she had braced herself for. There was something quieter instead, more profound. It was a vote of allegiance that Koral didn¡¯t want to accept, an unspoken absolution of her sins that left her conflicted. Anger, resentment, even hatred ¡ªthose she could handle. But forgiveness? That was a currency she had no idea how to repay him with. Was he trying to manipulate her, she wondered, to make her think they were one merry family? That she needed to learn and to grow, ensuring that no such collateral damage could happen again? ¡°Don¡¯t make me laugh¡­¡± She muttered resentfully, averting her gaze from the boy who dared to stand by her side despite the wounds she had inflicted. What a selfish thing to do, she ultimately decided. Selfish of Kyros to forgive her mistakes unprompted, to shackle her with a debt of gratitude she had no intention of acknowledging. And yet, try as she might to dismiss it, the thought gnawed at her ¡ªa persistent itch, an annoyance that refused to leave. The arrival of their ride provided a welcomed distraction, the sleek form of a black car gliding silently into the momentarily deserted street. The peace of the aftermath was short-lived, as numerous Cartel members began to gradually emerge. Koral could recognize them from their purposeful strides and unfettered expressions, completely unbothered by the bloody visage. ¡°So no one bothers calling the police in Punta Luzbel?¡± Koral observed dryly, though it wasn¡¯t like she needed much confirmation. She already knew that this city belonged to la Medula far beyond the reach of any badge or uniform. Opening the backseat door for Apollo to rest Kyros inside, her restless gaze wandered freely over the neatly moving figures. She needed something, anything, to pull her thoughts away from the guilt. These guys would do just fine. ¡°The so-called Cleaning Division, am I right?¡± Koral said aloud, a sardonic smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. ¡°They seem to have been more than prepared for us to screw up.¡± This was her first real encounter with other branches of the Cartel, a glimpse into the intricate machinery that kept the criminal empire running. She knew that each of the six arms of la Medula had as its head at least one Accursed ¡ªthe term she was taught to refer for those with a Punisher; but how dangerous they were, or how many exactly filled their ranks were details that remained unknown to Koral. Her curiosity was piqued enough to try and fish for more information. ¡°So, which one of them has a Punisher?¡± Before the old man could give any semblance of a response, her aquamarine eye was already sweeping over the assembly, searching for anyone picturesque enough. According to what she had been taught, all Accursed were a cocktail of insanity and trauma, traits that should be easy to spot if one knew how to look. And sure enough, she found one that fitted the bill quite easily. Walking amidst the sea of indolent faces, one figure stood out like a sore thumb. A lanky guy, probably still a couple of years away from adulthood, moved with an erratic energy that betrayed any semblance of normalcy. He was dressed in quite a ragged attire, though it appeared intentional ¡ªa fashion statement more than the impoverishment she knew well. Rough gray hair cascaded in messy waves over his sharp features, different than Apollo¡¯s thin, almost glowing platinum strands. The teenager¡¯s appeared dirty instead, with thick black roots that showed quite a lackluster dye job. Nestled beneath it were his dark eyes, sunken and ringed by shadows that spoke of extreme stress, or maybe sleep deprivation. For as try hard that his appearance could be described as¡­ Koral couldn¡¯t help but think that it was eye-catching as well. It stirred within her the desire to maybe emulate such unapologetic expression herself, to find a way to wear her scars on the outside for all to see. Perhaps there was also power in confronting the world with the brutal honesty of one''s pain, rather than hiding it beneath layers of polished deceit ¡ªa defiance that could be screamed without sound. Whoever this ¡®Cleaner¡¯ was, he wasn¡¯t alone. Right by his side loomed a much older man who walked with unsettling, jerky steps over battered old shoes. Though he carried himself with an undoubted undercurrent of menace, Koral could tell by glance alone that Apollo still dwarfed him ¡ªnot something to be ashamed of, considering the sheer size of her mentor. Still, the stark contrast in their ages mirrored the dynamics of her group. Was it a common practice for the Cartel to routinely distribute younger Accursed among their more seasoned members? An attempt to keep a balanced distribution of power, perhaps? ¡°It¡¯s them.¡± She raised her voice to call on Apollo¡¯s attention, pointing her finger unabashedly. ¡°No doubt about it.¡± Before the geezer could answer, her gaze was already drifting upwards, seeking to etch the older man¡¯s features in her memory. His oily, unkempt hair, and pair of pitch-black sunglasses from where¡ª Her vision was abruptly plunged into darkness as Apollo¡¯s hand clamped over her eye, his grip firm, freezing and unyielding. ¡°H-Hey! What¡¯s that for!?¡± Koral protested, instinctively reaching up to pry his fingers away. If he had a reason, he better began spitting out before she bit his damn hand off. ¡°That¡¯s as far as you go.¡± Apollo¡¯s voice was tense with an urgency he tried to downplay, a nervousness she had never heard before from him. They were subtle, but Koral could still perceive a tremor in his hand and a layer of sweat coming from his cold fingers. Her natural rebelliousness faltered, momentarily suppressed by the uncharacteristic display of fear. ¡°Whatever you idiots may ever do¡­¡± >> ¡°Never look at that man directly.¡± Koral¡¯s muscles coiled involuntarily, more from Apollo¡¯s unease than the warning itself. It was an emotion that she had never expected to witness in the old man, so to dispel her escalating dread, she fell back on her only reliable shield ¡ªirreverence. ¡°D¡­ Didn¡¯t take you for a coward, you old coot.¡± She forced a chuckle, the sound brittle and unconvincing even to her own ears as Apollo guided her into the car beside Kyros, fingers still firmly positioned over her eye. ¡°What? Is he really that ugly?¡± Her joke fell flat, met with a silence so heavy it seemed to take the oxygen away from her lungs. Even the injured Kyros had gotten all stiff, though she couldn¡¯t tell for sure without her vision. ¡°He¡¯s the one who took it.¡± Though finally retreating, Apollo¡¯s voice remained barely a whisper, each word echoing in the confines of the car. ¡°My right arm.¡± Such confession hit Koral like a blast of frigid air. It took her a moment to fully grasp the implications, to connect the dots between the empty sleeve that swayed with Apollo¡¯s every movement and the man she had nearly beheld. During their drills, even in the dead of night when Sunshine Recorder¡¯s was at its weakest, Apollo¡¯s command over his Punisher had made their combined efforts look like children playing. His strength and skill were eons away from hers, a testament to years of enduring duress as a Medula Henchman. And here was a man that even he feared. Such realization made Koral feel infinitesimally small, a speck of dust caught between gears of a vast and horrible machine. In her arrogance, she had believed herself to be at the pinnacle of terror, an invincible force cloaked in the guise of a girl ¡ªyet now she felt like little more than a candle in the face of inferno. As she found herself struggling with this bitter truth, the car was kept stationary even after Apollo took his position in the front passenger seat. The driver waited under his instruction until the Cleaners fully faded from view before the vehicle was put into motion, though silence stretched on well after that. The city corners that blurred past the windows no longer seemed like a canvas for her vengeance, but a labyrinth of hidden threats and unseen monsters instead. Leaving behind the bloodstained streets and the enigmas now haunting it, Koral leaned back into the cushioned seat, her eye drifting aimlessly through the tempered glass. Beneath her patch, her damaged eye throbbed in a tangible reminder of her own fragility, and so her hand unconsciously drifted towards it. She remembered vividly the exhilaration of mere moments ago, the intoxicating sense of power as she mowed down her targets. Was she that conceited? Was it all so hollow? With a snarl of frustration, Koral tore off the patch and flung it out the briefly opened window. The black fabric tumbled away, swallowed by the rush they moved past as they accelerated. She didn¡¯t want it, didn¡¯t need it. Yet as a result, as she raised the tinted glass once more, her gaze was caught by her reflection on the other side. Her ruined eye, once a soft aquamarine, now stared back at her as a darkened shade of green, milky and sightless. For a moment she could see it¡­ Not just the mirror image of the sister she had lost, but also the ghostly visage of Hush superimposed over her features ¡ªand she hated it. Why would she be given the ability to cheat death, she wondered, if the path before her was more treacherous than she could ever imagine? Why was she allowed to carry on as a fractured half, forced to carry out the motions of a cruel fate from which she could never quite grasp meaning? Perhaps now¡­ Koral thought she could understand a bit more of Apollo¡¯s contradictions. Since she was full of them just the same. Killing Moon -Part 5-
From that day onwards, Koral could never bring herself to wear an eye patch again. The world had made so much effort to tear her apart, inside and out; why deny them the satisfaction of witnessing the disfigurement they¡¯d wrought? One change amongst many, as four years came and went under Apollo¡¯s tutelage, transforming the once-scrawny street urchin into something else entirely. At fifteen, Koral was no longer a child, but a carefully honed instrument of death. Her body had undergone a stark metamorphosis, shedding its youthful softness for the lean, deceptive muscles of a predator, refined in their conception so as to appear unassuming enough to her targets. Her mismatched eyes told her story to anyone daring to look her way, vibrant aquamarine standing in fierce contrast to its sightless twin, both set in a face that had lost its roundness, sharpened by experiences no teenager should endure. Yet her paradoxical beauty remained intact ¡ªas if the blood she¡¯d spilled had tempered her skin to unnatural perfection. Life as a cartel lackey had normalized levels of violence that would shatter most minds. Her days were spent in constant motion, never allowing roots or attachments to take hold. What others called hotel rooms were but temporary sanctuaries to her, and abandoned warehouses transformed into classrooms where Apollo drilled them a perfect control over their spectral companions. The jobs, varied as they were, began to blend together in Koral¡¯s memory. One day might see her hunting rival gang members or silencing police informants. The next could pit her against fellow Medula members who¡¯d strayed from the fold, or desperate fools trying to futilely escape their vicious circle of hell. Some targets were other Accursed themselves, forcing Koral and Kyros to confront the terrifying breadth of abilities that existed in such twisted world. The encounters taught her a valuable lesson, a rule in survival of sorts ¡ªshe was now capable of recognizing those who were much stronger than herself. Yet the core of their work remained unchanged. To execute each mission with a chilling efficiency that belied their youth. With every completed task, Koral could feel her grasp on humanity slipping ¡ªher sanity etched away with every mortal wound miraculously undone, bringing her back without fail from the abyssal beyond. The fine divide between life and death blurred until she wasn¡¯t even sure which state she truly inhabited anymore. Yet, for all his flaws, Apollo still seemed determined to preserve some semblance of childhood for Koral and Kyros. He kept them away from the Cartel¡¯s more insidious vices, forbidding drugs, alcohol, and any sampling of the illicit merchandise that flowed through Punta Luzbel¡¯s veins. Instead, there were awkward movie nights in dingy motel rooms, and hearty meals shared over discussions that veered between the mundane and the macabre. The juxtaposition was jarring, a constant whiplash of two irreconcilable worlds. To find herself elbow-deep in viscera, with Hush¡¯s blades singing a symphony of carnage; to then be warning Kyros not to dare touch the last slice of pizza, their squabbles set to the soundtrack of Apollo¡¯s exasperated sighs. But no matter how hard Apollo tried to shield them, the rot of their world had already sunk its corrosive fangs deep into their flesh. Violence wasn¡¯t something merely accepted ¡ªit was a norm. Mutilation was a part of the job, and blood just another currency to pay debts with. In this warped environment, Koral watched Kyros transform. The once blank slate of an aimless, mute kid evolved into a cold, duty-oriented killer marked by unwavering obedience and chilling professionalism. It was clear to her that he modeled himself after the silver-haired geezer, a fact that made him a prime target for her mockery. Yet she couldn¡¯t deny that this seriousness had earned him an earlier graduation and its resulting autonomy ¡ªnot like she cared much about such things. To Koral, pretty much nothing mattered beyond the gigs themselves. She never confused her actions for loyalty; whether the targets were guilty, innocent, or even Cartel comrades. They were all just jobs. Nothing to think too deeply about, lest the weight of it all came crashing down on her. Saving money seemed pointless, as did entertaining hopes of escape. Enemies lurked everywhere, both inside and out the Cartel, and the threat they posed went far beyond physical scars. For safety reasons, hitmen rarely ventured out unless it was strictly necessary. Everything they needed came through the Cartel¡¯s supply chain branch. An irony not lost on Koral, since there were the very same people responsible for her abduction in the first place. Yet such was her life ¡ªto wake alone in the blackness, to sleep wherever she fell. It was natural that she seized any opportunity for rebellion, no matter how small, lest she became one more lifeless husk in the Cartel¡¯s machine. These lavish upscale hotel rooms, for all their surface luxuries, were little more than transitional prisons. Gilded cages to momentarily muffle the unending chaos beyond their walls, but never truly accomplishing it. Any attempt at normalcy ¡ªbe it studying, watching TV, or sharing a meal with Apollo; was forever tainted by the looming specter of something even worse than death awaiting her fate. With the sun having already climbed high in the sky, Koral finally stirred awake, the heavy curtains doing little to mask the oppressive heat of the afternoon. Grudgingly, she dragged herself from the tangle of sheets, bared feed padding across the plush carpet. As she emerged from her room, the rich aromas of spices and simmering meat assaulted her senses with an odd but comforting sense of nostalgia. In the suite¡¯s kitchenette, Apollo¡¯s broad back was turned to her as he tended a large pot on the stove. The pop and sizzle of cooking oil blurred with the low hum of his phone, playing some old homesick blues tune ¡ªnot quite to her taste, but she was already used to the odd taste for foreign music that the geezer had. ¡°Why, why¡­¡± Koral drawled, leaning against the door frame with practiced nonchalance. ¡°Embracing your inner abuelita again?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve always wondered if I should be calling you ¡®Nanapollo¡¯. How would you like that?¡± ¡°Say one more word and you¡¯ll be skipping the birria.¡± He turned to her, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon. His tone was gruff as always, challenging Koral to continue her taunts. But for all her enjoyment in needling the old man, her stomach vehemently objected to the mere suggestion of missing Apollo¡¯s handcrafted lunch. It was a truth the teenager would never voice aloud, but these meals meant more to her than any fancy restaurant fare. ¡°Fiiine, if you¡¯re so sensitive about it.¡± Koral ¡®conceded¡¯ with a mischievous smile on her lips, sliding onto one of the bar stools at the counter. ¡°But seriously, aren¡¯t you getting a bit long in the tooth for all this domestic goddess routine?¡± Though mock him as she may, she didn¡¯t ignore how little Apollo had changed over the years. Even as she was sure he was pushing his seventies, he remained a towering, imposing presence. The same steely glint resided in those golden eyes of him, the same strength coiled in his frame. It was almost eerie, as if time itself dared not touch him. Yet here he was, fussing over in the kitchen like some doting grandfather. Hard to admit as it might be, she found herself captured by Apollo¡¯s dexterous maneuvering through utensils and around the stove. The way he compensated for his missing arm was always this graceful, each movement precise and purposeful. It was a different kind of strength ¡ªone that fascinated her. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. To think that this play-acting was fated to end was a hard pill to swallow, but she didn¡¯t deceive herself either. Koral knew that sooner or later she¡¯d have to fend entirely for herself in the cruel world that lay beyond this momentary sanctuary. ¡°Can you wipe that grin off your face? It¡¯s revolting.¡± Apollo¡¯s voice cut through her daydreams as he ladled the rich, fragrant stew into a bowl and slid it towards her, the familiar admonishment stirring a strange ache in her chest. Was it that for all her bravado, for all the blood on her hands¡­ A part of her still clung to these moments? No, it surely couldn¡¯t be that. ¡°Just like that hair of yours, I swear¡­¡± ¡°Huuuh? What¡¯s so wrong about it?¡± She chided back, her tone a perfect blend of indignation and playfulness, a tone she¡¯d perfected over the years. ¡°I reckon I did a mighty fine job with it myself.¡± >> ¡°You just have poor sense, if you ask me.¡± Of course, it hadn¡¯t only been the passage of time that had altered her once-childish appearance. Koral¡¯s transformation was a deliberate act of insurrection, a visual cacophony that screamed how incomplete she still felt, how much weight she carried from the half she had lost. Green aquamarine and pitch-dark black cascaded down her head in layered, segmented strands of full color, drowning any minute hint of her natural blond. To Koral, it seemed funnily like an instruction manual, lines drawn to show where to cut ¡ªespecially when paired with her mismatched eyes. It was a sad thing that Hush didn¡¯t really allow any more tangible damage to be done on her skin. ¡°I¡¯ll just say that¡¯s an ill-fit for a sicaria.¡± Apollo continued his scolding, though she had already moved past talking to gorge herself on the stew. ¡°You want to blend into the background, Koral, not highlight yourself!¡± Still shoveling spoonfuls into her mouth, she just shrugged her shoulders without a care in the world. They¡¯d had this discussion before, and Apollo¡¯s opinions held little sway over her choices anyhow. Not that he did an exemplary job of masking his own presence, what with his towering height, his silvery glowing hair, and the whole thing of wearing coats while in the sweltering summer heat. But as she chewed, Koral did wonder if she was truly doing this to ¡®highlight¡¯ herself, as Apollo had suggested. Maybe it was shame. Shame for surviving when Kirana hadn''t. Shame for the lives she''d taken, for the crimson stains that would linger on her hands no matter how much she cleaned them. Every glance in the mirror was reciprocated with a fractured reflection of Kirana staring back. Her sister had been so beautiful, so radiant¡­ That Koral couldn¡¯t help but ask how she would have looked like if fate had been different. Would Kirana condone this blood-soaked path? Or would she condemn the monster that she had become? It was a question that would forever haunt her ¡ªunanswered, unanswerable. While she would give anything in the world to have Kirana be the one to have survived instead of her, she liked to think that Hush was her parting gift, a spectral guardian sent to protect her from beyond the grave. But the silent creature could never fill the void left inside her chest. She was doomed to incompleteness, forever reaching for a piece of herself that no longer existed. That¡¯s why she drowned her face in makeup, why she obsessed over looking every tiny bit as different as possible from the girl she once was. No parallels could be drawn, no comparisons were there to be made. It was easier to face a stranger in the mirror than to confront the consequences of her mistakes every single morning. The spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl one final time, making her realize that she had finished her meal without even tasting the last few bites. It was just like the training wanted her to be during missions¡­ Mechanical and devoid of feeling. She pushed the empty dish away, suddenly aware of the weight settling in her stomach. It sat heavy like the repressed anger that wouldn¡¯t leave her guts, inescapable as all the strings she couldn¡¯t yet see ¡ªthe ones that had forced her into becoming a killer. For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with both tension and a quiet understanding. Koral could sense Apollo¡¯s gaze on her, yet for a brief period, neither moved. Then, with a gentleness that startled her, his hand reached out. His calloused fingers brushed aside a strand of green hair that had fallen across her face, the unexpected tenderness catching her in a rare moment of vulnerability. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, searching for some hidden meaning behind the action, yet the old man¡¯s expression remained unreadable, a mask of contemplation she couldn¡¯t decipher. Koral noticed then that he hadn¡¯t served himself any food, but was instead standing there with a weary air of resignation. ¡°Despite all you¡¯ve been through, and all you¡¯ve grown¡­¡± Apollo began softly. ¡°I can¡¯t help but think you¡¯re not yet ready.¡± >> ¡°But it can¡¯t be helped now. It¡¯s not my choice to make.¡± With the spell broken, Koral recoiled from his touch brazenly, her body tensing as if preparing for a fight. She arched an eyebrow, forcing a sardonic smirk onto her lips. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare go senile on me now.¡± She snapped, though her forced bravado rang hollow. ¡°We¡¯re not about to get all sentimental, are we?¡± Despite her words, Koral knew exactly what Apollo was talking about. She had already seen this happen with Kyros six months ago, but her stomach still coiled with anxiousness at the thought. La Medula had invested four years in her development ¡ªit was inevitable that La Flor would start demanding more tangible results. Without speaking, Apollo reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek new phone, its significance crystal clear. From now on, she would receive her own instructions directly. No more intermediaries, no more safety nets. As her fingers closed around the device, a fleeting, passing thought echoed in her mind ¡ªa sudden, wild impulse of sorts. If Apollo had instructed right then and there to rebel against the Cartel alongside him, she wouldn¡¯t have hesitated. To slay everyone that dared cross their paths to freedom, or to bring an end to the Medula Empire by themselves, no matter how unlikely ¡ªshe would have done it, no questions or doubts. But the old man said nothing of the sort. Instead, he settled back, massaging his chin with a distant look in his melancholic eyes. ¡°No need to make a big fuss if we ever see each other again.¡± He said, his voice low and measured. ¡°Just make of me an old acquaintance, nothing else.¡± >> ¡°There¡¯s no need to be worried, I¡¯ve taught you all that you need to know.¡± Koral¡¯s mind screamed at her to scoff, to deny the possibility of any sentiment towards this pathetic old geezer¡­ But the words caught in her throat, refusing to come out. ¡°In this line of work, it¡¯s not the enemies that are the hardest to face, but the ones that we once cared about.¡± Apollo continued, his gaze fixed on some point beyond her. ¡°Sometimes, the toughest choices come when we least expect them, and they often involve the people we trust the most.¡± He paused, his eyes finally meeting hers with an intensity that made Koral want to look away ¡°Never forget that more than skill with a weapon or control over a Punisher¡­¡± >> ¡°The most important ability of them all is to push through and survive, no matter the cost. Trust your instincts, Koral, and whatever comes your way, face it with courage.¡± Though she wanted to dismiss his cheap advice, to make some biting remark about how she didn¡¯t need his concern, the teenager forced herself to retain an impassive facade. ¡°This path thrust upon us often demands sacrifices we can¡¯t yet imagine.¡± >> ¡°But I believe you have it in you to remain true to yourself no matter the circumstances. Try to reach for happiness, as impossible and futile as it might seem at times.¡± With her heart constricted by an emotion she refused to name, Koral nodded by instinct a couple of times. The weight of the old man¡¯s parting remarks settled around them like a shroud, as she clutched the phone in her hands ¡ªher brand-new lifeline and leash rolled into one. This moment marked the end of something she hadn¡¯t even known she valued¡­ But the relative safety of Apollo¡¯s guidance was over. From now on, she was on her own in the blood-soaked world they inhabited. Part of her wanted to rage against it, to demand more time and preparation, but the larger one, the side of her that had been numbed by violence and loss, simply moved on. Without much reaction on her face, Koral dismissed Apollo¡¯s gaze as she returned to her room for some final arrangements. Whatever came next, she would indeed face it. Not for the Cartel, not for Apollo, but only for herself. Because in the end, that was all she truly had left. Killing Moon -Part 6- As the luxurious car¡¯s door closed shut with a soft thud, Koral let out a small sigh as she sank into the plush black leather passenger seat. The immediate wave of coolness from the air conditioning provided a welcomed respite from the scorching heat outside, and so she let out a relieved sigh while her fingers continued to absentmindedly trace a path across the edges of her new phone, its weight still unfamiliar in her hand. The device was practically devoid of any sign of usage barring one single message. ¡®Attend the Greenhouse at your earliest convenience¡¯, it read, ¡®For the Daturas are due to blossom.¡¯ While Koral couldn¡¯t help but scoff internally at Valerica¡¯s penchant for theatrics, luckily the ¡®code¡¯ didn¡¯t need any explanation ¡ªand neither did the driver, who set the engine into motion just moments after she had settled in. As they pulled away from the curb, the teenager caught a distant glimpse of Apollo on the hotel suite¡¯s balcony, his hand raised a halfhearted wave. Despite his original gravitas, their parting had fizzled into something far more mundane ¡ªcomplaining about her wardrobe as she waltzed past him. The gravity of his earlier monologue had sizzled out into something far more mundane, complaining about her wardrobe as she¡¯d waltzed past him. ¡®You¡¯re going to the Medardo Estate, not some trashy nightclub!¡¯ He grumbled, complaining about her black leather skirt and crop top with clear disapproval. The memory brought a smirk to her lips. Such a send-off was much more to her liking than some overly dramatic attempt at tearful farewells. She did take her sweet time getting ready, almost relishing on the old fool¡¯s growing impatience. But every smudge of eyeliner, every carefully placed strand of hair was a minute act of defiance worth its pride. If anyone wished to complain, they were entirely free to end up ignored. Koral didn¡¯t underestimate the importance of a carefully crafted image. And sure enough, her efforts bore premature fruit as the slightly shaky voice of the driver broke Koral away from her reverie. ¡°Koral, isn¡¯t it?¡± The man behind the wheel ventured, his brown-hazel eyes flicking unsteadily to the rearview mirror. He was young, probably in his early twenties, with a clean-shaven face and neatly combed dark hair that betrayed his overzealous attempt at professionalism. His fingers drummed an anxious rhythm as they glided through sun-baked streets, an apprehension Koral didn¡¯t blame him for. She was dangerous after all. ¡°¡­ One of La Medula¡¯s accursed.¡± ¡°Ohoh, a fan already?¡± She teased him, offering a confident smile as she leaned back in her seat, one leg crossed over the other in a deliberate display of nonchalance. ¡°Kind of unfair, since I don¡¯t have the faintest idea who you are.¡± ¡°Right, sorry. My name¡¯s Mauro.¡± He replied, a faint flush creeping up his neck. ¡°I¡¯m a recent addition to the Intel Division of the Cartel.¡± Young as she may be, Koral wasn¡¯t exactly naive. Looks were a weapon just like any other. Navigating his nervousness was a well-crafted tool to be employed, a means to extract as much information as possible. ¡°Lucky me. I get to have a big wig as my very own personal driver.¡± She purred while leaning forward to peek between the seats, offering a closer, playful smile that didn¡¯t quite reach her eyes. ¡°Intel, huh?¡± >> ¡°So whatever are you doing escorting some meager Hitman?¡± A small groan escaped from Mauro¡¯s lips, likely because they were treading grounds he couldn¡¯t quite readily disclose. Perhaps she was pushing too hard, but it wasn¡¯t like she cared much exactly. The reaction alone told her enough ¡ªthere were many well-placed eyes monitoring their every move. ¡°It¡¯s... Complex. I don¡¯t know all that much about it either, at least not yet.¡± Whether truthful or not, Mauro¡¯s good faith didn¡¯t sound spoiled. He did hesitate a little before continuing, though. ¡°But I¡¯m glad you¡¯re out from under his shadow.¡± ¡°His shadow?¡± Koral asked back, her mismatched eyes narrowing. ¡°You mean Apollo¡¯s?¡± ¡°Yeah him.¡± Mauro nodded, his fingers tightening subtly on the steering wheel. ¡°I can¡¯t really say much beyond that.¡± Pressing here seemed like it¡¯d be a wasted effort, however¡­ ¡°Aww, worried about little old me, sweetheart?¡± The idea was certainly worthy of a sarcastic chuckle. What a conceited loser. ¡°Don¡¯t be. I know how to take care of myself.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t say that. You¡¯re still a girl.¡± He quickly replied. ¡°I¡¯d rather you don¡¯t end up in danger if I can help it.¡± With a smug shrug of her shoulders, Koral retreated with a forced smile. As much as she understood how valuable connections were, for as fake as they could be, she couldn¡¯t help but feel a twinge of anger at this so-called Mauro. What could this pathetic pencil-pusher possibly understand about the dangers she routinely trudged through? Silence stretching between them, Mauro cleared his throat, either uncomfortable or frustrated with how their conversation had ran into a corner. ¡°Listen, I¡­ Kind of wanted to ask you something.¡± ¡°Hah?¡± Koral dragged her indignation, an eyebrow arched skeptically. ¡°Aren¡¯t you intel anyway? What could I possibly tell you that isn¡¯t already in some dusty file somewhere?¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t about work. I apologize if I¡¯m overstepping, but¡­¡± Mauro paused, seemingly to muster up some courage. ¡°I know you were raised alongside Kyros Zabat.¡± >> ¡°Is he¡­ Important to you?¡± Koral¡¯s laughter filled the car, sharp and genuine. So that¡¯s what this was about. He was fishing to see whether she was ¡®available¡¯ or not. Still, the idea of her being romantically involved with Kyros, of all people, was absurd enough to break through her mask. Wherever did that guy get the Zabat last name anyhow? ¡°Me and Kyros? You can¡¯t be serious.¡± She corrected Mauro with a hearty cross of her head. ¡°We shared the same cage, that¡¯s it. Not interested.¡± >> ¡°The guy¡¯s a straight-laced good boy for the Cartel. I don¡¯t go for sticks in the mud of that kind.¡± Her gaze glinted with mischief as her voice dropped into a playful lilt. ¡°I prefer someone with a bit more¡­ Spark.¡± ¡°Spark?¡± Mauro asked back, teetering between interest and fright. ¡°Why don¡¯t you tell me yourself? Think you can keep up with me?¡± Though she already knew he had no chance of entertaining her too long, that didn¡¯t stop her voice from dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. She was overstating her interest in this nameless nobody, of course, but there was truth in her dismissal of Kyros as a potential partner ¡ªand she was also pretty sure the sentiment was mutual. There had been just too many instances where her emotional instability had reared its ugly head around him to ever hope to be alluring. As frustrating as it was to fall into Apollo¡¯s original design, she saw Kyros as more of a brother figure than anything else. Ultimately it was for the better, Koral thought. ¡°But hey, why don¡¯t we chat about far more interesting things?¡± Koral deftly pivoted, while the city streets of Punta Luzbel gradually fell behind them, giving way to more secluded and affluent areas. ¡°You work for intel, no? Surely you¡¯ve heard your fair share of fun stuff.¡± >> ¡°La Flor, for example, what¡¯s her story?¡± Her tone shifted, a predatory edge creeping into her voice. Mauro¡¯s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, his discomfort palpable as he wrestled the decision to share information. The friendly mood between them had taken on an edge, enough for Koral to deduce he was quite easy to scare ¡ªunderstandable reaction from a regular guy caught in a world full of monsters. ¡°I don¡¯t think¡­¡± He stammered, caught off guard by the sudden conversational shift. ¡°That¡¯s not something we¡¯re really supposed to discuss.¡± ¡°Aw come on, like I could ever betray you.¡± She began her coax, words in a blend of honey and steel. ¡°I barely get to hear anything in my position. I¡¯m just told who to kill, that¡¯s all.¡± >> ¡°You don¡¯t have to share the really obscure stuff. Why not start with simply the well-known shit that everybody talks about anyway?¡± She wasn¡¯t lying there. In her sheltered lifestyle, even openly shared rumours were kept from her by Apollo¡¯s tight-lipped stoicism. Mighty fine time to change that. ¡°Ok¡­ But don¡¯t mention my name if it ever comes up.¡± In more of a surrender rather than eagerness, he finally relented ¡ªearning a triumphant smile from the teenager. ¡°Valerica Flora Medardo Bizarro hasn¡¯t actually been the ringleader of the Cartel for too long.¡± As he spoke, Mauro¡¯s voice lowered as if afraid the very walls could be listening to him. ¡°Less than a decade, as far as I know.¡± >> ¡°Her father was the one who founded La Medula.¡± >> ¡°He went by the name of Carro?a.¡± These were the bits of information she had been starved for, pieces of the puzzle that could define her allegiance and choices in the cruel world she lived in. ¡°It¡¯s a barely disputed conclusion¡­ That she was the one who did him in.¡± So Valerica killed her own father? It tracked, she certainly did appear the type to do so in pursuit of power. ¡°But y¡¯know¡­¡± >> ¡°Nobody has ever seen his corpse. Not even a symbolic burial.¡± >> ¡°He Just vanished from one day to the next.¡± Lack of a body, huh¡­ To simpletons like this Mauro-guy, such a detail might be mystifying, but if factors like Punishers were added into the equation, it wasn¡¯t all that strange. Koral had glimpsed some of Valerica¡¯s powers before, but it was disappointingly unlikely she¡¯d learn anything concrete about the woman¡¯s true capabilities through this buffoon. Guess she¡¯d cross that bridge when she¡¯d get to it. As of the time being, such conversation was better brought to a halt for the Medardo Estate loomed before them in its characteristic decadent excess. As the car began to decelerate at the outer plaza, Koral¡¯s gaze swept over the suited-up men standing at attention by the gates, their rigid postures contrasted by the figure that truly caught her eye. Leaning casually against a bright-red sports motorcycle was a dark-skinned man whose presence immediately commanded notice ¡ªa guy far too familiar to her. Gone was the oftentimes lost boy she met him as; in his place stood someone whose very presence exuded an undeniable aura of danger and confidence. Kyros had grown into his frame, lanky limbs now corded with pronounced muscles that his slightly unbuttoned and rolled-up shirt made no effort to conceal. Dark, tousled hair fell just above his jawline, framing sharp cheekbones and a strong brow that lent him a rugged exterior. ¡°Ha, I get a welcoming committee?¡± Koral murmured with a sly grin, her sight fixed on Kyros. The comment warranted Mauro to clear his throat, perhaps sensing her waning interest in him. ¡°You know, maybe I could fill you in on all the Cartel¡¯s Accursed you¡¯ve yet to meet.¡± The driver offered, his voice a mixture of hope and desperation. Was that a last-ditch effort to try and impress her? ¡°Being aware of potential enemies is important, no?.¡± >> ¡°Just like making friends also is.¡± And while there was some truth and allure to Mauro¡¯s proposal, if only for the intel to be had, Koral was already reaching for the door handle as soon as the car had stopped. Her attention had already wandered far away from him. ¡°Yeah, yeah, that sounds great and all.¡± Koral answered absentmindedly, though she did turn back to Mauro one final time as she left the car. For pathetic as his expression filled with disappointment was, she figured there was one more use for him. ¡°You¡¯ll wait for me here, right?¡± >> ¡°What if I need a ride back home? You wouldn¡¯t let me at the mercy of strangers would you?¡± Superficial words that waited for no response, a thin veneer of sweetness over indifference as she swiftly dismissed him to click her way across the pavement towards Kyros. It had been little over a few months since they¡¯d last seen each other, yet the air between them was already this tense, with his sharp brown eyes locked onto hers with anticipated annoyance. Kyros had changed dramatically in his short time apart from Apollo. His intense eyes seemed to burn with a cold, premeditated intensity that made even Koral second-guess herself for a brief moment. He looked every inch the dangerous and efficient killer he was molded to be ¡ªbut her irreverence quickly prevailed. ¡°Well, well.¡± Koral joined him, her height dwarfed by his even in heels not an impediment for a tone full of mockery and sweetened poison. ¡°Didn¡¯t quite expect to see you here. Almost didn¡¯t recognize you without that droopy look on your face.¡± >> ¡°Come to welcome me to the big leagues?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t flatter yourself. I¡¯m here on orders.¡± Kyros¡¯ response came swiftly, his voice cool and measured. Despite his alleged disinterest, Koral caught a flicker of concern in his eyes, no matter how much he tried to mask it. ¡°Miss Medardo requested my presence. That¡¯s all there is to it.¡± Though he attempted to keep her influence at bay, acting all disciplined and controlled, Kyros still held a sly, almost serpentine edge to him ¡ªaccentuated by the ethereal markings coiling down his arms. It was something Koral took pride in, especially since he didn¡¯t accept it as readily. However, his presence there on this particular day led her to overthink. Was it possible that they were being paired for future assignments? It was an idea in direct contradiction with Apollo¡¯s teachings, which had emphasized on the solitary nature of their work. Sicarios operated alone, for safety and efficiency. Partnerships only complicated things, created unnecessary vulnerabilities to operations; therefore¡­ ¡°If that bitch thinks I¡¯m going to let her get away with a stupid change of handler¡­¡± Koral scoffed, her eyes narrowing with displeasure. ¡°And to go as far as to leash me with a chump like you, of all people?¡± >> ¡°Man, is she sorely mistaken.¡± The venom-charged words elicited only a tired sigh from Kyros. Refusing to take her bait, he simply limited himself to step away from his bike. ¡°Just follow me, alright?¡± He asked, turning towards the sprawling mansion. ¡°I¡¯d rather we don¡¯t keep her waiting.¡± He did have a point. There was no reason to trouble herself too much about the possibilities for now. Better to just go through with whatever game Valerica intended to play here ¡ªthe one that required Kyros¡¯ presence. And so she approached the manor, all of its grandeur a grotesque celebration to the power and cruelty with which the Cartel so callously shattered her life. Its opulent facade was nothing more than a means to conceal the rot within, one she wouldn¡¯t let herself to be easily deceived by. Climbing the lateral staircase, the teenager paused for a moment, allowing herself a parting glance at the garden behind her ¡ªbathed in the warm glow of the evening sun. The oblivious driver waited patiently by his car, a reminder to the mundane world that existed beyond this den of monsters. The place before her seemed almost peaceful, a cruel illusion of normalcy not meant to last. Whatever cruel machination awaited her beyond these ornate doors, Koral had already steeled herself to face them head-on, stepping fearlessly into the well-lit halls of the mansion. Killing Moon -Part 7- All the mental preparation Koral had mustered until that point felt somewhat unnecessary, as Kyros led her into an unassuming yet ornate office rather than some sort of underground dungeon like she had briefly imagined. Having thought otherwise made Koral feel a bit silly. Of course Valerica¡¯s blood empire would be adorned by roses ¡ªwith the crude instruments of torture hidden discreetly behind silk curtains and mahogany panels. The large room itself was yet another exercise in opulence that escaped from Koral¡¯s sensitivities. She had no appreciation for the high-quality furniture, neither was she particularly impressed by the pretentious paintings hanging on the walls. Another suited-up man remained stationed by the door as she and Kyros passed through, with Koral doing little more than glancing in his direction, the guy being one amongst the many watchdogs guarding every corner of the Medardo Estate. A glass-fronted, gold-trimmed shelves dominated an entire side, crammed with dozens upon dozens of chess boards and their differing amount of pieces, each holding their own miniature flower behind translucid tempered glass. While some of them were vibrant, and others tragically withered, there could be easily hundreds of them inside that room, making the teenager wonder if each actually signaled one of Valerica''s pawns ¡ªor if they served as one more decoration amidst so many other pretenses. Not like she had much time to inspect every little detail, as both she and Kyros were immediately drawn to the figure silhouetted against a floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the office, framed by the sunset lighting of the exterior garden sprawling beneath them. With a grace befitting of her, Valerica turned in their direction, leaving Koral struck anew by the woman¡¯s stunning beauty. Her olive skin seemed to glow in the dying sunlight, red and brown hair catching fire under the fading day. She hadn¡¯t aged a day since their first meeting, a fact that sent an unconscious uneasiness down Koral¡¯s spine. Today, the Cartel Ringleader¡¯s lips were painted a soft plum, her pristine white blouse tucked into high-waist black trousers loosely clinging to her figure ¡ªprofessional, yet undeniably feminine. Every tiny detail seemed calculated to accentuate the piercing emerald of her eyes, which fixed on Koral with an intensity that made her skin prickle. Unlike the budding sicaria¡¯s loud ensemble, Valerica¡¯s outfit was an understated one¡­ Yet her prettiness shone through effortlessly, as if it were a force that no amount of modesty could ever dim. ¡°Welcome, my blossoms.¡± Valerica¡¯s voice broke the surface tension, smooth and sweet like honey. ¡°Today is indeed a very important day.¡± >> ¡°Please, take a seat, my dear Koral.¡± She added while gesturing to a cushioned leather chair across her desk, wearing an easy smile that did nothing to ease the growing know in the teenager¡¯s stomach. In any other circumstance, with any other authority figure, Koral would have bristled at the command just for the sake of rebelliousness¡­ But here, facing Valerica, the very idea created an unfamiliar constriction inside her chest ¡ªand so she obeyed without a word of protest, her body moving almost on its own. Valerica¡¯s manicured fingers danced over several chess pieces scattered across the robust wood, eventually plucking up a pawn. Within its pale, half-translucent glass frame, Koral recognized the aquamarine moonflower ¡ªthe marker extracted from her blood long ago. ¡°Can¡¯t believe it¡¯s been almost half a decade.¡± The Ringleader mused, her voice tinged with a saccharine nostalgia as she perched on the edge of the desk, twirling the pawn between her fingers. ¡°Time sure does fly, don¡¯t you think?¡± >> ¡°It feels like just yesterday that you were before me, a lost little lamb.¡± Or so she said¡­ But the irony wasn¡¯t entirely lost on Koral. Valerica herself seemed practically untouched by the passage of time, her beauty unchanging like a photograph. To remain this immutable in a world where a single misstep led everything to crumble in a matter of moments, was perhaps the most terrifying thing about her. Briefly, as she thought her response, Koral¡¯s eyes flicked to the other stray chess pieces ¡ªa gray knight, a white rook, and a yellow queen; each of them holding its own miniature floral prisoner. She couldn¡¯t identify them quickly enough, their presence turning into another silent reminder of the game she was yet unable to fully grasp. ¡°Yeah, I guess¡­¡± Koral mumbled, just to say anything, and hating how small her voice sounded. Suddenly, she became painfully aware of her own presence ¡ªher dyed hair, her edgy outfit¡­ And how it all seemed to crumble in front of this woman. She felt like that broken-hearted and dirt-smeared child all over again, a sensation that clawed at her insides, like a living ache in her chest driving her mad. ¡°Only old farts speak like that, though.¡± The resentful comment, delivered through gritted teeth, elicited a soft, melodious laugh from the older woman. It echoed through the room like the tinkling of delicate crystal ¡ªdelicate yet spine-tinglingly sharp. ¡°I¡¯ve heard much of your reputation.¡± Valerica chided with amusement, Koral¡¯s feeble attempt at confrontation nothing more than a mildly entertaining parlor trick. ¡°I must confess it¡¯s rather endearing, that touch of spirit, that flicker of defiance.