Alex woke with a violent gasp.
His eyes shot open, and for a moment the world spun so fast he thought he was still dying. The ceiling above him—the cracked concrete he knew far too well—slowly sharpened into focus. The dim lantern hanging from a rusted pipe flickered weakly.
He was back in the sewer.In his bed.Alive.
His head throbbed so hard he thought it might split. His throat felt dry, almost sandpaper-like, and when he breathed in, his lungs burned as if he'd swallowed smoke.
He groaned and tried to sit up. Pain flared across his ribs, forcing him to move carefully. His vision blurred for a second but settled when he blinked.
A bottle of water sat on the table beside him.
He reached out with trembling hands, grabbed it, and took a desperate gulp—then another. The cool liquid slid down his throat, easing the burning dryness. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned back, breathing more steadily now.
He needed medicine. His ribs felt like they were cracked. His neck—he touched it gently—was bandaged. Someone had treated him. Someone had brought him back.
He reached for the supply box at the foot of the bed—
—and a hand suddenly appeared in front of him, holding a pack of painkillers.
Alex's heart nearly jumped out of his throat.
He flinched backward so fast he hit his head against the wall. "W-WHAT THE—?!"
Standing beside the bed—silent, unmoving—was a Soul Walker.
Its long, pale limbs stretched beneath the low ceiling. Its hollow face looked down at him, expressionless, eyes like empty pits. It didn't attack. It didn't reach for him.
It only… stared.
Alex froze, breath caught in his chest. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but his legs refused to move.
"S-Stay back…" he whispered hoarsely.
But the Soul Walker didn't move. It simply stood there, holding the medicine out like it expected him to take it.
Alex stared at the pills. Then at the creature. His brain refused to make sense of what he was seeing.
Soul Walkers didn't help people.They killed.They devoured.They drained souls.
So why—
A sudden soft, high sound made him jolt again.
Meow.
A small black shape jumped onto the bed and sat beside his leg, tail curling neatly around its paws. Bright yellow eyes blinked up at him.
Alex nearly fell off the bed a second time.
"A… a cat?" he choked out. "H-How…?"
All animals had died after the apocalypse. Birds, dogs, even insects vanished. The air was poisoned, the ground corrupted—nothing living survived except humans and the cursed things that came after.
So how was there a cat here?
It tilted its head, studying him with curious calmness.
Alex pressed a shaking hand to his forehead. Everything hurt. His head pounded. Nothing made sense.
He remembered—
The Riptile Gang.Their knives.The blood.The cold emptiness.The voices of Soul Walkers.
And then—
A warm voice.
A girl's voice.
The memory flickered like a flame in his mind. He remembered collapsing… something chasing him… a barrier, darkness… a familiar tone whispering something to him.
"Who…?" he mumbled.
He grabbed his head as a sharp pain cut through his skull. The cat backed up but didn't leave his side. The Soul Walker still stood there, patient and unmoving.
His breaths quickened.His thoughts twisted.Everything felt wrong.
"How am I back here?" he whispered. "Why am I alive…? Who brought me back?"
The cat's tail flicked. The Soul Walker tilted its hollow head, as if waiting for him to piece the truth together.
Alex looked between them—horror, confusion, and disbelief swirling together.
Then his head throbbed sharply.
A flash ripped through his mind—an image of the Riptile Gang's bodies hitting the ground, their lifeless eyes, their souls being pulled from their chests like glowing threads. He shuddered violently. The memory was too clear… too real.
His breath hitched.
But there was something else.Another sensation beneath the pain.
His body.
It felt… different.Stronger.Whole.
Alex looked down at his hands. His skin was unbroken. His neck—he touched it—no longer had a cut. His ribs didn't ache. His body had no wounds at all. Not even a bruise.
"But… I was stabbed," he whispered. "My throat was—my ribs—how am I… healed?"
The pain in his head sharpened again, forcing a groan out of him.
Before he could ask anything else—
"You're done?"
Alex jumped so violently he almost launched himself off the bed like a nervous grasshopper. His blanket tangled around his legs, and he had to grab the edge of the mattress to stop himself from kissing the floor.
He stared at the cat.
The cat stared back.
The cat had spoken.
In a calm, very human, very adult male voice—like this was some normal Tuesday conversation and not a full-blown mental breakdown waiting to happen.
"You—Y-You can talk?!" Alex squeaked, pointing at the cat with a shaking finger that looked like it was about to resign from his hand.
The Soul Walker didn't react at all, but the cat blinked slowly, like he was already tired of Alex's entire existence.
