Flashback.
The night clung to the world like a shroud woven from shadows and secrets, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and impending doom.
The dark forest bordering Draxen City was no mere woodland—it was a living barrier, a tangled labyrinth of ancient trees whose gnarled branches twisted overhead like skeletal fingers clawing at the starless sky.
Roots erupted from the ground like veins of the earth, slick with moss and mud, while fog slithered between the trunks, muffling sounds and turning every rustle into a whisper of menace.
This was the forbidden path, the only way into the city for those desperate enough to flee their old lives, a gauntlet where the civilized world bled into the lawless heart of Krossvale territory.
Inside the battered old sedan, Ira Royvane sat wedged between crates of their meager belongings, her sketchbook clutched in her lap like a talisman.
The engine grumbled fitfully, headlights cutting feeble swaths through the gloom, illuminating twisted vines and the occasional glint of animal eyes.
Her uncle, Mr. Raj Royvane, gripped the wheel with white-knuckled hands, his face etched with the weariness of a man chased by debts he could never outrun.
Beside him, Aunt Meera twisted a frayed handkerchief in her fingers, her eyes darting to the rearview mirror as if expecting pursuit.
"This cursed road,"
Mr. Raj muttered, his voice rough from hours of silence.
"Feels like the forest is swallowing us whole. How much farther to the city lights?"
Meera leaned forward, peering into the darkness. "Just a little more, Honey. We've come this far—away from the collectors, the threats. Draxen will be our fresh start. For Ira's sake."
She glanced back at her niece, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Isn't that right, dear? You'll love the city—new places to draw, new stories to chase."
Ira nodded absently, her empathetic heart already heavy with the unspoken fears radiating from her guardians.
She was seventeen, slender and artistic, with wide eyes that saw too much and a spirit that felt even more.
"Yes, Aunt Meera. It'll be fine." But her words were hollow; the move had uprooted her from the only home she'd known since her parents' death, thrusting them into this fractured city ruled by whispers of monsters.
She sketched idly on her pad—a swirl of fog and trees—to calm the knot in her chest.
Suddenly, the car sputtered, the engine coughing like a dying beast before falling silent.
Mr. Raj cursed under his breath, pulling to the side of the narrow path.
"Damn it—probably the fuel line again. Driver's curse in this wood."
He popped the hood, grabbing a flashlight from the glove compartment.
"Stay inside, you two. I'll fix it quick."
Meera fidgeted, her voice tight with anxiety. "Be careful, honey. This forest... people say things disappear here."
Ira, restless and drawn by the eerie beauty outside, opened her door.
"I'll just... step out for a minute. Get some air. I won't go far."
Before Meera could protest, Ira slipped out, the cool mist enveloping her like a lover's chill embrace.
She wandered a few steps into the trees, her simple cotton red dress brushing against ferns, the ground soft and treacherous under her shoes.
The forest whispered to her—leaves sighing in the wind, distant owls hooting like omens.
She breathed in the earthy scent, her artist's soul captivated by the play of shadows, until she ventured deeper, drawn by an inexplicable pull.
She walked a few paces, then a few more, drawn by the strange, mournful beauty of the place—the way moonlight fractured through the branches in silver shards, the way the fog moved as though breathing. She told herself she was looking for inspiration, for something to sketch later when the fear had dulled.
She did not expect to find horror.
Voices—low, menacing—pierced the fog.
Ira froze behind a massive oak, its bark rough against her palm.
Peering through the veil of mist, her heart stuttered at the scene unfolding in a small clearing: a bloodied man held captive by two men, face swollen and pleading.
He was sobbing, words tumbling out in broken desperation.
"Please… I have children… I didn't know it was yours… mercy, please, mercy—"
Two burly enforcers held him, their faces twisted in cruel amusement, guns holstered but ready.
And before him stood a figure that seemed carved from the night itself—tall, dangerously handsome, with long dark hair tied back in a loose knot, revealing the sharp angles of his jaw and the unyielding set of his mouth. His long black coat hung open, exposing a bare, scarred chest that gleamed faintly in the sporadic moonlight, muscles coiled like a predator's. Vernon Krossvale—she didn't know his name yet, but his presence was a force, silent and lethal.
The wounded man pleaded desperately , tears mixing with blood on his cheeks. "Please... please, I didn't mean to cross you. I have a family—kids! Mercy, god, mercy! I'll do anything you say—"
Vernon( in a sharp voice):
"Where is it ?"
The wounded man cried out loud,
" I don't know. Please believe me. "
Vernon's voice emerged, low and emotionless, a countdown that sliced through the air like a blade. "Nine."
Ira's breath caught, her pulse thundering in her ears. What was this? She pressed closer to the tree, hidden but transfixed, horror blooming in her chest like ink in water.
"Eight."
Each number dropped like a stone, deliberate, unhurried.
The man's begs escalated to sobs.
Two enforcers held him strongly.