¡± Her emerald gaze sparkled with an unspoken hunger, though Koral couldn¡¯t hold eye contact for long. ¡°You¡¯re no longer an innocent lamb, are you?¡± >> ¡°No, from today onwards you¡¯re a bonafide member of La Medula, just like your close friend Kyros here.¡± Her attention was briefly diverted towards the statue-like figure standing behind Koral¡¯s chair ¡ªimpassive, without a flicker of emotion betraying his thoughts. ¡°Kyros ain¡¯t no friend of mine.¡± Koral swiftly spat out defensively. She¡¯d be damned to hell before playing nice in this rotten game. ¡°Just a pathetic dick rider. It¡¯d make no difference to me if my first gig was to dump him in a river.¡± A muffled groan from behind her betrayed a crack under pressure from the wanna-be soldier¡¯s perfect facade. Valerica, however, only smiled wider, as if her attitude was a delightful performance she¡¯d been eagerly anticipating ¡ªand not something worth of even a minor reprimand. ¡°My adorable, fierce little blossom, with such a commendable enthusiasm¡­¡± The woman purred, tilting her head before reaching behind her desk. The motion carried across an overpowering cloud of perfume, its cloying sweetness overpowering Koral¡¯s nose. ¡°Why would we want to target such a well-behaved and obedient knight like our dear Kyros? No, the task I have in mind is far more enticing than that.¡± She paused, savoring the moment like a cat playing with prey. ¡°But first¡­¡± In a fluid motion, Valerica¡¯s hand retreated from its search, producing a sleek manila envelope and sliding it across the polished surface towards Koral. ¡°A full identity.¡± She explained, rich satisfaction coloring her voice. ¡°My Cartel does not operate solely within these boarders. You¡¯ll need these sooner or later.¡± Unable to contain her intrigue, the teenager opened the envelope hastily, finding inside it a passport and a driver¡¯s license ¡ªboth of them foreign. Her gaze fixed on the letters emblazoned across the items, ¡®Koral Aysel Andreas¡¯. This was to be her new full persona, a means of bureaucracy that held little consequence to her beyond its practical use. ¡°Try not to lose them.¡± Kyros chimed in, his voice carrying an irritating edge as he leaned over her shoulder with curiosity. ¡°I know following instructions¡¯ hard for you, but¡ª¡° ¡°Shut up, mind your own damn business.¡± Koral snapped back, clutching the documents to her chest to prevent any further peeking, perhaps a bit childishly. ¡°I¡¯m not gonna lose them, and I never asked you for advice.¡± Did she have any real reason to act this petty towards Kyros? Not really, but she bristled at the idea of letting him claim any sort of superiority. They were equals, and neither age nor experience could ever change that ¡ªif anything, she was the better of the two, since she wasn¡¯t as blindly loyal like some well-trained dog. As the teenagers¡¯ quarrel carried on indistinctively, the gleam in Valerica¡¯s eyes dimmed subtly, with the older woman raising her attention to the man standing silently at the other end of the room. ¡°Nadaletti, come.¡± She commanded with a snap of her fingers, the edge of authority in her voice silencing Koral and Kyros mid-argument. ¡°Let¡¯s get to business already.¡± Koral¡¯s attention shifted towards the man immediately, the same guard she had dismissed earlier as just another faceless grunt. Her eyes narrowed while she struggled to put off a strange unease from building in her gut ¡ªnow detailing every trait to excruciating detail. The guy moved with evident confidence, each step loose and careless at first glance. Dark skin gleamed under the office¡¯s gradually intensifying artificial lights, his shaven scalp reflecting a dull sheen. A neatly trimmed anchor beard framed his sharp jaw, lending him an air of deceptive nonchalance. His attire, while professional enough, diverged from the picture-perfect suits of the Cartel¡¯s typical muscle. A white shirt with rolled-up sleeves hinted at a readiness for action, revealing a lean musculature that paled in comparison to Kyros¡¯. Koral estimated he was in his mid-twenties, older than them but not by all that much. A loosened black tie and three earrings in his right ear also suggesting a distaste for excessive formality. Nadaletti wore his sleaziness on the sleeves, eagerly proclaiming to the world how much he enjoyed shirking work wherever possible. Though it wasn¡¯t like she needed to study his outfit for that ¡ªall Koral required to identify it was the shit-eating grin on his face. Yet that easygoing facade was marred by an angry mark that stretched from his right brow up onto his forehead ¡ªan old burn scar that whispered a silent pain, endured and overcome. ¡°Not like I can lie.¡± Nadaletti¡¯s voice was playful, at odds with the gravity of their careers. His dark and observant eyes swept over the two of them with undisguised curiosity, his posture radiating an annoying cockiness. ¡°But these two seem hardly up to the task.¡± >> ¡°Personally, I¡¯d let them finish school before¡ª¡± ¡°That¡¯s enough, Massimiliano.¡± Valerica cut him off, her voice crisp like a whiplash. ¡°I know what I¡¯m doing. I don¡¯t need you to cast doubt on my judgment.¡± If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Heh, my bad, Jefa.¡± Something about the man¡¯s face tugged at the edges of Koral¡¯s memory. A nagging sense of familiarity that she couldn¡¯t quite place. Whether it was his stance, his voice, or something else entirely¡­ She was sure she had seen him before. ¡°You know how it is with Don¡¯t Go.¡± >> ¡°And hey, nothing against you kids. Let¡¯s do our best not getting ourselves killed, that¡¯d suck big time.¡± Koral perceived no malice nor ill-intent in his words, just a frank assessment on the dangers lying ahead. He was an Accursed for sure, but beyond that¡­ Were the three of them supposed to work together? Just who exactly was the gig, that required such a big group to confront them? ¡°Nice to meet you, Nadaletti.¡± Though wary and stiff, Kyros broke their collective silence to extend a hand towards Massimiliano, his forced ''manners'' funnily out of place considering the baldy¡¯s laissez-faire attitude. ¡°Yeah, sure. Just take it easy, no need for any formality.¡± He replied casually clapping Kyros¡¯ hand with his own. ¡°Call me Milo. Everyone else does that ¡®round here anyway.¡± The nickname hit Koral like a sledgehammer to the chest, threatening to shatter her already fickle composure. In one go, all of the pieces fell into place with sickening clarity. Yes, this guy¡­ With his condescending smirk¡­ He was there, etched into her memory from the worst day of her life. He was the only one of their direct assailants that survived ¡ªsomething she felt bound to correct, for Kirana. Koral¡¯s blood turned to ice in her veins, fingers digging into the leather arms of her chair as she fought to keep her expression neutral. The urge to lunge at him was almost overwhelming ¡ªto claw at that smug face of him until it was scarred and broken like her own fractured soul¡­ But she held back, survival instincts kicking in. Not yet¡­ It was a necessity to bide her time¡­ For now. So instead of lashing out, she met Milo¡¯s gaze with a steel of her own, letting just a flicker of murderous intent pass between them. His eyebrow quirked slightly, silent acknowledgment of the unspoken tension. ¡°Don¡¯t mind her. She¡¯s a little¡­ Intense, but I can vouch for her effectiveness.¡± Though unprompted, Kyros ended up being the one to cover for her, meddlesome as he usually was. ¡°We¡¯ll get any job over in the blink of an eye, no matter how challenging.¡± Valerica observed the exchange with keen interest, her emerald eyes darting between the three. She had to know, it was impossible for her not to ¡ªyet she gave no sign. The Ringleader simply leaned back, a cat-like smile playing across her features. Whatever her game was, the Medula Boss apparently didn¡¯t care at all about the simmering anger amongst her employees. ¡°Those are bold words, boy.¡± The older woman purred teasingly. ¡°Would you tell me, you two¡­¡± >> ¡°Just how attached are you to that mentor of yours, anyway?¡± The question hung in the air like a guillotine blade, poised to sever whatever tenuous bonds of loyalty might have taken root. For Koral, however, the world had narrowed to a pinpoint of seething hatred. Milo¡¯s presence had dredged up a maelstrom of memories, overshadowing the sinister implications lurking beneath Valerica¡¯s query. ¡°But that is¡­¡± Kyros¡¯ voice cracked, the carefully constructed composure he had tried so hard to maintain crumbling like sand. ¡°Can I ask¡­ Why?¡± The distress in the man who grew alongside her was palpable, resulting in a momentary disgust at his weakness. Hilarious that for all his pretenses he hesitated now, in front of his supposed handler. She, however¡­ Was different. ¡°I couldn¡¯t care less.¡± Koral¡¯s voice sliced through like a blade of ice. Her face was a visage of utter indifference, devoid of even the faintest sign of warmth or trepidation. The words fell from her lips with a finality that could lower the temperature in the room by itself. ¡°Just say the word and he¡¯ll be dead.¡± A statement delivered with the casual air of someone discussing the weather, as if the potential execution of the man who had mentored them for years was utterly inconsequential. Not even the slightest tremor betrayed her lips, but was this the result of her conditioning, or simply the manifestation of a darkness that had long since nestled inside her heart? The answer to that question seemed irrelevant to Valerica, whose smile subtly widened as if the teenager¡¯s ruthlessness only served to please her further. With an impatient gesture towards Milo, the woman tilted her head to a side, silently questioning his tardiness. ¡°Oh shit, right!¡± Milo exclaimed, visibly startled. He had flinched at Koral¡¯s chilling declaration, much like Kyros who remained frozen in his feet. The baldy now forced himself to regain focus, raising a hand over his left shoulder as if preparing to embrace an invisible partner. Koral narrowed her eyes keenly, taking in every minutia of the compact, child-sized figure that gradually faded into existence. Sure, she was no longer intimidated by the sight of Punishers, but this particular one managed to make her feel uncomfortable. The thing¡¯s form was mostly an amalgamation of rusted, corroded chains over a constricting layer of black latex ¡ªstretching under a lanky and vaguely humanoid shape. It squeaked and rattled with every tiny motion, creating a disgusting background noise that grated the teenager¡¯s nerves. Where a head should have been, there was instead a hood-like structure made entirely of the dirty black fabric, stitched together with thin strands that looked like made from human skin. Two dim, blue-glowing lights peered from within, fixing upon Koral with an intensity that made her look somewhere else. Its arms ended not in hands, but in five long chain tendrils that seemed to operate like fingers, immediately reaching out to cling fiercely to Nadaletti in a suffocating embrace. The Punisher latched onto the man desperately, as if he were its only lifeline in a vast, empty void ¡ªthe stretched latex of his body hinting at rigid, steel-like flesh or bones beneath, making it repulsive to look at for too long. The name Milo had uttered earlier, Don¡¯t Go, seemed to fit the ugly thing perfectly. It exuded a pathetic and lonely presence that made Koral sick in her stomach ¡ªfeeble and terrified of abandonment like some monstrous, forsaken child. ¡°Right, I¡¯m ready.¡± Milo announced once his Punisher finished settling around his shoulders and neck like a grotesque parasite. Despite some mild unease in his voice, he seemed accustomed to this process, as if it were a familiar routine, if not a bit unpleasant one. Koral deduced quickly enough that this display wasn¡¯t meant to threaten them, but rather a test for her earlier declaration. ¡°Do I need to repeat myself?¡± The teenager asked as she met Valerica¡¯s eyes unflinchingly, a smug smirk playing at the corners of her lips. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter to me if it¡¯s Apollo or anyone else.¡± >> ¡°Everyone is just a walking corpse waiting for their turn anyway. If his number¡¯s up, I¡¯d be happy to be the one to punch his ticket in.¡± And validating Koral¡¯s suspicions, the Cartel Ringleader proceeded to turn towards Milo, silently seeking confirmation while the man answered with a subtle nod. The fledgling sicaria¡¯s words rang true, untainted by any attempt of deceit ¡ªshe felt no remorse for her callousness, a part of her even relishing at the idea of being given the honor to end the old geezer¡¯s life. ¡°How about you, boy?¡± Valerica¡¯s attention shifted, her voice dropping dangerously low as she addressed Kyros, further revealing his cracks under such spotlight. ¡°Choose your words carefully.¡± The girl watched with growing frustration as the idiot closed his eyes, visibly conflicted by an internal struggle. The conflict etched across his features sharply, a harsh contrast to her own unwavering resolve. ¡°I¡¯m¡­¡± He began, voice faltering briefly before steadying himself. ¡°If the order is to be given, then I would undoubtedly carry it out.¡± >> ¡°But it won¡¯t be easy. Mr. Solano is a very capable man.¡± Such a half-hearted argument annoyed Koral. She recognized his decision was being heavily influenced by his loyalty towards her, adding another layer of rot to this already fraught situation¡­ But it didn¡¯t matter, she refused to even acknowledge it ¡ªmuch less reason it further; pushing aside any sentiment that might compromise her future choices. ¡°Neither the specifics nor your feelings have any importance to me.¡± Valerica declared, her rigid voice brooking no further comments. Koral perceived a hint of disdain in the words, likely born from contempt over Kyros¡¯ lingering respect for their former mentor. ¡°Your target is the Medula Hitmen Henchman, Apollo Solano.¡± >> ¡°Make sure to rough him up, but do not kill him. Let Milo take over once he¡¯s unable to fight back, even if you have to take his remaining arm in the process.¡± ¡°Aight, then we¡¯ve got ourselves a team!¡± Nadaletti¡¯s voice rang out with a contradictory excitement, an enthusiasm jarring against the difficulty of their orders. So they passed his test? Had Kyros really chosen to support her over the man he idolized? Ridiculous. Laughable. She could¡¯ve handled this alone, and she certainly had no need for his misplaced devotion. ¡°I¡¯ve been waiting for this moment since I joined the internal security branch.¡± The bald man continued, smiling predatorily as he traced the scar on his forehead. ¡°A chance to repay the saint for this little souvenir.¡± With their mission now crystal clear, Koral rose from her chair and strode purposefully from the office, her unwanted partners in crime trailing behind. As the trio filed out, she gave one final glimpse to the Cartel Ringleader¡¯s satisfied smile, her pretty fingers back to toying with the stray chess pieces on her desk. The teenager wondered if there would come a time when she could topple this woman from the games she so carelessly played¡­ Silently, they made their way back to the outer plaza, the dying lights of the sun painting long shadows across the immaculate grounds. Night approached rapidly, offering the perfect opportunity to confront Apollo. ¡°You took your time, I¡¯m glad you¡¯re back.¡± Mauro¡¯s voice welcomed her after she slid into the front passenger seat, oblivious to the tension behind her deadpan expression. ¡°I was thinking we could do something tonight, would a movie suit your¡ª¡° ¡°Afraid to say we¡¯ve got plans already, Casanova.¡± Milo interrupted, his mocking grin audible as he slipped into the back seat. Kyros silently followed suit on the opposite side, completing their grim quartet. ¡°A party to attend, geezers to forcefully retire and all that jazz.¡± Koral couldn¡¯t quite contain a sardonic smirk, not because she thought Milo was particularly funny, but at the sight of Mauro¡¯s expression souring as he realized things wouldn¡¯t go exactly like he had envisioned. However, as soon as they began exchanging location details she allowed her mind to drift, words fading to white noise as she lowered the window, letting the night breeze caress her face. A short-lived reprieve, since Milo¡¯s incessant chatter found a way to worm back into her consciousness as they crossed the highways ¡ªhis rambunctious yapping making each word more irritating than the last. ¡°I swear, never trust women, you know.¡± The guy rambled, cigarette smoke dancing unevenly in the car¡¯s interior. His inability to hold his tongue seemed almost pathological, so much so that it was funny to think it might very well be his Punisher¡¯s curse. ¡°I mean, I sure as hell can¡¯t tell a lie to save my life or anyone else¡¯s.¡± >> ¡°But even I would feel something when talking about the potential death of a friend.¡± So this was a viper who had slithered through the ranks of the Cartel not through brute force, but from sheer tattling. It truly was a wonder how he wasn¡¯t dead yet¡­ But well, it served Koral just right, considering that¡­ ¡°I¡¯m going to kill you someday, Nadaletti.¡± Koral stated with a nonchalant smile. It¡¯d be especially satisfying if he could detect lies, since her declaration was utterly devoid of them. ¡°Make no mistake about it. Even if it¡¯s not tonight or tomorrow, this is a promise I intend to keep.¡± The car fell silent for a moment, widening the teenager¡¯s triumphant expression. Let him savor that moment, she thought, to stay wondering when death would come knocking at his door. ¡°It goes to you as well, Kyros.¡± She continued, mismatched eyes locking onto him through the rearview mirror, unflinching and merciless. Milo was disposable and worthless. This other idiot was much harder to make understand. ¡°There might come a time when you¡¯re instructed to off me too.¡± >> ¡°So if that happens¡­ Don¡¯t hesitate. Show no fear.¡± Only the soft hum of the engine and the muffled sound of the wind broke the deafening silence. For a moment, it seemed as though Kyros might¡¯ve let her words go unchallenged¡­ But then his voice, barely above a whisper, came to fill the void. ¡°But, Koral...¡± He was still full of anguish, something he needed to correct as soon as possible. ¡°Those are the same words he used to tell us.¡± Killing Moon -Part 8- The full moon hung low and wide in the clear sky, casting an eerie pallor over the sprawling desert landscape. Koral¡¯s boots crunched against the parched earth as she walked alongside Kyros and Milo, their silhouettes elongated under the uneven starlight ¡ªheavy atmosphere broken only by the occasional whisper of wind dancing across the barren terrain. Of course she recognized it¡­ This godforsaken building. How could she not? Grimly, the warehouse stood brutally firm like a monument of pain and memories, an elegy to her shattered innocence. She fought to maintain her composure as they approached, refusing to let the ghosts of the past derail her from the task at hand. Crossing the gap in the barbed wire perimeter made the teenager think of how much its coils resembled a morbid crown, a cruel adornment to the place that had taken so much from her. This was where it had all begun¡­ And somewhere close beneath her feet lay her sister¡¯s unmarked grave, a secret shared only between her and the man she now hunted. Koral¡¯s fists clenched at her sides, nails digging crescent marks into her palms. How many times had she returned here since that day? How many hours had she spent kneeling in the unforgiving sand, whispering apologies to someone who could no longer hear them? But sure, even when this monstrous monolith pierced the heaven in sinister isolation, they were far from alone. Sleek SUVs and nondescript sedans surrounded the structure, scattered around with their occupants remaining well-hidden behind tinted glass. Intel guys, no doubt, there to bear witness to whatever bloody resolution awaited them all. They had likely reached the place from tracking Apollo¡¯s movements, and were now poised to report the outcome to their boss. These men weren¡¯t there to help ¡ªnot until the danger was either fully neutralized or running complete havoc instead. It was for the better. They would only get in their way¡­ But still, their presence felt bitterly like vultures circling a soon-to-be carcass. ¡°This is where I leave off too.¡± Milo said, his mocking smile having returned with surprising ease. ¡°I¡¯ll join your cheerleading squad like the coward I am.¡± >> ¡°Can¡¯t run an interrogation without me, see? ¡®sides, I¡¯ve full faith you two will handle it just fine.¡± Neither she nor Kyros bothered to respond. This, too, was an optimal resolution. Even with his own Punisher, they had no experience working alongside one another. He would rapidly become a liability ¡ªone whose demise Koral preferred to orchestrate herself in the future rather than witness as collateral damage tonight. Still, as they drew closer to the gates, the teenager couldn¡¯t help but retain a lingering sense of unease. Had the old man known how things would unfold? Had he deliberately chosen this place as their battleground, so steeped already in her sorrow as it was? If the intention was to anger her¡­ How could she not admire the calculated cruelty of such a move? But maybe she was reading too much into it, projecting meaning onto coincidence. The unavoidable truth was that this place was lonely and familiar to them both, where no innocent bystanders could come to complicate matters. In the end, it didn¡¯t matter one bit. Whatever Apollo¡¯s intentions were, whatever mind games he might be playing, the stage was already set ¡ªthis unforgiving desert, their arena. Her focus narrowed, senses aware of every intake of air as they closed in on the warehouse. Somewhere within this concrete shell, the geezer awaited for them to arrive. Mentor, and tormentor. The man who had molded them into weapons, and against whom they must now turn that lethal edge. Anticipation briefly weighed on her like a suffocating mantle, yet as her fingers landed on the cold metal of the door, she shed the last vestiges of anxiety away. The heavy entrance yawned open before them, a maw of darkness eager to swallow them whole. A wave of stagnant air assaulted her nose, leaving her unable to suppress a wince at the stench of charred flesh. It could only be him, disposing of whatever Cartel lackey that guarded the place before he got there. Sighing to not be further distracted by the smell, Koral squared her shoulders and strode forward, leaving the starlit desert behind and plunging into the waiting abyss. Their first steps into the oppressive darkness of the warehouse were followed by the resounding thud of the heavy metal door shutting behind them, snuffing out whatever meager moonlight filtered in through the outside. It was a void so absolute that Koral could barely distinguish her own hand in front of her face, so her fingers instinctively sought the reassuring coldness of the gun at her hip ¡ªthough under such blackness, holding onto it would be as useless as her inert left eye. Deprived of sight, her other senses heightened in response as she remained attentive for any potential sign of Sunshine Recorder¡¯s presence. For as fast as the eagle Punisher could be, its brazen luminescence or the rustle of its mechanical wings would quickly betray its location in this lightless tomb. Though Hush¡¯s ability to resurrect her provided a macabre safety net, the prospect of dying even a temporary death in this patch-black mausoleum was far from comforting ¡ªdespite holding an irrational belief that Apollo wouldn¡¯t have set any furtive traps for them. ¡°It¡¯s safe.¡± She murmured back to Kyros, positioning herself between him and the vast unknown before them. ¡°Light the place.¡± The reigning silence made easy to distinguish the sounds of Kyros kneeling behind her, though even that was swiftly eclipsed by the azure iridescence spreading from where his fingertips touched the concrete. The otherworldly light raced across the floor in intricate, angular patterns as the glyphs abandoned their Accursed¡¯s flesh. Koral watched impassively as the warehouse interior gradually materialized, illuminated by soft pulses of blue. Kyros¡¯ Add Aethyrs clung to every surface they encountered in their wake, scaling walls and enveloping abandoned crates and shelves ¡ªtheir geometry casting rune-like shadows that danced and shifted with each throb, creating an almost hallucinatory atmosphere. As the azure expanded, details emerged from the darkness like a photograph developing in real-time, brought to the surface world as if emerging from her nightmares. Dust motes swirled in the air, caught under the glow that revealed the ominous silhouettes of unidentifiable objects shrouded in tarps, and ancient bloodstains long since turned to rust-colored shadows. But it was the evidence of fresh carnage that jumped to her attention more sharply. Charred corpses lay scattered about, their flesh blackened and twisted over the places that Recorder had struck. Unfortunate Cartel scum that bore the brunt end of Apollo¡¯s abilities, the acrid smell flowing through the air serving as a nauseating reminder of the old man¡¯s enduring lethality. ¡°Look at that, have you been busy in the kitchen again?¡± Koral taunted, pushing forward with unwavering confidence. The pulsing blue light shifted across her face in patchy patterns, lending an almost ethereal quality to her mocking expression ¡ªthough her eyes conveyed only a freezingly cold resolve. ¡°What¡¯s the matter? Isn¡¯t it too soon for a heartfelt family barbecue?¡± There, seated on an ominously isolated chair at the center of this surreal stage, Apollo shifted his gaze from the intrusive lighting ¡ªas if he were merely an elderly neighbor disturbed from an afternoon nap, rather than the cornered predator he truly was. As his tired eyes adjusted to the brightness, the two of them locked gazes. For a tense moment, their mutual bloodlust seemed to clash in the air between them, almost palpable like their Punishers themselves. However, with a dismissive scoff, the silver-haired man was the one to break the silent standoff. ¡°Speaking from personal experience¡­¡± He began, his tone calm as if delivering just another washed-up lecture. ¡°I¡¯d advise not sticking to la Flor for too long.¡± >> ¡°Paranoia makes her unable to keep herself devoid of enemies, so she starts looking for them in every shadow. It is but a matter of time before you¡¯re the ones she¡¯s hunting.¡± Koral laughed sarcastically at this poor attempt at¡­ What? A warning? Comedy? ¡°Oh please¡­. Is this your pathetic ass trying to convinc¡ª¡± ¡°Still¡­¡± Apollo interrupted her, his voice carrying that same melancholic parental energy that never failed to infuriate her. ¡°This is quite the low blow, even coming from her.¡± His words seemed to hit Kyros harder, the young man remaining stonily silent despite the clear conflict raging behind his eyes. ¡°Quite a resolution, don¡¯t you think?¡± >> ¡°To have you two sent to finish me off¡­¡± He paused to deliver a brief, bitter smile. It was an odd expression on his usually stoic face. ¡°She probably expects me to go softer against you¡­ But well, don¡¯t expect me to take death for granted just because I raised you two into kille¡ª.¡± The blast of a gunshot cut his words short, Koral¡¯s weapon raised and fired with a speed not conveyed by her impassive expression. Who knew for sure? Perhaps he would¡¯ve gotten distracted by his cliched monologue¡­ But ultimately it was a futile hope. Once the tension settled, her bullet hung suspended in mid-air, captured by Sunshine Recorder¡¯s beak materializing from behind Apollo¡¯s shoulders. Soon enough the projectile was swallowed, denying Koral any chance to manipulate its trajectory in the future. Rising from his chair with a deliberate, calculated calmness, Apollo¡¯s eyes locked onto Koral delivering a silent admonishment despite his complete lack of physical reaction to the sudden shot ¡ªhis hand tucked comfortably inside a pocket in a posture of deceptive nonchalance. Behind his broad back, Recorder spread its wings proudly, its abrasive golden glow outmatching the blue of Kyros¡¯ Aethyrs ¡ªthe massive bird¡¯s fiery gaze fixed upon the intruding hitmen. ¡°What? You interrupted me too.¡± Koral shrugged, a smug smile playing on her lips. ¡°I figured you didn¡¯t really wanna talk, so¡­¡± ¡°Have some patience. I¡¯m almost done.¡± Apollo scolded, his voice hardening into the more familiar, unforgiving tone that she knew so well. ¡°You two burdensome brats are out of your league. Old as I may be, you still lack the skill to defeat me.¡± >> ¡°If you get badly injured, retreat. I can¡¯t promise I won¡¯t react on instinct if you stay in my way.¡± And that was the final affront necessary to make her fully snap. ¡°You arrogant piece of shit!¡± Koral snarled, her eyes blazing with unbridled fury. The mask of indifferent composure she had worn shattered like brittle glass, revealing the raw, seething anger that raged on beneath the surface. Her features contorted into ferocity, teeth bared in a primal display that seemed to transform her from a mere girl into something far more dangerous. She wasted no further time to launch herself at Apollo, her body moving with a fluid grace that belied the storm of emotions roiling within, momentarily overtaken by the visual assault of Hush violently manifesting herself. The phantasmagoric mane of blue and white hair writhed like living tendrils under a nonexistent wind, ethereal edges solidifying as she mirrored Koral¡¯s charge, only faster and deadlier ¡ªneedle-like limbs gleaming wickedly under the contrasting orange and blue lights of the battleground. Standing his ground, the old man remained unflinching in the face of the frantic assault. Recorder unfurled its mechanical wings, surging forward as Hush¡¯s blades slashed through the air, meeting them in a resounding clash of metal against metal ¡ªfleeting showers of molten sparks erupting from the points of impact. As recorder countered with razor-sharp talons to counter the equal viciousness of Hush¡¯s blades, Koral seized the opportunity presented by their violent skirmish to launch her own offensive. For them, battles involving Punishers tended to finish as soon as they began, most of them usually narrowing down to two possible outcomes. The first, against regular people, resulted in their targets being overwhelmed by forces they couldn¡¯t see nor comprehend. On the other hand, those Accursed usually fell prey to an over-reliance on their spectral companions, power blinding them to more mundane threats like the one lead posed ¡ªdespite it being just as lethal to their frail flesh. So naturally, Koral¡¯s mind raced to exploit any potential weakness in Apollo¡¯s defense, born from the clashing Punishers that she now flanked. She lowered her center of gravity, muscles coiled like those of a jungle cat preparing to pounce. In fluid motions, she glided across the grimy floor in a vicious maneuver, seeking the perfect angle to deliver a decisive blow against her former mentor. The orders to keep him alive flickered distantly in the back of her mind, a distant echo drowned by the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. But as she raised her gun to strike, she found herself stared down by the barrel of Apollo¡¯s weapon ¡ªgolden eyes tracking her every movement with disturbing precision, as if he had predicted them from the very start. For a heartbeat, surprise flickered across Koral¡¯s face, presenting enough of a gap in her judgment for the old man to shoot first. Deafening inside the enclosed space, the thunderclap served as a prelude for pain to explode in her hand, a singular bullet ripping through flesh and bone in a surgical display of marksmanship. Three central fingers from her dominant hand were forcefully torn apart in a spray of blood, her weapon clattering to the floor as agony took the center stage of her mind. Blood poured from the ragged wounds, painting the concrete in crimson splatters. No matter how many times she had been hurt before, the searing agony still overwhelmed her senses, momentarily dimming her grasp on the situation. Koral¡¯s body reeled from the shock, forcing her to her knees as she clutched her mutilated hand. Yet through the haze of suffering she could still recognize Apollo¡¯s intent with bitter clarity ¡ªhe aimed to disarm her, to diminish the threat she posed, for any injury he inflicted now was but temporary. Hush would eventually knit her flesh and bone back together, though the teenager cursed herself for having to waste her second chances this carelessly. Hush¡¯s ability to rewind her wounds and manipulate objects wasn¡¯t limitless. Though her limits were uncertain, and growing with time and usage, they hinged on the size and mass of what needed to be restored or altered ¡ªa threshold she had been far from approaching during her previous encounters. Through training, she had learned to read the signs of overexertion, both in herself and her Punisher¡¯s demeanor. Pushing too far led to a disorientating nausea and a feeling of illness, while Hush grew increasingly savage in her protectiveness. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Experience had taught her that she wasn¡¯t as invincible and unfettered as she once thought herself to be. Yet her eyes still burned with fierce resolve, refusing to let the fight end this soon. As her mangled fingers began to regenerate, Koral scrambled for the fallen weapon with her uninjured hand. Apollo, however, had other plans in mind. Abruptly, she found her horizon suddenly encapsulated by the old man¡¯s towering height, closing the distance between them with frightening speed. His boot ground cruelly against her undamaged fingers, an ensuing kick sending her gun skittering into unreachable darkness. Koral¡¯s world narrowed to a pinpoint of agony as the old man readied himself for another assault, allowing her no quarter to recover ¡ªbut she wasn¡¯t alone. Though his reaction was the tardiest of the three, Kyros had finally shed his last vestiges of hesitation, following her charge into the fray with a crimson ensemble of Withdraw Aethyrs enveloping his left arm. The ethereal armor was launched to deliver a fierce fist on their former mentor, in an attempt to separate him from Koral and grant her a much-needed reprieve. As if their movements were telegraphed to him, Apollo reacted before the crimson hand was even close to his face. In one fluid motion, he kicked Koral¡¯s chest away, denying her any chance to capitalize on Kyros¡¯ intervention. Simultaneously, he pivoted to dodge the brunt of the Aethyrs¡¯ assault, sweeping the young man¡¯s feet from under him in the process. Before Kyros could fall, the old man coiled his sole arm around the hitman¡¯s naked one in a vice-like grip, resulting in a lock that threatened to dislocate the joint from its socket. The warehouse echoed with Kyros¡¯ pained gasp as Apollo applied a merciless amount of pressure, stepping over his neck to keep him on the ground. Koral, still reeling from the earlier hit, watched in frustration as their combined efforts ended so effortlessly challenged. It made for an agonizingly tense halt, with the teenager struggling to regain her footing as her body continued resenting the blow. Kyros could only use his reinforced arm to keep himself from complete collapse, and Apollo kept him half-suspended as his grip focused its pressure on the young man¡¯s wrist. Into this tense standstill, the old man seized the pause to continue his psychological warfare. ¡°Tell me¡­¡± Apollo broke the silence with a cold and measured voice. ¡°Why did you imprint only nine blue Aethyrs to this place?¡± His piercing gaze traced a path along Kyros¡¯ outstretched arm behind his back, analyzing every excruciating detail. ¡°I¡¯m noticing a disturbing lack of the tenth. For a moment, I thought you were laying down a trap.¡± >> ¡°Are you tracking another target? No, you don¡¯t have the brains to two-time like that.¡± The accusation was left to hang in the air for a handful, yet it wasn¡¯t enough time for Koral to pick up whatever he was trying to imply. ¡°Is it that you¡¯ve found someone you want to keep safe? I wouldn¡¯t be surprised, since you¡¯re a young one. Passionate and naive.¡± Koral felt her rage building to a fever pitch at the realization that Apollo was still comfortably toying with them, treating their life-or-death struggle as a casual opportunity to dissect their shortcomings and laugh. The world seemed to close in around her, unable to contain the murderous impulse screaming for release. Parrying and deflecting a final lunge from Recorder, Hush disengaged the eagle in a blur of motion just as Koral¡¯s fingers closed around a concealed knife at the side of her ankle. As one, Punisher and Accursed launched themselves at Apollo from opposite sides, a pincer attack both desperate and furious. Concomitantly, Kyros¡¯ armored right limb erupted in a violent explosion of red spikes ¡ªleaving Apollo in a conjoined three-way assault, each attack promising devastation. Forced to retreat from the crimson surge, Apollo avoided the forest of deadly needles narrowly. His sole arm shot out to capture one of Hush¡¯s ethereal blades, ducking the second by a hair¡¯s breadth. The spectral edge sliced a wound across his palm, though the old man showed no sign of pain. It was Koral¡¯s offensive that found its mark, pushing through uncompromised and undefended. Apollo couldn¡¯t do a thing as her knife plunged into his chest and stomach three times in rapid succession, only his long trench coat preventing her from finding a more immediately lethal target ¡ªor perhaps it was anger that made her strikes less precise than they could¡¯ve been. A pained grunt escaped the old man¡¯s lips, the first sign that he was actually human after all. With a shove of his shoulders, he forced Koral backwards once more, creating some distance as he stepped away. Blood trickled down his black shirt, though the dark liquid was more noticeable when contrasted against the fabric of his golden, baroque-patterned tie. She would¡¯ve smiled at him, just to underscore how much of a mistake it was to underestimate them as he had done, but the intensifying brightness in her peripheral vision stifled the gesture before it could fully form. Whether a trick of her mind or not, the air around her seemed to shimmer with preliminary heat waves caressing her face as Sunshine Recorder¡¯s spherical core rotated frenetically, gathering whatever power it retained. There was no need to receive a reminder of it, her heart immediately raced from the destructive potential of the eagle Punisher. For a split second, her mind flashed through an array of potential outcomes, each one more gruesome than the last ¡ªas she¡¯d be incapable of getting out of the way. Just as the blinding sun ray blasted forth, a crest of crimson spikes erupted from the ground before her, Kyros¡¯ Aethyrs manifesting in the nick of time to form a protective barrier against the scorching light. Sizzling warmth permeated the air, the heat energy palpable even behind the shield. Perhaps under daylight, the eagle¡¯s attack wouldn¡¯t have been so easily stopped. It would probably have shattered the wall had the fight taken place at a different hour, and turned her head to ash like all the other charred corpses throughout the warehouse. But Sunshine Recorder was at its weakest during the dead of night, with no natural sun to channel or redirect. The blasts he could perform under these conditions were barely one-third as destructive as they¡¯d be in its full, terrifying potential ¡ªand more importantly than that, limited. They held not only the numerical advantage, but a tactical one as well. It was just a matter of time before they emerged victorious, making any resistance just a pitiful display of stubbornness¡­ Yet as Koral¡¯s gaze steadied on her former mentor, she was struck by the unsettling serenity in his eyes. Nevermind his injuries, Apollo continued regarding his former pupils with an odd mixture of both pride and sorrow that she couldn¡¯t fully understand. ¡°Why?¡± Kyros raised his voice as returned to his feet, the red Aethyrs receding into tattoos along his left arm. ¡°What did you do to deserve this!?¡± Koral lamented not pursuing their advantage now that she was out of danger, but she held back, recognizing that it wouldn¡¯t be smart to risk alienating or angering Kyros by interrupting his question. If he needed answers, she guessed she could let him seek them ¡ªthough she doubted Apollo would offer anything satisfying. Hush returned to her side, ethereal blue hair writhing like agitated serpents in a mirror of Koral¡¯s restless impulses. The Punisher¡¯s attention remained focused on Recorder, wary of any reprisal of its previous attack ¡ªthe phantom mechanical eagle limiting itself on swirling back to Apollo. ¡°That¡¯s a spineless question I¡¯d expect from a rookie, not someone I personally trained.¡± Despite agreeing with the old man¡¯s condescension for once, Koral refused to simply rest on her laurels and circled his position with predatory intent. ¡°You should know better. This can only cloud your judgment further.¡± >> ¡°Perhaps, like you, I also cared once for people I shouldn¡¯t have. Dared to dream of a life away from the misery that follows me, free from the reach of the Cartel¡­¡± >> ¡°¡­ For someone else, if not for myself.¡± Was this a ploy to manipulate Kyros? Koral couldn¡¯t quite tell. The concept of maintaining a clean conscience felt like a distant joke, one they should have discarded long ago ¡ªyet here they were, playing the honor-bound martyrs. Cynicism aside, she respected the old man enough to dismiss his words as lies, nor did she believe he was trying to sway their allegiance. ¡°Focus on what¡¯s important.¡± Apollo pressed on, his eyes fixed on Kyros while irritatingly ignoring the danger she posed. ¡°I betrayed la Medula long ago. I¡¯d do it again, and as many times as it takes to ensure the truth remains buried.¡± >> ¡°What else is there to know?¡± No, Apollo wasn¡¯t trying to dissuade them. He was, in his own way, urging Kyros to come at him with everything he had. It was a perverse form of consideration, to try and goad the fool past his doubts. Fingers tightening around her bloodied knife, Koral¡¯s lips curled into a bitter smirk, thinking it to be absolutely ridiculous¡­ But if such words helped Kyros finally locate the balls he had lost, there wasn¡¯t much to complain about either. She noticed his brow furrowing at failing to contain a single tear, a moment of vulnerability Koral chose not to acknowledge, instead keeping her attention on the transformation that followed his now hardened expression. Withdraw Aethyrs erupted from Kyros¡¯ left arm, coalescing into a massive ethereal crossbow pulsing in angered crimson. The weapon, an intricate marvel of ethereal pieces, had an irregular surface spiraling with the malleable shape of the Punisher ¡ªand its double-edged serrated arrow that took form above his extended wrist, aimed squarely at Apollo¡¯s chest. ¡°If your goal is to take those secrets of yours to the grave, then I will honor those wishes.¡± Kyros declared, devoid of any ghost of hesitation as he drew back the spectral bowstring. ¡°I¡¯d prefer to give you a quick, painless death, but you won¡¯t make it that easy, will you?¡± ¡°Hah. Just a couple of years ago I was teaching you not to point your own gun at your face. Like you have what it takes to bring me down, you conceited brat.¡± The old man¡¯s derision brought a fresh surge of conflict within Koral, now painfully aware of his transparent attempts to keep provoking them¡­ But did it make any difference? Silently, she locked eyes with Kyros, their extensive combat experience together allowing her to convey her intentions without uttering a word. It would be reckless brutality. While Apollo braced for the Aethyrs¡¯ shot, Koral exploded into motion, rushing towards the old man with abandon and a knife in her hand. She sensed rather than see Kyros releasing his arrow, the large projectile the size of her arm flying dangerously to their shared position. Their target¡¯s eyes widened, caught in the sucker punch of two simultaneous threats rather than just one. Most likely by impulse rather than conscious effort, Sunshine Recorder reacted to her proximity first, its metallic wings slicing through the air at terrifying speed. She barely registered the acute, searing seconds of pain before shock dulled the sensation ¡ªthat of the eagle¡¯s sharp edges dicing through her neck until it dangled precariously on her shoulders, held only by stubborn muscle tissues and bone. Though the world spiraled rapidly out of focus, Koral¡¯s consciousness clung to lucidity in order to drink from this savage sentiment of triumph, offering the maddening sight of a smiling half-severed head. With Apollo twisting his body to evade the incoming arrow, it was the opportunity she needed for Hush to seize the opening. The Punisher continued the relentless advance that her human flesh couldn¡¯t, needle limbs scraping past the darting arrowhead before raking across the old man¡¯s body, tearing deep furrows into his flesh as he desperately stumbled backwards. Vision fading into black, Koral¡¯s last feelings were the warm liquid abundantly pouring down her wound, yet she refused to succumb completely to the embrace of darkness. Phantom pain inconsequential, she arrested her fall by forcefully slamming both hands onto the floor, lifting her ferocious blood-soaked gaze back to Apollo with a look of sheer savagery. She witnessed Recorder¡¯s fierce attempts to contain Hush, the crystal sphere nestled among its steel flesh rotating wildly as it gathered what power remained for another light beam. Its Accursed, however, was gasping against the ropes, collapsing to one knee as his hand clutched the gushing wounds that carved his torso, blood seeping between his fingers. But this round was still far from over. Unsure of when exactly her head had reattached itself, her eye regained full clarity just as Kyros joined the fray, his crossbow effortlessly reforming into a new shape mid-sprint. Hovering inches above his skin, Aethyrs¡¯ distinctive patterns etched themselves into the air as three vicious claws to further the pressure with. Without hesitation, he lunged at Apollo with the triplet blades, leaving the old man barely managing to evade their initial swipe. No matter how resilient he could be, pain and blood loss were beginning to take their toll, forcing him on the defensive from two different flanks ¡ªthe clashes between Recorder and Hush providing a discordant metallic cacophony to their brutal dance. Unwilling to be a mere spectator, Koral reached out with her mind to the arrow she touched earlier, dislodging it from the wall it had pierced to reverse its trajectory. From the sound of its removal, she noticed a flicker of recognition in the old man¡¯s eyes. This too, was something he anticipated. Even as he navigated Kyros¡¯ attacks through dodges and parries, Apollo was already tensing to dodge the returning Aethyr, something he was likely to achieve despite his dwindling stamina ¡ªat least if just launching it back were to be the full extent of her plans. As the arrow sped dangerously close to its mark, Koral distorted its velocity mid-flight and launched herself towards it with a fierce roar. Twisting her body in a fluid motion, she raised a leg to make the long square heel of her boot connect with the projectile¡¯s front edge, the desperate kick sending tremors through her bones. Though a hook in the Aethyr¡¯s structure lacerated her calf in the process, the pain only helped to fuel her savage determination, viciously accelerating the arrow beyond its original speed. Her moves were perfectly synchronized with Kyros, who moved precisely out of the way to allow the newly angled projectile a clear path, lancing viciously and uninterrupted towards Apollo. Perhaps hoping that she would have remained incapacitated longer, the old man¡¯s eyes widened in shock as he found himself unable to stop the massive Aethyr arrow now piercing his stomach, thrashing flesh and bone. Kyros capitalized ruthlessly in the opening, his claws flashing in a vicious upward arc that tore Apollo¡¯s shoulders, neck and face before sending him crashing into the unforgiving concrete. The warehouse soon fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the ragged gasps of their target, his clothes ravaged and soaked in blood. The hitmen duo allowed themselves a moment to catch their breath, watching as Sunshine Recorder hovered back protectively over its fallen Accursed. Its once-imposing metal wings were now faded, flickering uncertainly like a faltering candle. Koral found it astonishing that he wasn¡¯t outright dead yet¡­ But with this, he should finally be as good as finished. Or at least so she thought before the fucker¡¯s hand rose again to find purchase on Recorder¡¯s metallic structure. With agonizing slowness, the old man pulled himself upright, his lower lip a mangled mess with a gash extending grotesquely up to his ear¡­ Yet somehow, impossibly, a smile was playing across his ruined features. Was it bullheaded pride or sheer willpower that kept him clinging this tenaciously to life? ¡°I wanted¡­¡± Apollo¡¯s voice emerged as a coarse, breathless rasp, thickened by his extended suffering. ¡°¡­ To avoid this.