"Of course I can talk," the cat said, flicking his tail with the attitude of a retired celebrity. "If I couldn't, my job would be much harder. My name is Arte. That's what my owner calls me."
Alex stared, mouth hanging open so wide a fly could've rented it as an apartment.
A Soul Walker in his room.A talking cat.A body healed like time just rewound itself like a cheap cassette tape.
His brain felt like it was melting—no, boiling—no, actually crumbling into tiny emotional cornflakes. He pressed both hands to his head, eyes wide.
"I… I think I'm hallucinating," he muttered. "Did I hit my head? Did I die? Am I in a very weird, very low-budget afterlife?"
Arte licked his paw, bored."Calm down, human. If anyone here is dying, it's me from secondhand embarrassment."
Alex let out a borderline hysterical laugh.Yep. He was losing his mind. Rapidly. And the cat was watching it happen like it was a mildly interesting TV show.
"A-Arte?" Alex repeated weakly, like the name itself might explode if he said it too loudly. "Your… owner? Who's your owner?"
Arte lifted one paw and began licking it with the elegance of someone who absolutely did not care that Alex's entire world was crumbling like a stale cookie.
"You'll meet her when the time comes," the cat replied casually, still polishing his toes like it was the most important appointment of the day. "She's busy at the moment."
Alex blinked rapidly.
"Busy—? She—? What—?"
His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, like his vocal cords were also filing a complaint.
Before he could piece his brain back together, pain zapped through his skull, sharp and sudden, like someone poked his head with an electrical fork.
"Ow—! What now?" he groaned, clutching his temples.
Arte finally stopped grooming long enough to look at him properly. His golden eyes narrowed with the seriousness of a professor about to give bad news to a failing student.
"Listen carefully, Alex. You are no longer a normal human."
He flicked his tail once—just once—but it somehow radiated judgment.
"Not that you were entirely normal to begin with."
Alex squinted at him. "What is that supposed to mean…?"
Arte sighed, like he'd been waiting his whole life to deliver this dramatic line.
"You are a Soul Harvester," he said firmly. "A collector of souls."
Alex's heartbeat stuttered like a broken drum.
"A… what?"
He stared at Arte, eyes wide, mind spinning, and finally blurted out:
"Are you messing with me? Because my brain can't handle another subplot today."
Arte's ears twitched.
"If I were messing with you, I'd start by telling you you're handsome."
"HEY—" Alex snapped, offended on three different emotional levels.
Which, unfortunately, only proved Arte's point.
Arte sighed, long and dramatic, like a teacher explaining the same lesson for the fifteenth time to a student who kept eating the chalk.
"Think of it like this," he began, speaking slowly—as if Alex had the mental processing speed of a potato. "A reaper collects souls when someone is destined to die. It's a natural death, a scheduled death. Reapers cannot change fate. They simply guide those souls onward."
Alex swallowed hard.
His chest tightened in that awful way where it felt like his ribs were trying to hug his lungs to death.
"So… reapers are basically… spiritual traffic enforcers?" he asked weakly. "Like—'Ma'am, your time is up, please proceed to the afterlife, thank you for your cooperation'? That kind of thing?"
Arte blinked slowly.
"…If you want to simplify thousands of years of cosmic order into that ridiculous metaphor, then yes."
Alex swallowed. His chest tightened.
"But you," Arte continued, "are not bound by fate."
He pointed his tail toward Alex like it was a disapproving finger. Honestly, Alex had never felt judged by a tail before, but here he was, living the nightmare.
"A Soul Harvester can take a soul based on his own judgment," Arte said, voice smooth and annoyingly calm. "Whether the person is dying or not. Whether fate has decided it or not. You pass judgment, and you take their soul."
Alex felt cold wash over him, like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on his entire existence.
"B-But I— I didn't— I didn't judge anyone!" he stammered, hands flapping uselessly in front of him like panicked noodles.
"You did."
Arte didn't even blink. His tone dropped, calm but heavy enough to flatten Alex's emotional stability.
"You judged the Riptile Gang. You judged their actions, their sins… and your power reacted."
Alex froze.
His hands trembled uncontrollably. His knees twitched. His soul wanted a refund.
He remembered it—the strange pounding in his chest like a war drum, the cold numbness swallowing him whole, the eerie white souls being ripped out of their bodies like glowing noodles.
He had done that.
He had actually done that.
He hadn't punched them.
He hadn't stabbed them.
He didn't even touch them.
But he took everything they were.
