The Appahammy Mountains carved the western horizon into a ragged crown of flat-topped peaks, each plateau dusted with the powdered hush of unbroken snow. The air there bit and tasted of iron; wind shushed across the white and everywhere the cold kept its secrets. On one of those high crowns a bare-chested man stood in a standoff with a massive wolf—its eyes were knife-red and its shoulders were the size of small boulders. The beast towered above him, nearly fifty times his height in an impossible, monstrous exaggeration.
The man was Rockie Crepollo. Muscles flexed under skin reddened by the wind; his breath plumed white. He watched the wolf with motionless calm, as if waiting for the world to move on his cue.
Below them on a ledge, two men watched with a gambler's hunger. One had a mane of fluffy, long blue hair and a dark, hulking frame that suggested weathered strength. The other was younger, average in stature, hair basil-green cropped short, a gun holster hanging at his hip like a punctuation mark.
"Would I be out of line to say this rookie's a runaway train?" the blue-haired man asked, voice low and amused. The wolf lunged—teeth and fury—but Rockie stepped aside with a smooth, fluent dodge and answered with a blunt punch to the beast's chest. The wolf exploded into dust; the dust convulsed and reassembled into a swarm—hundreds of wolves—as if the mountain itself vomited a pack of nightmares. They surged, a tide of teeth and shadow.
"We got very lucky. I wonder why." The basil-haired man's tone held curiosity and a thread of calculation.
Rockie moved like weather—effortless and relentless. He weaved through the lunging onslaught, each blow an absolute. Every punch he landed detonated a wolf in a geyser of crimson; the air tasted metallic with each impact. The blue-haired observer didn't offer consolation.
"Don't go patting yourself on the back — you're not behind every stroke of luck this team gets," he said, dry as flint.
Still, not a single wolf managed to touch Rockie. He slipped through jaws and claws like a shadow through smoke, and with practiced indifference he dismantled them until there were none left.
"He's been sticking around for a while, and still hasn't shown his hand," the blue-haired man added, watching Rockie's blank expression with an ironic tilt to his jaw.
When the last of the phantom pack dissolved, Rockie stood alone on the white plateau surrounded by a scattered carpet of fur and frost. He spoke with the blunt economy of someone who measured conversation by need. "Finished."
The basil-haired man approached and dropped a handful of coins into Rockie's outstretched palm. The metal chimed cold and bright.
"You're a physical beast. I didn't expect you to kill that wolf so damn easily," the basil-haired man said, admiration and the trader's calculation mingling in his voice.
"What can I say? I've never lost a fight in my life," Rockie replied, shoulders steady.
"Well the fun can't just simply end there. I dare you to—" The basil-haired man's challenge hung for only a heartbeat before it was answered by a distant chorus of growls. A pack materialized, seven giant wolves this time, moving with predatory coordination; one of them dwarfed the others, its bulk monstrous beyond the rest.
"Kill that pack for double the reward I gave you last time," the basil-haired man declared, grinning at the gamble.
"Bet." Rockie walked forward without hesitation.
The blue-haired man shook his head, half-admonishing, half-entertained. "You planning to throw your money down the drain today? He's as close to flawless as they come—did you really think a challenge that small would rattle him?"
"Gamblers fallacy, eventually he will lose, and I will get a payout," the basil-haired man countered, steamed with confidence and the sweet taste of a wager.
"Or you'll go belly-up, and he'll be the one holding the purse strings. What do you think really decides a fight—chance or skill?" the blue-haired man pressed.
"Chance defines all fights. The person that has fate on their side takes all," the basil-haired man insisted, eyes bright with the logic of risk.
"You really think fate's on your team? He's been manhandling destiny like it owes him money!" the blue-haired man shot back, amusement cracking through the rhetoric.
They watched Rockie the way men watch storms; he moved without an inkling of performance, his body a machine of motion that required no approval. His eyes were empty—black hollows of detachment—and there was no trace of joy in his face as he tore through the pack. He twisted, struck, turned; each strike unthinking and absolute, each impact ending a life without drama.
"He kills like a fired round — cold, swift, and indifferent. Child or adult, it's all the same. Standing in his way is like stepping into gunfire; you chose that ending," the blue-haired man observed, the simile sharp and clinical.
"I know exactly what he is. My dad has told me about things like this. Creatures who embody one thing so well that ninety percent of their personality is based off of it," the basil-haired man said, voice low with the memory of stories passed down like warnings.
