Time passes. It could be hours.
Light filters into the warehouse through thin gaps from outside.
When I lift my head, Kayla is the first thing I see.
The feral that was her.
Her skin has gone pale. Blood and black kuor cling to her, thick, dark, already starting to dry. The smell of rot reaches me a second later.
The quiet settles in. It slows my heart. That's assuring.
I push myself upright slowly. My blazer shifts. I lift it, then the shirt beneath, checking my sides where her claws went in.
The skin is closed.
No tearing. No split flesh. No scars.
I bring my hand to my neck. My throat. Fingers press, trace, linger. This is where she had me.
Nothing.
No punctures. No broken skin. No pain waiting underneath.
Healed.
My breathing evens out on its own, falling into a rhythm I'm comfortable with. One my body remembers.
Good.
I stand and scan my warehouse.
Near the entrance, the floor is a mess of blood, black kuor, and broken teeth. A pool has nearly dried where it spilled, then smeared—dragged toward the heavy table in the center, and from there toward the feral body near me.
I bend down and take hold of the feral's shoulders. Her body is heavy. I lift her just enough, step backward, and drag her across the floor to the heavy table. I heave her up, turn her, and lay her flat so she faces the ceiling.
The wound in her neck still leaks black kuor. From the hole in the back of her skull, fragments of brain slip free and drop onto the steel. Her left eye hangs loose against her cheek, attached by something thin.
Thud.
I slam my palm against the table.
Not hard.
Just enough to make it echo.
I turn to the western wall. A flask sits on the shelf. I take it down, walk back, and set it beside her neck, glass touching skin.
Black kuor runs into it.
Slow drips.
Each one counted by sound.
I wait until it fills up.
When the flask fills, I place it on the shelf—the same place where the nyxamere essence rests.
I have secured another material.
I drag the body toward the eastern wall. Open a steel chest. Shove her inside. Close it.
What's left is the floor.
Blood. Black kuor. Smeared where she was pulled. The kind of thing that can get me into trouble if seen.
I don't deal with it yet.
Instead, I reach for my bag beside the throne. I take out another pair of pants and a clean shirt, change into them, then slip on the long dark coat—still slightly damp from this morning's sweat.
I slide my revolver under the coat. Cylinder full. Seven more rounds in the pouch, strapped to my belt. Everything in place.
The tricorn hat goes on last, tilted low, shadowing my eyes.
The look is complete.
I drop into the throne. It takes my weight immediately, supporting my spine, my joints, easing the tension out of my body.
I close my eyes and let the comfort carry the time forward.
The light seeping through the gaps fades.
Darkness descends.
After that, I get up and leave my warehouse. As I close the door, my eyes drift to one of my steel chests—the one where I hid Kayla's body, or what became of her. The chest is sealed tight, yet fragments of her memories seep out. Not long, not enough to drown me, but enough to linger.
A smile she didn't remember she gave. A laugh that never reached her true self. The way she leaned on me. The moment her citrus scent turned to rot. My teeth grit. My fist clenches.
That shouldn't happen. Not to Kayla. Not to anyone.
I head toward Haverstock, toward its main building. No students cluster around the sheep statue at the entrance. Not one walking or running through the grand atrium. No signs of activity. It's quiet.
Liquid lanterns flicker along the walls and pillars, casting uneven light as I climb the grand staircase. My steps echo, but it isn't alarming—just a reminder of my own presence.
I reach the fourth floor. From the mezzanine, I move along the corridor toward Silva's chamber.
In front of his door, I pause, closing my eyes. Listening. Nothing.
I open it slowly. Empty. The bed looks recently used. On the desk, a liquid lantern glows faintly. Beside it, a knife stabbed into the wood.
The blade begins to glow—white at first, then red. I slide to my right, pressing my back flat against the wall.
BOOM.
The explosion shatters the door. Light from the chamber dies.
"Who's there?" A voice calls from the mezzanine.
I turn. A man in a plain shirt—dark hair, blue eyes, sharp features. Professor Isaak Silva.