"OH MY GOD—" Alex slapped both hands over his mouth, eyes huge. "I'm a murderer?! A magical murderer?! A— a soul vacuum?! Is that what I am now?!"
Arte sighed with the exhaustion of a cat who regretted every choice that led to this moment.
"Please calm down. You're shaking the bed," he muttered. "And no, you're not a vacuum. You're just… dramatic."
Alex stared at him, horrified.
"I harvested their souls, Arte! That is not dramatic, that is— that is ILLEGAL in at least twenty religions!"
Arte blinked.
"Humans only have one religion."
"That's not the point!!"
But Arte simply stretched, flicked his ear, and looked entirely too relaxed for someone telling a man he accidentally became a soul-stealing grim reaper.
Alex groaned into his hands.
Yep. He was definitely losing his mind.
And Arte was watching it crumble like a soap opera he had already rated five stars.
He swallowed hard."What… what happens to the souls I take?"
Arte's golden eyes dimmed, the glow fading just enough to make Alex's stomach twist. The cat looked away, tail twitching in a slow, troubled rhythm—like even he didn't want to say the words.
"You consumed them," he said quietly.
Alex's stomach dropped so quickly he genuinely thought it might fall through the floor, catch fire, then file an official complaint.
Consumed.The word echoed in his head like a cursed announcement played over a broken speaker.
"I… I ate their souls?" he whispered, his voice cracking like he'd swallowed sand. "Like… spiritually? Or did I actually—like—is this a calorie thing?!"
Arte didn't sugarcoat a single syllable."Yes. That's how Soul Harvesters grow stronger. Their bodies change. Their wounds heal. Their senses sharpen. You're not just storing the souls." His gaze swung back to Alex, calm and merciless. "You're becoming something more… and something less."
Alex pressed both palms into his face so hard he was surprised his skull didn't cave in.
He didn't want this.He didn't sign up for this.He didn't want to be some kind of supernatural soul blender.
He didn't want to be a monster.
Arte yawned—a massive, unbothered, cat-level yawn—as if Alex wasn't having an existential meltdown right in front of him. Then he gave Alex a firm, bossy head-nudge.
"Enough panicking," Arte declared. "You need to eat first."
"What?" Alex dropped his hands and stared at him. "Eat? Now? Arte, I just learned I'm a soul-eating creature! My stomach is traumatized!"
"Yes," the cat replied, flicking his tail with peak judgment. "Your body is still adjusting. You awakened only hours ago. You used a tremendous amount of energy—especially for a beginner."
"A… a beginner?" Alex echoed weakly, as if the word itself had personally offended him.
"A newborn," Arte corrected sharply. "You passed judgment once, and it almost killed you."
He hopped onto the table and tapped a sealed can of food with his paw like a grumpy store employee pointing out the obvious.
"If you don't eat, you'll collapse again. And I am not dragging your half-dead body a second time. You are heavy. Emotionally and physically."
Alex flinched so hard he squeaked."S-So… I follow you after I eat?"
"Correct."
Alex stared at the can. Then at Arte. Then at the can again.
"…Do Soul Harvesters get a manual, or am I just raw-dogging supernatural life now?" he muttered.
Arte blinked slowly."To think you're a chosen, but all I see I dumb human."
"HEY—!" Alex shouted, voice cracking again.
But the cat just flicked his tail and sat down, waiting like a tiny furry supervisor while Alex continued spiraling into a fresh new flavor of panic.
Alex hesitated. His fingers curled tightly around the edge of the blanket, like it was the only thing stopping him from disintegrating on the spot.
"Why should I follow you?" he asked quietly. "Why should I trust a talking cat? Why should I—why should I do any of this?"
Arte blinked at him. Slowly. Deliberately.
The kind of blink that said: I cannot believe I have to explain something this basic.
"Because you need to practice," Arte said.
Alex stared at him like he had just been told to do push-ups at his own funeral.
"Practice?" he echoed, voice half-confused, half-ready-to-cry.
"Yes."
The cat sat up straighter, looking exactly like a strict schoolteacher in a fluffy costume. "You awakened a Soul Harvester's power with zero control. You nearly drained yourself dry. You almost lost consciousness permanently."
Alex blinked rapidly.
"P-permanently? As in… dead? Or like… long nap?"
"Dead," Arte answered casually. "Very dead. End-of-season-finale dead."
Alex slapped a hand over his mouth as a silent scream tried to escape.
Arte continued, wrapping his tail neatly around his paws like this was a perfectly normal lecture and not a psychological attack.
"If you don't train that ability, it will consume you instead of the other way around."
Alex swallowed so hard he felt his soul attempt to run away again.