¡± He swayed back to his feet, supporting his weight on a hovering Recorder that gradually began to regain its shine. ¡°Not just because of the lack of control¡­ But also the cost.¡± Her eye darted back to Kyros, seeking confirmation that she wasn¡¯t alone in her growing unease. Their task was technically fulfilled, but somehow she doubted her partner would be satisfied slinking away now. Besides¡­ The very words he spoke seemed to carry an invisible weight that made the air itself feel heavier. Was she getting so scared she couldn¡¯t run anymore? No, it couldn¡¯t be that. ¡°Years¡­¡± His voice sounded delirious, and when paired with his unfocused gaze it gave him a very disturbing presence. It was like he had aged drastically over the course of minutes. ¡°Took me years to stockpile this much¡­ I was saving it for bigger fish.¡± >> ¡°And now¡­¡± He trailed off, a mirthless chuckle escaping his mutilated lips. ¡°I guess I¡¯m going to die if I don¡¯t use it.¡± With each passing second, the atmosphere in the warehouse grew heavier, enough so that its oppressiveness couldn¡¯t be blamed on fright and tension alone. Koral felt sweat beading on her brow, and not just out of anxiousness and exertion ¡ªthere was a very real heat wave suffocating the closed walls, warm gales making her long hair dance as Recorder¡¯s earthy steel tones began to redden ominously. ¡°You should know, the heat that Sunshine Recorder devours¡­ It doesn¡¯t simply vanish with the setting sun. It waits. It builds.¡± With a sigh, Apollo¡¯s voice began to straighten, his former authority creeping back in. ¡°And required sacrifices to tap into its stored power.¡± Though it was difficult to keep a straight gaze as Recorder¡¯s incandescence continued the escalate, the metal plates that comprised its body seemed to liquefy and reform under such blazing hot extremity. The azure glow of the Aethyrs paled against a far more intense orange, shadows dancing wildly as the Punisher unfurled its wings in an untouchable radiance. Koral felt her skin prickling uncomfortably, unable to contain her eyes from darting erratically through warehouse, watching as layers of plastic covering contraband goods began to shrink and melt. The very air before her crackled with barely contained energy, distorting her vision like a mirage in the desert. ¡°If you value your lives¡­¡± Apollo¡¯s voice cut through the rising din, his posture straightening as a complex expression was held by his deep yellow eyes. Was that worry? For them? ¡°¡­ I suggest you run now.¡± The finality in his tone sent ice through Koral¡¯s veins, clashing with the mounting temperature of their makeshift battleground. This wasn¡¯t a bluff, nor the delusions of a dying man. This was a power beyond anything she had ever witnessed ¡ªand it was about to be unleashed upon their shoulders. Killing Moon -End- At first it was barely a fireball, though its center burned with such an intense white that she felt her irises being seared at sight alone. She had to half-cover her eyes with the back of her hand, struggling to maintain her gaze on the phenomenon. Through squinted lids, she was sure to have witnessed it, the orb at Sunshine Recorder¡¯s core splitting open like a blooming crystal flower. Terrifyingly quickly, the nascent spark exploded into a miniature star. The warehouse was bathed in searing light as waves of heat rolled outward, swallowing Apollo¡¯s figure under its expanding inferno ¡ªimpassive and impervious to the raging heat consuming everything in its path. One by one, the metal shelves nearest to the growing blaze twisted and warped, their structures buckling before being consumed by the ravenous fires. She couldn¡¯t help but stumble backwards, her eyes watering from the intense splendor and her lungs burning with each agitated breath. Even the sweat that poured down her face evaporated almost instantly once it touched the scorching floor. Crates not even directly next in the inferno¡¯s wake burst into flame, their contents adding fuel to the growing conflagration and leaving Koral in stunned disbelief. The concrete walls of the warehouse glowed an angry red, small fissures appearing as the extreme heat caused the material to expand and crack. The ceiling, a mix of corrugated metal and insulation, fared far worse, with its panels warping and peeling away ¡ªraining molten debris onto the firestorm below. Koral frantically searched for any way to counter this overwhelming display of power, finding herself at a complete loss as the miniature sun continued to expand, pushing inexorably towards them. Her abilities, her training, even her indomitable will ¡ªnone of them mattered in the face of this apocalyptic advance that now dwarfed them in size. How could they possibly hope to survive this? Could she even regenerate her flesh if this thing were to reach her? The instinct to flee clawed at her mind, prevailing over any other thought. Let the old man have his win. Bitter as it was, surrender seemed a far less severe conclusion than sacrificing all of her ambitions in a foolish death. They had done their best; this was their limit. But just as she prepared herself to run away, a rustle of fabric drew her attention back to Kyros. He had discarded his shirt and closed his, deeply inhaling and exhaling as if preparing for something. His scarred chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm, a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding them. ¡°Have you lost your fucking mind!?¡± Koral hissed, incredulous. While she wasn¡¯t privy to whatever kind of insanity Kyros was up to, facing this ever-growing monstrosity head-on was suicide. The three crescent-shaped scars on his torso were now in full display, though this time they pulsed ominously, seeping a menacing black haze ¡ªlike a dark miasma painfully seeking its way from beneath his flesh. ¡°Contain it¡± Came the irresponsible words from the hitman, his muscles tensing as two of the Stone Aethyrs began to distort from their usual inactivity. ¡°I only need you to buy me some time.¡± >> ¡°I¡¯m not about to let things end this way.¡± The heat continued to escalate with each wasted second, making her throat feel like sandpaper as she struggled to form a response. ¡°That¡¯s easy to say, you braindead piece of shit!¡± She eventually spat, trembling at the mere suggestion of not throwing in the towel yet. ¡°That thing is too fucking huge! I can¡¯t!¡± Her voice cracked, fear and frustration transparently exposed. ¡°What happens once your half-baked plan goes up in smoke alongside us!?¡± Kyros grunted in agony, falling to his knees as two of the Stone Aethyrs ruptured from his flesh, slowly revealing their true shape ¡ªeyes. One half-lidded, the other fully open, both pulsed with an otherworldly energy that made Koral''s skin crawl. ¡°I¡¯m counting on you, Koral. I know you won¡¯t let me down.¡± The black glyphs were a nightmarish sight ¡ªjagged slits that drank from the light around them, and veins of dark energy webbing across their surface like cracks in ancient stone. They twitched and rolled independent of each other, of Kyros¡¯ own heartbeat¡­ Yes, they were indeed very much alive, just like any other Punisher¡­ Had they only been asleep this whole time? Not like she had the time to study them in detail. ¡°Kyros, goddammit!¡± She chided, desperately trying to make him see reason, but it was clear that he wasn¡¯t listening anymore. ¡°I¡­ I can¡¯t believe this!¡± >> ¡°F¡ª¡­ Fuck!¡± Resigned to their shared madness, Koral turned herself to face the miniature sun. Its searing light forced her eyes to squint, the shimmering air distorting everything ahead. With a thought, she commanded Hush to take position in front of her, the Punisher¡¯s flowing blue hair making the intense heat look even more like a disorientating daydream. This was it¡­ They were about to die ¡ªa fate she chose every time over abandoning her brother. Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as she steeled herself for what was to come. If this was to be her end, she¡¯d go down fighting tooth and nail until the last breath. Inferno roared towards her, an insurmountable force of nature¡­ Yet Koral stood her ground, Hush¡¯s ghostly form her last bastion against the approaching reckoning. The warehouse air thickened like a furnace, making Koral¡¯s lungs burn with each breath. Her throat constricted painfully as she gulped, still in disbelief at attempting this insane gambit. But there was no turning back now. With a thought, she extended Hush¡¯s blade forward, every nerve in her body tensing as she braced for the inevitable contact. There was a small mercy in the fact that there were no shared senses between Accursed and Punisher. A streak of darkness caught her eye ¡ªthe Aethyr eyes shooting past her like macabre comets. They plunged seamlessly into the miniature sun, swallowed by its incandescent photosphere without a trace. Behind her, she heard the dull thud of Kyros¡¯ body hitting the floor, like a puppet with its strings abruptly cut. Whatever arcane process was unfolding with the Stone glyphs was beyond her comprehension, and frankly, she had more pressing concerns demanding the attention of her pretty little head. Not being vaporized in the next few seconds, for example. She had to mentally resist against Hush¡¯s impulse to retreat, forcing her instead to stretch an arm forward, forming a needle-sharp point to pierce the blazing orb with. The instant in which touch was achieved, Koral reached fiercely within herself, summoning every ounce of her power to manipulate time. Her intention was to force Recorder¡¯s attack backwards, to rewind its very existence¡­ But its sheer density and mass proved overwhelming. Instead of reversing its course, all she managed was to slow its insuppressible advance ¡ªand even that felt like trying to hold back an avalanche with her bare hands. Each passing moment felt like living death over and over. Hush¡¯s blade, once unyielding as forged steel, began to warp and bend under the relentless heat. The strain on Koral surpassed anything she¡¯d ever experienced, pushing far beyond what she thought possible. Vertigo slammed into her like a real blow, threatening to buckle her knees. Hot liquid poured from her nose in a steady stream ¡ªthe nosebleed evaporating instantly under the searing air, leaving caked red stains on her skin. Desperately, she commanded Hush to raise her second arm, trying to better contain the sun¡¯s fury. Every cell in her body screamed for relief, but she couldn¡¯t falter ¡ªnot now. Silently, she pleaded for Kyros to hurry up with whatever mad scheme he had set in motion. An ear-piercing scream shattered the inferno¡¯s howl ¡ªKyros, his voice raw with agony almost ruining Koral¡¯s concentration. She almost faltered, her control wavering for a heart-stopping millisecond. Before she could process what was happening to him, another horrifying cry joined the first ¡ªunmistakably Apollo¡¯s, emanating from within the red orb. The dueling voices created a hellish chorus as the ground itself began to quake beneath her feet. Movements growing erratic, the start¡¯s previously unimpeded growth gave to unstable, pulsing surges. She tried to capitalize on this shift by redoubling her efforts, but she still found herself being pushed back. Both of Hush¡¯s arms had been reduced to little more than melting streams of ethereal essence, liquefying under the smoldering onslaught. Her world had narrowed to a singular, all-consuming focus ¡ªHold the line and survive. Each second was a battle unto itself, each minute a war. The warehouse¡¯s structure groaned ominously, a sound that only heralded disaster. With growing dread, she realized that even if Kyros somehow managed to dispel the miniature sun, the building itself would soon become another deadly threat. The very walls that contained their battle were now crumbling, weakened beyond their breaking point; and above them, the roof sagged dangerously, promising to rain fiery demise upon them at any moment. As if responding to her fears, the blazing orb began to lose cohesion. Its previously perfect spherical shape distorted, tendrils of flame lashing out in chaotic patterns like the tentacles of a dying creature. Koral reached out to Hush with her mind, commanding her Punisher to form a protective barrier for her and Kyros. The ethereal hair, once flowing like liquid starlight, now spread inwards like a ghostly canopy, containing the raging flames racing around them in a devastating firestorm. It was an absolute nightmare. The searing heat was enough to make her consciousness flicker, and only raw adrenaline kept her from fainting. As flaming debris fell from the rooftop, choking black smoke billowed through the warehouse, carrying with it an acrid cocktail of scents. Burnt plastic, scorched metal, and beneath it all¡­ The sickening stench of calcined flesh ¡ªthe bodies that had been there lifeless from the start now reduced down to their bones. Kyros lay motionless on the ground beneath her and Hush, shielded by her efforts but showing no sign of regaining consciousness, though his previously released Add Aethyrs were returning to him after the items he had imbued them in ended up destroyed. A small part of her mind clung to hope by composing the blistering scolding she¡¯d unleash on him once he woke up. Even this hellscape would pale in comparison to her fury. With the fires gradually begin to settle, she took in ragged, painful intakes of air before peering through the gaps in Hush¡¯s protective veil. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Sunshine Recorder was nowhere to be seen, its absence as startling as the devastation that surrounded her once she stepped out. This horrible place was now a charred and smoking ruin. The air hung thick with ash and the lingering smell of burnt ozone, making each breath a painful struggle ¡ªthough she wasn¡¯t sure if to blame it on the toxic atmosphere, or if instead her lungs had sustained damage she no longer had the strength to heal. Her eyes traveled all the way towards the epicenter of the destruction, where Apollo remained kneeling. Blood was seeping from his eyes like crimson tears, staining her ravaged countenance, and two crescent shapes were branded deep into his neck and face ¡ªstill glowing with residual vitality. A spasm coming from him halted Koral in her tracks. Despite everything¡­ The old man was not only alive but still conscious ¡ªthough his eyes trembled neurotically, unfocused and haunted. He looked as if he had just traversed the very depths of hell and returned, his mind shattered by whatever had transpired within the voracious star. The eerie ambiance of crackling flames and the sporadic groaning of the collapsing structure was suddenly pierced by a new noise. Her attention snapped away from Apollo as the sound of men shouting and tools screeching against metal reached her ears. The warehouse entrance, apparently sealed shut after melting, was now being assaulted from the outside ¡ªundoubtedly by cartel members insistently trying to force their way in. Her official task returned to her mind with sharp clarity. The Medula scum, who had earlier cowered from engaging Apollo, were now more than eager to seize in his weakened state. He¡¯d be an easy target, barely managing to breathe with his mind trapped in some unspeakable horror beyond description. Complex emotions that she didn¡¯t appreciate surged through her chest, leaving her conflicted. She was supposed to be unsparing and pitiless; Apollo¡¯s fate shouldn¡¯t have mattered to her even one tiny bit. Yet¡­ as she looked at him now, this frail and broken, skeletons of emotion she thought flawlessly buried crawled their way to the surface. Her gaze locked onto his terrified expression once more, allowing a blur across the lines between teacher and student, assassin and target. How many times had she resented him for wearing faces she couldn¡¯t decipher? And there she was, probably mirroring those very inscrutable masks of him. Ironically, she had ignored such warnings many times before, thinking herself above sentimentality. At that moment, Koral felt she understood him a little better, realizing that things were rarely as black and white as she¡¯d liked them to be. Tonight, Apollo made a fierce and clear stand. He had chosen to protect something more precious to him than his own life ¡ªwilling himself to risk death rather than giving away whatever secrets he held. Despite knowing it was ill-conceived, Koral couldn¡¯t suppress a conflicted empathy that demanded her intervention. After all, she too had suffered an irreplaceable loss before. What right did anyone have to try and taint such conviction? Before anyone could breach and witness what was about to unfold, Koral sent her Punisher gliding towards Apollo. Hush¡¯s once-fluid movements now carried the weight of their shared ordeal, and both her arms had melted away, unlikely to reform any time soon. It meant they¡¯d have to rely on the needle edges of her feet ¡ªgrimly scraping the floor as the spectral maiden gradually gained speed. She had the mercy to make the strike a swift one. Like a sentence being carried out, Hush¡¯s foot punctured through Apollo¡¯s chest with the unerring precision of a practiced executioner. With his heart pierced, he was robbed of a breathless gasp, trembling hands rising to meet the spectral weapon protruding from his torso. His eyes, previously lost in an unclear nightmare, sharpened with terrifying clarity in the face of impending demise. Yet where many would have contorted and cried out in agony, Apollo instead exhaled with the solemnity of one who had made peace with his end ¡ªthe dulled gold ringed with blood of his gaze meeting Koral¡¯s one final time. Though distance separated them and no words could be spoken, for a fleeting moment, she was certain she saw the ghost of a smile touch his lips, accompanied by a slight nod. Acknowledgment. Perhaps even approval. It was a gesture she found herself unable to return, her own emotions too tangled to ever hope to unravel. As life ebbed away, Aethyrs dissipating to blemish his face no longer, unbidden memories resurfaced. His voice, stern yet irresponsibly paternal, echoing from a past that suddenly felt impossibly distant. ¡®Don¡¯t get so angry. It was a good job, you both won.¡¯ The realization that no one would ever hear his reprimanding voice again struck her with the unexpected force of a tidal wave. In this ruined, godforsaken tomb, with the sounds of imminent intrusion growing ever louder, Koral bore witness to the fall of the man who had forged and tempered her blade. His passing brought her no triumph, no catharsis ¡ªonly a hollow ache where satisfaction should¡¯ve bloomed. Despite emerging as the victors, Koral couldn¡¯t shake the nagging suspicion that the old man had somehow outplayed them all, even in death. As if some part of him, conscious or not, had already choreographed this resolution from the start. But so what if it was? Whether taking his life could be seen as a twisted graduation gift or not, it did feel like a repayment for a debt long-overdue. The ledger was now cleared, both for the tutelage and the sins. With a grimace, she turned her attention to Kyros¡¯ unconscious form. Overlooking the fatigue that wracked her body, she hooked her arm under his shoulders and hauled him upright ¡ªthe dead weight threatening to topple them both. The groaning of stressed iron began to echo through the warehouse, signaling that their time had finally run out. As the door finally crashed down with a thunderous boom, Koral began her oh-so-graceful retreat, looking like she¡¯d just lost a fight against a chimney sweep. Though she didn¡¯t look particularly battered or bloody, each step remained a battle against exhaustion and the burden of her companion ¡ªnot to mention the indignity of having to present herself with burnt eyebrows and grimy stains marring her skin. A tragedy, indeed. She could hear the bellowing and curses of her fellow Medula goons as they poured into the smoldering ruin, more concerned with containing the fires and claiming their prize, rather than bothering with the two worn teenagers limping away. Their disgusting laughter soon gave way to confused shouts and angry expletives, making her try and fail to contain a smirk. Seemed like Christmas came early for the vultures, and all they got was a lump of very dead coal. ¡°Damn it all to hell!¡± Milo¡¯s voice cut through the chaos like a petulant child¡¯s wine at a funeral. He swooped in beside Koral once she finished dumping Kyros body in the backseat of Mauro¡¯s car, his eyes darting between them and the commotion still raging behind. ¡°With this, we¡¯ll never know where the saint hid the kid.¡± >> ¡°La Flor is gonna chew me out so badly for this¡­¡± He added running a hand over his bald head, agitation clear in every movement. Koral had to bite her tongue not to say ¡®serves you right¡¯, yet her mind still raced at the blabbermouthed man¡¯s implications. So that¡¯s what Apollo had been protecting? A child? Interesting. The thought of interrogating Milo was tempting. After all, he seemed to have absolutely no ability to withhold information¡­ However, she found herself oddly at peace with her ignorance. Without knowledge, there was nothing for the hounds to extract from her. And that kid could keep the peaceful life their imbecilic old man had paved for them with his blood. ¡°Listen, I¡¯m not gonna take the fall alone!¡± Nadaletti continued, his voice rising in pitch as panic set in, though she was well beyond it by that point. She simply tuned him out, more focused on arranging Kyros so he wouldn¡¯t choke on his own drool before asking Mauro the favor of taking him away. ¡°I had a promotion waiting for me in this gig succeeded.¡± >> ¡°Now I might never get it!¡± At some point during his tirade, Don¡¯t Go had materialized over Milo¡¯s shoulders. Without hesitation, the chain fingers of the horrid and small Punisher extended like whips, constricting around Koral¡¯s neck like the world¡¯s least fun necklace. ¡°Tell me all you know about Solano¡¯s daughter.¡± Milo¡¯s voice dropped low, a far cry from his usual smarmy tone. This certainly seemed very important to him, enough to risk offending someone as dangerous as she was ¡ªthough she¡¯d have to wait for a good long rest to extend him her gratitude. ¡°Spare me no detail.¡± >> ¡°Anything that he could¡¯ve said during the course of the fight or your training under him.¡± For now, Koral simply ignored the constraints around her neck and looked at him dead in the eye, as serious as she could be. Unyielding as Apollo. ¡°I don¡¯t know anything about any kid.¡± She stated, her voice a monotone that brooked no argument. There was some odd satisfaction in this, in knowing that in the face of his ultimate defeat, she had inadvertently granted her mentor this small, final victory against their owners. The secret he guarded would die with him, beyond the reach of whatever Valerica¡¯s ambition was. ¡°And neither does Kyros.¡± >> ¡°We fought for our lives in there. There wasn¡¯t room for questions or teatime chats. You can see what¡¯s left of the place for yourself if you¡¯re so curious.¡± Milo opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with a glare that promised violence if he pressed the issue. Exhausted as she was, she was more than ready to go another round if this clown insisted on pushing his luck. The tension between them two stretched for a couple more seconds, a silent battle of wills that Milo, for all his desperation, was ill-equipped to win. Don¡¯t Go finally dissolved into nothingness once Nadaletti relented, his incessant rambling fading into the background noise of the desert. Koral¡¯s attention quickly drifted away, his words becoming as meaningless as the whispers of arid dirt shifting in the wind. Scoffing dismissively at the guy, she waited in her position for another moment until Mauro¡¯s car receded into the distant darkness, biding her silent farewell to an unconscious branded fool she hoped to not see in a while ¡ªalready dreading whatever discussion could go down if they were to reunite again. And her? Well, she had a pending visit to pay before she could hitch a ride back to whichever soulless safe house awaited her at the end of the night. The full moon hung high and distant in the smoke-stained sky, as indifferent to the men scurrying below as they were ignorant of its cold beauty. Koral¡¯s uncaring eye brushed off their faceless masses, their frantic activities holding no more meaning to her than ants toiling around a trampled hill. Silently, she extricated herself from the tumult, her feet carrying her by muscle memory toward a spot etched into her soul with cruel permanence. The utilitarian marking of her sister¡¯s grave stood pitifully against the barren earth, a crude monument to a life severed far too young. Years ago, her weak hands had fashioned this makeshift tomb, and now she lowered herself before as she had done so many times since. There was some poetry to it. This desolate patch of desert had now claimed the two different lights who had guided her path ¡ªKirana, whose radiant warmth had sustained her, and Apollo, whose searing lessons had forged her into a weapon. Two suns now extinguished and replaced by a pale, cold penumbra. Koral knew, with a certainty that settled in her bones like lead, that she could never hope to emulate either of them. Where they had shone with brilliant purpose, she felt more akin to the moon above ¡ªa distant reflection of a light not her own, forever tethered to the darkness that surrounded her. She was the negative image, the shadow self of a wholeness that no longer existed. A frigid breeze swept across the nocturnal desert, cutting through her ill-fitted attire and chilling her to the core¡­ Yet Koral welcomed the discomfort, finding a perverse peace in the biting cold. It seemed fitting that she should feel most at ease here, alone under the vast, unfettered sky; enveloped by a blackness as deep and unforgiving as the corruption that had taken hold of her heart. Deep down she was aware that speaking to the dead was an exercise in futility. Kirana was long gone, and only her withering corpse remained buried under the unforgiving soil. But still, Koral found herself drawn to this place, the makeshift tomb marker serving as a tangible reminder that her sister had once been. That the love and light she remembered wasn¡¯t some fever dream conjured by a desperate mind. More than that, it was a constant, gnawing echo of a grudge still left unsolved. As her fingers traced the rough edges of a crude cross, she reaffirmed the vow that kept her alive through countless dark nights and blood-soaked days. One day, she would extract payment for all of this. The entire world ¡ªcorrupt, cruel and rotten, would be forced to reckon with the consequences of snuffing out a light as pure as her sister¡¯s. For in her chest, she felt a flame still burning. Not the nurturing glow of Kirana, nor the purifying blaze of Apollo, but a cold fire of her own making. It was a light meant to dwell in the shadows, born in loss and rage¡­ ¡­ But it was hers alone. Punishment VI: Eden Ruin PUNISHMENT VI EDEN RUIN ¡°You¡¯ve been to that place, haven¡¯t you?¡± Shadows danced across the surreal paintings and sculptures of the gallery as the words slithered through the dim lighting, only to coil around Miles Seagrave¡¯s spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, breath catching in his throat as an unfamiliar tone seeped a chill into his very marrow. ¡°Where? Was it in dreams? Or perhaps in the void reflections hidden within mirrors, once all lights fade to black.¡± To recoil was the first thing his instincts screamed for. To seek refuge into remote corners of the sanctuary he had meticulously crafted ¡ªany place far away from this stranger. Miles¡¯ feet, however, remained rooted as if the words had sewn him to the spot. The voice, almost friendly yet disjointed at its core, simply carried on with an unsettling undercurrent of delirium. ¡°You¡¯re just like me. I¡¯ve seen it too.¡± Turning in a daze, the artist found himself face-to-face with a paradoxical man, his figure partly obscured by the sickly illumination surrounding them¡­ And a far more menacing presence that flickered by the edges of Miles¡¯ perception. His weathered face, all sharp angles and deep furrows ¡ªperhaps by undernourishment or insomnia; peered at him from behind impenetrable black glasses. Slicked-back hair curled around his upper neck to frame a stern yet empty expression, erratically broken by twitches and spasms in an unnerving dance between control and compulsion. ¡°There¡¯s no reason to hide it, I can tell.¡± The stranger continued, his raspy and deep voice tinged with an eerie wistfulness as he stepped away to survey the art exhibits around them. ¡°These pictures¡­ These sculptures¡­¡± >> ¡°¡­ How deep have you gone, one wonders.¡± Miles¡¯ ailing heart felt a surge of concern as his gaze was drawn to the man¡¯s battered fingers. They gripped a small chisel firmly, its edge now whispering against the surface of a nearby sculpture. The artist tried to voice his fright, a scream building under quivering lips yet refusing to come out. ¡°It¡¯s beautiful.¡± The man in glasses murmured, his mouth curling into a faint, ghoulish smile. His gaze swept across the gallery, drinking in the nightmarish forms that Miles had painstakingly brought to life. ¡°Such masterful work.¡± His praise, rather than soothing, sent tremors of dread coursing through Miles'' veins. For in that voice the artist heard an echo of something ancient and terrible ¡ªa recognition to make his stomach turn. The gallery itself was an expansive cathedral standing as monument to decayed and necrotic flesh. Walls blended seamlessly into the exhibition, boundaries between architecture and art dissolving like tissue under gastric acid. Concealed speakers pulsed with a rhythmic dripping, creating an auditory backdrop of quiet malevolence that lured closer those who glanced in. Encircling his paintings, odes to strange worlds and alien creatures, were elongated structures that defied easy categorization. Some were covered in bristles, others smooth and swollen, resembling microscopic growths of fauna magnified to monstrous proportions. Impasto layers of oil to delicate airbrushes and luminescent pigments ¡ªthe texture of ethereal turned organic was like an all-devouring maw. To move through the exhibition was realizing that in such a place the boundaries of art merged with those of nature. Cilia and flagella, once invisible to the naked eye, were now inverted into the realm of the visible. In such abhorrent inversion, sheer beauty grew darker, both fascinating and repulsive in equal measure. Nothing conveyed such complexity better than the centerpiece sculpture dominating the space ¡ªa towering structure akin to a morbid neuron. Its thick trunk glistened as though covered in a thin sheen of sweat, branches splaying out in all directions, delicate yet precise like the dendrites of a nightmarish deceased brain. Tendrils extended outward, fanning into the ceiling and well beyond in an illusion of cellular structure. Lights held within almost charged the darkened air around their domain, as if the very exhibit could spark to life at any given moment. ¡°How can I not be nostalgic¡­¡± >> ¡°When it feels so close to home.¡± Miles felt a shiver of dread run down his spine, the weight of the stranger''s gaze bearing down on him once again. There was something eerily familiar about the man''s words, as if he understood the tormented recesses of his psyche ¡ªthe nightmares and visions that had become his driving obsession for years, the very fuel and foundations of his artistic career. He was terrified of this intruder, of the implications of his presence¡­ Yet a traitorous part of his heart couldn¡¯t help but flutter at this seemingly knowing appraisal. So many hours, days, weeks and months morphing nightmares into canvas and sculpture¡­ And here was a nether dweller validating his efforts. One could say that the notion of an artist being approached by an admirer during an exhibition wasn¡¯t exactly a ground-breaking event. The issue, of course, was that this display was yet to be open to the public. ¡°L¡­ Listen. You shouldn¡¯t be here.¡± Despite holding the higher ground of authority, Miles¡¯ voice came out as a pitiful whimper. Conversations with strangers had always been difficult for him ¡ªlet alone confrontations. The fact that this intruder was very openly armed only amplified his anxiety. ¡°If you could please leave, before there¡¯s any trouble¡­¡± ¡°There are no means for escaping her.¡± The stranger ignored his plea, growing increasingly deranged with every word. ¡°Her world seeps into your very being. Infiltrates your dreams. Traps you in her labyrinth.¡± >> ¡°An existence where time and space are crippled, where eternity stretches before you and mortal barriers are eclipsed by her garden divine.¡± This here was a lunatic. There wasn¡¯t any other definition to describe him with. Calling security should¡¯ve been Miles¡¯ first and foremost response¡­ But even at that point, his voice and feet refused to obey him. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. ¡°Surely you must understand, since we¡¯re kindred spirits.¡± The intruder¡¯s cadence was erratic, speeding and slowing, rising and falling with unpredictable intensity. ¡°Your lifework should be more than just art.¡± >> ¡°It¡¯s a beacon, a call for something greater.¡± And yet, moments of elusive lucidity pierced through his ramblings, blurring the line between conspiratorial whispers and sheer madness. ¡°I keep trying to weaken the veil, but there¡¯s still so much to be done¡­¡± >> ¡°So help me. Let¡¯s bring Utopia to this decadent reality.¡± ¡°Stop!¡± Miles suddenly shouted, his voice echoing through the cavernous halls. The outburst surprised even himself, born from a desperate need to halt the intruder¡¯s incessant, nonsensical rambling. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about or how you got in here, but I¡¯ve had enough!¡± His hands clenched into fists at his sides, a tide of protective anger overriding his natural meekness. ¡°Get out now!¡± >> ¡°Or I swear I¡¯ll have you beaten and thrown to the streets!¡± His voice cracked as he added. The stranger¡¯s lips snapped shut, his monologue abruptly halted. A soft click of disappointment escaped him, followed by a heavy silence that stretched tensely under his dwindling enthusiasm. ¡°Oh. So¡­ You haven¡¯t¡­¡± He finally began to murmur, brow furrowed in confusion beneath his dark sunglasses. ¡°But then, all of this¡­ What does it¡­¡± His voice trailed off, the gears in his mind visibly turning as he struggled to reconcile Miles¡¯ art with his apparent ignorance ¡ªat least until realization dawned once more in his face, twisting it in delight. ¡°You don¡¯t know it yourself, do you¡­¡± A slow, insidious smile spread across his features, revealing darkened yellow teeth. ¡°Well, no matter.¡± >> ¡°It at least must mean that you¡¯re attuned to the abyss.¡± Seemingly unperturbed by Miles¡¯ earlier outcry, the man simply sighed, calm beyond belief against his threat that now rang hollow. ¡°W¡­ Why aren¡¯t you leaving¡­¡± The artist stammered, his bravado evaporating as rapidly as it had erupted. ¡°Perhaps all that you need is one small, final push.¡± The intruder resumed, his presence growing more oppressive and malignant even as he remained motionless. Miles felt his throat constrict, unable to articulate any further sentence as an unseen force breathed down his neck. It was a sensation he was familiar with during his hallucinations, but never to such a terrifying degree in the waking world. ¡°That¡¯s okay, Seagrave¡­¡± >> ¡°I can do that for you.¡± The whispers dropped to a guttural whisper, coated with dark promise. ¡°A¡­ Are you deaf? Stupid?¡± Miles sputtered, pushing himself to shout yet failing, words stumbling out more as a result of raw panic than any genuine courage. ¡°I¡¯m not afraid of you. Don¡¯t you dare think I¡ª¡± Interrupting his lackluster diatribe, the stranger slowly raised his sunglasses, allowing their gazes to meet directly for the first time. Miles found himself unable to look away from his eyes, two windows into a pitch-black emptiness, devoid of any life or warmth. Yet deep within those dark pupils, a subtle, unavoidable madness swirled ¡ªa spiraling mass of both turbulence and tranquility that ensnared the artist despite his terror. The man¡¯s lips kept their motions as their lines of sight intertwined, but at some point or another his words bypassed Miles¡¯ ears to stream directly into his mind like a virulent toxin. It was no mere omen, no simple warning. It was a proclamation of impending demise, both for him and everything he could ever hold dear. Bending to some unseen force, the world around Miles began to shift and warp. The gallery itself seemed to throb sickeningly, pulsing in harmony with the thundering of his own heartbeat. Or was it only his head that was pounding? His vision blurred and distorted, reality¡¯s edges melting like wax under an open fire. The floor beneath his feet lost all solidity, alternating between sinking into the unseen and floating weightlessly into the void. Any semblance of equilibrium was shattered, leaving Miles adrift in a sea of unfolding divinity. Through the haze of his fraying senses, the painter could still make out the figure of the stranger, standing like a calm eye in the center of a storm of chaos. The once-static sculptures around them writhed and undulated, originally lifeless flagella now pulsing with unrivaled vitality. And despite it all the intruder remained unchanged ¡ªas if this hellscape were as natural to him as breathing. Miles still didn¡¯t know this man¡¯s identity, yet it felt irrelevant. This was a being who needed no name, simply stepping out of the canvas of his subconscious to assault him directly. Creator and creation, tormentor and guide. An embodiment of terrors, the essence of delusions given flesh. Now presenting himself to sink Miles into a realm of insanity from which there was no return. ¡°Miles! For God¡¯s sake, answer me!¡± The stridency of Shelley¡¯s voice abruptly snapped his world back into focus, anchored by the hand grasping his shoulder, shaking him firmly. The twisted visions that had consumed his mind mere seconds ago receded like a tide as the gallery stabilized, leaving him disoriented and shaken. ¡°What happened to you?¡± His wife¡¯s expression furrowed with concern as she searched his face, taking in his pale complexion and his narrow, trembling eyes. ¡°Opening hour will be any minute from now¡­¡± >> ¡°If you need¡ª¡± Seeking any trace of the intruder, Miles¡¯ gaze frantically darted around the rooms. Yet the gallery stood silent, no traces of his existence to ever be found, sculptures motionless sentinels to his private horror. The cold sweat clinging to his skin prickled beneath his clothes, a clammy reminder of the terror that had felt so viscerally real. Nausea crashed over him like waves against a storm-battered shore, his stomach roiling in protest as the full impact of the experience hit him. He had to clamp a hand over his mouth just to desperately fight back the urge to vomit right then and there. Without a word, he tore himself from Shelley and fled, nerves screaming to build some distance between himself and any lingering echo of that encounter ¡ªthe where didn¡¯t matter, as long as it was away from the art gallery. But that wouldn''t be enough to calm his fears. Not this time. Sanity corroded by paranoia or not, Miles refused to become an easy target for the man in glasses'' prophecies or threats. Even if he considered himself a subpar husband and a failure of a father, he still had the safety of his family to look after ¡ªa boy only four years old. If he had to run and hide, then so be it. Anything to eradicate the possibility of ever encountering the intruder again. He allowed other people to handle any scheduled exhibitions left, abandoned their home for a shelter of his own design, far away from the city. Every window of his new villa was to be reinforced, every door a barrier. Security systems hummed with constant vigilance under his underground safety room ¡ªevery measurable available to him that didn¡¯t involve the hiring of personnel, unable to trust anyone but himself for such a task. In the end, it was all useless. There was no way to fortify against the invasion that had already begun inside his own flesh, from which there was no hope for escape. No¡­ Perhaps that monster had always been there, just biding its time to feed on his desperation. Yes, this was the point at which his decline began. After all, what good was a painter that could no longer paint? Eden Ruin -Part 2- Claude squinted against the early morning sunlight as he stepped out of Ione¡¯s elementary school, the November air cool but not quite biting. It made him miss fondly the warmth of his daughter¡¯s goodbye hug, though it had only been minutes since he¡¯d seen her off. He tugged his blazer closer, fingers absently tracing the outline of the solitary silver pendant dangling from his left ear ¡ªa habit born out of comfort rather than superstition. He¡¯d barely made it a dozen steps when a police cruiser pulled up, its windshield a mirror of the overcast sky. The driver¡¯s window rolled down, revealing a face Claude recognized but couldn¡¯t quite place. Dark skin, close-cropped hair, and eyes that seemed capable of cowing even the most hardened of thugs. ¡°Detective Cavendish?¡± The man¡¯s deep voice seemed to match his imposing physique. ¡°I¡¯m Officer Cole Benoit. The Deputy Chief asked me to give you a lift to the Seagrave Villa.¡± ¡°Ah, my chauffeur arrives.¡± Claude quipped, a mischievous glint of both curiosity and amusement dancing briefly in his eyes. His warm smile, however, took any potential sting out of the words. ¡°And here I thought I¡¯d have to brave public transport. My hero.¡± Sliding into the passenger seat, the detective caught an intriguing mix of scents. Leather and gun oil, yes, but underneath¡­ Was it potting soil? He filed the observation away, resisting the urge to start profiling his impromptu partner. ¡°So¡­¡± The detective began as they merged into traffic. ¡°What¡¯s got the brass sending me a chaperone? Last I checked, I could find my way to a crime scene without a guide.¡± ¡°Beats me.¡± Cole said gruffly as his hands tightened almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel. ¡°Perhaps sending lone detectives to places where people have recently disappeared ain¡¯t exactly department policy.¡± The lightness in Claude¡¯s expression dimmed slightly. He very much doubted it was that simple¡­ But pushing Benoit seemed unwise. ¡°Fair enough.¡± He conceded in a softer voice. ¡°Though I can¡¯t help but wonder why they¡¯d pair the rookie detective with¡­¡± He trailed off, realizing he had absolutely no idea of Cole¡¯s rank or experience. ¡°The rookie beat cop?¡± The Officer finished, a hint of challenge in his voice. ¡°You did a good job stopping there, Detective. Real smart choice.¡± >> ¡°Trust me, I know the uglier sides of Cretierfield well enough to not be afraid of ridiculous urban myths or conspiracies.¡± ¡°I intended no offense.¡± Claude replied, his hands up in mock surrender. ¡°Really, it¡¯s just that I¡¯m used to being the youngest one in the room.¡± >> ¡°It¡¯s refreshing, actually. Us young blood should stick together, not fight. Deal? I¡¯ve got a feeling you¡¯d beat my ass anyway.¡± As they drove, the metropolitan landscape gradually gave way to more pastoral surroundings, yet they still had a fair share of road ahead of them. Claude couldn¡¯t help his mind from wandering, asking what would drive a man to such a desolate place away from his home city. The alleged disappearances of the Seagraves after purchasing their rural villa had been a low-level buzz in the department for months. Only recent, more troubling developments had finally prompted action. ¡°You know, I made myself an evidence board with his prints inside my living room to study them.¡± Claude mused, breaking the silence that had settled between them. ¡°My daughter had me take it down. Said it gave her bad feelings.¡± Cole groaned noncommittally, but Claude pressed on, unable to contain the fascination that had been building in him since receiving the assignment. ¡°You¡¯re not intrigued by it? Over what would a man like that¡­ A respected artist, a family man¡­ Just vanish into thin air? Taking both wife and kid alongside him? It¡¯s like something out of a¡ª¡± ¡°Horror movie?