"Heard the talk — and you're saying it points to him being one of them?" the blue-haired man asked, seeking confirmation.
"Precisely," came the measured reply.
When the final wolf collapsed in a bloom of frost and blood, Rockie didn't gloat. He looked up, the cold wind lifting his hair for an instant, and then he turned to the basil-haired man with a single, practical question.
"Money?" he asked.
"You earned it fair and square," the basil-haired man said, tossing Rockie a heavy sack that landed with a dull thud against the snow.
Rockie blinked once, fingers closing around the weight. "Do you just carry coins on you?"
"Who wouldn't when you have as much as me?" the basil-haired man shrugged, voice loose with the ease of a gambler who never bothered with small change.
Auguste's blue hair whipped in the wind as he peered toward the lowering clouds. "Let's head back; the wind's whispering that a storm's on its way."
They walked, boots cutting shallow crescents into the snow, until a squat stone tower hove into view—a lonely sentinel on the plateau. They shouldered the heavy door open and stepped into a warm, wooden interior. A fire devoured logs in the hearth, and a long bar table gathered the room like a communal spine.
"Where'd everyone else go?" the basil-haired man asked, rubbing chilling fingers together as Rockie collapsed at the bar and laid his head upon the wood.
The two other men relaxed against a wall. The basil-haired man was Sage Galanis; the blue-haired watcher was Auguste.
"Looks like the town's empty again. Can't fault them; this place sleeps with its eyes open," Auguste observed, flicking a wisp of frost from his sleeve.
Sage cleared his throat and rubbed his knuckles. "So where was I? Oh yes, it was about Rockie being a... Fault..." His voice trailed, the last word an accusation and a puzzle both.
"And what brought that thought on? You can't paint someone as that kind of person just because they're a bit different," Auguste retorted, skeptical.
Sage offered a single, confident nod. "Just trust me on my word."
"Even if he is a Fault, what is he the Fault of?" Auguste asked, curiosity sharpening his tone.
"I have a couple of guesses," Sage answered, eyes narrowing as he watched Rockie's steady, sleeping form.
Rockie snored, a soft rhythm that made the men below him grin and shake their heads like old friends at a private joke.
"Let me hear them," Auguste said.
In Rockie's unconscious, the present folded away into something older and smaller: a memory from six years before, when he was twelve. Castle Town sat under permanent gray—clouds knotted so thick it felt like the sky waited impatiently to weep. He was a slight child then, shoulders narrower, muscle still learning itself. He wandered along a dirt path past the park where laughter had once lived; parents clutched their children at the sight of him, fear closing the playground down like a shutter. Within minutes the swings hung empty and Rockie settled on one, eyes tracking the leaden sky.
A man joined him on the neighboring swing—a figure in a black suit and fedora, face half-hidden in shadow, hands tucked into pockets. A white dog trotted at his side on a thin leash.
"Hello, Mr. Hadet," Rockie said plainly.
Mr. Hadet's voice was soft and oddly lyrical. "Ah, Rockie... time drifts. Once more, your shadow stands lone—echoes know your name."
Rockie cocked his head, puzzled. "Yes I know. When did you get a white dog, Mr. Hadet?"
"In the hush of woods, I found it—faint, breath fading. Hunger wrapped in wounds," Mr. Hadet replied, as if reciting the obituary of a moment.
"It doesn't look starving and injured to me," Rockie said, squinting at the dog.
"Let us leave it there—I gave it food, mended its pain; now it walks in peace," Mr. Hadet answered, the cadence of his words soothing and strange.
Rockie swung his legs, thinking it through. "Oh, alright. So, what brings you here today, Mr. Hadet?"
Mr. Hadet rose with an elegant slowness. "Walk this path with me—lessons hide in silent winds; you'll return, transformed."
"Why would I want to transform, Mr. Hadet?" Rockie asked, honest and blunt.
"They call you a curse, yet I see the veiled blessing—light beneath the ash," Mr. Hadet said, as if naming both trouble and possibility in the same breath.
Rockie hopped off the swing. The dog trotted at Mr. Hadet's heels, obedient as folklore.
"Ok then, Mr. Hadet. I'll do what you say. So, where are we going?" Rockie asked, trusting the stranger in a way children trust myth.
"Where the wind whispers, I follow fate's quiet pull—purpose moves my soul," Mr. Hadet said, and began to walk.