"A newborn Harvester is unstable. Your body is trying to reshape itself to match your new soul. You need strength, discipline, and training." Arte narrowed his eyes. "And you need to learn how to judge without letting your emotions ruin everything."
Alex lowered his gaze, shoulders folding in.
His brain was already ninety percent panic, ten percent despair, and one lost memory of what normal life had felt like.
"Why… me?" he whispered. "Why did this happen to me?"
Arte hopped down from the table, landing with a soft thump. Then, with the confidence of someone who had been bossing humans around for years, he nudged Alex's leg again—firmly, like a tiny furry mentor with no tolerance for self-pity.
"That," he said, "is something only my master can explain."
Alex stared at him, defeated.
Of course.
Of course the talking cat with a secret boss had vague, mystical answers.
Fantastic.
His life had turned into an RPG tutorial—except he didn't even get a sword. Only trauma.
And a bossy cat.
*****
Jean and her two companions, Ashlyn and Mina, arrived at the southern edge of the city as the sun dipped behind a curtain of gray clouds. The abandoned Umbrella Inc. factory loomed in front of them—cold, rusted, and half-collapsed from years of storms and meteor strikes. Metal sheets creaked in the wind like groaning spirits.
"This is definitely the place," Mina whispered, tightening her scarf around her neck. "Feels… empty."
"Empty is good," Ashlyn muttered. "Empty means no Wraith mutts or creepers waiting to bite our ankles."
Jean hid her worry. The trip had taken them two days. Every hour, the world only seemed to rot more.
The three pushed open the warped steel doors, and the loud groan echoed through the factory's hollow interior.
Inside—a thick, heavy smell hit them.
Burnt metal.Rot.Old blood.
Mina gagged, covering her mouth. "God… what happened here?"
Ashlyn raised one palm, a small flame igniting in her hand like a tiny torch. Her fire ability lit up the darkness, casting flickering shadows on the broken machinery.
"Stay sharp," Ashlyn warned. "Factories like this attract scavengers… and worse."
Jean nodded, gripping the strap of her bag tightly. She needed medicine—bandages, antibiotics, anything to help their group survive the next month. That was the only reason she was here.
They moved deeper inside, past conveyor belts frozen in time, past shelves of dusty, shattered vials.
Then they saw them.
Bodies.
At least a dozen.
Not dead—Not alive—but something terrible in between.
Jean froze.
They were scattered across the floor, leaning against walls, sprawled across the cold tiles. Their skin was gray. Their eyes half-open. Their breaths shallow. Some were missing limbs. Others had deep wounds that leaked dried blood.
One man reached out weakly as they passed, fingers trembling.
"Please… kill me…" he whispered.
Jean flinched hard.
Mina covered her ears, shaking her head. "Ignore them. Ignore them."
Another voice—faint, barely a breath—came from a woman lying near their path.
"Please… please… someone… end it…"
Ashlyn hesitated, flame flickering. "Should we…?"
"No," Jean said quickly, though her voice trembled. "We can't. You know that."
Nobody died in this world. Not fully. If the body tried to shut down, the soul clung to it like glue. Broken humans became trapped in endless suffering—unable to heal, unable to die, unable to rest.
Walking corpses with beating hearts.
A curse everyone shared.
Jean forced her feet forward, ignoring the pleas, ignoring the hollow eyes begging for an end they could never be given.
Ashlyn muttered bitterly, "This world is messed up."
"It's how things are now," Jean replied quietly. "We can't help them."
The words tasted like poison, but she said them anyway.
They stepped around another body—this one barely more than a torso—and reached the back section of the factory where the medicine crates were rumored to be.
Stacks of supply boxes sat under fallen beams, many crushed or broken open. Jean knelt and ripped open the closest intact crate.
Her eyes widened. "These are real… untouched."
Bandages.Antibiotics.Painkillers.Even clean bottled water.
Mina let out a relieved breath. "Finally… some luck."
Ashlyn dimmed her flame and rolled her shoulders. "Grab what we can carry. We should head back before night—"
A voice cut through the darkness.
Small.Weak.But clearly alive.
"H-Help…"
Jean jerked her head toward the sound.
A young girl—no older than fifteen—lay under a collapsed metal shelf. Her leg was crushed. Her breathing shallow. Her eyes swollen with pain.
Jean's throat tightened. "Ash—help me lift this!"
Ashlyn hesitated, staring at the girl's gray skin… the trembling lips… the half-dead stare.
"Jean…" Ashlyn whispered. "She's already gone. Her body's done. She won't recover. We free her… she'll just keep suffering. You know that."