¡± Cole finished, his tone dry. ¡°Or just a hokey ghost story?¡± ¡°I was going to say True Crime Podcast, but hey, I like your word choice, Officer Benoit.¡± Claude added with a chuckle, his affinity for the macabre peeking through despite his best efforts. ¡°Who knows? Maybe we¡¯ll stumble upon some spectral ghouls in the Seagrave Mansion.¡± Now that was a perfect line to deliver with a flashlight pointed dramatically upward at his face, but then again, he was also experiencing that familiar prickle at the back of his neck. An odd sensation, like the times he watched his mother commune with spirits during her work as a medium. Could it be a warning? Unlikely. He was more inclined to blame it on his overactive imagination latching onto what was probably a mundane task ahead. His last-minute companion, at least, seemed very willing to call him out on that. ¡°You have an awful sense of humor.¡± Cole grunted as they navigated past the officers cordoning the areas surrounding the villa. ¡°The kid faked her disappearance for social media attention. And the artist?¡± >> ¡°Probably just cracked under pressure and holed up to get off the grid. That¡¯s what I¡¯m hoping at least.¡± Claude studied his companion¡¯s body language, noting the tension in his shoulders and the way his eyes darted between the road and mansion now looming in the distance. Was the grumpy exterior a mask for genuine concern, or just a way to conceal a more mellow interior? Privately, the detective harbored serious doubts over such a simplistic explanation. The abrupt interruption of Samantha Marlowe¡¯s livestream, the bizarre trail of movements that Seagrave had left behind over the past years ¡ªit all pointed to something more sinister than Cole seemed willing to admit. Still, arguing seemed pointless. Better to let the coming investigation speak for itself. As they approached, the Seagrave villa finally came entirely into view ¡ªClaude¡¯s first direct encounter with the imposing estate. Its Victorian architecture stretched skyward, besieged by overgrown hedges that had devoured all available space. Unkempt branches pushed well beyond the chain-locked driveway, reminding the detective unsettlingly to grasping fingers. Perhaps it was their sight that prompted Claude to one final attempt at levity. ¡°So¡­ Tell me, Benoit¡­¡± He began wearing a disarming smile. ¡°Are you into gardening? Can¡¯t think of any other reason for you to have soil under your nails. Unless you were digging corpses by hand, of course.¡± No sooner had they exited the car, Claude found himself confronted by Cole¡¯s furrowed brow, his eyes silently yelling ¡®The fuck do you care¡¯ at him in response to the non-sequitur. ¡°Just to be clear I have nothing against it!¡± The detective hastily added before a fist was thrown his way, waving a hand in denial. ¡°Actually, I think it¡¯d be pretty cool if you are.¡± Claude softened his tone, a hint of vulnerability creeping in. ¡°Always wanted to grow something for me and my daughter¡¯s place. Too bad I can¡¯t keep a cactus alive to save my life.¡± >> ¡°¡­ Maybe you could give me some tips once all of this is under the bridge?¡± The aggression in Cole¡¯s posture seemed to ebb away, though he didn¡¯t appear compelled to neither sustain nor deny his observations. Instead, the Officer¡¯s focus shifted to the preliminary police presence bustling with quiet efficiency around them. A few uniformed officers milled about near the entrance, comparing notes, while crime scene techs unloaded equipment from a van, preparing to scour the grounds. The atmosphere was one of controlled urgency ¡ªa welcomed change of pace for Claude, who had been monitoring the cold situation for quite some time now. One figure, however, stood tall amongst all others. Detective Gianmarco Aerugino, better known around the department as Jagdhund, cut an imposing silhouette against the backdrop of the mansion. His frame, well over two meters, loomed over the bustling officers, corpulent and powerful. A worn-down black trench coat hung from his broad shoulders, draped over a rumpled dress shirt with a loose tie that spoke of long hours of work and little concern for appearances. His perpetually stern expression, etched with deep-set wrinkles under balding gray hair, fixed upon Claude and Cole as they approached. ¡°You¡¯re late.¡± Jagdhund growled as soon as they were within earshot, his usual admonishing tone slicing through the crisp air. ¡°But am I?¡± The younger detective checked his watch, certain they were well within schedule. The lecture to come, however, he already knew it by heart. ¡°Detectives are to be the first to arrive and last to leave a crime scene.¡± Jagdhund intoned, as if reciting ancient scripture. ¡°Until the case is resolved, this place is now your sanctuary. Respect it as such.¡± His small, discerning black soon enough narrowed as they fell on Cole. ¡°Who¡¯s the tag-along?¡± Claude struggled to contain a smug smirk. Whose gruffness would prevail, he wondered? ¡°Officer Cole Benoit, sir.¡± He replied, his voice steady despite the hint of tension in his jaw. His gaze, however, met Jagdhund¡¯s fierce stare without flinching. ¡°The Deputy Chief asked me to ensure your safety during the initial sweep.¡± Their exchange was certainly entertaining, neither man willing to back down. Jagdhund¡¯s large, calloused hands clenched menacingly at his sides, the prominent scar across his left cheek standing out starkly in the morning light. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. ¡°Malvirta, huh.¡± The old man grunted back, his tone wary. ¡°He can keep all the authority he wants behind his shiny desk, but in this place, I call the shots.¡± >> ¡°Got that, brat?¡± Claude supposed that was enough. Before Cole could retort, he smoothly interjected. ¡°Come on now, Gianmarco. You know how these old houses can be. Rusty nails, rotting floorboards, dust bunnies¡­¡± >> ¡°With your age you have to be more worried about such things. Let the Officer here protect us from the tetanus infections.¡± He felt their glares easily even with his eyes closed, but Claude merely shrugged nonchalantly. Tough crowds were part of the job. ¡°We should get started instead, no? Surely the ghosts are getting impatient by now.¡± ¡°Why must you always be this insufferable?¡± The older detective spat back at him, yet despite his harsh words Claude was sure to have caught a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. ¡°But you¡¯ve got one thing right.¡± >> ¡°Enough time has been wasted.¡± Alongside such concession, Jagdhund pushed past them and began trudging forward, not waiting to see if the younger officers were following him. ¡°I do have one final question for you, Officer Benoit.¡± He added, not bothering to look back. ¡°Did Malvirta ask you in person to babysit for us?¡± A subtle shift in Jagdhund¡¯s tone piqued Claude¡¯s interest. Benoit seemed caught similarly off guard, his usual bravado giving way to confusion. ¡°Yes¡­ He did, actually.¡± Was the reply, Cole¡¯s gaze drifting upwards as if replaying a memory previously thought inconsequential. ¡°Why is that important?¡± ¡°So he did¡­¡± Jagdhund mused, his broad back revealing no substantial hints. ¡°Make nothing of it, kid.¡± It was peculiar for the Hound to fixate on such a seemingly trivial detail. While Claude himself held no ill will towards Deputy Chief Malvirta ¡ªafter all, he was the one who had recognized his potential and paired him with Gianmarco; he couldn¡¯t deny that Vigo often seemed to hold all the reins in the department. Certainly curious, Claude thought stifling a smirk. Jagdhund usually despised office politics and chain-of-command nonsense. A detective is only useful at a crime scene, something or other, he could practically hear him saying in his scruffy voice. Yeah, he admired the guy. But as they approached the main gate, the world around Claude suddenly blurred, a cacophony of disembodied whispers assaulting his mind. ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?? ? ? The intrusive message came and went like a thunderbolt, causing him to stumble forward slightly. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision only to realize he had missed his colleagues moving past the tape cordoning the villa. Such episodes were the reason he avoided driving anytime he could. Sure, they were infrequent, but still recurring enough to become a source of wariness. He¡¯d learned to ignore them as best as he could, convinced they held no real value ¡ªjust a product of his colourful upbringing, nothing more. ¡°You doing ok, Cavendish?¡± Cole¡¯s voice reached him as they continued towards the main gate to the mansion. He turned out to be surprisingly perceptive. ¡°You got awfully pale all of a sudden.¡± ¡°Just a dizzy spell, no need to worry.¡± Claude tried to ease his concern with a wry smile, quickening his pace to catch up with the two. ¡°The ghosts haven¡¯t come to collect me just yet.¡± By then, the more impatient older detective had already reached the wrought-iron gates of the Seagrave estate. Even through the bars, it didn¡¯t require any special effort to see that no sign of life or activity went on behind the imposing walls ¡ªdarkened windows giving Claude an ominous feeling. ¡°Is he always this much of a hardass?¡± Cole asked him with a sigh, his long strides easily capable of outmatching Claude¡¯s pace ¡ªyet still holding back to keep his tempo. ¡°Yep, that¡¯s him alright.¡± The young detective replied. unable to hide a fond chuckle. ¡°But I reckon there aren¡¯t many people with as much heart as he has.¡± >> ¡°You get used to it, as long as you stay sharp.¡± Turning his attention back to the task at hand, the two fell silent as Jagdhund rang the doorbell once, then a second time. When no response came after the third ring, any lingering hope of a confused but cooperative artist answering the call quickly dwindled. Seemed like this was no publicity stunt ¡ªand that they had no choice but to break in. ¡°Good. Didn¡¯t want to play nice either.¡± Jagdhund growled, stepping back to appraise the gate with a critical eye. Their warrant was already issued, and behind them, a team of forensics and a backup squad waited for their initial assessment. ¡°Stand aside, brats.¡± Without further warning, the veteran detective gripped the iron bars of the gate and simply¡­ Pulled. The gates groaned in protest, but Jagdhund¡¯s sheer strength won out in the end, tearing them from the ground chains and all with a grating screech of metal. Though Claude was far too used to the old man¡¯s antics to offer a stark reaction, he did direct an apologetic smile towards a flinching Benoit ¡ªthe two then hurrying to follow Jagdhund¡¯s unwavering strides through the entrance. The overgrown path leading to the mansion was littered with dead leaves, adding to the sinister atmosphere that the structure held even in broad daylight. Claude would have preferred a more methodical approach, studying everything carefully before making decisions ¡ªhis mentor though, didn¡¯t seem quite up to that. As soon as they reached the ornate front door, Jagdhund charged it as if here were a human battering ram. Poor thing didn¡¯t stand a chance, the sound of its fall echoing through the stillness as old dust rose in a thick cloud. ¡°Well, it¡¯s your turn now, Officer.¡± The old man gestured towards the broken door, directing a condescending nod at Benoit. ¡°Time to protect us.¡± Cole¡¯s jaw tightened in response, but he didn¡¯t rise to the bait. Instead, he simply brushed past the detectives, his heavy boots crunching through the fallen leaves carried across the threshold by the errant wind. His hand hovered ominously over his gun holster, and though they had witnessed nothing yet to warrant a violent response, he seemed more than ready to react accordingly if needed. Claude followed close behind, the three of them stepping into the eerie stillness. Thick clouds of dust motes danced in the muted daylight filtering through the grimy windows, casting an almost sepulchral atmosphere over the foyer. Though he was familiar with Miles¡¯ artistic inclinations, the interior held none of the macabre touches he had come to expect. No, the place felt oddly¡­ Artificial, devoid of any true warmth or personality. An impressive achievement, considering it had been six years already since the Seagraves had moved to the outskirts of Cretierfield. As they moved deeper into the mansion, Jagdhund repeatedly located light switches, but no matter how many times they were flipped, the mansion remained stubbornly cloaked in shadows. Not that it bothered Claude ¡ªhis eyes adjusting quickly, and the precarious illumination being more than enough for him to easily spot the recent trails of footprints leading down the hallway. Following the path back to its origin revealed a shattered window at the far end of a corridor ¡ªno doubt originated from Sami Marlowe¡¯s ill-fated urban exploration challenge, now reduced to a melancholic trail of evidence. Breaking free of his companions briefly to follow the path guided by her footprints, the sight Claude had anticipated awaited him right around a corner. This was it, what he witnessed faintly through her interrupted livestream a couple days ago. In a vast, empty hall stripped of furnishings save for the ghastly silhouettes of paintings framed across the walls, a set of spiraling stairs led down into the underground darkness. For a moment, Claude was certain he saw them rippling and shifting, their vibrant red tones bleeding together in a dreamlike display of visual distortion. It was as if they throbbed to the rhythm of some ungodly creature¡¯s heart. But as soon as he blinked and massaged his eyes to make sure he wasn¡¯t falling prey to some optical illusion, the stairs fell back into normality, the crimson lighting dimming as if coming from deeper within the mansion¡¯s entrails. ¡°Guys, come check this.¡± Claude called, his timbre holding an instinctive unease, flowing between a cautious curiosity and a thinly veiled trepidation. Swiftly enough the two officers rejoined him by the staircase¡¯s edge, but as anticipated, to them it seemed to be not much more than just an unusually eerie architectural feature ¡ªnot inherently supernatural, at least. ¡°Looks like the perfect hiding spot for a deranged lunatic.¡± Jagdhund grumbled before approaching the stairwell without hesitation. One heavy boot after another, he started down the crimson-hued steps, not an ounce of fear in him. ¡°Wait, I won¡¯t let you go down there alone.¡± Cole ended up being faster than him, earning a curt nod from the veteran detective as he made the move to follow him. Had it really been just a bad trick of the light? Claude asked himself with a frown, arms crossed as he covered his chin in contemplation. The stairs didn¡¯t appear more than bad taste now, for sure¡­ But... ¡°Cavendish, you stay here and keep an eye on things.¡± The younger detective opened his mouth to protest at the orders, but Jagdhund silenced him with an authoritative look. ¡°Check the rest of this floor while you¡¯re at it. We¡¯ll take a quick glance there once we reach wherever this damn thing takes us.¡± >> ¡°If we¡¯re not back in ten minutes, call down the rest of the brats.¡± Being sidelined like this elicited a faint bristle in Claude, but he knew better than to argue with Jagdhund when he was in this mood. The old man could be as stubborn as a mule, and it was easy to recognize his choices for what they were ¡ªan attempt to keep him away from any potential danger. ¡°Copy that¡­¡± He replied, diverting his focus just enough in the hope that the disappointment wouldn¡¯t show too plainly in his expression. A very short distraction, yet still a long enough one for the frames of his two companions to completely disappear from sight. ¡°¡­ No way.¡± Stunned by the phenomenon, Claude searched for any trace of them everywhere his eyes landed on ¡ªthough he already knew that Jagdhund was far too large to hide. It was as if the very structure had swallowed them whole, neither voice nor sound of footsteps reaching the surface world. Cautiously, he crouched down, reaching out a tentative hand to touch the nearest step. As his fingertips made contact, an invisible surface rippled subtly right beyond his perception, with a strange and thick wetness enveloping his skin ¡ªlike if the hall¡¯s floor was a freshly painted mural, instead of a solid, physical structure. Staring down the winding staircase from that perspective was mesmerizing, its crimson penumbras almost hypnotic in their perfectly symmetric shapes. Just as he wondered what exactly was it that Benoit and Jagdhund had just entered, a faint whisper seemed to caress his ear, tempting him to descend. As he shook off the eerie sensation, Claude felt a force ebbing upwards across his palm, making him jerk back his hand defensively ¡ªsharp shivers coursing through his body. Nuh-uh. Nope. Absolutely not. That staircase was cursed. No way in hell was he going to wait those ten minutes. The earlier he called for a rescue team, the better. But before he could reach the radio nestled against his side, a tendril of inky blackness shot up from the floor painting, wrapping itself around his ankle with terrifying speed and pressure. A strangled cry escaped his lips as he was fiercely yanked off his feet, his head slamming against the wooden floor as shockwaves of pain traveled through his skull. The world swiftly spun, overtaking his senses as he felt himself being dragged inexorably towards the illusion of a staircase. He flailed wildly, desperately trying to find purchase to halt his plunge into the unknown depths. A futile endeavor, as he was forced to breach the outline of the floor mural as if dragged into an icy, viscous pool. The sensation of being submerged in liquid was short-lived, replaced by sheer vertigo with nothing to interrupt the precarious falling ¡ªplummeting right into the very jaws of the unseen. Eden Ruin -Part 3- Since when had this entrapment begun exactly? It was a question that popped into his head every now and again, yet its answer remained always elusive. Days had long ago blended into weeks, and those into months, so much that time itself became a forgotten casualty of his isolation. Has it been years already? Sanity, like a relentless foe, refused to release him into the cold comfort of madness, clinging stubbornly around his mind like barbed wire sinking in flesh. Miles Seagrave, yes¡­ That had been his name once, wasn¡¯t it? The syllables once by one joined into a unified whole, bringing alongside them the identity they represented ¡ªonce an artist, now not much more than a prisoner in a realm of his making. Funny word. ¡®Artist¡¯. It felt like a title from another life, one he could barely even recognize anymore. What did it exactly mean? Miles reminisced, but it really didn¡¯t matter much. Its answer wouldn¡¯t bring escape to this prison without walls, to this punishment without end. The space surrounding him was an expansive, inky abyss. An interminable room swallowed by a darkness so complete that it devoured any notion of boundaries. His only light came from an invisible source high above ¡ªa harsh, solitary beam cutting through the void, illuminating a small island of existence in this ocean of nothingness. At the center of the light stood a plain wooden stool, and before it, a blank canvas on an easel. It was this monstrous object that painfully anchored him to sapience, like prisoner shackles in an execution that refused to arrive ¡ªit was an accusation, a silent, relentless reminder of his failure; of the creative spark that had been extinguished years ago. Such blankness taunted him, mocking his inability to bring anything to life upon its surface. Beyond the spotlight, even his sense of self and physicality blurred. Time and reality refused to fixate in one place, like wet paint marred by constant, careless brushes. The inky shadows around sometimes shifted, hinting at unseen figures lurking right beneath his vision, grotesque forms that made his old nightmares seem like childish fears. At other times, it was the air that thickened, becoming a suffocating and viscous fog like a noose tightening around his throat ¡ªan echo from a past he so desperately wished to forget. No matter how hard he tried to escape, to flee into the comforting embrace of the darkness that beckoned from all sides, the canvas would always follow. He knew not what it wanted, yet he also understood that it wouldn¡¯t leave him, reappearing in its unmoving and oppressive whiteness everywhere he went. But to go where exactly? What was it that lay beyond these dark mirrors to his soul? What life was there to return to? Right¡­ He did remember. Miles Seagrave, that was his name. ¡®Artist¡¯, that¡¯s what they called him. People around him bestowed such title upon him since childhood, ever since he first channeled the visions onto the canvas¡­ Yet he didn¡¯t even know its true meaning. His torment here wasn¡¯t the physical, nor the metaphysical. It was that relentless introspection that consumed him, dragging his mind down a spiral of self-doubt and bitter regret. Each thought was a barb, tearing at the battered flesh of his ego. What had become of Shelley, he questioned? Once he had told her to leave, to not follow him into this mansion turned prison. To forsake him and carry on, to build a new life to lead away from danger. She had never been one to listen. Her stubbornness was a trait that defined her ever since their high school years, one that always kept her there, by his side ¡ªeven when he wanted nothing more than to be alone. Now her loyalty and devotion were one more weight to plunge him with¡­ Had he ever truly loved her? Or had he merely allowed comfort to twist into dependency, to shield himself from emotions he never understood? What had become of Ethan, he wondered? He had never been a father, not really. In many ways, he was terrified of his own child, of the crushing responsibility that came with parenthood. He had always told himself that it was fear ¡ªfear of failure, fear of not knowing how to raise a son in a world so full of uncertainty. But was that the whole truth? Or was it easier to let that fear construct walls between them, to avoid the vulnerabilities of fatherhood and allow Shelley to shoulder the burden on her own? For indeed he had cowered, again and again, into the familiar refuge of his art, shutting them both out. It was safer that way, or so he had convinced himself. Better to bury himself in brush and chisel rather than face their eyes, filled with expectations of love, guidance and protection he knew he could never provide. Husband, Father, Artist ¡ªthey all had something in common. Miles never wanted to be neither of them, just roles he stumbled into, too hesitant to confront the reality of his own inadequacy. He just followed the path of least resistance, only to find himself at the edge of a chasm now impossible to cross. It was unfair¡­ Just not to him. Innocence and purity, love and companionship, were now tainted by the cold, grasping fingers of his mistakes ¡ªcasualties of his pitiful existence. And for what? For a failure who never truly knew how to even be there for them. Neither Shelley nor Ethan were the roots of this despair. Even the intruder that haunted his exhibition years ago had been but a catalyst, a prod against an open wound that had been left to fester from long, long ago. The true genesis of his torments lay buried deep within the recesses of the past, in memories visceral ¡ªetched into the very fabric of his being. When was it exactly, that he lost control? Or had he ever possessed it in the first place? Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. All it took were faint ripples crossing the vast blackness to transform the insidious murmurs in his mind into hallucinations born of confinement. Whether to blame the paint monster or his own corroded sanity for those slithering thoughts, he was pulled into their nightmare regardless ¡ªmalevolence seamlessly blending in with reality. To be twelve years old again, light blue eyes widening as he stood stood frozen in the doorway of his childhood home. The stench of decay that assaulted his nostrils, that sickly-sweet odor that refused to go down his throat, clogging it. Before him, suspended from the ceiling fan like a morbid marionette, hung the lifeless form of his mother once more. Her vibrant eyes, now glassy and vacant, fixated deep into the abyss. Mottled, bruised skin stretching over the protruding bones of her malnourished frame. Rope cutting deep around her neck, leaving behind a glaring purple furrow. Miles was too young. He understood too little about the complexities of adulthood and relationships. In many ways, he still chose to ignore them, retreating to a world of tinctures and techniques, of creation and creativity. Yet for all the horrors he had brought to life through art, none could compare to the sight of his mother¡¯s corpse gently swaying in the stagnant air. She left no note, no explanation for her final act. A deafening, departing silence ¡ªa void that Miles would spend the rest of his life trying to fill with pigments and clay. In the aftermath of this tragedy, the visions began. As sunlight gave way to darkness, otherworldly apparitions crept into the corners of his vision ¡ªcreatures so alien that were both frightening and fascinating in equal measure. When he began recreating them through drawings, psychologists called it a coping mechanism, a way for his fragile psyche to process trauma and loss. His father didn¡¯t share their conclusion. Bitterness welled up inside the painter as the recollections played before his eyes. The man who should have guided him through the storm of grief, becoming instead another source of anguish ¡ªharsh words and harsher hands leaving scars both visible and hidden. Yet even as he nursed this resentment, a part of him couldn¡¯t help but wonder if he truly deserved better. After all, he had failed to notice his mother¡¯s pain, blind to the suffering that had driven her to desperation. Such was the guilt that gnawed at him, one that grew stronger every year, cursing his inability to fully understand the intricacies of human emotion. An alleged talent blossomed as he continued to pour nightmare onto canvas and hallucination into clay. Those around him took notice, praising his supposedly unique vision and emotional power ¡ªaccolades that felt hollow, a perverse reward for the horrors that fueled his creativity. The more he painted, the more he sculpted, the more elusive his grasp on reality became. Lurid specters continued to echo at the corners of the moonlighting darkness, whispering secrets he dared not to acknowledge. Faces peered out from the innocuous patterns, expressions twisted in silent roars ¡ªripping forth from heaven or hell to herald their rapture. In his enigma, the stranger¡¯s only contribution was merely shattering the precarious equilibrium that the artist had managed to construct. With him came the demon, a presence both terrifying and oddly comforting in its concrete tangibility. For the first time in decades, the cacophony of delusions fell silent¡­ Leaving behind only a disconcerting disquiet. Before this communion, Miles had been creating with feverish intensity. Fame and fortune followed, more as a result of those who surrounded him, his works becoming coveted prizes in the art world regardless. But each piece felt more like an exorcism than an act of creation¡­ And then, as suddenly as they had begun, it all stopped. The well of nightmares ran dry, leaving the painter staring at blank canvases and formless lumps of material ¡ªunable to conjure even the faintest spark of divinity that hid behind inspiration. Now, trapped in this limbo¡­ There was nothing left but to confront the bitter truth. He was a fraud ¡ªas an artist, as a husband, as a father. That talent that others used to define him with, was proven fake once the terrors of the ethereal abandoned him. In their absence, he was forced to face the wreckage of the life he left to himself, the pain he caused, and all the love he squandered. But as these thoughts threatened to drag him back into the depths of despair, something changed. Faint echoes reached him, like droplets of awareness in a tranquil lake of emptiness, pulling his fractured mind back into some semblance of coherency. The void around him rippled, responding to an unseen disturbance. There were intruders in his domain. Three souls breached the borders of Mirage Asylum, their presence a discordant note in the lingering symphony of isolation. Two of them seemed to be following the crimson staircase, their steps heavy and deliberate. The third, however, had stumbled in more chaotically ¡ªan unlucky soul, very likely, plunging down to the abyss. A spark of something almost like hope flickered in the painter¡¯s chest. Were they here because of the girl that had fallen a while back? He remembered her steps hazily, her vibrancy reverberating through the corridors of his realm. If he could recall her path more clearly, perhaps he could guide these new arrivals her way. To have others consumed as prey to his plight was a thought the artist abhorred. Their safety, he concluded with a pang of guilt, mattered more than his own. Yet despair clung to him like a second skin, the weight of imprisonment crushing any fantasy of escape. Still, if there was even the slightest chance they could all survive¡­ He at least had to try. Of course, things could never be simple in this epitome of illusions. While the painter couldn¡¯t directly interact with the newcomers, he wasn¡¯t entirely powerless either. Fiercely, the subconscious stirrings of the monster that shared his existence protested his purpose, coiling under the walls and ceilings and floors like a living layer of paint. He could hear its wishes, its demands ¡ªto twist this new development to its own inscrutable purposes. The painter realized, that he would have to fight it. As he concentrated, the blank canvas before him shimmered, images flickering across its surface like a fever dream. With ghostly paint dripping down his fingers, his only input was to pour intention into the ephemeral visions. The painter longed to do more, to scream at them to flee if they still could¡­ Yet he was limited to indirect interference, conducting a play he barely understood. Another fragile ember rose in his chest. Even if he couldn¡¯t escape that room he was trapped in on his own¡­ Perhaps they could eventually reach him¡­ Though he also feared that this torment would find no end until he himself encountered demise. But before all of that¡­ He needed to remember¡­ Who was he again? Right¡­ Miles Seagrave¡­ ¡®Artist¡¯. Eden Ruin -Part 4- Beyond the throbbing of his brain, the words continued to ring through Claude¡¯s thoughts like a blaring alarm, each distorted syllable a hammer strike against the insides of his skull. Their message, alien and insistent, threatened to rupture the soft tissue of his consciousness, its intensity building to a deafening crescendo that nearly overwhelmed his senses entirely ¡ªfar more fierce than any before it. Once the last vestiges of the intrusive thoughts faded, leaving behind a residual static in his mind, the midnight pull of the void took center stage. The darkness was so absolute that up and down lost all meaning; only the violent lurches of his stomach during free-fall serving as an indicator that, indeed, was still yet to splat against the unseen bottom. Before panic could fully set in, an unnerving sensation enveloped him. Unseen hands seemed to reach out from the black, grasping at his limbs and clothes with ethereal fingers ¡ªslowing his descent in the act. The air around him thickened again, becoming viscous and resistant like swimming through molasses. But even this surreal experience was fated to end abruptly as gravity demanded its inescapable tribute. In a sudden jolt that knocked the wind from his lungs, Claude crashed against a rigid surface. His lean frame recoiled from the impact, bouncing before surrendering to immobility. Though the landing was far from gentle, with pain blossoming through every fiber of his being, it didn¡¯t result in the gruesome splatter he had half-expected. Instead, he found his face pressed against what felt like a plush, velvety carpet. How did he exactly survive, or even how long did he lie there, chest heaving unevenly? Claude wasn¡¯t sure. Every inch of him ached, but ultimately he managed to groan his way up, raising a trembling hand to his palpitating forehead. His fingers came away sticky and warm, and he could make out a dark smear of blood resting on them ¡ªthough only due to the reflection of the infrared light that dominated the space against the fresh liquid. ¡°Cavendish?¡± A stern voice cut through the murk of his disorientation. The detective blinked, trying to focus on the blurry figure now approaching. Cole, his features coming into view, etched with poorly concealed concern behind his customary frown. ¡°What the hell happened to you? Did you fall here all the way from the fucking top?¡± There was incredulity in the officer¡¯s voice, as if he were expecting Claude to reveal it all as part of an elaborate magic trick. Before he could¡¯ve made fun of such a question, strong hands gripped his frame, hauling him roughly back to his feet. The world tilted alarmingly, and soon enough he found himself leaning heavily against Cole¡¯s solid frame, fighting to regain his equilibrium. ¡°Easy now.¡± Cole muttered, supporting his light weight without much difficulty. There was a small tone of kindness in his voice, with Claude finding himself unexpectedly unsurprised by it. ¡°It¡¯s a miracle you¡¯re still in one piece.¡± From nearby came the sound of heavy footsteps, and though he quickly regretted the sudden movement, Claude couldn¡¯t help but turn his head towards them ¡ªDetective Aerugino, commandingly descending the last few steps of the crimson stairwell. The veteran¡¯s face was set in a thoughtful frown, as he tried to gauge the height of the unattainable ceiling above them. ¡°That ain¡¯t right.¡± Jagdhund mused, tracing the path of his impossible fall, piercing black eyes transmitting a mix of suspicion and begrudging curiosity. ¡°We should¡¯ve seen him crash down.¡± As his vision began to finally clear, Claude became aware of their surroundings for the first time. The red carpet beneath their feet stretched out into an impossibly long hallway ¡ªor more like a tunnel, really. The deep crimson hue of its walls almost pulsed with an inner light, and though they appeared stable at first glance, beneath their elegant gilding patterns they held a subtle falseness to them ¡ªshifting on their foundations almost as if breathing. Inside this nether underground, an invisible cloud permeated its cold atmosphere in the shape of a dense air, reeking of fresh paint and turpentine. ¡°Are we really still inside the mansion?¡± Claude managed to ask, though neither of his colleagues could answer as he made an effort to steady himself without aid. ¡°Is it possible to go back?¡± Jagdhund and Cole exchanged a brief glance. It was likely that they hadn¡¯t even considered that the return trip could pose any difficulty. ¡°Someone does need to go up.¡± The officer announced, parting from a Claude who signaled with a hand that he required no further support. ¡°I¡¯ll bring a medical team to check on the detective, and to give this weird pit a proper cordon to keep anyone else from falling.¡± >> ¡°I suggest neither of you move from here. Let¡¯s be cautious, okay?¡± The familiar prickle at the back of his neck returned as he watched Cole turn to ascend the staircase. Something about this place felt heavy, reminiscent of the times he¡¯d unwittingly step into a s¨¦ance. Yet this wasn¡¯t quite the same¡­ This time, a more malevolent presence seeped from all around them, tainting every breath with a faint whisper of danger. Claude suppressed a shudder, his amber eyes narrowing as he studied the unstable surroundings. He already suspected their exit wouldn¡¯t be quite as straightforward as their entrance, and sure enough, confirmation would swiftly arrive. Cole didn¡¯t manage to get much progress in the stairwell before one of his boots sank straight into them, as if they were nothing more than a pool of fresh paint. The officer stumbled, eyes widening in shock as he stretched a hand to the rail in order to maintain his footing. With any subsequent attempt to stabilize himself, let alone climb further, the steps twisted and stretched upwards, elongating impossibly into the darkness above. Inky splotches began to ooze down the walls as the facade of normalcy was discarded. Viscous, dark smears that resembled congealed blood more than paint merged effortlessly with the red hues of their surroundings, creating a surreal, nightmarish visage that writhed in unholy life. ¡°What in the¡ª¡± Cole¡¯s voice was coarse with barely contained fright as he stumbled backwards, falling on his back in the haste to retreat from the distorting structure. Paint clung to his boots and uniform pants¡­ But it didn¡¯t appear immediately dangerous. Jagdhund¡¯s hand instinctively moved towards his holstered weapon, though he refrained from further action. His expression indicated that he had never seen anything like this before, and Claude considered it an achievement of its own to witness the old dog at a complete loss for words. The rookie, however, remained calm. A part of him had already expected this development, so rather than panicking, he tried to piece together any fragment of his old life that could be of assistance now. What was clear, at least, was that whatever force held reign here it wouldn¡¯t let them as easily leave. ¡°I doubt we¡¯re going to achieve anything by staying put.¡± Claude broke the dumbfounded tension that had taken hold of the two men, his gaze drawn to the impossibly long hallway extending before them. ¡°And I don¡¯t see anywhere else we could go.¡± A quiet understanding passed between them, as Cole returned to his feet and Jagdhund¡¯s shoulders eased. It was fairly strange for Claude to be the one taking the lead, but it was the natural conclusion given that this wasn¡¯t any ordinary investigation. To discard the rules of the surface world would serve him better, though he doubted these two more serious men were exactly eager to do so. First there was Cole tinkering with his service radio and phone, cursing to himself once neither appeared to work. Then there was Jagdhund, whose scowl could bore a hole in his head if he wasn¡¯t so accustomed to his grouchiness. ¡°You seem oddly enthusiastic about this, Cavendish.¡± The old man said almost as a reprimand, with Claude giving an apologetic shrug of his shoulders before replying. ¡°Let¡¯s say that I¡¯m a tiny bit more accepting of strange phenomena.¡± He was certainly overstating his experience, but they needed some reassurance. Here was to hoping that his boasts wouldn¡¯t come back to bite him in the future. ¡°There must be something we can do, even when trapped down here.¡± >> ¡°I know that we can solve this case together.¡± His comments were accompanied by hopeful eyes and a genuine smile, though perhaps they didn¡¯t appear quite as convincing under his still wobbly feet in addition to the blood drying on his temple. There was an effect, considering Cole and Jagdhund¡¯s spirits appeared to recover somewhat ¡ªprobably more in stubborn refusal to be calmed by Claude, rather than genuine embracing of this ghost story situation. ¡°Just get a damn move on.¡± After an exasperated sigh, Cole moved past them to take point in the face of the drifting landscape. ¡°I don¡¯t care how much money or lawyers he has, or even if this is nothing but a stunt after all.¡± >> ¡°I¡¯m going to get that fucking painter behind bars.¡± And though he offered no words, Jagdhund followed him no far behind, his hulking frame a comforting bastion against the undulating gilt patterns of the walls that refused to stay fixed in one place. With a happy grin he didn¡¯t make an attempt to conceal, Claude took care of the back. The two men ahead of him were resilient; he had no real reason to worry about their strength. The more childish part of him was even excitedly cataloging every off detail around them, though he knew better than to voice such enthusiasm to his colleagues. His eyes darted from one peculiarity to the next, fixating on the subtly breathing walls with an almost misplaced fascination. Though as they traversed the seemingly endless hallway, the disturbing dark red of the structure eventually began to morph, shedding its skin like a serpent to reveal a deceptively regal facade. Ornate wainscoting emerged from the crimson murk, its intricate patterns stretching meticulously ahead. Lonely chandeliers hung from the ceiling at irregular intervals, their crystal teardrops tinkling softly despite the absence of any discernible breeze under their faint orange glow. Gilded frames slowly came into view, the first of them housing portraits of stern-faced individuals whose eyes were sunken pools of devouring blackness. Claude counted eight completed paintings, recognizing among them depictions of Seagrave and his family, as well as Marlowe¡¯s. After these, he also noted three more in early stages of being made, their half-formed meaning a little bit too unsettling to dwell upon. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. More intriguing were the numerous completely dark canvases that extended beyond them, reminiscent to Claude of vacant rooms in an abandoned hotel. What exactly would happen should the empty frames be filled¡­ Was a speculation that he quickly suppressed, deciding some thoughts were better left unexplored. He instead allowed himself to shift his attention to something immediate, in the way how an end to the hallway could finally be grasped, around the point where the frames stopped. It was a sturdy wall with two branching corridors at each side, and a large mural rigidly framed occupying its center ¡ªone of a crooked tree flowering beneath a cloudy vineyard sky, interrupting the lighting of a full moon beneath. An old acoustic guitar rested in the shade projected by the tree¡¯s trunk, and beside it a large basket overflowed with meticulously rendered fruits. Apples dominated the arrangement, surrounded by clusters of blackberries, raspberries¡­ And were those elderberries? They had a vivid sheen and texture to them, as if carved from precious stones rather than etched in mere pigment. Once they were close enough to it for Claude to take in all of its details, he finally concluded that he had never encountered anything similar in Seagrave¡¯s oeuvre. This thing here bore no resemblance to the artist¡¯s style, so he deduced that it was very likely not made by him, curiously enough. But he doubted that his companions would hold any interest in this fact, so instead he opted to simply try and break the silence that had settled over them. ¡°Hey¡­¡± Claude smirked, turning to the two men as they paused before the diverging paths. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t it be totally crazy if the painting suddenly came to life and all that fruit started pouring down on us?¡± ¡°For fuck¡¯s sake, Cavendish.¡± Cole¡¯s eyebrow arched in disbelief before burying his face in his palm with an exasperated sigh. ¡°Do you seriously think this a time for jokes?¡± ¡°Is that the most scary thing you could come up with?¡± Jagdhund¡¯s rigid features softened in a faint smile, though it was still a very sardonic one. He shook his head to try and hide it. ¡°Fruit-catching duty?¡± >> ¡°Do better.¡± Amused rather than troubled by their retorts, Claude was unable to suppress a light chuckle ¡ªa reaction that faded once Cole brushed past him, approaching the mural with an intense gaze that piqued the rookie detective¡¯s curiosity. ¡°This painting bugs me.¡± The officer mused, his brow furrowing in concentration. ¡°It¡¯s a fig tree, you can easily tell by its leaves and fruits.¡± His fingertips traced the painted flowers as Claude peeked by his side. Of course, he¡¯d be lying if he said he had any clue about trees. ¡°So what about it? Seems like a regular tree to me.¡± He interjected as Cole leaned closer to study the painting even more meticulously, quiet for far too long as he fixated on the deep purple tones of the blossoms. ¡°H¡­ Huh?¡± Cole snapped back at Claude¡¯s voice, blinking as if emerging from a reverie. Strange coming from him. ¡°Sorry, I was thinking.¡± He explained, guiding a couple of fingers to press against his temple. ¡°As I was saying¡­ Fig trees don¡¯t really have flowers. Or rather, the blossoms grow inside the fruit itself.¡± >> ¡°These purple¡­ Things, they don¡¯t belong here.¡± Claude brought a hand to his chin as he also pondered about it. Satisfying as it was to have his guess about Cole¡¯s botanical knowledge confirmed¡­ Did this conversation matter too much beyond that? ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s just a mistake by the painter?¡± He offered with an uncertain smile. It was better to give it a rest, especially considering a certain grouchy old man was probably close to losing his patience. ¡°Art, you see, I don¡¯t really get. I¡¯m more of a crimes page kinda guy.¡± Jagdhund grumbled, his gruff voice resonating through the hallway. ¡°And I reckon it¡¯s high time you two brats start focusing on just that rather than playing the art critics.¡± ¡°Understood, understood.¡± Claude conceded with a light smile, holding up his hands in mock surrender. ¡°But which path should we take?¡± And almost in direct response to his question, a faint shimmer erupted on the ceiling. With the sound of a scraping tool across concrete, a thin trail of luminescent blue paint etched itself above their heads. Its ghostly line snaked along the surface, branching into one of the corridors ¡ªthe eerie noise it made beckoning them beyond their line of sight after turning a corner. ¡°Well, Isn¡¯t that convenient¡­¡± The rookie detective murmured with slight unease. Had he been alone, he might have defiantly taken the contrarian choice of going in the opposite direction. ¡°Are we be shown the way?¡± >> ¡°But where, exactly?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t like it.¡± Jagdhund was quick to point out, his scowl deepening. ¡°It might be an attempt to misdirect us.¡± ¡°But separating wouldn¡¯t be smart either.¡± Cole countered, his earlier fixation with the mural replaced by a rekindled sense of purpose. ¡°Let¡¯s just move.¡± He said as he took the lead, following the spectral trail. ¡°No real point in second-guessing.