The captive's sobs grew frantic, pleading turning to raw animal terror.
"Seven."
Ira pressed herself against the tree trunk, bark biting into her palms. Her pulse roared in her ears, louder with each passing moment.
"Six."
She should run. She knew she should run.
"Five."
But she could not look away. Something—pity, horror, morbid fascination—held her rooted.
"Four."
The wounded man screamed, "No—no no no—"
"Three."
Vernon's hand flexed once, almost casually.
"Two."
Ira's breath came in shallow, painful bursts. Her chest ached with the weight of what she was witnessing.
"One."
The man on the convulsed, shaking his head violently.
"Zero."
Vernon moved.
There was no wind-up, no theatrical flourish—just sudden, brutal economy. His fist—wrapped in sharp brass knuckles, four wicked, razor-curved ridges glinting like teeth—lashed forward in a single, blinding instant—the brass struck the soft flesh below the ribcage like a guillotine dropping—skin split instantly—a large , clean gash blooming crimson as the knuckles carved through epidermis and muscle in one merciless pass. The abdominal wall tore open with a wet, sucking rip, fibers parting like soaked silk under a blade.
In the same heartbeat, Vernon's hand plunged deeper—past fascia, past the shredded rectus, fingers disappearing into the warm, dark cavity with brutal economy.
The captive's scream hadn't even fully formed when Vernon twisted once—sharp, deliberate—and yanked.
A steaming coil of small intestine erupted outward in a slick, glistening rush—pink-purple loops sliding free through the widening gash, trailing peritoneal fluid and darker blood like obscene ribbons. The rope of viscera dangled, pulsing faintly, dripping in thick ropes onto the mud.
The man's body jerked violently—once, twice—eyes bulging white, mouth locked in a soundless howl as life hemorrhaged out in bright, arterial pulses.
The entire act—from strike to extraction—took less than three seconds.
Ira's gasp ripped from her throat before she could stop it. Never in her life had she seen such a horrifying scene.
The two enforcers snapped their heads toward the sound.
Vernon did not flinch. He simply turned.
His gaze found her instantly—through fog, through branches, through the dark—as though he had known she was there all along.
Those eyes.
Sharp. Bottomless. Utterly without mercy, yet strangely empty of cruelty. They pinned her like a moth to cork, stripping away every layer of pretense, every childish illusion of safety.
In that single, endless second, Ira felt seen—truly seen—in a way no one had ever looked at her before. Not with love, not with pity, not with desire.
With recognition.
As though he had been waiting for someone to witness what he was.
Panic surged. She bolted.
Branches tore at her arms, her dress, her hair. Roots snagged her ankles.
Behind her, the enforcers growled,
"There's a girl—" " Get that bitch!"
Footsteps pounded—then halted abruptly.
Vernon raised his blood-slicked hand.
A single, silent gesture.
They stopped.
They definitely care for their lives.
Vernon's face remained stone—blank, unreadable, the same cold mask he'd worn through the entire execution. Without a glance at the twitching corpse behind him, he walked to the tree where the girl had hidden.
His wet hand was still dripping blood.
There, half-sunk in wet leaves and crushed moss, lay a plain white cotton handkerchief.
That girl's handcarchiff that must have slipped from her pocket in the moment her breath betrayed her. Now it bore dark, irregular smears where his fingers had brushed it earlier, his blood already seeping into the weave, turning innocent white to bruised crimson.
He crouched slowly, the motion deliberate, almost careful. The knuckles of his brass-wrapped hand were still slick and red; droplets fell from them as he reached down and picked up the handkerchief between thumb and forefinger—careful, almost gentle, as though the cloth might dissolve under too much pressure.
The fabric was thin, soft, still carrying the faint warmth of her body.
He brought it to his face.
He inhaled.
The scent hit him like a quiet shock—clean, feminine, unmistakably a woman's. Warm skin— the faintest trace of something private. Natural smell of a living female body that had never been split open.
It flooded his lungs like smoke from a forbidden fire.
For the first time in years, something stirred low in his gut—not rage, not hunger for violence, but a raw, unfamiliar ache. Desire, yes—sharp and sudden, tightening his jaw—but laced with something darker, something almost painful. A raw, animal want for softness against his scarred palms. A longing for contact that wasn't meant to destroy. A flicker of want for softness he had long ago learned to regard as weakness.
His nostrils flared once more, drawing the scent deeper, letting it settle against the copper reek of blood still coating his tongue and the back of his throat.
The white cotton darkened further under his thumb, soaked crimson where his blood had transferred.
He stared at it for a long second—plain fabric now ruined, stained the same color as everything else in his world.
Then he folded it once, twice, with mechanical precision, and slipped it inside the inner pocket of his coat, close against his chest where no one would see.
He rose without hurry.
Turned back to the enforcers.
They said nothing. They didn't dare.
The night closed around the clearing again, swallowing the secret whole.
To be continued...