Jean's hands trembled.
The girl's voice cracked. "It… hurts… please… please…"
Jean bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
This world didn't allow mercy.
Death didn't exist.
Only agony stretched on and on.
Jean's eyes burned, but she forced herself to stand. She forced herself to turn away.
"Let's get the medicine," she said in a dead voice. "And leave."
Mina wiped her tears on her sleeve. "I hate this world… I hate it…"
Ashlyn lifted her flame again, eyes cold. "We all do."
Jean didn't look back.
She couldn't.
She walked forward, each step heavier than the last, the girl's broken whispers echoing behind her like ghosts—
"Please… kill me… please…"
But in this world, no one could grant that wish.
Not even God.
Jean, Ashlyn, and Mina were stuffing the medicine into their bags when a sudden metallic clang echoed through the far end of the factory.
All three froze.
Ashlyn immediately dimmed her flame to a tiny ember hovering over her palm. Mina held her breath. Jean raised her hand silently, signaling them to stay low.
Another sound followed—Footsteps. Heavy, careless, echoing through the hollow factory.
And then a familiar voice.
Deep. Cocky. Cruel.
Marcus.
Jean's blood ran cold.
Without hesitating, she grabbed her friends' wrists and pulled them behind a collapsed machine. They crouched in the shadows, unseen but close enough to hear everything.
Marcus's group entered the main factory floor—laughing loudly, boots clanking on metal, weapons scraping against their belts. Jean recognized the harsh voices of his gang immediately.
Marcus ruled a savage group of survivors who enjoyed hurting others simply because they could. They believed the apocalypse made them kings of what remained.
Ashlyn whispered, barely audible, "Why are they here?"
Jean shook her head. She didn't know. But whatever the reason, it was bad.
The stomping grew louder—And then came an awful sound.
Crunch.
Marcus stepped on one of the half-dead bodies on the floor. The broken man beneath him groaned weakly, voice desperate.
"S-Stop… please… kill… me…"
Marcus only laughed and pressed harder with his boot.
"Oh? You want death that badly?" he mocked. "Too bad the world doesn't work like that anymore."
His men snickered.
Another body whispered, "E-End it… end it…"
Marcus leaned down, grabbed the man's face, and shook it violently. "Look at me, you pathetic worm. You're begging for something impossible. Asking for death when it's been taken away from all of us."
He shoved the head down onto the ground again.
Crack.
Mina covered her mouth, tears filling her eyes. Jean pulled her close, forcing her to stay quiet. If Marcus found them here—they wouldn't survive it.
Ashlyn sat rigid, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white. Jean glanced at her and saw the fire trembling in her palm, threatening to flare up with her emotions.
"Ash…" Jean whispered urgently, "control it."
"I'm trying," Ashlyn hissed through her teeth. "But listening to him… listening to how he talks to them…"
Another agonizing groan came from a nearby woman whose legs were twisted unnaturally under a fallen beam.
Marcus walked toward her, stepping over bodies like they were trash. "Oh look," he said, grinning. "Another one begging for the freedom she can't have."
"P-Please," the woman croaked. "Please… stop…"
Marcus put a finger to her lips, mocking her. "Shhh… no dying today. No dying ever."
Jean's hands shook. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw something. Anything.
But they couldn't fight Marcus's group.His men were too many.Too strong.Too ruthless.
And only Ashlyn had an ability.
Mina squeezed Jean's arm desperately. "Let's go… Jean, please… let's leave…"
Jean tried to think. If they moved now, Marcus's men might hear. If they stayed too long, they might be discovered.
Ashlyn's flame flickered dangerously brighter.
Jean grabbed her hand. "Ashlyn—don't you dare lose control. If they sense even a spark—"
"But they're torturing them," Ashlyn whispered, her voice breaking. "These people are suffering… and he's laughing."
Jean swallowed the bitter taste of helplessness.
"I know," she whispered. "But if you react, all three of us die. And then the people waiting for us back home die too. We have to survive. Just this time. Just this one horrible time."
Ashlyn bit her lip hard enough to bleed, forcing her flame to shrink again into a tiny ember barely visible.
Marcus's voice echoed again.
"Let's keep moving, boys. Maybe we'll find something fun. Maybe even someone still alive enough to scream."
His men laughed, boots stomping the floor as they wandered deeper into the factory.
The three girls stayed hidden, barely breathing, watching the shadows of Marcus's gang stretch long across the broken machinery.
Jean kept her eyes on them until they finally disappeared around a corner.