¡± He was right. Choosing either path amounted to little more than blind guessing, so they fell in behind Cole without further argument. Still, the thing they chased after carried the unsettling implication that there was someone, or something, watching their progress ¡ªa notion far from comforting. Whether this guide was friend or foe, the only way to know for certain was to see for themselves where it wanted to lead them. So they carried on, their footsteps silenced by the pristine red carpet of the winding corridors. A myriad of finely crafted paintings crossed their path every now and again, each one a silent sentinel in the labyrinthine gallery. Claude found himself yearning to pause, to study or decipher the potential meaning behind them, but the determined strides of his companions left little room for such indulgence. Be it driven by stubbornness, or simply a refusal to waste more time, Claude didn¡¯t have it in him to ask them to engage with the place¡¯s many oddities, instead resigned to stealing fleeting glances as they marched onward ¡ªwondering what emotions or experiences lay trapped beneath the layers of paint and varnish. At times, he was certain they passed by the same painting multiple times, only to find subtle differences upon each encounter. At others, whenever the corridors twisted and turned, he could swear the very structure folded around itself more than once, defying physics and architecture. Any thought of retracing their steps grew increasingly daunting. Would they even be able to find their way back if they tried? Claude pondered to himself, a cold unease settling in his guts as he realized the futility of such an attempt. They were committed now, for better or worse. The longer they walked, the more that Claude doubted the wisdom of blindly following this spectral trail. He kept his concern to himself, sure that Cole and Jagdhund held a similar sentiment. Mercifully enough, one final corner vindicated the pressure built on their collective unease. The narrow hallway gave way to a circular chamber, its proportions modest yet somehow grand. Walls curved gracefully, adorned with intricate moldings under a domed ceiling looming above. Fading in writhing splutters of paint, the rough beacon of scrapes left them alone once they entered this uncertain nexus point, dissipating into the nothingness. Claude¡¯s eyes swept across the strange room, taking in its surreal symmetry. Rows of cushioned doublet seats circled its edges to sprawl inwards, giving the place an almost ecclesiastical air. The arrangement made him think of some sort of amphitheater, or perhaps an overly dramatic parody of a church. ¡°Is that the girl?¡± Cole¡¯s voice called to his attention, his finger pointing towards a figure curled up on one of the many burgundy sofas, seemingly comfortable enough to sleep in the embrace of its velvet frame. There was little chance to mistake the identity of the slumbering form. Samantha Marlowe lay there, her small frame gently supported by the cushions. She wasn¡¯t exactly hard to identify, what with her characteristic dyed pastel pink hair, usually meticulously styled, but now splayed messily across her face ¡ªdeep breaths displacing the strands to offer fleeting glimpses of her snoring face. Her outfit was a bit of a fashion disaster, or that might be his own sense of style growing out of date. A vintage band t-shirt hung off one shoulder, its fabric frayed and faded, paired with high-wasted shorts that led to fishnet stockings. Those, too, eventually disappeared into chunky platform boots that seemed almost comically oversized on her petite frame. Claude wondered if someday, Ione would too dress in this loud manner and attempt silly and dangerous ideas, like exploring a missing celebrity¡¯s mansion of all things. The thought was quickly banished as he caught the expectant glances exchanged between Jagdhund and Cole, their silent implication clear ¡ªhe was to be the one to wake up the slumbering influencer. With a dejected sigh, the rookie detective surrendered to the peer pressure, noticing more details as he took cautious steps closer. Multiple earrings glinted along the curves of an ear, catching what little red light danced through the chamber. Her heavy makeup remained impeccably intact, a fact that struck Claude as odd given her days-long disappearance. It spoke of resilience, or perhaps just a deeply ingrained persona, though no reason changed it that had withstood the isolation that this place held. She would probably bring about a storm once she opened her eyes¡­ He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering uncertainly above her. The idea of poking her nose was quickly discarded upon noticing yet another piercing, so instead he decided on tapping her forehead tenderly. Once, then twice. Though she grumbled groggily at first, once she realized the situation, everything cascaded into sudden, explosive awareness. Samantha¡¯s eyes flew open, revealing irises of deep brown now wide in shock. In a chaotic scramble that belied her previous stillness, she bolted upright as her hand frantically grasped for something clutched close to her chest. Claude barely had time to react before he found himself staring down the handle end of a selfie stick, wielded like the most dangerous of weapons. ¡°You won¡¯t get me, paint monster!¡± Her cry was hoarse, tinged with fragile defiance. Wild eyes darted between them, from the stern expressions of Jagdhund and Cole to his apologetic attempt at a reassuring smile. Recognition slowly dawned in her gaze. ¡°Wait a second, you guys are¡­¡± ¡°No need for alarm. You¡¯re safe.¡± Claude tried to match her speaking pace, knowing that every second mattered to prevent her from panicking. ¡°We¡¯re with the¡ª¡± But Samantha¡¯s frantic energy outpaced even his quickest efforts. Her words tumbled out in a frenzied rush, her grip on the selfie stick wavering unsteadily. ¡°Yeah, no need, I know who you are!¡± Oh¡­ Did she recognize them by their uniforms? Even if her grin was far from assuaging, it was relieving that some semblance of logic still guided her thoughts. ¡°You¡¯re fans, right?¡± ¡­ Or so he thought. "Sheesh, you guys took your sweet ass time getting here." Samantha scrambled to her feet, her movements erratic, uncontrolled. "Do you have any idea how long I¡¯ve been waiting?¡± She gesticulated wildly with her free hand, the stick holding her phone cutting erratic arcs through the air. ¡°This girl¡¯s been counting the days, y¡¯know? One whole ass month!¡± Claude opened his mouth to interject, but that final comment left him reeling. One month? Even accounting for the disorienting effects that isolation could pose, that timeframe was wildly off. He exchanged a worried glance with the men behind him, but Samantha yapped on, oblivious to their growing concern. ¡°It''s a wonder I''m still sane and sound!¡± >> ¡°But that¡¯s okay. I¡¯m not about to let that bring me down.¡± ¡°Miss, please listen.¡± Claude tried again, his voice gentle but firm. ¡°We¡¯re here to help. You¡¯ve been¡ª¡± ¡°First, lemme get a good shot of y¡¯all.¡± The girl chirped, positioning herself behind her selfie stick, aiming at the group with an unnatural smile. ¡°I¡¯ve managed to keep the live going, and this is sure to rack a good amount of more views!¡± ¡°Live? But that thing is¡ª¡± Cole tried to assist, but Claude directed him a sharp look that immediately silenced him. Of course her phone was dead, its screen a blank, lifeless mirror. Yet Samantha¡¯s eyes darted back and forth, her cheeks flushed with fevered excitement. "Now make sure to smile, big guys!" The euphoric energy radiating from her was an uncomfortable, almost palpable mania. They had found her, yes, but what cost had this place had on her mind? Her unfocused gaze swirled with barely contained madness, enough to make Claude¡¯s skin crawl¡­ But if he made a misstep now, she might spiral even further away from reach. Eden Ruin -Part 5- Should he need a reason to tolerate Claude¡¯s nonsensical approach in pacifying Samantha Marlowe, it would be how utterly out of his depth Cole felt inside the innards of such bizarre place. It took a lot out of the officer to not submit to frustration and anger, each breath tainted with the stench of paint and decay taking a higher toll than the last. His fingers twitched intermittently, longing for a tangible target to handcuff and detain, but things weren¡¯t as simple as that in here. Drug dealers, drunken brawlers, petty thieves ¡ªthose he knew how to handle, even if it was often with more force than finesse. The choreography of street violence was a dance ingrained in him, one performed countless times ever since his teenage years. But this? To be presented by abstract puzzles in this warped parody of a funhouse? He didn¡¯t like, being forced like this to try and find meaning amidst the incomprehensible. It made him feel like a newbie all over again, fumbling in the dark for a non-existent rulebook. Not having much choice other than accepting his place, Cole simply watched as Claude navigated the minefield that the girl was, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at his attempts at theatrics. ¡°Yeah, of course we¡¯re here for you.¡± The younger detective reassured her, his voice soft as he wove a comforting narrative around Samantha¡¯s ravings. ¡°As a fan, I¡¯ve been so concerned it¡¯s unreal.¡± Playing along with delusions seemed counterproductive to him, a waste of precious time when they should be figuring out how to escape this elaborate trap. Yet as the girl¡¯s defenses lowered and her eyes brightened due to his words, Cole admitted begrudgingly that Claude¡¯s approach might¡¯ve had some merit ¡ªthough mostly he wondered how did he manage to keep that unfaltering smile of his. ¡°We might have missed some of the things you¡¯ve shared on our way.¡± >> ¡°So why don¡¯t you give me a recap of all that you¡¯ve seen during this¡­ Adventure?¡± The officer¡¯s jaw clenched, teeth grinding silently as he and Gianmarco were reduced to spectators. It felt wrong to him, to humor these fantasies. His experience taught him that reality needed to be faced head-on, no matter how harsh ¡ªbut there was a reason why preferred dealing with criminals rather than victims. To him, coddling was but a cruel tactic that served only to prolong an inevitable crash. But with Samantha¡¯s frantic energy starting to ebb, relaxing incrementally as she played along with Claude, Cole found himself reassessing. Initially, he had dismissed him as nothing more than a pushover. What with his overly long brown hair tied in a short ponytail, the solitary ear pendant accentuating his soft features, and the baggy clothes that concealed a lanky build ¡ªthey were all unbecoming of a proper police officer. He was an antithesis of the toughness that Cole equated with strength. Yet there he was, wielding kindness in a way he could dream of achieving, disarming volatile conversations with well-chosen words and heartfelt patience. Perhaps¡­ There was more than one way to be strong; a thought that nagged him at the back of his mind, as uncomfortable as it was persistent, challenging his long-held beliefs about effectiveness in their line of work. Since it wasn¡¯t his role to play along with Samantha¡¯s antics, Cole allowed her account of a supposed month-long ordeal to fade into background noise, his gaze drifting instead to the shadows that lurked at the room¡¯s edges. At times like these, he couldn¡¯t help but curse himself once more. For not being enough, for his inability to perceive a tangible blank amidst the malevolent intent slithering just beyond his awareness. Whatever temporary calm Claude was trying to achieve, the fact remained that they were very much far from safe. So his hand instinctively moved towards his holstered gun, hoping that if push came to shove, it might help them in any way to survive. Yet even as his fingers brushed the cold comfort of steel, he still felt woefully ill-equipped in this maw of uncertainty. Maybe a flamethrower would get him at ease. Needing to occupy his restless mind, Cole shifted from his position and attempted to wipe away the paint clinging to his clothes, disturbingly yet to dry. He chose a nearby sofa as his target, though the liquid proved incredibly stubborn to remove ¡ªits persistence heightening his unease as Samantha¡¯s words pierced through his superficial focus. She spoke of how the structure defied reality ¡ªof passages that moved when unobserved and rooms that rearranged themselves on a whim. Yet apparently certain landmarks remained constant, a paradox that Cole struggled to wrap his head around, building frustration as he rapidly gave up the idea of constructing a mental map of the place. Then she moved on to that so-called ¡®paint monster¡¯ of hers ¡ªa towering mass that never coalesced into one defined shape. According to the girl, it was a churning vortex of gradients, a blackened rainbow that hurt to look at for long. ¡°It¡¯s like¡­ If someone took every color in the world and threw them in a blender.¡± She explained energetically. ¡°It chases you, but slowly.¡± >> ¡°As if it had no rush at all to pursue.¡± Cole pondered what good bullets would do against such a thing, a consideration he deemed only partly necessary. He hadn¡¯t completely discarded the possibility that it was all inside her head. His senses picked up on a troubled glance thrown his way ¡ªGianmarco, eyeing the paint smears that refused to let go of his clothing. It was a brief yet tense standoff, though neither of them acted on any immediate impulse. ¡°In that regard, it¡¯s very unlike its children.¡± As Samantha¡¯s voice dropped to trembling whispers, Cole¡¯s attention was drawn back despite himself. ¡°Those are just¡­ The worst.¡± ¡°Children?¡± Claude asked gently, tilting his head with curiosity rather than fright. Samantha replied first with a vigorous nod, her uneven hair shaking under the strong motions. ¡°They¡¯re not like the big one¡­ More like portrait paintings that came to life, ones where the artist messed up all the proportions.¡± >> ¡°I¡¯m sure they were human once!¡± She rambled on, waving her arms frantically. ¡°But now they¡¯re all wrong and corrupted.¡± >> ¡°So please, if we ever come across any of them let¡¯s just run for it, ok?¡± ¡°Where exactly did you last see one of these, missy?¡± Gianmarco interrupted their conversation, his face set in a deathly grim expression. Cole Recognized the look ¡ªthe old man had likely reached the same conclusion he had. These ¡®children¡¯ Samantha spoke of could very well be other survivors, wrongfully labeled by her addled mind ¡ªbe it the Seagraves themselves, or others who had sparked the curse rumours in the first place. Her exuberant demeanor faltered under the scrutiny of the veteran detective. Cole similarly stepped closer, his posture unconsciously mirroring Gianmarco¡¯s. Actual danger or not, they had to verify her claims. ¡°I¡­¡± The girl¡¯s voice quivered as she glanced up at Claude, clearly hoping for any form of escape. Finding only encouraging nods, she continued reluctantly. ¡°Alright¡­ It¡¯s easier if I just lead you guys there.¡± >> ¡°But I want it on record that I think this is a very bad idea!¡± And thus, after what felt like an eternity of diplomatic maneuvering, they were finally on the move again. Samantha led them through one of the many doors connected to the circular room, with Claude matching his pace beside her. The younger detective continued his passive interrogation, perhaps to keep her distracted from her dead phone ¡ªor maybe just to prevent her from spiraling into panic. Cole initially listened as they walked, but his questioning yielded little of substance. He failed to uncover any hint behind Samantha¡¯s distorted sense of time, much less any potential escape route. Somehow, he managed his words well enough to avoid triggering anxiety in her, though eventually the girl¡¯s rambling devolved into chatter about social media trends and follower counts. Seizing the opportunity to disengage, the officer fell back alongside Gianmarco. With Samantha¡¯s voice carrying loudly ahead, he felt secure in having a private conversation. ¡°Look at him go.¡± Cole muttered, jerking his chin towards Claude, who somehow kept up with Samantha¡¯s topics. ¡°Do you think he seriously believes her, with this ridiculous monster-talk?¡± ¡°Claude?¡± Gianmarco¡¯s features softened briefly, surprising Cole as he appeared willing to talk. A part of him had expected the old guy to grunt and brush off the question. ¡°Sometimes even I don¡¯t know what that boy believes in.¡± >> ¡°But he has a keen sense, and he¡¯s very good at opening people up.¡± There was a clear fondness in his voice, very much like that of a father proud of his son. ¡°Maybe he does it unconsciously, I¡¯m not sure, but there¡¯s something about him that makes him easy to trust.¡± >> ¡°Or do you seriously think you and I could¡¯ve managed to entertain that girl into cooperating?¡± The implication that he¡¯d be unable to handle this situation on his own wasn¡¯t one Cole appreciated¡­ Yet he had to concede. The old man had a point, even if it stung his pride like a thorn. His usual method of muscling through emergencies and violent encounters alike was about as useful here as trying to punch smoke. And for that reason, while watching Claude smile despite all odds, a new resolve crystallized within Cole. If handling people wasn¡¯t his forte, he¡¯d contribute when action overshadowed talk. They¡¯d all make it out of this hellhole, even if he had to carry them out himself and slap the cuffs on Seagrave personally. That¡¯s what he was good at, right? Thoughtless action. The making of hard calls when others hesitated ¡ªor at least that was what his sense of justice dictated. Or so he tried to convince himself, despite the unending doubts biting the edges of his mind. Though he did his best to prevent such a thing from happening, his approach has backfired before during duty, earning admonishments from his superiors. No matter how hard he tried to help, he¡¯d never managed to connect with the kids at the community center, even when their experiences mirrored his own youth. And cutting deeper than any knife¡­ Aisha¡¯s disappointment during their last breakup also flashed before his eyes. ¡®Why can¡¯t you give people the same patience you do with your stupid plants!? I just can¡¯t take it anymore!¡¯ Her words echoed, refusing to fade. This wasn¡¯t the time, Cole told himself as he shoved introspection aside. Yet as he made his utmost to shake off the remorse, his mind was suddenly invaded by a pulsing image ¡ªtoo vivid for mere memory. It was that god-forsaken fig tree mural. Dark purple flowers assaulted his consciousness, his skull feeling like it might implode as the unnatural petals unfurled between erratically moving frames. Syconiums erupted in stark detail, each floret a spiral of distortion. Seeds and flesh reached out to him like grasping fingers, drawing his bloodshot eyes to the center with an undeniable pull. The figs¡¯ ostiole widened inside his pupils, devouring all surrounding light, and inside a void gaped ¡ªone capable of consuming his very thoughts. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Until an eye stared back from the depths, straight into his soul. A momentary collision that jolted him away from illusion. Pain throbbed wildly, so much that it felt like it would split his skull open. His feet wobbled as he snapped back to reality, the floor shifting like a storm-tossed ship. Gritting his teeth, Cole forced himself to straighten ¡ªhe wouldn¡¯t show weakness, he refused to it. Casting a furtive glance, the officer confirmed that the others remained too engrossed in Samantha¡¯s blabbering on like a tour guide, or at least enough to not notice his lapse. Must¡¯ve been the stress, he reasoned, or just this bizarre place getting to him. He¡¯d pull ahead, like always. Hadn¡¯t he survived growing up in that rough neighborhood, watching his father drink away the pain while his mother worked herself to the bone? Hadn¡¯t he clawed his way through the police academy, proving wrong everyone who¡¯d written him off as just another punk kid? This was just another obstacle. A poor excuse of a ghost story blown out of proportion ¡ªit had nothing on him. ¡°¡­ Buddy?¡± >> ¡°Are you doing okay?¡± Despite his efforts to mask the growing delirium, Cole couldn¡¯t hide his deteriorating condition from Claude¡¯s perception. It irked him¡­ No, it was more than that. It was an affront. To think that this fucker could see through his facade felt like a challenge to his self-imposed devotion to power and control. Or perhaps he was just in that bad of a state. Only the mounting anger managed to bring the swirling world into sharper focus. Real or imagined, insidious undercurrents of liquid swelled behind the woven paper walls stretching ahead ¡ªsmall droplets of black paint filtering through minuscule gaps. They had been there for a while already since they began walking, but they had grown harder and harder to ignore with each new traversed corridor. He felt feverish, intoxicated. As if someone had slipped a potent drug into his system. Maybe to confess his weakness would¡¯ve been the correct choice, yet¡­ ¡°Shut up. I don¡¯t need your damn help.¡± Cole snarled, swatting away Claude¡¯s outstretched hand. The words came out far harsher than he intended, fueled by the burns inflicted on his wounded pride. Driven by that surge of defiance, he charged ahead, shouldering past Gianmarco and Samantha to the front of their group. He moved with determined strides, even though he had no idea where they were going anymore. A blind, stubborn march forward, rooted in nothing but rejection of his own deficiency. Cole¡¯s steps faltered only when he was forced to rely on the wall at his side for support. For a brief moment, the surface felt warm, almost comforting in its pulses that resonated with his throbbing brain ¡ªso he immediately yanked his hand back, bloodshot eyes wide in fright. In mute horror, he raised his palm to his face, pupils dilating at the sight of tiny flecks of paint clinging to his skin. They writhed like living beings, desperately seeking to drill a path under his pores. With every blink, the purple flowers continued to bloom behind his eyelids... But what did they mean!? What did that monster want from him!? ¡°Cole, wait!¡± Claude¡¯s voice rang out again, this time filled with immediate, urgent worry rather than his unasked-for, patronizing concern. And so he turned, intending to identify what prompted the detective to yell like that ¡ªonly to find his own breath caught inside his throat. The trail he¡¯d walked had transformed, no longer the austere carpet he¡¯d left behind. Taking the outline of his footsteps a sea of blooms had erupted from the floor, their black-purple petals writhing and undulating as the fruit flesh danced to silent tune. ¡°What the¡­¡± Cole muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He took a faltering step backwards, only for more fig buds to manifest before his eyes, torn from his imagination and thrust onto the real world. A sickening, overly sweet scent wafted upwards, thick and cloying, bordering on intoxicating. Their presence was only the beginning. Suddenly, a low rumble reverberated through the underground passage, causing the very foundations to quake. The air itself seemed to ripple just beyond his grasp, as if a gaping wound gashed its way through the fabric of existence. From beneath the walls, a viscous, oily substance began to ooze forth ¡ªnot liquid nor solid, but something in between; a mass of shadows pulled by a new center of gravity, clustering and expanding in mid-air. The ethereal divide rapidly grew into a more imposing shape, stretching from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. It pulsed with an otherworldly vibrancy, flashes of crimson and midnight blue crackling across the unstable surface like lighting in a storm-tossed sky. Cole realized then that the fissure sought to separate them. ¡°Claude! Hound!¡± Cole shouted, momentarily surrendering to panic. They were still fully visible on the other side, their faces as shocked as his own. Gianmarco acted first and lunged forward, his large hand outstretched in a desperate attempt to reach him. But that, too, was to be halted. ¡°Don¡¯t touch it!¡± Samantha Marlowe screamed in terror, employing all her body weight to pull the older detective back, her warning similarly stopping Cole from launching himself to struggle against the blackened chasm. For an ephemeral moment that lasted a miniature lifetime, Cole raised his gaze to find Claude¡¯s ¡ªguilt-ridden and concerned. Even if he lashed out against the darkness, it¡¯d be futile now. The divide sealed itself with a disturbing wet sound, leaving him alone on his side of the newly formed barrier. Its texture wasn¡¯t smooth. It rippled like the surface of the sea, just translucent enough to make out the outlines of his colleagues on the other side. He wondered just how ill-advised it¡¯d truly be to try and plunge through¡­ ¡­ But was he that fearful of ending up alone? ¡°Cole, can you hear me?¡± Claude called out from the other side, slightly muffled yet still clear enough. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m fine.¡± He replied, forcing the tremors in his lips to disappear. ¡°What the hell is this thing?¡± As much as he wanted to give it all a rational answer, be it practical effects or optical illusions, there was little denying now that something certainly preternatural was going on inside that mansion ¡ªwork of the devil or something else, a certainty yet to be grasped. Conversation carried on above his hearing, but he remained at a safe distance from the living wall, waiting patiently for a conclusion to be reached. As they spoke, Cole couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that the thing itself was listening on them, swirling and reforming as it reacted to noise. ¡°Sami says that if you follow a path, we¡¯re bound to find each other at a new intersecting point.¡± Claude explained after a couple of minutes. ¡°I¡¯m sorry it had to happen like this, Cole.¡± >> ¡°We¡¯ll get out of this together, okay?¡± Cole groaned internally before replying. He didn¡¯t need such cheap optimism; they were all as equally lost inside this labyrinth. ¡°What else is there to do? We can¡¯t get anywhere if we stay put.¡± He finally relented, relieved at least that some of the mental fog had cleared after the chaos. ¡°I¡¯ll meet you there. Don¡¯t lag behind too much.¡± ¡°One more thing.¡± Claude¡¯s voice halted him before he could embark on his solo journey. ¡°She also says that there¡¯s a monster in your direction.¡± >> ¡°So, just in case¡­ Please stay safe.¡± That¡¯s how it was? One of those so-called monsters waited ahead for him? Then sure, let it come. He wouldn¡¯t have to play therapist to some damned creature at least. Whatever it was, he¡¯d give it a piece of his own book. ¡°Worry about yourself.¡± Cole retorted bitterly, drawing his gun and gripping it firmly, seeking reassurance in the certainty of its cold steel. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare die. Neither of you.¡± And so he set off alone, senses heightened and alert, mentally preparing for any abomination that might cross his path. The weight of the firearm provided a modicum of comfort, not sparing any headspace on the possibility that it might prove useless against the horrors ahead. It didn¡¯t take long for a subtle shift to emerge in the environment surrounding him, with Cole picking up a new recurrent theme in the imagery as he advanced through the hallways. The paintings and sculptures along the way carried a distinct motif, taunting his awareness while eluding his full understanding. One of the many Madonna and Child paintings caught his eye, the faces obscured by messy black brushstrokes. That wasn¡¯t the only odd detail in the portrait, as the mother¡¯s arms were uncannily elongated, wrapped protectively around the infant in a way that appeared more suffocating than comforting. Further along, a marble sculpture stood in an alcove. At first glance, it appeared to be a classical representation of a woman, but as Cole passed by, he could¡¯ve sworn the figure¡¯s belly swelled rapidly, as if his steps quickened the life within. The carpet beneath his feet gradually changed texture and patterns, becoming more wet and viscous. Above, the sporadic chandeliers took on organic shapes, their crystal teardrops holding what appeared to be pulsing veins highlighted by their reddish luminescence. Not like it mattered, Cole told himself as he shook his head trying to dispel the creeping unease. Better to dismiss them all entirely. He wasn¡¯t there to analyze the art inside this madhouse. Rounding a final corner, the hallway opened into a circular door frame dominated by a large, ornate glass ¡ªand nowhere else to go. Its frame was adorned with intertwining figures, women in various stages of pregnancy and children in early infancy, their faces serene yet somehow sorrowful. Cole approached cautiously, his diffuse reflection distorting under the stained crystal. For a moment, he thought he saw something move behind him through the mirroring surface. He quickly swirled around, gun raised, only to find empty space. Once he turned back, the tempered glass showed only himself, alone and on edge in this church of terrors. ¡°Come on, then¡­¡± Cole muttered, steeling himself. ¡°Did I find something I wasn¡¯t meant to?¡± >> ¡°Let¡¯s see just what you¡¯ve got.¡± Adrenaline surged after embracing the role of an action movie hero. With a forceful elbow strike, Cole shattered the ornate glass, sending crystal shards cascading around him. Sweeping away some stray remnants with his gun, the mirroring barrier gave way to reveal a hidden chamber beyond. Stepping through the jagged opening, his eyes drifted around the grotesquely distorted room ¡ªof two worlds colliding and merging into a warped amalgamation. On one side, rusted medical equipment and blood-stained incubators spoke of a twisted medical ward. The other half resembled a young boy¡¯s bedroom, though corrupted from easy recognition. Toys lay scattered, their plastic forms melted and fusing with the floorboards. But every bizarre detail paled in comparison to the monstrosity that dominated the center of the expansive room. A massive, emaciated figure hunched over what appeared to be a crib, its elongated arms reaching inside. As Cole watched, frozen for a minute, the creature seemed to be¡­ Cradling? A solitary wing, more bat-like than avian, furled tightly against its left shoulder, dark-veined skin tensed taut over spindly bones. On the right side of its frame, a broken, vestigial appendage twitched uselessly. His breath grew ragged, heart thundering inside his chest. This was it ¡ªthe moment of action he¡¯d been waiting for. A chance to prove himself, to overcome the weakness that had plagued him until then. His finger tightened on the trigger, ready to unleash bullets before thought. Yet¡­ He hesitated. ¡°Raise your arms!¡± The words tumbled from his mouth, unbidden. This wasn¡¯t what he wanted ¡ªhe planned to shoot first and ask later, but something held him back. ¡°Turn towards me and surrender!¡± >> ¡°Identify yourself!¡± And just like he asked, the figure slowly turned to face him, making Cole¡¯s blood run cold in the process. The creature towered several feet over him, its engorged belly distended grotesquely. Lank, dark hair, matted with grime and blood, framed a face that was no face at all. Where eyes, nose and cheeks should have been, there was only a massive, gaping maw. Yellowed teeth protruded at chaotic angles, a nightmare of misaligned bone and rot. The beast hunched defensively over a swollen abdomen, withered breasts hanging like deflated balloons against her ribcage. Her skin, a sickened gray, stretched painfully across her skeletal frame, poorly healed wounds and scars crisscrossing its surface like a roadmap of suffering. In places, her flesh gave the impression of cracked modeling clay, peeling off faintly with every movement to end up littering the floor. When his gaze traveled downward as it moved in towards him, Cole noticed that the hands partly supporting her weight ended in sharp, knife-like claws that glinted dully in the dim light. Scattered across her body, small breathing holes wheezed out a constant mist, filling the air with an acrid haze that the officer couldn¡¯t quite identify yet. Any further word died in his throat, his hands trembling in the struggle to maintain his aim. A low, guttural growl emanated from her cavernous mouth in acknowledgment of his presence, extinguishing any hope of establishing whatever form of communication. He had been... Naive. This wasn¡¯t some common criminal to be taken down. This was something else ¡ªa monster beyond his comprehension or capabilities. As the creature took a lumbering step forward, inky droplets falling from her wet hair, Cole¡¯s confidence crumbled entirely. The gun in his hands felt¡­ Empty, useless. How foolish of him to think he could face this alone, that sheer willpower could overcome the impossible. Realization hit him like a punch to the gut. There was no way he could take this thing down with bullets alone. Eden Ruin -Part 6- ¡°So how far away exactly is that intersecting point?¡± Though he tried hard to evoke warmth in his voice, Claude¡¯s question hung in the air devoid of his usual cheer. The group spirit had dwindled considerably since resuming their path, the impact of missing a member weighing heavily on their collective morale. The air itself seemed thicker, laden with unspoken fears and regrets ¡ªcrucial moments before Cole¡¯s separation replaying inside Claude¡¯s head, searching for the misstep, the oversight that led to this. ¡°We¡¯ll get there, Claude.¡± Jagdhund chimed in, severity softening in an attempt at comfort. ¡°It wasn¡¯t your fault.¡± While he appreciated his support, it was hard to take it at face value. Guilt was like a persistent ache that refused to subside. He should¡¯ve noticed Cole¡¯s displacement earlier, try and prevent his outburst if possible, find a way to keep them all together. Claude felt responsible, those precious seconds of hesitations having now felt like a sentence, with a life potentially hanging in the balance. A defeated sigh escaped from the young detective¡¯s lips, heavy with the burden of self-recrimination. He ran a hand through now partly untied hair, fingers catching on tangles formed by sweat and dried blood now flaking off. Sensitive or not to the oppressive mood, Samantha found the timing there to finally answer his question. ¡°Um¡­ I¡¯m sorry to say this, but I¡¯m not super well-acquainted with this part of the mansion.¡± She said with a nervous smile, her previous exuberance temporarily dimmed by the grim tension that had fallen over the two men. ¡°From here onwards¡­ You really start risking encountering a monster.¡± The still enigmatic nature of this place, as well as the mention of monsters, as alarming as they were, presented Claude with an opportunity to redirect his troubled thoughts. He latched onto them, his natural inquisitiveness reaching surface despite the dire circumstances. ¡°They limit themselves to this place?¡± Claude followed up, brow furrowed in concentration. ¡°That¡¯s odd.¡± ¡°Well, not exactly¡­¡± Samantha replied, raising a hand to her chin as she tried to tap into her memories. ¡°It¡¯s more like¡­ They always return to this place.¡± >> ¡°As if there was something they¡¯re drawn to.¡± Claude tried to deduce the possibilities. What could exactly be anchoring these entities here? ¡°I wonder¡­¡± He mused, detective instincts kicking into motion. ¡°We¡¯re talking about the corrupted ones, right?¡± >> ¡°Would you say their monster state is only because they were caught by the paint one? Or are there other factors that might be relevant?¡± A very important question, since they needed to do everything in their power to prevent ending up like that. Samantha, who looked as normal as ever, might have some clues of what she had done differently ¡ªimplying, of course, that it wasn¡¯t her mind playing tricks on her. ¡°Beats me!¡± She said with a childish smile and a shrug of her shoulders, the gesture eliciting a slight tremble in one of Claude¡¯s eyebrows. ¡°That kinda complicated stuff is beyond me. How should I know?¡± While her answer made sense on a surface level, he truly would¡¯ve preferred she took the situation more seriously. He had a lot of patience, he truly did, but even that wore itself thin at times. Before he could rephrase his question, hoping to coax out a more useful response out of Samantha, the girl turned the tables on him. She spun on her heel, walking backwards with a grace that seemed at odds with their treacherous surroundings. Her face bore an expression of innocent curiosity, tinged with something that Claude couldn¡¯t quite place. ¡°Are you worried about your friend?¡± She asked, her tone light, almost playful. It was like the place had no toll on her mind whatsoever, her recovery from earlier scares seemingly complete. ¡­ Was she that good at coping with the surreal horrors of this place? ¡°I am.¡± Claude admitted, the growing unease in his chest belied with a soft smile, not wanting concern to twist into apathy or anger. ¡°I just want us all to get out of here safe and sound.¡± Samantha¡¯s face clouded over as his words hung in the air, a fragile hope in the oppressive atmosphere of the underground mansion, brighter shades of red from the artificial lighting changing into mute, darkened grays and yellows. She appeared pensive for a fleeting moment before turning away in a silence pregnant with unspoken implications. When she finally spoke, her words fell like lead weights in Claude¡¯s stomach. ¡°That might be difficult.¡± A chill ran down his spine, screaming at the nonchalance in her voice. How could be so cavalier about their situation? About Cole¡¯s fate? He searched in her steps for any sign of empathy, of human concern, but found only an unsettling blankness. ¡°You see, that path the black guy took?¡± Samantha continued, her tone disturbingly matter-of-fact. ¡°There is just one monster there¡­¡± Claude¡¯s jaw clenched, anger flaring at how she spoke of Cole ¡ªnot as a person, but as some abstract concept, a piece in a game she seemed detached from. ¡°¡­ But her presence alone is enough to ward off all the others.¡± She trailed off, her gaze distant. ¡°I¡¯m sure she¡¯s been here the longest.¡± Venturing deeper into the mansion brought along gradual changes in the hallways¡¯ ambiance. The wallpaper, previously adorned with refined curved shapes, now bore blunt brutalist patterns that reminded Claude of abstract cogs ¡ªthe fabric peeling off at times to reveal thick blocks of concrete underneath, blackened under stains of humidity. ¡°Not like we¡¯ll have an easier time, though.¡± Samantha added with a sigh that spoke more of mild inconvenience than fear. ¡°Every other monster is pushed to this side, so¡­¡± The ceiling opened into several floors, the structure now making him feel small in contrast to its previous claustrophobic spaces. Alcoves above held strange sculptures, tangles of inanimate hands fighting for jewels and coins; and golden picture frames held canvases that depicted grand heists and daring escapes, their subjects always obscured by shadows. Whatever deeper significance that they might held, the urgency of the ongoing conversation pulled Claude¡¯s attention away. He couldn¡¯t afford distracted now, considering the importance of finding Cole ¡ªso the younger detective allowed the unsettling imagery to loom in his peripheral vision. ¡°Listen, missy. I¡¯ve been a real good sport ¡®till now, staying quiet during all the nonsense.¡± Perhaps having finally taken enough, Jagdhund growled dangerously. ¡°But you¡¯re pushing your luck.¡± >> ¡°I¡¯m getting real tired already. Fix that attitude of yours, or you¡¯ll be leaving this place in cuffs. Y¡¯hear?¡± Claude tensed, ready to intervene, to play the mediator as he so often did. Yet he didn¡¯t find it in him to play the good cop now, a part of him understanding and even sharing Jagdhund¡¯s frustration. ¡°Didn¡¯t I say this was a bad idea from the get-go?¡± Samantha retorted, unfazed by the threat as she walked several steps ahead of them. ¡°Don¡¯t shoot the messenger, grampa.¡± She turned flashing an impervious smile. ¡°I also want to get out of here as much as you do.¡± >>"There was a cool con I missed while trapped in this hellhole, plus I''m worried my fans might start to get bored too. Look-alike hallways can only do so much after all." She continued, further complicating their discussion as she pulled out her dead phone, tapping absentmindedly at the darkened screen. ¡°Gosh, I hope they¡¯re still watching.¡± >> ¡°I can¡¯t afford to lose followers over this.¡± The disconnect between their reality and Samantha¡¯s words made it hard for Claude to fully suppress a groan. What could he do now that she was ¡®scrolling¡¯ through her lifeless device, muttering something or other about engagement rates and livestream schedules? Regardless of how right or wrong it might¡¯ve been to humor such defense mechanisms this far, Claude took a cautious step towards her, deciding that it was about time to start unraveling the mess. ¡°Samantha, your phone¡­¡± He began, though he wasn¡¯t given much of a chance to finish the sentence. ¡°Ugh. Didn¡¯t I tell you not to call me that?¡± She quickly silenced him, her eyes quivering before being forcibly rolled. Whether the trembles were caused by confusion or fear, all was hastily buried under whatever argument she could conjure out of thin air. ¡°Just use Sami if you have to use a cringe legal name.¡± >> ¡°I swear, it¡¯s almost like you¡¯re not fans at all.¡± ¡°You¡¯re right, we¡¯re not.¡± Jagdhund finally clarified, undoing the net of comforting lies that Claude had woven. At the very least his imposing tone couldn¡¯t be interrupted under her fast retorts. ¡°We¡¯re the police.¡± >> ¡°And I won¡¯t hesitate to confiscate that dead phone if I have to.¡± The younger detective braced himself for impact. Be it a violent outburst or a frantic chase¡­ Yet¡­ She simply smiled back, as if she wasn¡¯t surprised in the slightest. ¡°Honestly? Skill issue.¡± She laughed back at the threats, even if it was a hollow, brittle thing. ¡°Of course it¡¯s working, silly. I¡¯ve been updating my followers this whole time. They¡¯re counting on me to share all the truth!¡± While speaking, her fingers moved frantically across the black screen, a frenzied pantomime of connection. ¡°Can¡¯t you see?¡± The desperation in her voice made Claude¡¯s chest constrict. How much of this performance was genuine delusion, and how much of it a farce? >> ¡°They love me. I can¡¯t let them down.¡± Samantha¡¯s voice cracked, the polished persona fracturing under the pressure. ¡°I can¡¯t¡­ I can¡¯t¡­¡± For a terrible moment, Claude considered perpetuating her fantasy. It would be easy to nod along, to spare her the pain of confronting reality this soon¡­ But to do so would be to trap her further in this prison of imagined relevance and adoration. Sometimes¡­ Compassion required cruel honesty. ¡°Sami, listen to me.¡± Claude tried again, finally able to close the distance between them. His hands found her shoulders, grip gentle but grounding. ¡°It¡¯s okay. We¡¯re here, and we¡¯re real.¡± >> ¡°There¡¯s no need to pretend anymore.¡± His eyes were met by hers, wide and vulnerable. This was the last push needed to challenge her perception, to finally help her see the truth even if it only left raw, terrified humanity behind. But sadly, it wasn¡¯t meant to be. Before Samantha could utter another word, an echoing howl reverberated through the gallery, far too close for comfort. It was a haunting sound that spoke of madness, of savagery, but more importantly¡­ ¡­ Of the distorted beast now staring down at them from above. Claude¡¯s heart stuttered as his neck snapped upwards. There, perched in the alcoves, he found¡­ It. Such a creature was nothing but a grotesque mockery of humanity, straddling the line between man and monster like nothing Claude had ever seen before. Though its shape retained a burly, masculine outline, patches of torn clothes revealed something grimier than flesh underneath, almost oily in its mass. Even more disturbing still was its face. One side retained recognizable human features ¡ªin a bloodshot, suffering eye and the remnants of a jaw. The other, however, was perverted beyond recognition, a darkened pupil-less orb bulging outwards like a chameleon¡¯s, paired with a mouth that stretched into a fanged maw. Predatory intelligence gleaming within, the mismatched eyes of the beast locked onto the group. In a leap that betrayed its uneven anatomy, it launched itself down, howls warping into a visceral shriek. ¡°What in god¡¯s name is¡ª¡± Jagdhund¡¯s composure shattered as he fumbled for his weapon, too stunned to coordinate his hands properly. It was all happening too fast, with even Claude¡¯s years of experience waging a losing war against the sheer impossibility before them. ¡°Samantha! We need to move, now!¡± The younger detective screamed. Yet she remained rooted in place, raising her phone as if it could shield her from the descending abomination. ¡°Wait, wait! This is perfect content! I need to record this!¡± The absurdity of her inaction in the face of mortal danger left Claude reeling. Even now, with a nightmare made flesh bearing down upon them, she clung to this delusion of an audience. And more surprising, somehow, was his own stubborn refusal to abandon her. Claude wrapped his arms around the girl¡¯s shoulders, pulling her down alongside him ¡ªcarrying the hope that his body could offer enough protection from the impending onslaught of teeth and claws. ¡°You pair of stupid brats!¡± Jagdhund roared, charging in their direction as the younger detective closed his eyes, bracing for pain. Whatever happened next, Claude couldn¡¯t tell much aside from the blur of sound and sensations not entirely his own. Bodies colliding, the tearing of clothes and flesh, the monster¡¯s shriek, followed by a sickening crunch of meat and metal ¡ªthe drumming of his hammering heart almost drowning it all out. ¡°Don¡¯t even think about playing the hero.¡± His mentor¡¯s gruff, yet somehow calmer voice managed to cut through the shock. ¡°You¡¯re still far too green for that.¡± >> ¡°I¡¯m not going to give Ione bad news right after her birthday.¡± The words hit Claude harder than any potential blow from a vicious beast ever could. He was right, there was somewhere, someone, he had to return to ¡ªa reason to fight tooth and nail for a life he couldn¡¯t afford to lose. ¡°I apologize¡­ It won¡¯t happen again.¡± He managed to reply, panting. His misstep now bore undeniable consequences. Four deep gashes stretched down from Jagdhund¡¯s shoulder, tearing through his trench coat and flaying the skin beneath. Blood trailed down his arm in thin, understated trickles, marring the floor carper. Despite the wounds, the veteran kept his firm, proud posture. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. ¡°No time for that. We still have to deal with whatever the fuck this thing is.