POV: Heyo
Ah…
I feel sick.
Not just a little.
Not physically.
I feel sick in the place no one sees—the place you hide because if someone looked inside, they'd run.
I didn't want to do this.
Honestly.
I didn't want to push her that far.
Threaten her, insult her, press a gun to her head, reduce her to a thing.
An anomaly.
A mistake to erase.
And yet…
I did exactly what was done to me.
The wheel turns, huh?
Pain comes back wearing a different costume, but always with the same face.
I shattered her so she would wake up.
I crushed her so she would shine.
And that's the part that disgusts me.
I suffered when my Word awakened.
I still remember it.
That fall.
That emptiness.
That scream you keep inside because letting it out feels like dying.
And now I'm making someone else suffer—
just so her Word will rise.
I feel empty.
Disconnected.
As if the words coming out of me weren't mine.
Just automatic blades.
Sentences sharpened for one purpose: hurting.
And deep down…
I know exactly why I said them.
There's this poisonous, hypocritical thought lurking in my skull:
"If I told her she was hideously ugly at the edge of her despair,
it was for her own good.
To help her.
To save her from this world."
But that thought—
that lie I tell myself—
that's what makes me sick.
Why must awakening be born from trauma?
Why do we have to be broken before we rise?
Why can't I just…
hold her hand,
give her a flower,
tell her she's already enough?
But no.
This world wants shock.
Blood.
Screaming.
And the worst part?
It works.
She shines.
Not gently.
Not beautifully.
But violently—
like a black sun erupting into existence.
A blinding light bursts around her, swallowing the filth, swallowing the fear.
And I understand.
She did it.
She awakened her Word.
I blink.
Open my eyes again.
She's not the same girl.
Her timid glow is gone—ripped out of her.
What replaces it is a gaze:
feral, metallic, unbreakable.
She looks at me,
and her voice slices through the air:
— "You're right. I'm a demon. Kill me, if you can."
And then—
She activates her Word.
— "Demonic Transformation."
Her aura hits me like a blade.
Her eyes turn into twin gray knives.
Her pupils narrow into predatory slits.
And her hair—those dull, dirty mauve strands—now shine with a pure, mystical glow.
Marks spread across her cheeks.
Spots? Symbols?
I can't even tell—they move, pulse, like they're alive.
And her horn…
it grows.
Fast.
Too fast.
No more doubt.
No more hiding.
She is what she is.
Then…
her claws.
Holy shit—those claws.
They slash toward my throat without warning.
I barely dodge.
A barrage follows—sharp, precise, lethal.
She freed herself with her own claws.
She doesn't let me breathe.
Not even a second.
She swings a kick—
raw, full of fury.
I catch her mid-air by reflex and throw her.
Hard.
But she lands on her feet.
Without flinching.
Her posture…
it unsettles me.
Bent forward,
arms hanging loosely,
claws dragging across the ground like hungry fangs.
And her eyes—
God.
Not human eyes anymore.
The eyes of a beast: wild, lucid, unpredictable.
She charges.
She jumps.
A forward flip—perfectly controlled.
And—
wait—
Does she have a tail?
No fucking way—
She grabs my arm with it,
uses it like a whip,
and launches herself at me again.
Her claws dive for my face.
I feel the heat, the power, the killing intent.
I dodge—
but not enough.
A thin cut across my cheek.
Just enough to remind me:
Right now…
I'm her target.
And I'm not even sure
I want to defend myself.