She didn't dare move.
Not yet.
Ashlyn trembled. Mina quietly sniffed back tears.
Jean closed her eyes for a moment, breathing slowly to keep her fear from swallowing her whole.
This world was cruel.This world was broken.And the only thing worse than the monsters…were the humans who chose to become worse.
Jean's hands still shook as she tightened the straps of her backpack.
The air outside the Umbrella Inc. factory was colder than inside, the wind biting against their faces as it swept through the husks of broken cars and twisted steel beams. Gray clouds smothered the sky, trapping the world in a permanent late afternoon that never brightened, never warmed.
"We got what we came for," Jean said quietly, trying to keep her voice steady. "We head north, stay off the main road, and we'll be back at the base before night hits."
Mina hugged her bag to her chest like a shield. "I just want to be anywhere but here."
Ashlyn walked a bit ahead of them, her eyes scanning the ruins. Her flame now was only a faint ember hovering above her palm, just enough light to navigate the rubble. She didn't speak, but the tension in her shoulders told Jean everything she needed to know.
She was still thinking about Marcus.
They made their way through the skeletal remains of the industrial zone—collapsed warehouses, rusted trucks, half-eaten billboards with messages no one cared about anymore. Each step crunched on broken glass and gravel.
Jean listened for danger: the low moan of mutants, the twisted buzzing of corrupted drones, the unnatural silence that sometimes preceded monsters.
But the world sounded… normal.
Too normal.
"We might actually make it out clean," Mina muttered, more to herself than anyone.
"Don't jinx it," Ashlyn said softly.
They slipped between two fallen concrete slabs, using the narrow gap as a shortcut toward the northern ruins. Once through, they crossed an open stretch of cracked pavement leading toward a line of ruined apartment blocks.
Jean's gaze flicked around.
No movement.
No voices.
"Let's go," she said. "If we pick up the pace, we—"
Something moved at the edge of her vision.
She stopped.
A shadow detached itself from a broken wall.
Then another.
And another.
Jean's blood went cold.
Men stepped out from behind rusted cars, from alleyways, from the tops of shattered staircases. They emerged from every angle, boots scraping stone and metal, weapons glinting dully in the dim light. In seconds, the three girls were surrounded.
Mina's breath hitched. "No…"
Ashlyn's ember flared a little brighter.
Then he walked out.
Marcus.
He strolled forward like he owned the street. His once-messy brown hair was now tied back, his jaw sharper, his eyes harder. The leather coat he wore was scorched in places, blackened by fire, and his hands were wrapped with burned cloth as if he hadn't cared about cooling his own flames.
"Well, what are the odds," he drawled, grinning. "I was wondering who was sneaking around my playground."
Jean stepped closer to Mina and Ashlyn, putting herself slightly in front of them.
"We don't want trouble," she said. "We're just passing through. We'll leave."
Marcus chuckled, shaking his head. "See, that's the problem, Jeannie. You think you still get to choose."
His gaze slid over them slowly—too slowly. Ugly. Intrusive.
"You three got lucky in there," he continued. "You found medicine. Supplies. The kind of things that make life easier. You really think I'd just let you walk away with all that?"
Mina glared at him, her shoulders trembling. "You're not taking a single thing from us."
He raised an eyebrow at her, amused. "Oh? The little mouse squeaks."
Mina spat on the ground near his boots. "Choke on your own ego, Marcus."
His men laughed, but Marcus's eyes darkened.
Ashlyn stepped forward then, fire dancing a little higher above her palm. The orange glow lit her face, and for a moment Jean saw the mixture of heartbreak and fury in her expression.
"This isn't you," Ashlyn said, voice tight. "Marcus, you're not like this. You used to bring food to the kids hiding in the church basement. You used to pull injured people off the streets. You—"
"That Marcus is dead," he cut in sharply, impatience flashing across his face. "He died when the sky broke and God abandoned us. I adapted."
He smiled again—a cold, empty smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"You want to know how I 'adapt' now?"
Jean felt the answer before he spoke it.
Marcus spread his arms. "I won't hurt you. Any of you. I'll even let you keep some of the supplies. You just have to agree to be mine."
Mina's eyes widened. "Yours?"
"Mine," Marcus repeated calmly. "My women. You belong to me, I keep you safe. You refuse…"
His smile thinned.
"Well. Then I let the boys have fun."
Mina's disgust flared white-hot. "I'd rather let a Soul Walker eat me than let you touch me."
Ashlyn stared at Marcus like he was a stranger. "I don't recognize you anymore."