¡± As Claude pushed the now-silent Samantha behind them, his gaze returned to the monstrosity, contorting back to its feet after most likely been tackled by Jagdhund. Its movements were uneven with spasmodic twitches, as if a human still tried and failed to fight against a newer, more savage nature. Claude¡¯s analytical mind whirred, cataloging details even as survival instinct screamed at him to flee instead. Fragments of rusted chains adorned its misshapen body, hanging from its neck and wrists, each laden with innocuous items ¡ªlike a half-conscious collection of pilfered treasures. Rings, watches and other pieces of jewelry had also sunk into swollen, graying flesh, clinking softly with each erratic motion. What had this thing once been, and how long had it been trapped inside this place to end up this warped? Questions that would have to wait as the creature tensed once more, preparing to strike. ¡°We¡¯ll have to take it down, won¡¯t we?¡± Claude asked hesitantly, the jewel-encrusted body of the beast glinting ominously under the dim light. He still wanted to find a solution that didn¡¯t end in bloodshed, for despite its horrific appearance, the younger detective was certain that somewhere beneath those layers of corruption a human heart still lingered. ¡°Can¡¯t see any other way.¡± Jagdhund dictated grimly, the two detectives readying their weapons for the inevitable confrontation. Adrenaline had already begun surging through his bloodstream, heartbeats accelerating from locking eyes with the creature alone. Yet despite the dire circumstances¡­ He had to try. ¡°We don¡¯t want to hurt you.¡± Claude called out, his voice quivering faintly as they held the creature at gunpoint. ¡°If there¡¯s any part of you that can still understand, please¡ª¡± Pleas were cut short under the edge of a bone-chilling roar, the detectives finding themselves at the other end of the monster¡¯s savage rush. Compassion quickly made way for survival instincts. Jagdhund¡¯s gun barked first, its blast deafening for a fleeting instant before its echoes were swallowed by the sprawling gallery. Claude¡¯s own shots followed not soon later, muscle memory overriding reservations ¡ªwhatever necessary to stop the creature¡¯s advancement. Bullets tore into the grotesque form, not quite the trump cards they expected. Instead of blood, a viscous black substance sprayed from the wounds, staining walls and the carpet alike ¡ªflesh pierced by the cold ruthlessness of firearms. It wasn¡¯t enough. Grievous wounds being callously dismissed the creature showed no sign of slowing, driven by a wild drive beyond human limitations. Claude¡¯s hands trembled, the weight of his gun suddenly unbearable. Reduced to spectator, Jagdhund set forward in a determined grimace, throwing his weapon aside to intercept the beast directly ¡ªarms outstretched as they collided in a tangle of muscle and fury. The skirmish was a brutal, chaotic affair, of blurs of necrotic flesh and glinting jewelry. Though Jagdhund¡¯s experience and physical prowess allowed him to hold his own, or even strike back at times, the creature¡¯s monstrous anatomy and savage attacks swiftly took their toll. Fresh cuts diced across his mentor¡¯s frame, crimson streaks staining his already tattered coat. At one point, the beast¡¯s maw snapped shut on the old man¡¯s right shoulder, eliciting a painted grunt from the stoic detective. Each thump inside his chest was but a painful reminder of his pitiful inadequacy at this crucial moment. He tried to line up a shot, but the frantic movements of the two made it impossible to fire without risking Jagdhund¡¯s safety. The scene before him was one of absolute disaster ¡ªpunctuated by snarls, the impact of fists, and the sickening sound of claws tearing flesh. Standing there, paralyzed by indecision, Claude¡¯s heart cried out. His thoughts turned to Ione, to her smile and laughter when the three of them shared dinner. ¡­ She had already lost so much. Kristen, a woman his teenage self had barely even gotten to know, abandoned them shortly after Ione¡¯s birth. Though he didn¡¯t bear his own grudge against her, it was depriving his daughter of a mother what he truly couldn¡¯t forgive ¡ªor was he only shifting blames? Ione¡¯s grandma, Lydia, had also passed away, having only a few years in her to imprint in his daughter the mystic legacy of their bloodline. He didn¡¯t want to do it again, to have to explain to Ione that their already small family would shrink even further. The thought alone was unbearable. To tell her that uncle Jagdhund would never visit again, when she was old enough to understand already ¡ªthat he¡¯d be the one to blame, the one who failed to protect the old mutt. It was something he couldn¡¯t allow to happen¡­ And so he wouldn¡¯t. With a surge of conviction, Claude steeled himself to join the fray. He may not have Jagdhund¡¯s imposing physique, but he had to try ¡ªat least to find a spot from where to shoot at point blank. For Ione. For their family. The detective took a step forward, ready to throw himself into harm¡¯s way if it meant surviving together¡­ But before he could close the distance, a sharp, lacing pain exploded inside his skull. It was as if someone had driven an ice pick directly into his brain, an agony so sudden and intense that it drove him to his knees. Whispers darted across his consciousness like a storm of unintelligible words. Why this? Now? Again? This quickly? Why? Why!? Why so strong that it snuffed out all reason left in him!? In the primordial darkness where his senses were plunged, Claude understood that this message was very different from all the others, words coalescing into a shape before his mind¡¯s eye. The white pupil searched frantically across the corners of his soul¡­ Until fixating straight onto him. Claude clutched his head, a strangled cry forced out of his lungs as the world around him warped and distorted back into a diffuse focus. From there onwards, his body moved on its own accord, propelled by an instinct deeper than thought. Everything around him blurred, focus narrowing down to one singular point ¡ªthe creature. Pendulum¡¯s rope materialized from his chest and was swiftly clutched by his palms. The death blade swung in a graceful arc, its obsidian edge hungering for the corrupted flesh before it. Like regaining full control of a limb that had been missing, Pendulum whistled through the air as a haunting melody of impending doom. Striking from its back, the living weapon bit deep into the creature¡¯s misshapen form. Black and red ooze erupted from the deep wound as an inhuman cry was forced out the creature¡¯s throat, eyes bulging wild with pain and fury as Claude wrenched it off Jagdhund. The detective pressed forward once more, his motions fluid and precise, swinging Pendulum in wide, deadly arcs that left ghostly afterimages in its wake. Each strike found its mark, tearing through corrupted flesh as the spectral rope writhed and tensed, guiding each devastating blow with uncanny precision. Though what should¡¯ve been lethal wounds continued to pile up with each passing moment, the monster still attempted desperate counterattacks. Any claw that managed to strike the blade ended ruthlessly brutalized by Pendulum, which danced and weaved around Claude in a phantom sword dance ¡ªdisappearing and reappearing according to each new arc of his arms, only the thread linking the two of them remaining. With each consequent slice, the creature¡¯s movement grew sluggish and weak, unable to match their lethal tango. A particularly vicious slash across its chest sent it crashing down to the floor, its body threatening to split into two. But its twitching limbs signaled to Claude that the threat was yet to be fully neutralized ¡ªso in a final, decisive motion, Pendulum manifested itself high above his head. The living blade fell like the ancient judgment from a dark god, a vertical guillotine cleaving through skull and sinking into the carpet without anything close to resistance. Only after confirming the head had split into two did Claude finally recall it, the rope receding into his body like an anchor line. Silence regained its domain in the hallway, broken by Claude¡¯s ragged breathing alone. Pendulum hung limply at his side, a blade larger and thicker than both his arms combined ¡ªand in that moment he took its full splendor in. An obsidian surface that devoured the dim light around it, leaving the faintest shimmer along its sharp edge. Intricate patterns of veins and tissue pulsating across its length, conforming into a fleshy rope that disappeared inside his being. A single, large and unsettling white eye bulging on the base of the blade, its inhuman pupil now staring back at him. For a moment, Claude simply stood there, chest heaving and dazed as his mind grappled with this new presence ¡ªthis was¡­ Pendulum. ?But how did he know that? His introspection was abruptly cut short by a high-pitched squeal that briefly put the detective back on edge. Its origin was the pink-haired girl. ¡°Holy shit, that was epic!¡± She exclaimed, any semblance of fear completely left behind. ¡°Can barely believe I¡¯ve got all that on video!¡± >> ¡°You¡¯ve been holding on us, Claude. Once we¡¯re out of this creepy funhouse we totally gotta do an encore.¡± The experience still had him reeling, muscles trembling from exertion and mind struggling to process everything. Around him, the walls were scarred by deep gouges where Pendulum had scraped against them, the hallway full of aftermath signs of the battle. ¡°What in¡­ What was that?¡± Forcing himself back on a firm posture, the tone in Jagdhund¡¯s voice was unable to conceal the concern and confusion. ¡°How did you¡­¡± >> ¡°Was it this place¡¯s wind? Light trickery?¡± ¡°Wind? Light? Are you going blind, old man?¡± Samantha chided mockingly. ¡°It¡¯s right there in front of your silly face, that sick-looking blade thingy.¡± As the pink-haired girl approached, hand outstretched to touch Pendulum, a sudden surge of protectiveness overtook Claude. With barely a thought, he mentally called the living weapon back ¡ªand so it vanished in an instant, leaving no trace of its existence. Claude blinked, startled by how naturally he was able to command it. How was he even doing that? ¡°A blade? Where? What blade?¡± Jagdhund¡¯s confusion was transparently obvious, his eyes scanning the now empty space where Pendulum had been long ago. He doubted the veteran would lie now¡­ It was easier to believe that he truly was unable to see it. Swallowing hard, the younger detective forced his features into a mask of calmness he didn¡¯t feel. ¡°Haha¡­ I¡¯m not entirely sure what¡¯s going on either.¡± He admitted, trying to recover his lighthearted attitude. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s some sort of shared delusion caused by this place?¡± >> ¡°Or maybe the beginning of corruption?¡± The implication tensed his mentor¡¯s shoulder immediately, so Claude quickly tried to change the topic. ¡°Whatever it is, there¡¯s nothing to gain by puzzling it out now, is there?¡± >> ¡°Shouldn¡¯t reuniting with Cole take priority?¡± It was easier this way; the alternative being confronting the possibility of reality starting to slip through his fingers like sand. ¡°You might be right¡­¡± Jagdhund muttered, his narrowed eyes etched with suspicion. ¡°But don¡¯t think for a second this is the end of that talk.¡± As he spoke, the veteran detective brushed past Claude with purposeful strides, coming to a halt before the corpse ¡ªa sight he had been subconsciously avoiding until now. Like a wax sculpture left to the mercy of a furnace, the corruption that had warped the monster¡¯s form had begun melting away. Deviant limbs and muscles slowly deflated, misshapen bones pushing through liquefying flesh as they realigned into a more recognizable human visage. What remained was little more than miserable. The man¡¯s original body lay splayed in a broken heap, limbs twisted in unnatural angles. Deep smooth gashes, Pendulum¡¯s handiwork, carved a grisly roadmap across its mutilated body. A split cranium spilled its content pitifully, mingling with the rapidly cooling blood, now a normal hue of red. Scattered around the corpse were fragments of the jewelry and trinkets that had been fused to flesh, though even those too were dissipating into the miasma that clung to the mansion¡¯s walls like a sentient fog. ¡°We know this poor sap, don¡¯t we, Claude?¡± Jagdhund stated, more observation than an inquiry. Indeed, despite how his features had suffered a gruesome fate by his hands, the face was unmistakably one in their watch list ¡ªthat of a man directly tied to the disappearance rumours that had first kindled the mansion¡¯s online infamy. ¡°That¡¯s LaCaze, there¡¯s little mistaking him.¡± The younger detective confirmed, the name leaving a bitter taste in his mouth knowing he had been the one responsible for his death ¡°A thief likely lured in by the radio silence of the affluent Seagraves.¡± ¡°Member of a gang that works in packs.¡± Jagdhund finished the explanation ¡ªthe two of them arriving at the same, ominous conclusion. And as if summoned by their realization, a chorus of inhuman howls echoed far ahead, their distance hard to measure in the treacherous geometry of the underground gallery. ¡°We¡¯ll return to the last junction.¡± Jagdhund straightened unwaveringly, refusing to acknowledge all the sustained wounds. ¡°This path is only going to get more dangerous.¡± Claude thought for a moment then nodded, it was better than dealing with the things making those noises. Samantha¡¯s reaction, however, caught him off guard. ¡°Eh? No!¡± She exclaimed, her eyes wide with a disproportionate panic. ¡°We can¡¯t go back! This is the only way forward!¡± ¡°Nonsense. Weren¡¯t you the one who claimed all paths converged?¡± The hound cut her off, eyes narrowing. Claude never even questioned the girl¡¯s guidance this far, having only followed her absentmindedly. The older detective, though, appeared to have been doing so in a more discerning fashion. ¡°You don¡¯t understand.¡± Samantha insisted, her carefree, almost flippant attitude completely gone. ¡°We have to keep going like this¡­ It¡¯s¡­¡± >> ¡°It¡¯s for the content! My followers would get angry if¡ª¡± ¡°That¡¯s enough.¡± His patience wearing thin, Jagdhund¡¯s tone allowed no room for objections. ¡°We won¡¯t rely on Claude doing all the fighting for us.¡± >> ¡°We¡¯re going back. And that¡¯s final.¡± It was hard not to feel a twinge of pity, but regardless of it Jagdhund had already made his choice and began walking without waiting for them. Not without some sulking and verbal resistance, Samantha followed the group in the retracing of their steps. The return trip wasn¡¯t all that substantial, they didn¡¯t go all the way to the place where they had separated with Cole, but enough for the gray lighting and concrete to recede into the usual ambiance of the lavish gallery. Sure enough, as Jagdhund intended, they broke from the path Samantha had guided them halfway into a brand new intersection. Along the way, Claude couldn¡¯t keep himself from noticing Samantha¡¯s increasingly erratic behavior. Her eyes darted around wildly, as if searching for escape routes or hidden dangers. Fingers moved restlessly at her sides, occasionally reaching for the dead phone in her pocket before jerking away as if it burned. ¡°No, no, no¡­¡± She muttered under her breath, barely audible. ¡°It¡¯s not supposed to go like this¡­¡± >> ¡°The algorithm¡­ The engagement¡­ They¡¯ll forget about me.¡± Whatever delusion had taken hold of her mind now, she was clearly deeply entrenched. He wondered, not for the first time, just how long she had truly been trapped inside this place. Two or three days shouldn¡¯t have that severe a repercussion in someone¡¯s psyche ¡ªthough, of course, that was assuming she was sound of mind to begin with. Rounding one more corner amidst so many, the environment began to shift once again. The red hues of the hallway¡¯s lighting became more dim, scarce artificial illumination interrupting the dark with a cascade of shifting colors like liquid crystal drifting fluidly, like that of a gaming keyboard in motion. Instead of canvases, walls were lined with countless screens of various sizes, each displaying fragmented images and snippets of unstable video. Some displayed Samantha¡¯s face, frozen in expressions of joy or shock and over-edited to the point of exaggeration. Others showed empty halls and bedrooms, though Claude was unable to decipher their origin or meaning. Between every other screen rapidly scrolling text darted, their message lost under a corrupted font; and the floor beneath their feet was a dizzying mosaic of icons and glitching emojis, rippling under their steps like disturbed digital water. Every now and then, their silence was interrupted by the sounds of notifications played on a loop ¡ªlikes, shares, new followers¡­ All of it a little too much for Claude. Just like how the environment had changed before encountering LaCaze, or what was left of him, these new surroundings too were likely to be reflections of someone¡¯s inner world. Its owner... Not exactly hard to pinpoint. Had Samantha intentionally steered them away from this place? A hard to ignore thought, especially when considering the uncharacteristic silence that had fallen over their relegated guide ¡ªher expression unreadable beneath the flickering, deceptive light of the countless screens. Her slow steps already made her fall behind them by the time they reached another compact, circular chamber, its center dominated by a monument to digital narcissism. Hundred of smartphones fused together in a vaguely humanoid sculpture that stretched towards the ceiling, each screen looping some clips of Samantha¡¯s carefully presented life. Thick cords, beating with an eerie blue iridescence connected the devices, giving the impression of a technological nervous system. But it was the base of this chimera that sent a wave of anguish through Claude¡¯s spine. There, partially submerged in a pool of viscous, dark paint that clung to her like living, hungry gossamer webbing was¡­ Samantha, again. Without hesitation, Jagdhund wasted no time before approaching the motionless figure, Claude watching his dread as his mentor knelt beside the body. The replica¡¯s pink hair obscured most of her face, lending an air of macabre enigma to the already morbid scene. Gently, the old man brushed aside her hair, intensifying Claude¡¯s nausea as a result. The paint clung to her skin, pulsing and writhing as if desperately trying to claim more of her, inch by inch. Tear tracks carved paths through heavy makeup, frozen on a now inert face. A tense silence fell as Jagdhund¡¯s fingers found her neck, delivering the verdict after an agonizing moment, cutting through the heavy atmosphere. "She''s dead." Unable to reconcile with this heart-rending paradox, Claude¡¯s mind was left reeling. The confirmation of the replica¡¯s lifelessness should have brought relief, but instead, it only intensified the growing suspicion and fears for the worst. If this Samantha was dead, then what did that mean for the girl who had been guiding them? The one who now stood silently behind them, a dark silhouette against the artificial glow? ¡°Samantha¡­¡± Claude¡¯s voice wavered, a tremor of uncertainty seeping through his usual composure. The soft click of Jagdhund¡¯s gun safety being disengaged echoed ominously across the chamber. ¡°¡­ What is this?¡± He asked, slowly turning to face their guide, heart pounding so furiously that he felt his legs might give way. He paused, swallowing hard. The next question felt heavy on his tongue, its delivery prolonged like the looming of a vulture heralding demise. ¡°¡­ Who are you?¡± Eden Ruin -Part 7- Not seeing, but feeling, Miles followed the subtle ripples and tremors carried across his conscience, the signals made by the intruders as they continued breaching further into his domain. Echo by echo, whisper by whisper, their essence seeped into his understanding, determination and fear alike becoming a palpable matter that roused him from his limbonic slumber. Mirage Asylum, ever-vigilant, reacted by coiling tight around his psyche, hissing silent, venomous reminders of a fate already consigned. His spectral jailer, turned out, hungered for strife. To trust strangers was to invite sorrow, it said. For all souls betook to drift astray in the very end, it said. He understood it well, the futility of rebellion against this dimensional enslavement, that resistance held little meaning in this cruel entrapment where time and space ran void. Yet Miles still fought. His will, battered and frayed as it was, clung to those defiant sparks of humanity. His heart, corroded and withered as it was, compelled him to seek out for any sign of light being chased away by the devouring shadows. The paint monster, tormentor and symbiote, writhed in protest against every strain. Its primordial evil found no rest inside him, seeking to consume and corrupt anyone its tendrils could ensnare. With dwindling strength, Miles struggled to keep the presence in check, to halt its attempt to interfere as the intruders ventured into Asylum¡¯s core. An excruciating war it was, raging within the confines of his skull. Each mental command issued to restrain Mirage Asylum was met with searing agony, as if molten lead were being poured directly into his synapses. Painful or not, he had to persevere. This hell was his burden alone ¡ªand anyone caught in it deserved his effort and protection, meager as it might be. Sever this chain to soil, it said. You can¡¯t help anybody, it said. Even in this meager role of a warden, the shame of failure pursued him relentlessly. The taunts ruthlessly impaled his ego, as his best attempts at containment failed to prevent Cole Benoit from treading grounds Miles would¡¯ve preferred concealed. Though he had no method to know for certain, the dark feeling of awareness seeped inside him like a spreading infection. Shelley¡­ He was unable to at least spare her the indignity of being exposed in her current state ¡ªfor Miles was now terribly aware that her corruption had advanced so far that she couldn¡¯t be named human anymore. The rest of the intruding group wouldn¡¯t fare much better, confronted by the other inhabitants of his personal purgatorio. He forced Mirage Asylum¡¯s avatar to obey his will and help when possible through the labyrinth of corridors, but its monstrous will was always two steps ahead, scheming ever so insatiably. Such were the methods employed by Mirage Asylum, operating in manners that escaped even its host¡¯s comprehension. The rules of reality stretched or compressed, memories blurred or were suddenly reshaped ¡ªand his very sense of self frayed at the seams. Against these overwhelming odds, Miles still wished for their survival, be they thieves or invaders. No matter how many times this insidious parasite branded them as harbingers of harm, he had to remain steadfast. Otherwise, who would save them? This is no grandiose sacrifice, you hypocritical farce, it said. Such folly, to cling this pathetically to a null salvation, it said. Miles tried desperately to resist, to shore up the crumbling walls of his resolve ¡ªbut his efforts were feeble, like attempting to hold back a tsunami with bare hands. Doubt gnawed at him, the clawing fingers of self-loathing worming their way into his fortress of flesh, lonely and possessed. Was he truly acting out of altruism? Such a pitiful being like him? Or was this merely a desperate attempt to paint a self-portrait of a tragic hero? But one of the truths repeated by the voices stood above all the others. Whatever challenge his guests were about to face, he no longer had the ability to prevent them. Ultimately, their fates rested in their own hands. In darkness, one either floated or fell. Of course, the mockeries, the taunts, the noxious whispers¡­ As much as he yearned to lay the blame elsewhere, reality was more bitter. Mirage Asylum wasn¡¯t capable of verbal communication, after all. That¡¯s how it always had been, ever since its genesis. Even back then, when its hold on reality was a pale candle compared to its current inferno, it had been enough to immolate the remnants of his former life. It happened in the aftermath of his encounter with the man in glasses, short after retreating behind the false security of his mansion¡¯s walls. Abandoned by his muse, left adrift in a yawning chasm where inspiration once dwelled, that monster appeared instead ¡ªundoubtedly the culprit of his creative desolation. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. Mirage, as his soul had christened it in those early months, acted like some sort of spiritual umbrella. It shielded him not from rain, but from the deluge of cosmic horrors that raged above the barriers of human perception. It stood as a bulwark against the maelstrom of ghosts and energies, of grudges and torments lost to time, corrupted and reformed beyond the confines of earthly graves ¡ªin the ruins of what naive mortals dared to call paradise, defiled by forces too terrible to grasp. To think he had once brushed the surface of a sanctuary so vast, so radiant¡­ Only to find himself deprived of access, sheltered by an astral corpse he asked not for, its price for protection steep on sanity and humanity alike. And oh, how Mirage hungered in its ghastly silence devouring. In his invisible addiction to darkness and emptiness, it gorged itself greedily, immortally beloved it was to his anguish. During six long, grueling years, Miles endured the constant barrage it posed on his psyche. Never relenting, it weaponized every uncertainty, every doubt, plunging him further down the abyss of solitary confinement. The emotional toll was immense, but the financial devastation proved equally merciless. In his inability to produce new work, and Shelley struggling in her role as his art agent, their resources hemorrhaged away. The opulent mansion where he built his fort transformed into a limestone monument to mounting debt and fractured ambitions. Being unable of controlling Mirage led Miles into incapacitating paranoia. He wasn¡¯t afraid of the outside world alone anymore, where the man in glasses roamed free, but also of the terrifying potential of the paint amalgam to harm those innocent. Yet beneath those concerns, one question persisted strong above all others, its persistent haunting chasing him even in his retreat into isolation. Why had his mother chosen to end her life? Magda Seagrave had always been a severe, stern presence throughout his childhood memories, her aura of perpetual discontentment permeating every facet of his young existence. So really¡­ When that letter from his long-estranged father reached his door, its revelations felt less like surprises and more like confirmations of suspicions long-denied. Employing who knew which method, the old man had somehow managed to locate his reclusive son ¡ªperhaps from genuine remorse, though more likely drawn by the fading scent of wealth. His written words spoke of a desire to make amends, to span the chasm carved by years of abuse and neglect. Merely remembering it now pained him, the writhing ache running across all the segments of his frame like a phantom, causing Miles¡¯ toxicognaths to clasp in discomfort. Yes, it was that damned letter¡¯s fault¡­ If he had never¡­ Among the trinkets his father had sent him were photographs ¡ªsnapshots of a past life Miles had never been granted access to. In them, a foreign aspect of his mother was revealed to him, one that shattered what little preconception helped him cope with her path of finality. In those faded images, he saw a young woman full of life and joy, smiles radiant and carefree. So what did that make of the somber, melancholic figure he knew so well? The truth was undeniable as it was demolishing. His mother had once known happiness, had once embraced life with open arms. And that vibrant, joyful woman had been systematically erased, even before the fingers of death claimed her. With crushing, sickening clarity, Miles understood what had happened to her. Not only was he a complete failure while breathing ¡ªhis life had been a mistake from the very beginning. It was his birth what extinguished the light in his mother¡¯s eyes, what had transformed her from a vivacious young woman into a walking corpse, an empty husk wearing the mask of personhood¡­ ¡­ Just like him. It was too much to bear, the weight of such awareness. Like a vast and deep sea, Miles felt himself drowning in a despair so profound, that it was impossible to discern where his own anguish ended and Mirage¡¯s influence began. And for a treacherous instant, with no darker emotions left to find, Miles consecrated himself to the valley of the shadows. For if this pitiful song was one of sorrow¡­ Then he had no other choice left but to sing it. His capitulation reverberated through every molecule, each syllable of surrender a death knell for deceits and dreams alike. Something fundamental shifted within, a seismic change that went beyond mere emotion or flesh. In that moment, in the light of his personal sacrifice, Mirage evolved ¡ªtranscending its limited form into something far more terrifying and all-encompassing. Mirage Asylum emerged as its new, fuller name; heightened power bursting forth from the shine of the ruins and the whispered secrets of his soul. His pain, guilt and self-hatred proved insufficient sustenance now. It extended its reach around the mansion¡¯s grounds, ready to devour anything that came too close. Him? He simply allowed himself to slip away, subsumed by the horror he unleashed, blissfully uninterested in the fading feeling of a dying kin. Yet even as he wished for erasure to claim him, a stillborn heart refused to cease its beating ¡ªshackled as a reluctant warden to an expanding entity beyond comprehension, a vessel whose torment hadn¡¯t been given the permission to end. And so he waited, trapped within the innards of Mirage Asylum, sleeping as time lost all meaning, taunted with the shortcomings that drove him to such a fate¡­ At least until these new unwary souls stumbled into his domain, rousing him back to full lucidity. Forever torn between the faltering desire to save them. And that insatiable hunger that now called his body home. Eden Ruin -Part 8- A first shot rang out before Cole could fully process the decision to pull the trigger. His accuracy ringing true under pressure, the bullet struck the monster¡¯s face, gouging a crater in her gray flesh. Thick globules of a dark substance oozed out from the wound instead of anything resembling blood, viscous like tar, but she barely even flinched. Impulses took over, two more rounds punching through her chest and neck in rapid succession. The impacts made her loose skin ripple like disturbed water, but whatever damage they did appeared entirely inconsequential. Each blast of sound echoed off the walls with a dull, wet sound, like if the very air had grown too dense to carry them properly. ¡°Shit!¡± Cole¡¯s voice cracked, betraying the desperation he failed to keep in check. Her initial response to his aggression was a low, keening wail that emanated not just from her cavernous mouth, but from every breathing hole ruptured across her twisted form. She had acknowledged his presence, an absent attention falling frighteningly down his unprepared eyes. Her movements had an impossible speed for something so ungainly, crossing the distance between them in a single bound. For a fleeting moment, her only wing flared out, casting a shadow that eclipsed what little light illuminated the room. Cole barely managed to squeeze off another shot before her elongated arm swept out, catching him from his right side with the force of a sledgehammer. The impact sent him straight into one of the rusted incubators, metal shrieking as it crumpled under his weight, and sharp edges biting through his uniform and into flesh. His gun clattered away somewhere in the darkness at some point, while he could only focus on drawing breath into his stunned lungs. View blocked from her massive form obscuring the rest of the room, Cole¡¯s body refused to respond as her torn face lowered towards him, jaw unhinging as the rows of teeth promised a merciless fate. Another wave of that acrid mist emanated from her holes, with him subconsciously halting his respiration to stop its sickening sweetness from infiltrating his organism. Was this it? All his 24 years of struggle, dispute and dissension¡­ Had they all been in vain? ¡­ Cole guessed he was tired, after all. Of everything. Though the pain remained terrifying, his inner voice subtly spoke out, repeating that this violent end was a fitting one for such a miserable piece of shit. Obeying instinct rather than intention, his arms scrambled back despite their owner having partly given up, at least until his hands closed around a piece of broken incubator. Without thinking, he swung the jagged metal in a wild arc, catching part of her bloated stomach until rising to her exposed breasts. Another strip of decayed skin was peeled off to reveal the withered meat beneath, and the creature reeled back with an ear-splitting shriek in response. Without the luxury to think what had been different from her previous wounds, Cole employed those precious seconds to regain his footing. But for what reason? Even when his legs moved frantically, he wouldn¡¯t be fast enough to escape this abomination for long ¡ªit was an exercise in futility, his body an irrational vehicle to sheer desperation. Soon enough, before Cole managed to fully regain his sense of balance, talons raked across his back to shred clothes and flesh alike. Pain bloomed like a wildfire, distant yet piercing. His breath came in shallow gasps, forcing the sensation of blood flowing down his spine to the back of his mind. Feet faltering in response to the impulse, he crashed into a medical cart, metal instruments scattering across the floor. His fingers sought to close themselves around anything substantial enough to serve as a weapon ¡ªfinding purchase place on an IV stand, its base weighted and sturdy. As he heard the monster lunging for him again, Cole pivoted, swinging steel like a baseball bat straight into her jaw. The impact reverberated up his arms, but any satisfaction from the hit was poisoned by the questions slithering through his mind. Why was his body refusing to give up? Was he fighting for the sake of fighting by this point? These thoughts felt foreign, yet familiar, like a devil on his shoulder speaking with his own voice. This wasn¡¯t like him at all, he realized as much. Internal struggle that was brought to a halt as the beast staggered back ¡ªhunched over that bloated abdomen of hers as if to protect it from further harm. What little he was able to pick up through the cacophony of inhuman growls, was enough to pierce his consciousness ¡ªa muffled whimper, heartrendingly human. There was a child in there. His moment of horrified realization proved costly. The monster¡¯s claws found Cole again, dicing diagonally from left shoulder to right hip and nearly forcing him to lose his grip on the IV stand. It took clenching his teeth to keep himself from screaming as flesh parted like warm butter. But the pain brought him clarity. This wasn¡¯t about his survival anymore. His police training¡­ No, something deeper, dissipated that insidious fog clouding his mind. Faltering was not an option now. There was an innocent life at stake. The beast pressed her advantage, herding him towards the kid¡¯s half of the room. Now mentally prepared, Cole parried her lunges with the IV stand, each impact jarring his wounded frame, yet he held firm, purpose lending strength to his defense. Tragically, his heel caught on a partially melted toy truck during the skirmish, sending him sprawling onto his back. This encounter exceeded his capabilities, and though he knew that, he had no use for those mental prisons now. Looming over him, the creature¡¯s horrible maw gaped wide enough to engulf his head whole. But Cole had a better read on her movements and behaviors now. With a growl of his own, he thrust the steel stand vertically in an upwards motion, muscles tensing as he strained every last ounce of strength he had. It gashed over her distended belly sickeningly, stopping only as it lodged into her jaw, closing it shut forcefully. Her flesh split like wet paper, and through the tear in her abdomen, Cole glimpsed a confirmation of his fears and suspicions ¡ªa small, pale hand, fingers curled tightly as if in a restless sleep. Such sight galvanized him even as the monster¡¯s furious roar made the entire room tremble, something fierce ignited in his chest to drown out pain and fright. Proving himself as capable? Vindicating his methods? None of those petty matters held any significance now ¡ªno worries about strength, control, nor any of the other bullshit he¡¯d been mulling over until this point. There was a child trapped inside that thing, and like hell was he going to let that stand. A new attack came down at him with renewed anger, her closed fist slamming the floor where his chest had been a split second before. Cole managed to roll aside, ignoring the many protests made by his wounds to scramble towards where his gun had fallen. The creature¡¯s unfurled wing swept out as she turned to chase, the leathery appendage catching his shoulders and threatening his equilibrium in the process. But he turned the strike¡¯s momentum into a tailwind, employing that force to drive himself into a barely controlled spin. Fingers finding the fallen firearm mid-motion, muscle memory took charge in correcting his stance despite the tumbles. His retreat ended once his back found itself against something solid ¡ªa bookshelf, surrendering its collection of large children¡¯s stories to gravity. Eyes forced back into focus, Cole watched the monster advance, momentarily aimless, black paint weeping from her peeling flesh, each droplet hissing into smoke where it struck the floor. The tear in her abdomen had widened, revealing more of what she concealed beneath. A kid¡¯s arm and part of a torso, slowly being pushed out due to her violent movements. It was a boy, mercilessly still. Cole refused to entertain any possibility darker than unconsciousness. He was just sleeping. He had to. All Cole needed to do was to wake him up¡­ ¡­ Right after he took care of the monstrosity, that is. His eyes narrowed as the faceless horror tried to pin down his now immobile position, breathing holes dilating in frenzied patterns to expel a new thick wave of that cloying mist. The IV stand still jutted from her skull, warped under the crushing force of her jaw. Either she prioritized hunting him over removing it, or the twisted thing was unable to even register pain anymore. Cole raised his arm to shield his mouth and nose, while his other hand brought the gun level with practiced precision. Here was something familiar, at least ¡ªthe weight of the firearm steady and true in his grip. Even as his heart hammered against his ribs, the tremors in his hands subsided. This, at least, he knew how to do. That creature, the mother, was simple-minded and direct. Her attacks betrayed no higher reasoning, just raw, blind fury. It made her predictable, especially in that overzealous protectiveness over her child. Time crystallized into sharp focus as Cole steadied his aim, each breath measured and deliberate. The chaotic frenzy that had dominated him earlier gave way to something colder, more calculating. This was the kind of clarity he''d found behind his service weapon countless times before ¡ªthe one skill he''d never doubted, even when everything else about himself felt uncertain. Mist writhed across the floor like a living thing, probing outward until it tangled around his boots. Cole watched everything with detached certainty, his legs¡¯ muscles tensing, knowing what would follow. When she finally locked down his position, her massive frame launched at him in a frenzy, he was already squeezing the trigger. The first shot caught her dead center in the jaw, the impact spraying rotted teeth and globules of paint in a grotesque arc. Before she could recover, he fired again, and again ¡ªeach round precisely placed to tear flesh, forcing that cavernous maw to split wider until it hung loose and unhinged. The sound it made was wet, organic and brittle ¡ªlike branches breaking under the weight of snow. His next series of shots, the last bullets he had left, traced a deliberate pattern across her belly, threading the razor''s edge of catastrophe. Each impact made her flinch and recoil, maternal instinct overpowering murderous rage as she tried to shield the unconscious form of her child. Cole could see it in the way she twisted, how her assault grew hesitant and defensive. The monster was secondary to the mother, and that was exactly what he counted on. "Come on." He muttered, his emptied gun clattering to the floor, no longer useful. "Show me." The opening came as she lurched sideways to protect her abdomen, exposing the junction of neck and shoulder. He surged forward, ducking under a wild swipe of those knife-like claws. Something raked across his back, a glancing blow from her contorting wing desperately trying to keep him away ¡ªbut he wouldn¡¯t be stopped now. Cole¡¯s hands found the IV stand still jutting from her ruined jaw, knuckles white as he wrenched it sideways with every ounce of strength he could muster. Metal scraped against vertebrae, then punched through the back of her throat. Her head tilted morbidly to one side, held on halfway by stubborn strips of gray cartilage and blackened gristle. But still she moved. Still she fought. Breathing holes wheezed and bubbled as she staggered, wing beating frantically while the vestigial one twitched and spasmed. Her claws found purchase in his shoulders, digging deep ¡ªand despite how clumsy and agonizing¡ª in strikes more than capable of turning his body to shreds. His consciousness wavered, the world reduced to a darkening tunnel as his vision swam aimlessly. To keep going was madness, a necessary one. Perhaps this place had already begun to claim him, infected his mind with those horrible purple flowers, yet that hardly mattered now. With a roar that scorched his lungs, one hand seized her wet hair while the other gripped the ruined mess of her gums and shattered teeth. There was no elegance to it, no practiced technique. Just the crude screams of his overtaxed muscles as he pulled with all he had left. Until finally, with the sound of someone tearing paper, her skull came free. Her massive body swayed, then toppled backwards with a strange grace. Even in death, she made sure not to crush her child, those twisted limbs choosing to cradle rather than crushing as she collapsed. With her final ripples of life, that hideous wing now folded like a funeral shroud over her form. Cole felt his stomach lurch as he dropped her head, the thud of it hitting the floor barely registering through the receding thunders of his pulse. The black substance that served as her blood chased him like guilty stigmas, marring his skin to elbow height. Each breath sent fresh spikes of agony through his beaten and cut frame, yet he couldn''t look away from her final pose. There was something hauntingly profound in it ¡ªa dark garden of tainted flesh and unyielding devotion. ¡°You protected him as best as you could.¡± He whispered, the words surprising him as they left his lips. "You did good." His legs finally gave out, sending him to his knees beside her corpse. She was a monster, yes, but in that moment of quiet understanding, Cole saw past the horror to recognize their shared purpose. At the end, the two of them fought for the exact same thing ¡ªto keep an innocent child safe from harm. She played her part, corrupted as she was. Now it fell to him to see it through, to guide this boy away from that nightmare. With solemn care, he folded back the wing and widened the tear in her abdomen, taking his first real look at the boy as he emerged. Paper-white skin, completely untouched by the taint that had consumed his captor. Lanky raven hair, matted with grease and viscous fluids. Eyes sealed tight beneath darkened, sunken lids. Cole extracted him as gently as possible, holding him like something infinitely precious and fragile. The child¡¯s weight, or lack thereof, sent a pang through the police officer¡¯s chest. Even with how ravaged Cole felt, lifting the boy took almost no effort ¡ªa worrying sign of disease, paired with a dark smog sizzling from the small cuts and bruises he had sustained. But all of that, Cole chose to push aside. The kid was young, and he could feel his soft, weakened breathing. Sure he would heal once they got him proper care. No, he¡¯d make it happen, somehow. ¡°I¡¯ll take it from here.¡± He said to the fallen mother, her body slowly starting to transform, though he had no desire to witness whatever metamorphosis awaited, nor did it matter if anyone was left to hear his words. ¡°I won¡¯t let anything hurt him.¡± >> ¡°I promise.¡± One final vow before raising his eyes to the door at the far end of the room. Stubborn pride or not, or even if doom awaited him at the end of that path ¡ªCole now crystallized everything into new, resolute steps. If it meant delivering this flickering life to safety, he would gladly give the last drops of his own. For a moment, there was silence. A tense, knife-like quietude. Then came the laughter, or the shrill mimic of it, not really coming from the obscured silhouette of Samantha Marlowe. The sound distorted and multiplied visually across the many screens illuminating the dark room, not transmitting any discernible joy. It was something else, darker ¡ªrage, despair, mania. Whatever it was, it sent ice flooding through Claude¡¯s veins. ¡°Who am I?¡­ You ask who am I!?¡± The indignant question echoed through the digital graveyard, crackling like veins of electricity with each syllable, in veins. ¡°I¡¯m the one they¡¯ve been watching this whole time.¡± >> ¡°The only real Samantha! The brave girl that defies expectations!¡± Sounds and images blended to a dirge of white noise, the floor beneath them acting like disturbed water under a glass container. Even the sculpture to their backs pulsed with an intense blue light, casting dissonant shadows that moved with a heart-like pulse. ¡°That?¡± She gestured dismissively at her own corpse, makeup-stained tears still frozen on her replica¡¯s face. ¡°That¡¯s just a nobody. She gave up. Couldn¡¯t take it anymore. Stopped posting¡­ So¡­¡± >> ¡°¡­ So forget about her, okay?¡± Her voice cracked with genuine anguish. ¡°Just¡­ don¡¯t do the same with me. I promise that I will keep going. That I won¡¯t let myself be left behind. That I¡¯ll keep streaming long after I¡¯ve clawed my way out of this prison.¡± Claude¡¯s hand instinctively moved forward, preparing a space from where Pendulum could manifest, yet hesitation stayed his motion. The girl before them was unraveling, that was a certainty, but she still bore the face of someone he longed to save. Through the strobing lights, he could glimpse tears beginning to form in her eyes ¡ªreal ones, not the performative kind meant for likes and shares. "Samantha, please¡­" Claude tried. "Whatever this place did to you, I¡¯m sure we can help. All I ask is that you calm down for a spell.