My heart spikes.
"Da… Da… Damian?" His voice stutters.
"Professor," I wave and smile.
His breathing grows louder. One step back. Then another. Then a third.
I advance slowly, matching his steps, closing the distance.
Suddenly, he pivots. Quick. Turns toward the grand staircase and descends.
My walk breaks into a run. I rush the mezzanine, lean over the railing, angle my body down.
Silva is already nearing the third floor.
I chase.
By the time I hit the third, he's on the second. When I reach the second, he's almost at the first. I don't follow the stairs.
I jump.
I land hard on my right foot and roll forward. Pain flashes up my leg, sharp but manageable.
He's already sprinting for the sheep statue.
I pull the revolver from beneath my coat, raise it in one motion, and fire.
BANG.
The shot misses. Stone chips explode from the statue.
He twists toward the vestibule.
BANG.
The bullet strikes his left leg. He collapses. Blood seeps, wetting his pants a deep red.
I step forward, slow. His face—a flash of fear, eyes wide, jaw tight.
His hand darts back, and something sails through the air, spinning end over end. A knife.
I sidestep. The knife misses me. It lands blade-first on the stone, stabbing into the floor.
I advance.
Hissssss.
My eyes turn to the knife. A faint glow. Then red, sudden and sharp. My muscles stiffen. I gasp. Instinct kicks in. I dash forward, lifting the upper part of my coat over my face.
BOOM.
The floor shudders. The blade fractures into shrapnel. Fragments scatter across the nearby floor and pillars. A few catch me—left hand, shoulder, back. None deep. None slowing me. Warm blood runs, streaking over my skin.
Safe from the blast, Silva rises in the vestibule, walking steadily.
I keep running, revolver raised, tracking him.
BANG.
The shot misses. It strikes the door instead, splintering the wood.
He keeps walking, steady, and reaches the door. He twists the handle—
BANG.
The bullet strikes his back. It pierces through. Silva collapses, face-first onto the floor.
"Damian… wait." His voice cracks, ragged, trembling as he struggles to rise.
I step closer and nudge him down. His eyes meet mine—wide, wet, desperate.
"Damian… please." He whimpers, tears streaking his pale cheeks, glistening under the light, running down the sides of his face.
"Please… I'm begging you." His hand flails, reaching for something.
I stomp it before he can pull anything free. The sharp crack echoes as bone breaks. His left arm goes limp. He screams—a raw, guttural sound that ricochets through the vestibule, the entrance hall, even outside. I press harder with my foot, crushing whatever remains in his grasp.
The scream rises, jagged, then fades into the shadows.
I slide my revolver back under my coat. Then I lift my foot and step atop him.
"Shhhh."
I raise a finger.
"Damian… Damian, I'm sorry," he cries. "I'm sorry for what happened to you. To Kayla—if you're here for that."
I lower myself, one knee pressing into him. Close enough that he can feel my weight. I lean in until my mouth is beside his ear.
"My name is not Damian, Isaak."
I pull back.
Our eyes meet.
His breathing is slow but loud, each inhale shaking his chest. His mouth hangs open. Tears keep spilling, not wiped away, just sliding down. His pupils are blown wide, fixed on me, darting once—looking for an escape that isn't there. His jaw trembles. He tries to swallow. Nothing moves.
I place my hand over his right eye.
I crush it.
The eye collapses beneath my palm. Wet. He screams—sharp at first, then strangled. Blood spills from the socket, running down the bridge of his nose, soaking into his cheek.
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry," he whimpers, clawing at his face, trying to cover what's left. "Let me live… please…"
I move my hand to his left eye.
His hand pushes weakly against my arm. There's no strength in it.
Still kneeling over him, I hook my fingers in and pull. Slowly. Gently. The eye leaves its socket. Thin veins stretch, glistening, still holding. One snaps. Then another. Then the last.
He cries out—but there are no tears this time. Only blood.
The eyeball rests in my hand.
I stand and lift it, looking at it.
At last.
The final material I need—
The eye of my enemy.