He tilted his head. "You will. Once you've broken enough."
Jean's pulse hammered in her ears. "We're not going to be anything to you. Not now, not ever. Let us go."
Marcus looked around at his men, then back at the girls, amusement returning to his features.
"I guess the ladies want to play," he said.
His hand lifted lazily.
"Take them."
The men surged forward like a tide of bodies and blades.
Jean yanked Mina back, heart racing. Ashlyn's fist flared, and the tiny ember exploded into a swirling blaze that wrapped around her arm.
A large man reached for Mina—Ashlyn slammed a punch into his chest. Fire erupted on impact, hurling him backward with a scream as his coat caught flame.
Two more men closed in.
Jean swung her backpack off one shoulder and used it like a shield, blocking a swing from a rusted pipe. The impact rattled her arm, but she stayed on her feet and kicked the man in the knee. He stumbled, cursing.
Mina seized the moment, swinging the metal rod she'd grabbed at the factory. It cracked against another man's jaw, sending him crashing sideways.
For a moment, the chaos gave them a sliver of hope.
Ashlyn spun, a ring of fire bursting from her feet and forcing some of the men to back off.
"Stay behind me!" she shouted.
Jean grabbed Mina's wrist and moved with her, keeping close to Ashlyn's back.
Marcus watched, arms folded, face expressionless for once. Flames flickered faintly around his fingers, ready but withheld.
The girls fought like cornered animals.
Ashlyn's fire burned bright, casting wild shadows along the ruined street. She sent a line of flames racing along the cracked ground, forcing several attackers to leap back with shouts.
Jean ducked another swing, her breath ragged. She elbowed one man in the throat, then slammed her knee into his stomach when he bent forward. Mina, though terrified, swung her makeshift weapon at anyone who came near, teeth clenched, tears streaming down her face.
But there were too many men.
And Ashlyn was alone in her power.
Her flames began to flicker at the edges, strain showing in the way her shoulders tightened, in the way her breaths grew harsher.
One man managed to get behind her.
"ASH—!" Jean shouted.
Too late.
He swung a metal pipe toward Ashlyn's back—
—and it never landed.
A crack of light split the air.
A bolt of lightning shot down from above, slamming into the attacker's chest. For a single blinding second, the world turned white-blue. The man screamed as his body jerked violently, then collapsed onto the ground, twitching.
Everyone froze.
Even Marcus.
Smoke curled from the man's clothes. The sharp smell of burnt fabric and ozone filled the air.
At the edge of the ruined street, standing atop an overturned car, was a figure in a dark hood and mask. The mask covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible—sharp, focused, and calm in a way that felt wrong in this chaotic world.
Blue sparks danced along his fingertips.
"Who the hell—?" one of Marcus's men snarled.
The hooded boy didn't answer. He simply lifted his hand—and the lightning came again.
Two more attackers were struck in an instant. The bolts weren't wide, sweeping flashes. They were precise, controlled, as if he was selecting targets with ruthless efficiency.
They fell to the ground, groaning, weapons clattering away.
Marcus glared at him, eyes narrowing. "You're interfering with my business."
The hooded boy hopped down from the car, landing lightly on the cracked pavement. He stood between the girls and Marcus's men now, lightning still crackling quietly along his fingertips.
"Walk away," the boy said simply. His voice was steady, young, maybe a little older than Alex. "You're not touching them."
Marcus stared at him for a heartbeat.
Then he laughed.
"You think a little electric trick is going to scare me?" he asked. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"
Ashlyn's fire flickered higher as she watched, eyes darting from Marcus to the stranger. "Who is that…?"
Jean didn't know. But right now, she didn't care. He was on their side.
Marcus lifted his hand.
Flames burst to life around his fingers, coiling up his arms like hungry snakes. The air around him warped slightly with the heat as his fire flared to full strength.
"Let me remind you," Marcus said, eyes glowing with orange light, "why people don't challenge me."
He thrust one hand forward.
A wave of fire roared toward the hooded boy.
The boy slammed his palm to the ground.
Lightning flooded the cracked pavement, racing forward in a jagged arc. It collided with the incoming flames, steam exploding outward as fire and electricity clashed.
The shockwave rattled broken windows and sent dust raining from the nearby buildings.
The girls shielded their faces.
When the smoke cleared, the hooded boy was still standing—breathing harder now, but standing. Lightning pulsed more intensely around his arms.
Marcus's grin turned sharp. "Good. It's been a while since I had a real fight."
He stamped his foot.
A line of flame snaked along the ground, circling wide around the hooded boy, then bursting upward like a ring of fire trying to cage him in.