¡± But he couldn¡¯t keep himself from pressing on, ether. Though a part of him already knew the answer, he wanted to believe, to give her a chance to prove she was the real Marlowe. That it was all just a treacherous trap set by the mansion. ¡°How about we think about something real? Your family, your¡ª¡± Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. "How about you shut the fuck up!?" The scream exploded from her like shrapnel, making the room flash in alarming red. Monitors shattered in sympathy not soon after, glass tinkling down and submerging them into a deep darkness. ¡°What could you possibly know about what¡¯s¡­ Real.¡± She mocked, blue lights returning to pierce the black, uneven like desperate mouthfuls of oxygen. ¡°My followers. Those are my family.¡± >> ¡°What could be more real than thousands of people listening to your every word? They''re the only ones who ever really saw me.¡± >> ¡°The ones who make me matter!" Behind him, he could hear a weary sigh coming from Jagdhund, a slight tremor arriving to dominate his hands. Claude understood his feelings, that somber certainty warring the reluctance. LaCaze returned to his thoughts, the weight of his lost life hanging from his hands, barely even considered under all the adrenaline, and the strange happenings, and this new potential danger. And of how much he didn¡¯t want this girl to follow that same fate. "Kid, just tell it straight." Though still gruff, Jagdhund¡¯s voice emerged surprisingly soft, yet leaden. There was a reason why he usually left any mediation to him. The old man often worried his directness only worsened things. He probably couldn¡¯t hold himself back this time ¡ªvery much like Claude, mere moments ago. "¡­ You¡¯re dead, aren¡¯t you?¡± Something in his words struck deep, making the chamber feel even more unstable. What was left of the lights dimmed to a synthetic twilight, leaving only the heartbeat glow of the smartphone sculpture. Trick of the lights or not, Samantha¡¯s silhouette appeared to flicker, her edges becoming less distinct in the partial obscurity. "Dead?" The whisper fell from her lips in a corrupted timbre before dissolving into a skin-crawling giggle. "And what if I am? At least people will remember me.¡± >> ¡°Can you say the same, old man?" The attack came without warning, not from Samantha herself, but from within the very structure. Dark tendrils surged forth from the walls, somewhere between data cables and a more liquid yet living tissue. They lashed out like massive tentacles in an assault that forced the detectives apart as the chamber itself twisted into something new. Flowing like rearranging quicksand, the walls sealed any possible escape route with the finality of a closing coffin. In their place emerged new screens, countless displays boring their own constellation of staring eyes, tracking the detectives¡¯ every motion. The floor beneath his feet turned into an unstable dune sea, betraying his footing under its rising and falling, refusing to hold still as dark shapes erupted from all directions across his peripheral vision ¡ªmore tendrils coiling like predatory serpents, ready to ensnare and crush. ¡°They¡¯re tuning in.¡± Samantha¡¯s voice carried an unsettling glee, her gesture encompassing the many eyes pointed at them, blinking in response as if to acknowledge a master. ¡°My loyal audience.¡± >> ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we give them a show worth remembering?¡± Distorted light traveled through the air like heat waves, reflecting off the inky surface of the slithering whips. Claude exhaled deeply, his heart running amok inside his chest. He realized this would be nothing like the encounter with LaCaze. The entire room had become their enemy, and he was absolutely not planning to find out what would happen if those things were to catch them. Pushed to a corner, Pendulum¡¯s rope manifested in Claude''s grip with the effort of a mere thought, the white eye at its base fixing its unblinking gaze right back on him. Just like the tendrils wasted no second in their assault, so did him immediately start to swing the weapon in destructive slashes. Carving through the shadow-stuff of the structure proved no more difficult than dicing flesh, severed appendages falling limp around his blackened storm to dissolve back into the floor. It felt even more natural than his first time, yet there was also the sentiment of something cold and venomous seeping into his being, of embracing a power he couldn¡¯t even begin to understand, and of the price it took by spreading roots around his soul. Each swing of the spectral weapon left behind a vivid pale-blue afterimage, hanging in the air like phantom wounds as Pendulum had tore reality itself. The traces resisted fading, creating a web of ghostly light that marked each of Claude¡¯s strikes. Though committed to his sword dance, Claude remained mindful of Jagdhund¡¯s position, the old man taking on a defensive stance several feet away. Surprisingly enough, the veteran appeared completely impervious to any semblance of flinching or fear, his eyes staying fiercely locked ahead despite the tendrils darting in his direction. ¡°No, you won¡¯t!¡± Claude yelled, forcing his way through the twisting landscape towards his mentor. Pendulum sang through the air in wide, protective arcs, Jagdhund still refusing to budge, as if predicting he¡¯d come to his aid. Or was it sheer trust? Still, for any tendril he managed to sever, two more emerged from the ruptured point, an endless hydra of corrupted decay. Deftly, unaffected by any possible turmoil, Jagdhund¡¯s aim was steadied behind his severe eyes. Before Claude could even finish the last motions from Pendulum, several shots rang out with devastating clarity ¡ªthough the same couldn¡¯t be told of their effectiveness. In their trajectory towards Marlowe, the bullets appeared to have simply¡­ Vanish, swallowed by the darkness in their path, or perhaps passing through her entirely like was nothing more than a projection. It was hard to say for sure amidst the chaos. Without a hint of surprise, Jagdhund¡¯s gun was casually lifted to scratch his temple. It was the look of a man who had anticipated this outcome, who had simply attacked to test out a theory. But how? Why? The situation gave no opportunity to seek any answer. ¡°Don¡¯t bother with me.¡± The veteran detective murmured. ¡°You have to strike her with whatever that thing is you¡¯re using to fight.¡± >> ¡°¡­ Regular weapons won¡¯t get the job done.¡± Easier said than done, considering that the passing glimpse he was able to catch of Samantha¡¯s face made his heart ache. Despite accepting the role of a predator, her expression still told of someone desperately lonely. Of someone who traded everything for an empty, hollow approval. Of an addiction unbroken even by death. But it was true that the time for words had long passed now. Whatever happened next, it would be written in violence and regret. His instincts pressed at him not to leave his mentor¡¯s side, screamed that separating them was exactly what the mansion wanted. Yet Claude still moved away, opening a path by Pendulum¡¯s edge. Behind him, Jagdhund had backed himself against the smartphone totem, ripping a pole out of it by brute force alone, and using it to wrestle away any appendages that got too close. The sounds of exhausted breathing, and the blood seeping through his reopened wounds made Claude¡¯s chest tighten, but there would be no protecting anyone if he couldn¡¯t neutralize the source ¡ªthe girl looking down on him with a smile even as he swiftly closed the distance. An entirely new challenge fell down on him once she was at striking range. Until now, his battles behind Pendulum had been straightforward ¡ªagainst beasts that attacked on pure animal savagery. Samantha was a different enemy altogether, eluding him with the calculated, almost mocking grace of a physical performer. Each swing of his chasing blade met empty air as she weaved and ducked at hair¡¯s breadth, in movements playful in nature. ¡°Is that it? Sad.¡± She taunted, leaning forward to him after another failed strike. ¡°Come on! Do something worth watching! A chase scene can only get us so far!¡± The chambers¡¯ walls continued to rotate with each dodge, eyes blinking and flickering as they captured new angles of the pursuit. Pendulum¡¯s ghostly afterimages painted the empty space they struck, faintly luminescent scars in the air woven like a web behind their path. ¡°Sorry, I get camera shy.¡± Claude sarcastically replied, though his frustration was hard to conceal behind his gritted teeth. ¡°Keep the spotlight on me for too long, and your subscriber count might start to drop.¡± ¡°You think that¡¯s funny?¡± Her grin faltered, as if offended by his poor attempt at a joke. ¡°That this is all just a game?¡± >> ¡°You don¡¯t understand anything, do you?¡± She rambled on, too fast for any rebuttal. ¡°This is our only way out. Once we¡¯re branded in the collective consciousness, we won¡¯t be trapped here anymore.¡± >> ¡°We¡¯ll exist everywhere. In every feed. In every share. In every¡ª¡± ¡°Stop!¡± Claude forcefully interrupted, both verbally and with another swing she just barely avoided. ¡°None of that is real! Nobody is watch¡ª¡± "Quiet!" Another wave of reed took over the chamber as the scream was torn out of her throat. ¡°You keep babbling on the same tired words. Real this, fake that.¡± >> ¡°Do you think they hold any value, if no one else but you cares about them? That precious little daughter of yours? Your so-called mentor?¡± Her lips curved into a cruel smile as she spoke. ¡°Speaking of which¡­¡± Claude¡¯s attention snapped involuntarily to where Jagdhund held his ground. The veteran detective was now nearly overwhelmed, half-liquid tendrils having wrapped around both his arms despite his fierce struggle. His blood ran freely on the ground, drenching his lost improvised weapon. That moment of distraction was all Samantha needed. An acute pain exploded through Claude¡¯s shoulder as something sharp and cold pierced through muscle effortlessly. Looking down, he saw her index finger elongated into a nightmarish needle of black ink, its tip protruding from his back. ¡°Got you!¡± She squealed with almost innocent delight. ¡°That¡¯ll make for an excellent thumbnail!¡± The removal of the appendage was just as painful, sending waves of agony through his senses. He could feel something caustic spreading through his inner flesh, burning like acid. ¡°You need proper pacing, no?¡± Samantha whispered as he fell to his knees, clutching the hole left behind in his shoulder, quickly drowned by blood. ¡°Can¡¯t have the fight end too quickly. My viewers need time to really feel it.¡± She continued, booping his nose. ¡°That¡¯s a really good expression. Very hopeless.¡± >> ¡°Don¡¯t worry too much. I¡¯ll make yours a story worth rewatching.¡± Frustration muting the pain, Claude pushed himself forward, guided by an anger he didn¡¯t think himself capable of. Pendulum¡¯s edge carved a lethal arc mere inches from his own frame, so dangerously close that even droplets of blood ended scattered in its wake. Samantha¡¯s eyes widened momentarily, enough to catch a glimpse of his fierce gaze reflected on them, framed between disarrayed strands of dark brown hair. But of course, this too, had been anticipated by her. Her body contorting with inhuman grace, she moved beneath Pendulum¡¯s reach like a free-flowing shadow. In a fluid motion as she sneaked behind him, her arms elongated into obsidian whips, constricting around his ankles and sending him crashing face-first into the writhing floor. ¡°Feisty!¡± She continued to laugh, grating on Claude¡¯s nerves. ¡°I know I promised not to kill you in one go, but don¡¯t you think you¡¯re getting a bit too full of yourself?¡± >> ¡°What I meant is that I¡¯m going to make it hurt. Very much so. For a long, long time. Enough to make you wish that last poke had pierced your skull instead.¡± Before Claude could recover himself enough to retaliate, the tendrils gripping his feet began to crawl upwards, sprouting hooks and needles that pierced flesh and pulled skin to the height of his thighs. The agony he failed to subdue now greedily demanded all his attention, each racing heartbeat pumping that burning corruption to dissolve through his legs. Nails crawling roughly across the floor, Claude fought the nausea to turn and sneer at Samantha¡¯s smug grin, calculating if the distance and angle were appropriate for another defensive swing. There wasn¡¯t any time for this. He was meant to be fast and effective. Any second now, Jagdhund could¡­ The thought drew his gaze subconsciously towards the older detective, a glimpse Claude immediately regretted. Even more tendrils had coiled around the veteran¡¯s form, almost completely swallowed into a smothering cocoon that drank greedily from his wounds ¡ªappendages entering the opened flesh of new and previous wounds, forming a puddle of the red liquid beneath him. Yet despite it all, the old man¡¯s expression remained disturbingly serene, almost accepting. Or that was at least until their eyes met. Claude felt shame washing through him, more bitter than any poison; but the transformation in Jagdhund¡¯s gaze was harsher, something more intense than his usual fierceness being let loose in those weathered features. Something inscrutable. Terrible and inevitable. Like the gathering of thundering clouds, the chamber trembled under feral growls and howls, birthed from within Jagdhund¡¯s restraints. They were the sole, short-lived warning before three massive heads exploded through the half-liquid tendrils, their jaws working their way out with the screech of rust-eaten machinery awakening to hunger. Plates of reddish-brown steel tore free from the cocoon¡¯s grasp, each shredded appendage revealing more of the monstrosity behind their destruction ¡ªa Cerberus of industrial decay that rivaled even Jagdhund¡¯s hulking frame. Instead of eyes and ears, only grotesquely large snouts dominated each head, yet they held an awareness unbridled by the reigning penumbra. Glimpses of wet, sanguine black fur peeked through its carapace of corroded metal, but it was the rows of serrated fangs and claws that commanded attention ¡ªleaving deep furrows in the mansion¡¯s structure as testament to its frenzy. Their battle pushed to the background, Claude and Samantha could only stare as the phantasm fixed its attention upon them. Pain and sadistic joy alike, crumbling into unscriptable shock. Though the creature had deliberately avoided Jagdhund in its ravaging, Claude¡¯s muscles coiled with instinctive dread, uncertain if that mercy would extend to him. Samantha fared worse ¡ªcolor draining from her, each backward step calculated yet insufficient. But vulnerability was fleeting in her world of performance. A smile swiftly regained control of her features, twitching under barely suppressed nervousness ¡ªor was it just the euphoria? ¡°Ha! Some real production value!¡± She crowed, voice pitching higher as she retreated from Claude. ¡°To think I¡¯d get quality content of you, you dying old fart!¡± The monstrous hound immediately pivoted to follow her, allowing the younger detective a breath of relief after confirming it held no interest in him. Despite its bulk, the Cerberus moved with terrifying speed. Before long, its three sets of jaws snapped at the empty air, Marlowe barely twisting out of harm¡¯s way. Her movements remained unnaturally seamless, but Claude could see the calculation necessary to accomplish each dodge now ¡ªshe was forced to work for her evasions, much more than she had to do with him. The beast¡¯s attacks were relentless, multiple heads allowing it to strike from different angles simultaneously, while its noses displayed an unsettling proficiency at tracking her every movement. ¡°Bad dog!¡± Though her taunt cracked with strain despite the bravado, dark tendrils rose around her like a defensive crown, readying themselves to strike back. ¡°You oughta be leashed and muzzled, freak mutt!¡± But in her focus on the gnashing teeth and slashing claws, Samantha failed to notice her careless retreat carrying her straight into the ethereal web of Pendulum¡¯s lingering traces. As she spun away from another lunge, and her frame crossed directly to the afterimages of Claude¡¯s previous attacks¡­
Foreign words resonated through his skull like distant church bells, less demanding than the last yet heavy with portent. Their meaning, however, was quickly dismissed in exchange of the new knowledge they brought. There wasn¡¯t any time to dwell on their enigma ¡ªnot when a far more pressing revelation crashed into his consciousness like a tidal wave. Without hesitation, not fully understanding his own motions, Claude commanded the rifts to reopen. The air shuddered and split as dozens of ethereal blades materialized simultaneously, each one retracing its lethal path through Marlowe¡¯s unsuspecting frame. They were recursions, doorways from where the Death Pendulum could complete its arc in reverse. Samantha jerked and twisted as her body was carved from all directions, caught in a maelstrom of ghostly razors. No blood flowed from the deep gashes opened across her frame. Instead, her flesh separated cleanly, edges dissolving into wisps of blue flame that curled away like burnt offerings. Carefully kept pink hair scattered alongside her mutilated limbs, layer after layer cruelly torn away. ¡°No¡­ No! This isn¡¯t how the story goes!¡± Her voice rang out, pitched high with disbelief rather than pain as her body crumpled with a sickening thud. Static crackled all around them, screens shrieking in sync with their dying master. ¡°The heroine has to survive! She has to¡ª¡± After the triggering of Pendulum¡¯s ability was finished, the trinity of jaws of the rusted Cerberus obscured what remained of her, mercilessly ripping away with the viciousness only a wild beast could muster.
Rapidly abandoned by anger, Claude felt the heaviness settling inside his chest once more. Dead or not, deceit of the mansion or truth, the finality of her destruction left him freezingly cold, forcing the detective to divert his gaze ¡ªanywhere would do. Before his eyes, the chamber¡¯s disorientating illumination gradually stabilized, screens going dark one by one like closing eyes, walls smoothing back to their original state as doors reopened, as if suggesting the nightmare had lived only inside their heads. Gritting his teeth against the burning pain in his legs, Claude brought himself back to his feet. The wounds from Samantha¡¯s barbed tendrils throbbed in protest, making him aware of the blood flowing down his punctured flesh ¡ªbut he had to stand up, he needed to bear witness to their former companion¡¯s final moments. He refused to let cowardice run rampant. Its purpose apparently fulfilled, the monstrous dog faded like mist into the darkness, leaving behind the weight of sadness and regret ¡ªand a girl he¡¯d seen smile so vibrantly mere hours ago, now broken beyond repair. ¡°Claude¡­?¡± Her voice drifted, meek and powerless, barely more than a dying whisper. ¡°I¡­ I gave them a good show, right?¡± There was a desperate hope in her voice, or a twisted mockery of it that made his heart constrict. ¡°They won¡¯t forget this¡­ Will they?¡± >> ¡°Can you swear it for me?¡­ That you¡¯ll remember?¡± He wanted to answer, he truly did. To at least offer a semblance of comfort in the wake of tragedy. Yet the words caught in his throat as her mangled body began to dissolve in the floor, the surface leveling as if Samantha¡¯s consumption were irrelevant ¡ªa drop of water against insatiable thirst. For a moment, Claude stood motionless, grappling with choices that stung even more than his wounds. Had he made a mistake, along the way? Could this have been prevented, somehow? Or was this simply another scene in the mansion¡¯s grand performance? Whether she had been real, or just a haunting echo born from undead obsession, Claude still mourned. A life had been unequivocally devoured in this room, prey of forces he couldn¡¯t stop in time. The sound of labored breathing snapped him back to the present ¡ªJagdhund¡¯s. After rushing to the older detective¡¯s side, Claude struggled to help the larger man to his feet. Despite his small shoulders, he managed to provide enough support for the old man to find his balance, though not without considerable effort from both sides. ¡°Hell of a thing.¡± Jagdhund¡¯s voice was quieter than usual, hovering between mystification and exhaustion. Still, Claude¡¯s gaze drifted towards Samantha¡¯s original corpse, partially submerged at the base of her smartphone tombstone. ¡°There was nothing we could¡¯ve done.¡± There was no issue with that assertion by itself. What came after, however¡­ ¡°Time works differently in here. That month thing she said? Wasn¡¯t a lie.¡± As he spoke, Jagdhund¡¯s eyes focused on something beyond the chamber¡¯s walls ¡ªas if the old man himself was still processing how he knew such a thing. ¡°We¡¯ll give her a proper burial, once we¡¯re done here.¡± He added, perhaps trying to silence both their disquiet. ¡°She deserves that much, at least.¡± A heavy pause stretched between them before Claude spoke again, voicing the question that continued to gnaw at his spirit. ¡°You think there¡¯s an end to all this?¡± He immediately wished he hadn¡¯t asked ¡ªfor the answer could render all their sacrifices, all the sweat and blood, completely meaningless. What little hope he still held felt fragile, just as the promises of fame that led Samantha to demise. ¡°There is.¡± Jagdhund finally answered, voice steeled with certainty as they began to stagger towards forward. ¡°I¡¯m not sure how¡­¡± >> ¡°But I can smell it.¡± Eden Ruin -Part 9- The sensation that befell Miles once Shelley¡¯s end was felt in his heart was¡­ a peculiar one, defying his lifelong revulsion of death. For all the grotesque forms he had conveyed through canvas, the reality of corpses ¡ªin their terminal stillness¡ª never failed to strike a primal chord of terror in him. A finality too harrowing to dare contemplate, let alone capture in paint. Yet surprisingly, there was none of that here. In the face of this new, irreversible loss, all of that dread felt distant, almost quaint in essence. A darkening serenity bloomed in its place. Beyond the natural regret of missing what manner of abomination wore his wife¡¯s face during her final moments¡­ He felt glad for her. No longer would she be shackled to this plane full of woes and torment, to this world of hunger and flesh. She had transcended, free to spread whatever wings the afterlife would grant her, given reign to walk upon the garden of desires¡¯ delight ¡ªthe paradise whose blackness had once filled his dreams. The thought pooled like stale paint in the catacombs of his mind, a revolting comfort that solidified with each passing second it was allowed to settle. But no matter how hard he tried to wrap himself in this deluded peace, the truth¡¯s maggots squirmed beneath his legs, scratching restlessly against the floor, questioning. Was that truly the extent of it all? Wasn¡¯t he simply relieved that her suffering would no longer be biting at what remained of his conscience? Indignity writhed through him, each segment of his form trembling with self-disgust. He was trying to shroud everything under noble intentions, in pathetic metaphors he barely understood himself. The truth was much starker. Shelley¡¯s death had lifted a weight from him, and that liberation felt like a betrayal deeper than any corruption Mirage Asylum had bestowed upon him. How dare he feel unburdened by the departure of the woman who had sacrificed everything for his sake? She was the first to attribute depth to his early pieces, where even their teachers saw nothing more than macabre curiosities. When he was laughed at for not relinquishing the disturbed doodles of an unstable artist, she defied her family, forfeited their designs, and walked away with nothing but clothes on her back and unwavering faith ¡ªno price or gamble too steep to remain at his side. Manager, defender, anchor. Wife. Shelley had been the one who gave shape to his pitiful existence, her sheer force of will transmuting disaster into dark beauty worthy of gallery walls. She was so strong¡­ Enough to alienate him, to make him feel small beside her certainty. Even the miscarriage hadn¡¯t broken her. Miles still remembered finding her in his studio afterwards, surrounded by his darkest pieces ¡ªthose too morbid to exhibit¡ª, charcoal smudges on her cheeks obscuring the tear marks beneath. ¡®These monsters¡¯, she¡¯d whispered, ¡®they¡¯re in pain, like our baby was¡¯. A fortitude so absolute that not even grief cracked her, as if somehow his paintings could replace the child they had lost. Perhaps that¡¯s why, once Ethan finally came into their lives, her protective instincts had bordered on suffocating. Every cough was pneumonia, every fever the harbinger of some dreadful disease. His son lived sheltered from every imaginable threat, while the real horror grew in the very walls of their home. That made her happy, Miles reasoned. A duty she kept until her dying breath. In his ample yet eternally empty cage, the solitary canvas continued to catch the scarce light that penetrated the gloom, its very presence taunting. The sharp tips of his frontal legs ran over fabric, while others tinkered with brushes. He wanted to paint her as he remembered ¡ªradiant, certain, whole. Yet still¡­ Miles couldn¡¯t. How did she look like? He couldn¡¯t remember. How did she sound like? He had forgotten. And what about her smell? Did he ever pay attention? His toxicognaths clicked together in agitation, their horrible sound echoing through the vast darkness. He longed so desperately to rationalize Shelley¡¯s death as something grander, as metamorphosis, as anything but what it truly was ¡ªone more inadequacy in his oeuvre of destruction. One more soul tarnished by proximity to his accursed existence. Amidst the violent aftermath, a familiar heartbeat persisted. Though Shelley¡¯s presence had finished fading from Mirage Asylum¡¯s awareness, Ethan appeared to still draw breath, cradled in the arms of a would-be savior. While the artist couldn¡¯t see them directly, Cole Benoit¡¯s determination rippled across the mansion¡¯s veins ¡ªblasphemous in its essence. An exchange of hands, now. Wasn¡¯t that just convenient? Another excuse to absolve himself of responsibility, to let others shoulder burdens he wished not to bear. The same as he had done throughout his entire life, retreating into darkness while those stronger cleared the path ahead. This time, he refused such a conclusion. How dare this man presume to match Shelley¡¯s devotion? No doubt he imagined himself the hero of this macabre tale, finding in Ethan a perfect vessel for his savior complex ¡ªa new justification for brutality under the guise of protection. The boy¡¯s vulnerability must be sparking something primordial in those eyes, birthing that same look Miles had seen in countless faces before, falling condescendingly upon his younger self. That need to fix, to save, to prove one¡¯s worth through another¡¯s salvation. But Ethan was theirs ¡ªhis and Shelley¡¯s alone. With her gone and Miles¡­ Miles having long surrendered any claim to fatherhood¡­ What right did this stranger have to determine the child¡¯s fate? The infant born to die. That was the serpentine grace his heart deemed right. Wouldn¡¯t it be more merciful to let him accompany his mother, rather than condemn him to the same thorned path Miles once walked? He could feel Ethan stirring, the kid¡¯s fragmented consciousness gradually returning to focus, tainting Miles¡¯ own thoughts with his second-hand fright. He didn¡¯t blame the boy, all too able to imagine the terror coursing through that small, weakened frame of his ¡ªawakening in an intruder¡¯s embrace, surrounded by a nightmare he had been blissfully kept from thus far. Each quickening breath, each trembling whimper poorly soothed, Miles absorbed them all as foundations for his own resolve. He was just too young to process Mirage Asylum¡¯s horror. What would happen if Ethan survived, somehow? What truly awaited for him in the world of light? A life of whispers, of sideways glances, forever marked as the son of Miles Seagrave ¡ªthe artist spirited away by madness. Therapists and counselors hovering over his son like vultures, waiting for the signs of his inherited darkness to appear. Aware of it or not, the boy was already touched by Utopia. Wouldn¡¯t it be crueler to allow the flowers of madness to fully bloom, to let him be judged by those that could never understand? Acceptance and lucidity towards his own corruption brought Miles a surprising amount of control. Not only did the shadows bent to his will, corridors also twisted into new configurations as Miles guided his prey deeper into the labyrinth. The gallery¡¯s architecture reformed, offering shortcuts to its core, where his nest awaited. Each step Cole took brought him ever closer to that sanctum. It was a natural conclusion ¡ªhow could the intruder know any better than to blindly trust the path laid before him? As he awaited their arrival, a strange sensation began to stir within Miles, one so long absent that recognition came slowly, painfully. It was anticipation. How long had it been since he last crossed another human being? The question festered like an unhealed wound, his isolation having stretched enough for the very concept of conversation to feel foreign, a language eroded by an eternity of silence.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. The prospect of an interaction sent tremors through his segmented form, an ember of humanity that refused to be fully claimed by Mirage Asylum. It was dangerous, threatening to undermine the conviction marking his corrupted new flesh. Consciousness, once scattered like pieces of debris in a dark sea, touching briefly the surface of reality before sinking back to the depths, now coalesced into a sharp focus. He was now aware of every single moment spent in waiting. Through the spectral nervous system of Mirage Asylum, he felt the aftermath of violence elsewhere in his domain. The other intruders had survived their encounter with that one other girl ¡ªa discordant note in this carefully orchestrated symphony of suffering. These people, these unwanted players in his theatre of shadows, displayed a resilience that managed to surpass what should¡¯ve broken them. Such stubborn persistence carried its own dark poetry, and now, they too advanced towards his stage. Hope kindled once again in his malformed heart ¡ªtreacherous, unwelcome hope. Had he perhaps underestimated their capacity to comprehend this gallery of underworld nightmares? Could they somehow possess the strength to triumph over this haunt? To save not just Ethan¡­ But to drag him out of this abyss just the same? Thoughts that scattered like startled insects as Cole Benoit breached the final threshold. The man¡¯s footsteps echoed with deliberate caution, as if negotiating with the horrors left unseen. Miles¡¯ first instinct was to retreat deeper into the darkness¡¯ embrace, his countless legs skittering in agitation as both shamed and yearning waged war within him ¡ªthe desire to remain hidden battling against the desperate need for a witness. Try as he might, the scraping whisper of his massive, segmented form on the newly established boundaries of his confinement could hope to go unnoticed. Miles watched intently as Cole¡¯s hand raised his firearm quickly, motions fluid despite all the injuries. His gaze swept through the vast room frantically, steps naturally drawn to the sole beam of light piercing the encompassing, writhing gloom. And oh¡­ How could Miles not end up utterly transfixed by his sight? Through the dim illumination, the centipede devoured every detail with an artist¡¯s hunger. Cole¡¯s deep umber skin, marred by blood and makeshift bandages torn from his very uniform. The careful geometry of his faded haircut, tight curls crowned by precision-maintained sides. His very short beard following the sharp angles of his jaw like calculated brushstrokes. Those deep-set brown eyes remaining alert despite exhaustion¡¯s obvious toll, while his broad shoulders, though transparently powerful, bore the signature of recent conflict in subtle ways ¡ªa slight favoring of his left side, and the careful distribution of weight to avoid aggravating what must be significant injuries. But it was how Cole held Ethan what truly enraptured Miles, one muscular arm being more than enough to cradle his son¡¯s anemic frame, pallid skin nearly translucent against his protector¡¯s chest. The contrast struck Miles with the unstoppable force of inspiration. Strength tempered by gentleness, fortitude married to compassion. It was beautiful. Painfully, perfectly beautiful. A composition he ached so much to immortalize, if only art were to still flow from his fingers instead of venom. So dangerously close did he get to Cole in his appraisal, that Miles¡¯ antennae quivered only inches away from the officer¡¯s exposed neck, caustic fluid beading at the tips of his lower mandibles. The droplets fell, striking Cole¡¯s shoulder with a malevolent hiss, fabric dissolving into vapor as an immediate, alerted response was prompted. With his weapon raised, the officer turned in his direction, just slow enough for Miles¡¯ upper segments to retreat into the shadows with an unsettling fluidity. Only fragments of his segmented form caught the sparse light as he moved, creating a disorientating dance of chitinous reflections under the ebbing motions. Cole¡¯s composure wavered for just a moment ¡ªbarely perceptible, but more than enough for the centipede to savor. ¡°Seagrave!?¡± Cole¡¯s voice carried a tense steadiness, though Miles was intoxicatingly aware of those minute tremors his finger made against the trigger. ¡°This is Ethan, isn¡¯t he? We can talk about all this!¡± >> ¡°There must be a way to¡ª¡± But right now, Miles had already transcended such mundane concerns. Negotiations, reasoned discourse, both of them instruments of a world that had left him behind, concerns that belonged to creatures of mere flesh and bone. His mind now dwelled in darker spaces, in the abstract realm where beauty and agony blurred together like an overflow of wet paint on canvas. ¡°Tell me, officer¡­¡± Miles¡¯ voice emerged, distorted through the layers of his own corruption, crawling in the air rather than traveling in it. ¡°Is art¡­ The artist?¡± >> ¡°If something beautiful blooms from a grave, should we remember that the seeds were planted amongst the dead? When you stand before my paintings¡­ Do you see beauty spawned from suffering? Or suffering masked as beauty?¡± He shifted position again, segments flowing like liquid as Cole tried to pinpoint the exact origin of his voice. Those deep-brown eyes darted between shifting patches of blackness, pupils dilated with the primitive recognition of prey realizing it¡¯s been trapped. ¡°If I showed you the shape of my heart, and you beheld its shine, what happens once you realize it is but another shade of atrocity? Where did all the beauty come from, then?¡± >> ¡°Did you bring it, when you witness it? Did I create it, despite my flawed spirit? Or can the abyss flowers grow seedless from desecrated corpses?¡± In the dim light, Miles watched Cole clutch Ethan closer, a hand keeping the boy¡¯s head protectively against his chest, as if trying to prevent him from looking. Was he unable to understand what he meant? ¡°My son sleeps in your arms. But he isn¡¯t pure, nor untainted. He also carries it, this otherworldly contagion. Does that not terrify you?¡± >> ¡°It should.¡± No reaction beyond a tightening of his grip. The officer didn¡¯t appear too shaken from such a revelation, a display of stubbornness that spoke more of ignorance than faithfulness. ¡°I¡¯m running out of patience, you demented freak.¡± Benoit finally spat back at him, anger rising to a belligerence that failed to provoke Miles. How could he be, when it carried so transparently the edges of desperation? ¡°Is this not your son!? Why won¡¯t you even check if he¡¯s alright!?¡± >> ¡°Do you even care about him anymore?! Or is this twisted art-talk of yours all that matters now!?¡± Miles¡¯ segments coiled tighter, closing in a circle around the officer as his mandibles clicked predatorily. A fair request deserving of its similarly fair answer. His upper abdomen descended, and for the first time, the two of them held each other¡¯s gazes directly. ¡°Critics used to applaud my work, not grasping the very purpose of its creation.¡± In the wake of Cole¡¯s face contorted through a cascade of emotions ¡ªdisbelief, revulsion, horror¡ª Miles was free to continue his manifesto. The now violent trembles of his gun were of no importance, as it weaved through the air as if unable to decide which part posed the greatest threat. ¡°And just the same, as an artist I never crafted monsters for their entertainment. Still, it is only now that I can see my what my role truly was.¡± >> ¡°A prophet, offering glimpses of what this world will become.¡± A bitter laugh escaped him, sounding far more monstrous through his multiple sets of mandibles. This wasn¡¯t so bad, either¡­ If he couldn¡¯t paint him, then maybe in his destruction he would find a similar bliss. ¡°So tell me, when you look upon this form I wear, can you see the hand behind its metamorphosis?¡± His voice trailed off, gaze lingering on his son one final time before unleashing the tyrant rumbling beneath the pretenses. ¡°Or am I just a vessel for the grandest of designs?¡± >> ¡°Is the artist¡­ The art?¡± >> ¡°For this one particular exhibit should have never been brought out of the shadows.¡± Unable to maintain his composure any longer, the sepulchral quiet of his prison was shattered under the staccato bursts of gunfire. Through desperate muzzle flashes, each bullet that punctured his flesh drew forth only the black essence of Mirage Asylum ¡ªwounds that bloomed like dark blossoms before withering into meaninglessness. Each desperate shot illuminated fragments of his massive silhouette, until only the hollow click of an empty chamber remained. Miles studied the final vestiges of the officer¡¯s will to fight crumbling into despair, raw terror painted across those superb features of his ¡ªin an authenticity that no brush could ever truly capture. In the fleeting seconds that his massive form took rising to towering heights, Miles felt an almost peaceful clarity descend upon him, watching as Cole braced for impact prioritizing Ethan¡¯s protection over his own body. This too was art in and of itself. The destruction of beauty in service of the profound. The innocent blood sacrificed in the night to birth a masterpiece painted in anguish. And so he struck, fiercely, crushingly so. It was so easy for him to tear bones and flesh into pieces with only an inkling of resistance. For at last, the artist had embraced his role not as creator, but as an instrument to devastation. Eden Ruin -Part 10- Just how long had they been walking down these corridors? Claude could no longer tell. Inside this maze of corridors, his track of time had already been thrown severely off-mark. Not long after abandoning the chamber where Samantha¡¯s replica dissolved into memory, so did the gaudy screens and their electric hum start to recede, replaced once more by those ornate walls he had already grown sick and tired of. Every now and then, Claude could still feel it ¡ªthat sensation of being watched, tracked. But this time, the gaze felt weary, as if whatever their stalker was had recognized they carried more than just flesh and bone within them. He still supported Jagdhund ¡ªor at least pretended that he did. Despite the veteran detective¡¯s numerous wounds, his steps retained their characteristic steadiness. If anything, the old man only appeared to be humoring Claude¡¯s attempt at assistance, too proud or too stubborn to fully lean against his smaller frame. Not that the rookie minded the deception much. He knew full well that he couldn¡¯t carry the man¡¯s burly physique all by himself. And much more important than that was the conversation they held during their journey forward. ¡°So its name didn¡¯t just¡­ Come to you right away?¡± Claude pressed, searching for some common ground between their experiences. ¡°What if you try to dig a bit deeper? There must be something there.¡± Getting Jagdhund to discuss their newfound capabilities felt like pulling teeth from a particularly resistant cadaver. The detective even held a stoic silence, refusing to engage, only until Claude reinstated that the specters might be temporary effects of whatever madness plagued the Seagrave mansion. That suggestion helped the old man lose some of his tension, the possibility of impermanence making the whole thing more palatable to him. Clade, however, knew better. Common sense was a fragile lantern in the face of the supernatural. A part of him wished he¡¯d paid more attention to his mother¡¯s teachings, though that was hardly a regret that could help him now. He was at least satisfied to see Jagdhund retreating into a more pensive state for a moment, Claude being aware of how hard it must be for him to follow such an esoteric line of reasoning. At times, he noticed the detective straining his nose, as if the acrid smell of paint in the air could somehow help him reach an answer. ¡°Rust¡­ I think.¡± The old man finally grunted, testing the name with a frown on his face as if he still needed some convincing. ¡°Rust, huh.¡± Claude repeated, the cogs of his mind turning. Aside from the obvious, he wondered what else differed between it and Pendulum. Those cryptic messages that haunted him so insistently since this morning ¡ªcould Jagdhund also be receiving them? ¡°Can you feel its presence? Did it tell you its name directly?¡± A grunt escaped the detective as he crossed his head, one that carried volumes of discomfort. Be it due to physical pain, or metaphysical uncertainty, the line blurred. ¡°More of a feeling than certainty.¡± Jagdhund elaborated, words dragged from some deep, reluctant place. ¡°Like remembering something I¡¯d known all along but forgotten.¡± >> ¡°The way you sometimes recall the name of a childhood friend decades later.¡± ¡°So your childhood friends had three heads too?¡± Claude couldn¡¯t keep at bay a light chuckle, though he regretted the invasive thought almost immediately. His attempt at levity withered quickly in the stale air, Samantha¡¯s recent final moments pressing against his conscience ¡ªa passing the two of them were yet to fully mourn. They had survived, yes, but the achievement felt hollow when purchased with the young girl¡¯s extinction. The weight of her dissolution onto nothingness refused to fully settle in his chest despite Jagdhund¡¯s reassurance, a cold knot of guilt that no amount of rationalization could fully untangle. Even knowing she was but an imperfect recreation devised by the mansion, even accepting they could have never reached her in time¡­ Claude could hardly dismiss the moments they spent together, the promises made, and the light conversations shared ¡ªnow forever lost to the hungry darkness prowling beyond sight. Of course, what truly haunted him wasn¡¯t her death alone, but how it had come to happen too. The ghostly blades that manifested at his command, carving through her flesh, answering his call without a second¡¯s hesitation. As if it had always been there, waiting for this moment¡­ Words crashed through his skull like a lightning bolt once more, sending waves of vertigo cascading down his senses ¡ªa sensation he doubted he could ever grow accustomed to. Claude¡¯s legs buckled beneath him, the world tilting dangerously on its axis. Before he could crash into the carpeted floor, Jagdhund¡¯s grip caught his shoulder, steadying him with an ease that confirmed his earlier guesses about the detective¡¯s recovered strength. ¡°Easy there, kid.¡± The old man¡¯s voice carried a gruff concern, making the support feel a tiny bit less patronizing. His hand instinctively moved to press against his temple, willing away the lingering resonance of those Delphic verses. The timing could¡¯ve been worse, he supposed ¡ªat least they hadn¡¯t struck mid-confrontation like the previous two. Still, their increased frequency was starting to feel like a countdown to something he wasn¡¯t prepared to face. ¡°You¡¯ve been having these episodes more and more.¡± Jagdhund observed, now walking tall by his side with only a phantom of his previous limp. The statement wasn¡¯t really a question, but rather an invitation to elaborate. ¡°I¡¯ve always had them, ever since I was young.¡± Claude admitted, hoping that their special circumstances might normalize such preternatural occurrence. ¡°They¡¯re getting much stronger though. More¡­ Specific, somehow.¡± >> ¡°Like they¡¯re trying to tell me something.¡± Jagdhund¡¯s nostrils flared slightly, as if testing the very concept for a scent. ¡°¡­ Premonitions?¡± A smirk rose on Claude¡¯s face, thinking it darkly humorous for someone like Jagdhund ¡ªwho seemed ripped straight from the pages of a hard-boiled detective novel¡ª to be entertaining such notions. The veteran¡¯s absolutely serious expression, however, killed the gesture as swiftly as it came. Somehow he now looked like a man who needed no explanations for the impossible. ¡°I can¡¯t tell. They sound like nonsense to me, to be honest.¡± The rookie detective followed with a weary sigh. ¡°They might be important. Perhaps you should try to jot them down, once we¡¯re out of danger.¡± ¡°Jagdhund¡­¡± Claude tried to breach the gap between their experiences, hoping that perhaps he wasn¡¯t so alone in this sea of uncertainty. ¡°Earlier, when Rust first appeared¡­ Did you hear anything similar? Words that went directly to your soul?¡± ¡°None of the sort.¡± The old man clarified, the weathered features in his chiseled face creasing in concentration. ¡°I just feel things, like an instinct.¡± >> ¡°Like catching a familiar scent that triggers old memories. The kind that makes your hackles rise before your brain catches up to why.¡± The manner in which he described things, and how he kept sampling the air around them made Claude think. Jagdhund had always been prone to that sort of odd behavior, enough to warrant all those funky nicknames at the station. Now it carried another layer of significance altogether ¡ªas if his nose had always known things the rest of him was only beginning to understand. ¡°Say, that instinct of yours is tied to your sense of smell, isn¡¯t it? Is that how you¡¯ve been knowing stuff you couldn¡¯t have?¡± ¡°Not only that.¡± Jagdhund¡¯s eyes drifted shut as he drew in a deep breath, as if trying to parse a language that existed beyond words. ¡°I can perceive them. Scents that shouldn¡¯t exist. This whole place, for example.¡± >> ¡°It reeks of fear, self-disgust¡­¡± >> ¡°¡­ And rot.¡± ¡°Can you follow it?¡± ¡°All the way to its source.