The boy jumped, lightning blasting from his feet to give him a burst of speed. He flipped over the rising flames and landed closer to Marcus, then hurled a bolt directly at his chest.
Marcus crossed his arms, flames condensing into a shield. The lightning struck and sent sparks flying, but Marcus only slid back a few inches, boots scraping the pavement.
"Stronger than most," Marcus said. "But not strong enough."
He flicked his fingers, and burning arcs shot outward. The hooded boy dodged left and right, using bursts of lightning to propel himself. A streak of flame grazed his shoulder, burning his cloak.
Jean watched with pounding heart. The boy was fast, but Marcus's fire had weight now—power. Each flame strike hit like a physical blow, blowing chunks of pavement into the air.
"Ashlyn," Jean whispered, pulling at her sleeve. "We can't stay here."
Ashlyn's jaw clenched. "I can still fight."
"You're almost burned out," Jean said. "Look at your hands."
Ashlyn glanced down.
Her flames were thin now, dimmer, flickering like candles in the wind. Her fingers trembled. She had already pushed herself hard back at the factory and then again outside.
"We have to move when we get an opening," Jean insisted.
Mina nodded frantically. "I don't want to die here. Not like this."
Another explosion of flame cut their conversation short.
The hooded boy had tried to rush Marcus with a close-range strike—a bolt of lightning guided by his fist. Marcus stepped aside, moving with dangerous grace, and slammed a flaming punch across the boy's chest.
The blow sent him flying.
He crashed into a broken wall and slid down, groaning. For a second, his lightning flickered weakly.
Marcus sauntered closer, fire still dancing around his fists. "You're quick," he said. "But electricity burns out faster than fire. You're done."
He raised his hand.
A large fireball began to form above his palm, flames swirling into a dense, seething sphere.
Jean's breath stopped. "He's going to kill him—"
The hooded boy forced himself to his feet, staggering slightly. He looked over at Jean, Ashlyn, and Mina for just a moment.
Then he glanced upward.
Jean followed his gaze.
There, behind Marcus, part of the street had collapsed into an old drainage tunnel—an opening half-hidden by twisted rebar and concrete. It wasn't large, but it was big enough to squeeze through if they bent low.
The boy met Jean's eyes.
She understood.
He wasn't trying to win.
He was buying time.
Marcus hurled the fireball.
The boy slammed his hands together.
A massive bolt of lightning erupted, meeting the fireball mid-air. The explosion was blinding. Flames and light burst outward in all directions, a wall of heat washing over the ruined street.
Men screamed. Some were thrown backward. Others shielded their faces and stumbled blindly.
Ashlyn dropped to one knee, covering Mina with her body. Jean ducked, arms over her head.
Smoke swallowed everything.
The world rang with the sound of the blast.
Through the haze, Jean felt a hand grab her wrist.
The hooded boy's voice cut through the ringing in her ears. "This way. Now."
He pulled her toward the broken edge of the street. Ashlyn grabbed Mina and followed, half-dragging her. The four of them stumbled toward the half-collapsed drainage tunnel.
Behind them, Marcus coughed, fury boiling in his shout. "Don't let them escape!"
Shapes moved in the smoke.
"GO!" the boy snapped.
He turned, flinging a wide arc of lightning behind them—not at Marcus directly, but at the scattered metal lying around. The bolt hit a broken light pole, a rusted fence segment, a car door. Electricity danced wildly between them, creating a crackling barrier of sparks that forced Marcus's men to back away, yelling as their weapons shocked them.
Marcus himself stepped through the chaos, fire flaring bright around his body, burning away the lingering smoke.
He saw them at the tunnel.
His eyes burned with rage.
"ASHLYN!" he roared. "You can't run from me forever!"
Ashlyn flinched but didn't look back.
Jean shoved herself into the narrow tunnel first, scraping her arms on the rough concrete. Mina slid in after her, sobbing quietly.
The hooded boy gestured sharply. "Go. I'll seal it."
Ashlyn hesitated only a heartbeat, then followed them into the darkness.
The boy put his hands on the broken concrete overhead.
Lightning surged—not out, but inward.
The remaining loose slab trembled, then collapsed, crashing down to narrow the tunnel opening just as Marcus hurled another wave of flame.
Fire washed over the stone, but the collapse held.
On the other side, in the tight darkness of the tunnel, the girls could still hear Marcus's muffled roar of fury as the four of them crawled deeper into the shadows… away from the factory, away from Marcus's reach.
They had escaped.
For now.