¡± The certainty in the detective¡¯s tone carried something predatory in its quality, a present like that of a hunting dog. ¡°It¡¯s Seagrave. He¡¯s waiting for us at the end of this maze. Rust can smell him.¡± >> ¡°He¡¯s the key out, but I can¡¯t tell if he can be saved¡­ Or if there¡¯s anything human left to save at all.¡± For a brief period, they stood in complete silence. It was difficult to intercede Jagdhund¡¯s statements, each of the old man¡¯s inhalations carrying a purposeful weight, inhabiting a state that Claude felt ill-equipped to comprehend. At least until his facial expression hardened, not in fear, but with a recognition that froze Claude in his spot. The veteran detective went unnaturally still, a hunter caught in a moment of absolute focus. ¡°Cole is there with him.¡± He muttered, the words emerging like a fragment of prophecy. The gravity of that sentence hung unchallenged, pressing heavy against Claude¡¯s chest. The officer¡¯s life was potentially balancing on a very brittle thread, if Seagrave was the one responsible for all this mess. The urgent need to bridge the distance rose inside his organism, to move faster, do anything. Yet Jagdhund¡¯s frame turned back towards the corridor they had already traversed, an inkling of viciousness awakening in his stance. ¡°Us two would never make it in time.¡± He continued, inscrutable as the mansion¡¯s shadows. ¡°Not if you have to drag a wounded old dog there.¡± >> ¡°Besides, someone has to deal with what¡¯s coming.¡± The transition was electric. Claude¡¯s body coiled tight, a knot of dread forming in the pit of his stomach. Though couldn¡¯t hear or feel anything that betrayed the presence of any creature chasing them, the certainty in the old man¡¯s expression and posture allowed no room for doubt. ¡°Go. Now.¡± Jagdhund¡¯s commands had already moved past any suggestion, even when a hint of something deeper could be ascertained between them ¡ªit was paternal protection, one that transcended professional bond. His voice held no tremor, even as he wordlessly admitted that the wounds mapping his body would prevent him from moving quickly. Claude¡¯s reluctance felt almost like a physical, tangible entity threatening to choke him. He wanted to argue, to try and convince him that separating now would feel like one more bad horror movie trope to add to the pile. But the old man stood before him not as a self-sacrificing hero, but as someone with a fundamental awareness of survival¡¯s cruel mathematics. Their eyes met. Years of partnership crystallized in that singular moment, a trust that could never be spoken, there being no point in even trying to. A love that he¡¯d never be able to wring out of the old man¡¯s mouth ¡ªnow fully conveyed in only a gaze. Jagdhund was right. If Cole was in danger, Claude needed to move. His muscles tensed in preparation for the sprint to come, at least until his mentor¡¯s voice broke his concentration one final time, uncharacteristically mellow in its tone ¡ªrevealing vulnerabilities that felt out of place from the grizzled detective. ¡°Hey, rookie.¡± The ghost of a smile played across his lips, a gesture so rare that it fleetingly fractured the mansion¡¯s gloom. ¡°There¡¯s something for Ione in my car¡¯s glove compartment. A birthday gift.¡± >> ¡°My plan was to give it to her myself, but if¡­¡± ¡°Don¡¯t.¡± Claude''s reaction was instantaneous, visceral. He didn¡¯t care if there¡¯d be no other opportunity for this conversation. Even considering it sent waves of rejection crashing against him. ¡°Just. Don¡¯t.¡± The shift in their dynamic crackled like lightning ¡ªapprentice momentarily defying mentor. ¡°I¡¯ll be waiting for you, old mutt.¡± >> ¡°Is that understood?¡± There was no stark reaction to his defiance, only a slight huff from Jagdhund as he turned on his back again, more of a breath of resignation than a gesture of protest. This was fine. Claude had no time to spare for prolonged farewells that would hollow themselves the moment they were spoken. They would reunite soon. With that certitude echoing in his head he broke into a run, the underground gallery dissolving into a blur of motion, focus narrowing on the path forward alone. His wounded legs pumped with a reinvigorated tempo, coagulated blood sliding from his skin like an afterthought. Any remnant of pain was muted into something distant, overshadowed by the urgent pulse of purpose thundering through his veins. The underground gallery transformed further after every winding path, across every twisted corner traversed. Naive as it might be, Claude chose to trust Samantha¡¯s original teachings ¡ªthat all roads converged, no matter their lack of rhyme or reason. His progress across the mansion was punctuated tangibly, art pieces gradually mutating into peripheral nightmares he ignored deliberately. Hard as it might be, it was better to blind himself to the ever-darkening atrocities framed on walls, to the sculptures tracking him down from the upper display alcoves. Chandeliers hung high overhead mirrored the rising dusk, losing their luminescent strength the more of them he passed. It was either that, or the shadows themselves growing fiercer, devouring light with sentient hunger, creeping onto the carpet¡¯s rich red hues to make them bleed into something deeper, more primordial. Eventually, all the artificial lighting gave way to an absolute penumbra, the walls themselves becoming his only beacon guiding the path forward. Their color was no longer a static stillness, but a writhing, pulsing, breathing incandescence ¡ªlike a layer of blood adhering to the surface, beating to the rhythm of Claude¡¯s frantic heart. Gravity became a loose proposal rather than a law. The corridors¡¯ geometry tilted at impossible angles while Claude¡¯s body remained perfectly balanced, moving with a fluidity that transcended human locomotion. Was he even running at this point, or was the mansion carrying him forward? The distinction was no longer there, or rather, it became meaningless.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. The final stretch revealed itself not as a threshold to cross, but as what appeared something akin to a membrane ¡ªuncompromisingly black yet simultaneously translucent. A vibrating divide between planes of existence, whispering promises of transformation. Iridescent but dark, both thick and thin, an ephemeral veil capable of complete dissolution. Something primal within Claude screamed at him to retreat. That approaching further would not bring mere traversal, but a more metamorphic change. But Claude didn¡¯t hesitate. Couldn¡¯t hesitate. Stopping in and of itself felt like inviting whatever lurking maws that pursued him to snap shut. So he launched himself forward, straight into the unknown. When his body crashed against the barrier, it dissolved around him like ink bleeding through fragile paper. The transition felt different from his first descent into this surreal netherworld ¡ªmore akin to suspension than falling, seconds stretching into an eternity so brief he couldn¡¯t even measure its full terror. Once his feet reunited with the ground, they made no sound whatsoever. A vast black space enveloped him whole, a canvas of absolute darkness punctured by a singular ray of light, so sharp it appeared almost surgical in its precision. The air hung thick and viscous, a gaseous layer of dissipating paint that clung to his lungs, making each breath feel more like an unwanted absorption than inhalation. Pigment droplets drifted aimlessly around the space, creating a misty veil that transformed every movement into a spectral dance of small particles. If circumstances were different, Claude might have paused to study both the place and himself. To examine if anything had changed in his body, to seek a ceiling beyond the light, or to confirm if there was any way to turn back. Contemplation was a luxury he couldn¡¯t no longer afford. The chaotic scene before him demanded his immediate attention. Another brand new nightmare given flesh claimed dominion inside the suffocating hall ¡ªa towering centipede that defied the natural order. Its exoskeleton devoured any light it touched, an ink-black carapace so glossy it seemed to contain liquid swirling underneath. Contrasting that obscurity, its inner anatomy revealed a phantasmagorical white ¡ªneedle-sharp limbs and segmented appendages that moved with a hypnotic fluidity, a choreography of sickening motion. Enduring its prowl, Cole was locked in a dance of desperation, narrowly avoiding the certain destruction of those sharp legs crawling all around him. Blood saturated his torn uniform, a testament to a losing battle against the creature. Each slice told a story of resistance, jagged tears revealing glimpses of flesh devoured by flowing crimson. Yet his arms appeared to remain a safe haven as they nestled a small young boy protectively. Claude identified him immediately. Ethan Seagrave, ten years old ¡ªthe only child ever to be associated with the mansion¡¯s obscure records. As the detective forced every thought back to bring himself into motion, the centipede¡¯s massive form coiled, preparing itself to strike. Claude could hear the sound of mandibles clicking with anticipation, a millisecond from transforming Cole and Ethan into nothing more than splatter and memories. Pendulum responded before conscious thought, its ghostly blade materializing high at Claude¡¯s command. Ethereal rope tensed painfully around his hand as it sang through the musty, paint-laden air, the edge descending like a guillotine to carve through the creature without an ounce of mercy. The blade cleaved through segmented flesh with ease, chitinous appendages crashing down to the floor to writhe in grotesque independence. Black ichor sprayed instead of blood, more akin to liquefied shadow and smoke than anything organic ¡ªthe same vile essence that had once seeped from LaCaze¡¯s decaying body. A primal, bone-rattling hiss erupted from the centipede, the sound so forceful it seemed to make even the vast hall tremble ¡ªor perhaps it was Claude¡¯s own skull reverberating with the unnatural resonance. The creature¡¯s immense body undulated as it retreated, too large to fully conceal itself in the surrounding darkness. "Claude!" Cole shouted as the two of them reunited, ragged with relief and exhaustion that bordered on agonizing. His arms trembled over Ethan¡¯s half-unconscious form as he succumbed to his knees, a contrast of fragility to his blood-soaked clothes and the horror now lurking for a new angle to strike. ¡°Stay down!¡± Claude warned, wielding Pendulum defensively to consolidate their own front, the black blade dancing around them to keep the centipede back, gradually enveloping them in a defensive barricade of pale-blue afterimages. ¡°It''s not over yet!¡± ¡°You took your time, Detective Cavendish.¡± A new voice emerged from the darkness, liquid and distorted, with the quality of something profoundly wrong. ¡°I see you have one of your own.¡± >> ¡°A Punisher.¡± The term landed like a hex, foreign yet laden with meaning. Claude¡¯s grip instinctively tightened on Pendulum¡¯s rope, something alive and anticipatory humming between his fingers and the spectral blade. ¡°A what now?¡± The detective asked, more reflex than genuine expectation of an answer, commanding the dark blade to dissipate back to the ether. The laughter that ensued sent chills down his spine, defeating his attempt at nonchalance. Part insect chittering, part human derision. It crawled freely across the air, enveloping them from all places at one, unconstrained by physical limitations. Nothing more than fragments of disjointed conversation, the rambling monologue of a mind long divorced from sanity. ¡°Seagrave, no?¡± It didn¡¯t take much deduction for Claude to piece things together. The question was performed merely in custom. Motions challenged by a shivering cough, Cole nodded, his eyes growing unfocused due to all the lost blood. Could he even see the blade that saved him? Claude was unable to tell. ¡°Your gun¡­¡± The officer mumbled, extending an expectant trembling hand. ¡°Mine¡­ Ran out of bullets.¡± Claude hesitated. Even if the service weapon provided little use for him to keep, Cole was far too gone to wield it effectively. Yet he understood the human need for something tangible, and he preferred the officer to have something to focus on instead of bleeding helplessly on the floor. The additional life of defense was similarly valuable, were things to spiral completely out of control. Doubting fingers exchanged the cold metal from hands, until that too ended interrupted once Miles Seagrave emerged fully, giving Claude one hell of a welcome reception ¡ªhis sight, man and monster intertwined in defiance to any sort of categorization. Gray, necrotic skin stretched through the upper part of a torso, converged blasphemously between taxonomy and atrocity. A withered wing, more like a broken dream of flight, sprouted from his right shoulder blade, its counterpart on the left a mutilated vestige that gave Claude the feeling of an incomplete transformation. Thick, grimy black hair fell to his shoulders, doing little to soften the horror beneath. Where eyes should have been, two insect antennae twitched, sensing motion with revolting awareness. Other human features remained ¡ªalmost mockingly so¡ª preserving just enough humanity to make the monstrosity ever more terrible. All of it atop a centipede head staring them down with tiny black eyes, mandibles and menacing arms clicking together with a rhythm that suggested conversation, or a depredation far more complex than mere hunger. Claude felt something inside him go very still. Not terror, or at least not just that alone. There was also¡­ Recognition. The kind that could only come once the world raised a curtain, revealing something fundamentally, irrevocably different from everything he¡¯d ever thought possible. His breath began coming in ragged bursts, each exhalation raising his chest unevenly in the struggle to maintain composure. Claude suddenly felt very tiny, stripped of the spirit that propelled him to the conflict ¡ªstride he needed to quickly recover, no matter the cost. ¡°Doubt I can get you to teach me painting techniques now.¡± Claude managed, a frail smirk cutting through his trembling lips. The joke was probably delivered with obvious transparency of his mental state ¡ªbut it was enough. An anchor. Something to keep him away from complete psychological fracture. Any more surrender to terror, and they¡¯d all be dead. Seagrave¡¯s form undulated forward in its grotesque ripples, each movement a brushstroke of malevolence gaining speed, each motion a revolting wave of tiny limbs, eager to chase and trample its prey. ¡°Is that an attempt at comedy, Detective?¡± Claude¡¯s reaction came milliseconds too late. While he repositioned himself sufficiently away to keep Cole and Ethan from immediate danger, it wasn¡¯t nearly fast enough to avoid the centipede¡¯s ram. His body was lifted from the ground, weightless, helpless, as it resented the sheer force of the tackle. ¡°Are you so simplistic that no sin ever catches up to you?¡± Pendulum manifested close to Clause in defense, his hands holding on precariously to the dull parts of the blade before those vicious mandibles could sink into his flesh. The tremor of Seagrave¡¯s clasping jaws coursed through the spectral steel, traveling all the way to his bones. ¡°Why, if that¡¯s not an enviable virtue¡­¡± Suspended mid-air, oxygen locking in his lungs, Claude watched the scene unfold as he was thrown unceremoniously across the room ¡ªseparated from those who needed his protection. ¡°Did you not stutter while executing Miss Marlowe, despite promising her salvation?¡± His eyes were lured to the sound of Cole¡¯s gunfire during the flight. A futile effort, the centipede¡¯s middle segments reorganizing themselves despite the bullets, poised to skewer the officer and his young protegee. ¡°Now isn¡¯t that fortunate. To be that pristine. To kill without consequence.¡± Bracing for the inevitable impact would have to wait. As the descent began, Claude commanded one of Pendulum¡¯s afterimages to run its recursive trajectory, slicing off the assaulting limbs. ¡°How I wish I could be like that. To not have guilt gnawing on my conscience like the utter fool that I am.¡± Though the centipede head hissed in agony as it pivoted, correcting its course to charge exclusively at Claude, Miles'' deranged speech carried on unchallenged ¡ªimpervious to harm and hurt. ¡°Is that your Punisher makes no effort to devour your heart, Detective? Or is it as merciful as my Mirage Asylum is cruel?¡± That term again. Punisher. The detective wished for a reprieve to piece together the puzzle, but the pain of his back hitting the floor overshadowed all coherent thoughts. ¡°Do not mistake my words as scornful.¡± Resenting the slam against the surface was a luxury taken away from him. Seagrave¡¯s coils, terrifyingly swift for their size, had already begun to encircle Claude before he could bring himself upwards. ¡°This lack of insight and effectiveness of mine¡­ I, too, regret it.¡± Claude¡¯s muscles screamed in protest as he rolled, narrowly avoiding a wave of sharp feet attempting to pierce him. The borderline maneuver was punctuated with a horizontal swing of Pendulum, ethereal rope tensing over both hands as the blade cut deep into the centipede¡¯s carapace ¡ªhis knee height not low enough to completely dismember a set of limbs like he originally envisioned. ¡°Had I surrendered to my ordained role earlier¡­¡± With another, more furious hiss, the creature corrected its massive form, clicking with a sound like broken scissors as it prepared to deliver a killing blow. One that Claude couldn¡¯t as easily dodge this time around. His heart condensed into a singular beat, realizing he was seconds away from a brutal demise. ¡°¡­ Perhaps much of this suffering could¡¯ve been dealt with a gentler hand.¡± Holding to it once more for dear life, Pendulum became the only barrier keeping the maws of the centipede from shredding his body to pieces. The crushing weight, however, remained more than enough to tear agonized screams from Claude. It felt like his body could begin rupturing from inside out at any given moment. ¡°I would have granted you all a much more merciful death.¡± Another series of gunshots echoed through the vast emptiness. It was clear he had underestimated Cole¡¯s marksmanship, for the bullets accurately punctured both of Seagrave¡¯s forms. The centipede head retreated as it suffered the most of the damage, but another round also pierced Miles¡¯ human jaw ¡ªsurprisingly interrupting his deranged soliloquy. The creature¡¯s resulting thrashing gave Claude a precious opening, one he dared not to waste despite how his body demanded recovery. Pendulum darted upward in a fluid arc, slicing cleanly through the softer undersides and splitting its mouth in two, dividing the monstrous flesh and releasing a blackened rain now falling on him. It wasn¡¯t dead, and the savage tantrum that ensued threatened to collapse the very void around them¡­ But this moment of Seagrave¡¯s silence was exactly what Claude needed. A proper reprieve to bring his thoughts somewhere adjacent to coherency, now that he didn¡¯t need to focus on the struggle for survival alone. Fallacies, contradictions and false corollaries aside, Miles was still capable of speech. He wasn¡¯t fully lost. In that fractured communication there was a possibility ¡ªhowever frail¡ª of understanding, of learning. Not to condemn, but to unravel this nightmare¡¯s intricate, bleeding logic. Not to judge the monster, but to find a path ahead through its relentless darkness. His thoughts drifted, momentarily, to Ione. What could he possibly say now, that could rekindle the ember of humanity that might be able to connect them? ¡°I won¡¯t give up on you.¡± Claude spoke, his voice a razor of determination cutting through the suffocating darkness. Tremors of exertion coursed down his body, blackened blood and sweat painting a macabre canvas across his features. ¡°I can tell that you¡¯ve seen things I can¡¯t even begin to imagine.¡± >> ¡°But if there¡¯s a way for us all to survive, to make sense of the impossible¡­ Then maybe we can forge a tomorrow that doesn¡¯t involv¡ª¡± ¡°Baseless ideals, while beautiful, are nothing more than a fragile illusion, crumbling too easily beneath the weight of inevitability.¡± Miles¡¯ interruption emerged like poison seeping through cracked porcelain, the centipede frame stabilizing. There was a smile on his deteriorated face, but not one of mockery. To Claude, it appeared born out of self-pity. ¡°I have witnessed the end, Detective Cavendish.¡± >> ¡°And mortal hands are but dust against her approaching storm. Trust that I have your best interest in mind, for the other side might offer you a more lasting peace.¡± >> ¡°My advice is that you quiet down and accept my design.¡± Claude wiped a streak of obsidian from his cheek, a challenging smile breaking free across his lips as he stood up. Frustration began to simmer in him, even if it wasn¡¯t complete anger just yet. ¡°Yeah, sorry.¡± The detective replied, Pendulum hanging with thrumming anticipation at his side. ¡°That won¡¯t happen.¡± >> ¡°I¡¯d prefer you alive. But I¡¯m sure as hell not about to let you do as you please with us.¡± ¡°Have it your way.¡± Seagrave hissed. The partially mutilated form of the centipede recoiled, then surged forward with vicious intent. Perhaps precisely due to their discussion, Miles had failed to fully identify Pendulum¡¯s ability ¡ªa mistake Claude was more than ready to exploit. As the creature crossed the afterimage of Pendulum¡¯s last attack, Claude summoned back its recursive strike from within it. The ghost blade carved backwards through inner anatomy, halting the centipede in the spot as another precipice of its foul, inner substances blossomed due to the destructive internal damage. Giving tangible motion to his resolve, Claude swung Pendulum in one final arc, this one decisive. The horizontal slash bisected cleanly the remaining pieces of flesh that kept the centipede together. Its head crashed down, decapitated remains writhing in grotesque mindlessness. Not over, Claude knew, but now it was the only chance he¡¯d get to determine whether Seagrave could be separated or not from this architecture of corruption. Moving again released jolts of pain that coursed through his body like fire. Though he¡¯d rather not think about it, something had very likely broken inside him ¡ªa rib, or perhaps¡­ He drove the notion away, focusing instead on bringing himself closer to the disembodied centipede head. Miles Seagrave¡¯s pale, malnourished torso emerged before him as he took careful steps, mindful of every residual spasm. He looked grotesquely like a decaying tumour hanging from the black exoskeleton, welded at the hips with his hands sunken deep into the chitin. The proximity revealed more grotesque details, like his bones protruding on the sickly skin, and the thin darkened veins across his flesh that pulsed with a life not entirely his own. ¡°To think I, too, would fall victim to your ruthless promises of comfort¡­¡± Seagrave muttered, black blood pooling around Claude¡¯s boots like a spreading infection. ¡°Shut up, will you? I¡¯m not trying to kill you.¡± The detective¡¯s hands ran across the exoskeleton, fingers seeking for any gap between the seamless shell. It still felt disturbingly alive, breathing in a rhythm that remained unsettling even in its lack of motion. ¡°I¡¯m going to cut. Try not to move.¡± ¡°It¡¯s useless.¡± The artist whispered with yet another self-serving smile. ¡°It didn¡¯t interfere only because it expected better of me.¡± >> ¡°But it¡¯s not going to let me go. As long as I live¡­ This plight¡­¡± Before Claude¡¯s eyebrow could twitch in annoyance, the vast dark hall rumbled. It wasn¡¯t only sound. It was a presence. An unsurmountable, enormous force that had just taken firm hold of reality itself. Pigment droplets scattered in the air like terrified wraiths, swirling in chaotic, unstable patterns. The sole piece of furniture in the room ¡ªa white canvas laying pitifully on the floor¡ª began to shake, not from the tremors, but from something it held beneath its blank surface. Concerned, Claude¡¯s gaze darted to Cole, who clutched Ethan firmly while forcing himself upright despite wounds that would have felled a lesser man. Beneath the officer¡¯s feet, the stark surface was no longer mere absence of light. It was alive, ebbing, flowing, receding. No, not just beneath Cole. It was the entire room. The blackness itself seemed to crawl, moving with purposeful convergence towards the abandoned canvas. ¡°Aha¡­ It¡¯s coming now.¡± Seagrave voice carried a note of resignation, a complete lack of movement in the antennae he had for eyes. ¡°There won¡¯t be more chances.¡± >> ¡°Kill me, Detective.¡± Eden Ruin -Part 11- Death. Such potent word it was. Not even all that long ago, it was one that terrified Miles to the very depths of his core, both in its promise of agony and in the cadaveric stillness it bestowed. Now? It felt like an old companion, an awaited lover whose cold embrace he couldn¡¯t fear anymore. Something to welcome in some sort of perverse intimacy. ¡°Can you stop the cryptic bullshit!? Be clear, for fuck¡¯s sake! What is coming!? How can we stop it!?¡± The detective did have a point. Miles had always been prone to melodrama. It¡¯s not like he had set to cover himself in a blanket of empty pretenses from the start. More rather, it was simply all he ever knew. Sophistry brought along comfort, a delicate veneer that masked the profound hollowness, especially with how often he found his intellect lacking in any form of brilliance. Miles was, too, already weary of such facades. No, not just weary. So deeply, soul-crushingly exhausted¡­ If there was any tiny speck of a feeling left in him over his own passing, it was relief. Pure, and unadulterated. The kind of surrender that comes after decades of struggling against an unyielding current. There was no longer any reason to fight, no more desperate attempt to prove his own worth, and no one there to drag him forward. Were death to arrive now, he¡¯d greet it not as defeat, but as an old friend. Perhaps in the ineffable beyond, a new meaning could be ascertained. He was almost capable of witnessing her silhouette again, emerging from the darkness. Utopia. Though no hues could ever give justice to what existed beyond representation, though eyes would dissolve at the very dare of capturing her essence¡­ Oh, words failed to describe how much did Miles long to attempt it. Yet the guillotined hesitated, refusing to fall. ¡°Are you sure this is the resolution you wish for?¡± Miles spoke with unnerving calm, conscious of the room¡¯s metamorphosis though he beheld no sight. ¡°Mirage Asylum won¡¯t be as merciful as I have. Are you not aware that you need to hurry?¡± >> ¡°Otherwise¡­¡± ¡°Shut up.¡± Cavendish¡¯s desperation leaked through every syllable, thick enough to suffocate the detective. ¡°Just¡­ Let me think for a second.¡± No good. The sole person capable of bringing him closure had already fallen victim to horror, overwhelmed under the weight of the impossible. Miles supposed it was nothing to be blamed for, especially since the artist could envision the unfolding events by heart alone. Not like he needed to. The two men¡¯s trembling spirits as well as the vibrations running through his haunted grounds were more than sufficient to paint a clear picture for the blinded artist. The blank canvas, his perennial tormentor, was lifted from its forsaken position, previously abandoned amidst the chaos of conflict. The seething mass of black tendrils coalesced beneath it, bubbling through the surface like clotted blood forcing its way into the fabric. Boundaries of plausibility defied, the white confines of the frame began to swell and expand, reshaping itself into a vast mural stretching wide ¡ªtaller and more immense than all of them combined, eclipsing even Miles¡¯ corrupted body. Seconds stretching taut before their audience, the passage of time quantifiable only by a drone ambiance of dread and seeping liquid, generously provided by the world itself rumbling in a disjointed tempo, like the clicks of a terrible clock. A slow torture-ballad punctuated by neck hairs standing on end, a natural reaction to the approach of something higher than life itself. Colours invaded the expanded canvas from within, a breathing painting that created itself. At first, it was just impossibly long fingers crawling from around the edges, not as unified limbs, but as individual entities ¡ªeach digit a separate consciousness, seeking but one thing only. Escape. A dozen became hundreds, then thousands, interweaving and pulsing with horrifying sentience as they pressed themselves against the fabric. ¡®Paint monster¡¯. Such was the name bestowed upon Mirage Asylum by the unfortunate few that confronted it in the past. A descriptor far too lacking, deceitful, almost insulting in its simplicity. Its insufficiency would come to full display once the outlines of its head peeked in from beneath the confines of the mural, around the moment when the fingers penetrated the layers of their confinement to cross into their dimension. To mix all colors of the spectrum together in a palette would inevitably result in black, such a thing was an undeniable law. The same did not happen to all the paint conforming Mirage Asylum¡¯s manifestation. In its chromatic composition pigments danced yet never quite converged, weaving and layering with one another in seamless control ¡ªlike a masterful impressionistic work given life, frightening and beautiful in equal measures. Behind it, anchoring it to whatever forsaken plane of existence it crawled out from, the canvas continued to expand. It grew larger than the room, larger than the mansion, larger than every imaginable horizon. And from there, it finally emerged. Its head was a bloated nullspace of terrible potential, featureless save for two peeking exceptions. Mirage Asylum¡¯s eyes were but a scribbled mimicry, swirling vortexes of almost childish glee. Fractured lines and ink-stroke red pupils desperately jumping back and forth. Orbs that should have never been allowed to exist, let alone move. The next detail to be revealed in the slow dimensional trespassing was its maw ¡ªfor the term mouth would be far too generous; presenting itself not as a suggestion to consumption, but only to unnerve further in a smile that dominated more than half its head. Its contours oozed and dripped, sploshes of paint falling in unstable uniformity. Faces came and went between its irregular jaws, rising and submerging back into the paint as they changed and transformed vividly. Samantha Marlowe. Anthony LaCaze and his gang. Shelley, Ethan, and him. Their heads ruptured the paint to wallow in suffering, displayed by Asylum almost like trophies, ripples resembling multiple tongues savoring the abominable visage. Even the detectives were not spared in the somber demonstration. Realized it or not, their assimilation began the very moment they stepped into his purgatorio. The primordial, receding blackness that lurked beneath surfaces rose with purposeful malevolence. Fingers crawled and tightened around his body, like thousand ravenous children, dragging what remained of him towards the canvas with an inexorable pull. Miles did not resist. Why should he? Survival and demise felt so similar by now, their differences as meaningless as any choice he might muster. Cavendish acted, attempted to tear at the dark tendrils once he realized the artist was being taken away. It was far too late ¡ªhis sole, fleeting chance had already been squandered. Then it came again. Dissolution. The only word that could begin to capture his unholy communion with the painted demon. As his flesh was anointed in tribute, Mirage Asylum penetrated his essence not as a violent invader, but as a returning component. They recognized each other, remembered each other. Wings freed. Souls aligned. Their touch, a recollection of some contract his hands were forced to sign without knowing. Overriden his surrender was. Unraveled his spirit. There was no violence in his undoing, only the practiced methodology of an artist concealing a pentimento blueprint in their most intricate of creations. Once again, Miles Seagrave ceased to be, subsumed yet not laid to rest. His new form rose from that original, cambric potential like wet paint bleeding free from containment. A single disoriented, pale-blue eye scanned the horrified expressions before them, every other feature concealed by cascades of impossibly long dark hair that hung in sodden ropes, dripping with viscous fluids. From beneath that shroud, a crown of red thorns erupted in blasphemous mockery of a halo. The skin of his naked torso had ruptured, stretched far too much over an enlarged frame, splitting in bloodless fissures that exposed restless churns of bone and muscle. And somewhere within that transformation, a singular, ruthless purpose took over his silenced vocal cords. To slaughter those who threatened Mirage Asylum¡¯s design. Claude Cavendish, Cole Benoit, Ethan Seagrave. None of them would leave this sanctum alive. The thought brought him neither pleasure nor pain. There was only cold certainty, like paint dripping to fill a predetermined outline. Once the confusion of renewal subsided, Miles¡¯ found himself suspended inside the widened jaws of his Punisher, emerging from the center mass like the figurehead on some nightmare vessel ¡ªeverything below his waist dissolved in Mirage Asylum. Paint coalesced in his left hand like a bestial sword, invoked from the dark and the blood of his lord with an edge that shone like fresh ink upon paper, its purpose evident even to his half-addled mind. Motion happened to him with an almost somnolent grace, belying the chaos of paint crashing outside of the canvas like a raging sea under storm. There was no resisting it, no options but to be subservient to the midnight pull of the tide. When Cavendish¡¯s Punisher swung at him, walls of colour rose to meet it, parting around the ethereal edge only to reform in their wake. Unimpeded, Miles flowed through the gaps like water, inexorably advancing towards his more vulnerable targets. Ghostly, invisible slices carved him as he approached ¡ªthe ability of Cavendish¡¯s Punisher, no doubt¡ª yet even these paradoxical cuts could not truly harm him now. The gaps that were left in his body sealed themselves instantly, paint flowing to fill the negative spaces. Bullets from a desperate last stand sunk into Miles¡¯ malleable flesh with dull percussion, lost like pebbles in an ocean¡¯s depths.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. Benoit attempted a makeshift retreat in the face of imminent danger, but the paint flooding the chamber would allow no such thing. It latched onto his legs with the consistency of tar, anchoring him in place as Miles performed a wide swing of his arm, almost dance-like in its tempo. The artist¡¯s blade carved a lethal gash on Ethan¡¯s back, eliciting an agonizing cry from his pitiful son. A roar of primal ire erupting from the officer followed, but even this rebellion was merely a grace note in the requiem. One of Asylum¡¯s massive appendages crashed down upon them both like a tsunami of paint, following Miles¡¯ blade like paint follows brush. No satisfaction or joy crossed his face, even as he encountered himself in possession of a power to prevail over all. Had choice remained his, he would have granted them cleaner deaths, swifter passages into the world beyond. Now their memories would join the others, preserved eternally in his gallery of the damned. There was no point in lamenting it now. Artist and abomination moved as one, every trace of regret concealed beneath thick layers of paint. ¡°Seagrave!¡± Cavendish¡¯s voice cracked through the viscous air, his expression a masterwork of torment, raw fury mixed with the disbelief of a wounded, cornered animal. It was the face of a man losing his grip on the last threads of hope he desperately clung to. ¡°Where did you take them!?¡± The outburst was regarded by Miles with the detached curiosity of someone observing insects beneath glass. His silence spoke volumes. Morality, purpose, justification ¡ªforlorn concerns of a past composition. Whatever composure had stayed Cavendish¡¯s hand shattered like brittle glass, his blade now aimed at him with the clear intent to kill. Conviction ignited the detective¡¯s fierce eyes as his Punisher sang an ethereal dirge in a long descending arc. Sadly, it was too little too late to try and strike him. A similarly violent wave of paint rose to meet the attack, not in mere defense but also calculated viciousness. The dark tide congealed as it met the ethereal steel, turning into a substance between liquid and solid, an unyielding trap that halted its edge in place. Cavendish¡¯s frame was bound to the blade by a rope that emerged from his chest, and such connection would become an instrument to his undoing. Mirage Asylum flowed into humanoid farm, seizing the detective like a puppet master claiming abandoned strings, hauling him skyward with terrible, undefiable strength. The detective had his body whirled off the ground and into the dense air, fingers white-knuckled against the spectral rope in the face of the brusque ascent. The paint Punisher toyed with Cavendish briefly, though the intensifying acceleration of its motions telegraphed the destruction about to come. Whether it was tactical clarity, instinct, or simple exhaustion, Cavendish made the only choice available to him. The link tethering him to the captured blade dissipated, leaving him suspended in an agonizing moment between ascent and fall ¡ªa perfect, helpless target. The living tide of paint that composed his renewed flesh drew Miles into position. His arm¡¯s muscles coiled on their own accord, preparing his ink blade for a lunge to impale Cavendish¡¯s frame with, to punctuate his fall in a violent flourish. A killing blow that never landed. Reality splintered violently when a steel tempest burst through the threshold of the chamber. It moved like lightning, a beast of corroded iron and voracity. Its three heads worked as one, tearing all of Mirage Asylum¡¯s attempts at containing it. Spectral jaws snapped shut once they reached Miles¡¯ shoulders, disrupting the paint¡¯s cohesion enough to scatter his limbs like ink in water. It was poetry in violence, rows of phantom teeth and claws rending the encroaching paint with savage ruthlessness. Corrupted pigments sprayed in all directions as the spectral hound carved its path, twisting mid-leap to focus on its true objective ¡ªCavendish¡¯s plummeting form. His rescue was as precise as it was spectacular. The cerberus powerful ethereal muscles rippled beneath iron plates as it snatched the detective, each bound carrying them further away from Miles¡¯ reach. Wherever paint rose to reclaim them, to drag them back into their embrace, phantom fangs flashed in tripled synchronicity, keeping Mirage Asylum at bay. ¡°I made it just in time¡­¡± The voice that pierced through the suffocating atmosphere, though ragged, carried a firm undertone that seemed to make even the crawling darkness hesitate. ¡°Sorry for the delay.¡± Detective Gianmarco Aerugino, Miles recognized. Despite how his clothes were matted crimson and his breath remained labored, there was an unmistakable pride in his stance ¡ªstubbornly refusing to fall into weakness. Mirage Asylum pulsed around the artist in acknowledgment of the new threat, returning to its full humanoid shape as it lifted Miles into its core, forming a protective cocoon around him. The two men kept themselves just beyond their reach, the Punisher practically hissing in impatience, yet it remained tethered to the canvas from where it originally surged. "Cole and Ethan! They''re¡­ I couldn''t¡­" Cavendish¡¯s voice fractured with the raw kind of horror reserved for those who had witnessed the world crumble. His lungs fought for air as he scrambled to his feet, eyes darting between Aerugino and the writhing mass of paint, practically begging the older man for any hope to latch onto. ¡°Claude, get yourself together. They¡¯re still alive.¡± Aerugino¡¯s words came to halt his partner¡¯s spiral with a calm certainty, his gaze meeting Miles¡¯ single, unmoving eye. ¡°Panicking here only helps that thing.¡± Though the detectives¡¯ subsequent exchange faded into whispers Miles could not discern, their intentions could still tasted through the very air, each heartbeat singing its own distinct melody ¡ªin fear, determination, or desperate strategy. ¡°Seagrave has to die. It¡¯s the only way to end this.¡± ¡°But how!? Look at him! Anything we do is just¡­¡± ¡°There is a way. A weakness, somewhere. I can smell it.¡± >> ¡°Follow my lead. I¡¯ll give you an opening, but you have to make it count.¡± >> ¡°Only you can do this, Claude.¡± A shadow of amusement ghosted across Miles¡¯ paint-slick features, tugging at purple lips that could no longer properly smile. How fascinating that they should grasp such a truth. Death loomed for all of them as both salvation and damnation, and the artist didn¡¯t truly care about any outcome. The end would come, one way or another. Yet¡­ Despite this acceptance, something almost like excitement stirred in what remained of his soul. Their poise awakened a strange tenderness in him, like watching children picking up drawing techniques through blind practice. Paint would gladly drink their blood at the smallest mistake, transmute their struggle into yet another layer of this underworld¡­ But they still refused to give up. And so, Miles waited with genuine curiosity to see which canvas would ultimately claim this final exhibition ¡ªMirage Asylum''s, or theirs. As expected, the cerberus moved first. Aerugino¡¯s presence burned behind it in quiet intensity, his lined face carved from marble as he commanded the Punisher with astonishing expertise. The beast moved in adamant brutality, its metallic bulk destroying all of Mirage Asylum¡¯s efforts to restrain it. Wave after wave of paint tendrils rose to fall victim to its savagery, torn asunder beneath phantasmal teeth. The artist observed their advance with dispassionate detachment, no concern reaching his unblinking eye as his barriers fell away like curtains, leaving fleeting windows through which the detectives followed the hound¡¯s vanguard. Paint hurriedly reformed in their wake in a ravenous chase, but always a fraction too slow, always just shy of taking their flesh. Such resistance entranced Miles, even when one could only do so much in a fight against the open sea. Though inexorably fierce, the canine Punisher began having its movements impeded bit by bit, stray droplets seeping between its iron plates to crystallize into obsidian needles to pierce the immaterial flesh. The mighty charge began to falter, thunderous steps becoming labored, weighed down by the accumulating pollution, but not enough to stop it entirely. Once the hound forced its way close enough, the cocoon surrounding Miles began to peel away. His frame was carried into a plunge, one to puncture the canine beast with his falling ink blade. The artist figured that this, too, was a part of Mirage Asylum¡¯s ploy ¡ªa staged protection opening up to the illusion of vulnerability. His reformed flesh held no value. It was but an underhanded bait. Yet somehow, the older detective saw through the feint, operating under a strange awareness that transcended mere tactical prowess. With a soul-rending roar, Detective Aerugino bypassed Miles entirely, diving instead to the towering mass Mirage Asylum that originated him. The older detective¡¯s hands plunged into the writhing paint with reckless abandon, heedless of its vile, corrupting essence. Panic surged through Miles¡¯ muscles ¡ªnot his own, but Mirage Asylum¡¯s. The Punisher tried to wrench his blade free from its deadlock with the cerberus, but the trinity of maws snapped to trap the sword in an unyielding vise. Behind him, Aerugino¡¯s hands worked with savage determination, excavating through layers of what resembled soft necrotic tissue far more than the solidified paint that it was. And in there, suspended in a web of darkened veins, lay the artist¡¯s still-beating heart ¡ªpitiful and withered, a ticking clock counting down for oblivion. Upon the exposed organ, Aerugino¡¯s mouth opened, no doubt compelled to call for his younger partner, to urge him into seizing this moment that would never come again. Mirage Asylum moved faster than his voice, flooding the old man¡¯s throat and airways, invading his trachea and collapsing his lungs with paint. Not that there was any need for the veteran to scream. The younger detective had already locked onto his path long before anyone could even utter a word. And though the two of them did not cross gazes, Miles saw, if for a moment, the breathtaking beauty of soft black stars in his gentle amber eyes. Surging from the ether beyond, Cavendish¡¯s pendulum blade returned, emitting a pale radiance that made every grasping dark tendril writhe in response. It didn¡¯t come alone. A translucid echo of its edge mirrored its trajectory in reverse, phasing through every obstacle like a reflection in still water. Miles was rendered into a mere enraptured audience member, witness to the moment in which both blades converged in one singular point ¡ªhis disembodied heart. Pain, acute and unbearable, crushed the hollow replica of his frame, forcing Miles to release the ink blade from his trembling grasp. Mirage Asylum¡¯s vibrant tones turned into a surging flood of crimson, a spectacle the artist couldn¡¯t focus on. Suffering was far too all-consuming. He fought desperately for breath, his hand clutching his chest even though nothing was there, choking on death. A sensation that was cut short abruptly, as fiercely as it arrived. Corporeality seemed to fold inwards, creating depths that should not exist in three-dimensional space. Memories and visions not his own bloomed before his mind¡¯s eye, fragments born of wrath and anguish combined, whispering answers to darkness and dreams in full. So, this was what the cards revealed. Every struggle, every agonizing step, was justified. Much more compelling than blindly following Mirage Asylum¡¯s machinations, but how ironic it was that the hand too close to see was the one destined to slay and claim it all. If he held a single regret, it was the inability to linger long enough to witness the aftermath of his exhibition ¡ªthe way everything would blissfully dissipate before the final curtain fell. Yet this was a tolerable trade, for in exchange he was granted a glimpse beneath the opaque mask of deadened time, a privilege denied to all others. Fine, then. It was a resolution he could accept. To let his spirit exhale into the fleeting night air of the void, a shadow among shadows, untethered to the sunlit world. What was one more temporary slumber, after all, if it was only to last for the fleeting seconds of eternity unfolding?