They passed a poster plastered on a wall: Missing dog: Sally. Please return her if found! Rain began as a light, teasing drizzle.
"Mr. Hadet, it's going to rain hard. Did you bring an umbrella?" Rockie asked, already reaching for shelter in a question.
"Fear not gentle rain—drizzle lies, a soft deceit; soaked hearts learn the truth," Mr. Hadet replied in the same small, uncanny poetry.
They kept walking through the mist until Mr. Hadet stopped. Without warning he let the leash slip from his hand. The white dog ran a few paces and collapsed, motionless, on the path.
"Mr. Hadet, the dog..." Rockie breathed, panic tightening his chest.
"Peace has found it now—your hands can only offer. Prayers to the beyond," Mr. Hadet said, voice steady and absolute. He did not pick the dog up; he released it to what had become of it and continued down the trail as if he had never carried anything at all.
Rockie followed, bewilderment and a new, heavy doubt burning in his gut. "I don't understand. Didn't you just adopt that thing?"
Mr. Hadet glanced back once, eyes like the old wood of the swings. "Know this truth, my friend—I do not keep; I only guide. I am what storms leave."
Rockie walked after him into the rain and the gray, the words hanging as an uneasy kind of compass.
The rain fell harder, a steady drum that stitched the world into muted gray. Rockie and Mr. Hadet walked in near-silence until the path opened to an ordinary house tucked at the end of the lane. Mr. Hadet moved without hesitation: he reached for the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside.
"Is this your house, Mr. Hadet?" Rockie asked, watching the man enter.
Mr. Hadet's voice came soft and strange. "I dwell nowhere long—broken homes call out my name; I stay when fate weeps." Rockie followed him in. The interior was tidy and warm: wood-smoothed floors, a small hearth that glowed, and not a person in sight.
"So why are we here?" Rockie asked, the question simple and practical.
"Fate's hand led me here—too soon, perhaps, yet never late for destiny," Mr. Hadet replied, a quiet certainty in each word.
Mr. Hadet entered a small room. In the crib lay a baby, pale and still, staring up at the ceiling as rain pattered against the glass. He lifted the infant into his arms and cradled it close; outside the rain swelled into a steady roar.
"Now it's raining hard," Rockie observed.
Mr. Hadet pulled a slender umbrella from somewhere as if it had always been part of him. "My task meets its end—We came with whispers of rain, leaving beneath its roar." He stepped out of the room, the baby secure against his chest. Rockie followed.
"Now that I think of it, you've never touched me before, Mr. Hadet," Rockie said, hesitant.
"The desperate reach me; fate's pawns crave my fleeting hand—You stand past their path," Mr. Hadet answered. He opened the umbrella and handed it to Rockie, then left the house without taking shelter for himself. He walked into the downpour still holding the child. Rockie shut the door softly behind him.
"Where to now, Mr. Hadet?" Rockie called after him.
"My road drifts beyond—too far for your weary steps; sit with me in rain," came the reply. Mr. Hadet found a bench near the house and sat. Rockie sat beside him, umbrella over both heads, and watched the wet world blur and run.
A young couple strolled along the path and stepped into the same house, oblivious to the two figures on the bench. Rockie peered at Mr. Hadet.
"Don't you want an umbrella, Mr. Hadet?" he asked.
"Umbrellas are naught—rain and sun feel much the same; I know no comfort," Mr. Hadet answered.
"And the baby?" Rockie pressed.
"The child rests at peace—pain washed off in quiet arms; calm breath finds its home," Mr. Hadet said as if reciting a small, final benediction.
"Are you going to give that baby back, Mr. Hadet?" Rockie asked, voice small with uncertain hope.
"Each child seeks a guide, yet not all who bear that name earn the word 'parent,'" Mr. Hadet said, the truth of it blunt and inevitable.
"Mr. Hadet, are you my guide?" Rockie asked directly.
"I guide all who drift, yet you are marked differently—I shape you unseen," Mr. Hadet replied.
"You speak in odd words, Mr. Hadet," Rockie said, unable to hide the amusement in his confusion.
"My words twist like smoke, yet all who breathe them will know—meaning hides, yet speaks," Mr. Hadet said, almost kindly.
"Will I end up talking like you one day, Mr. Hadet?" Rockie asked, half-curious, half-worried.
"One day you may speak in the hush of fated tongues—your path sleeps for now," Mr. Hadet answered.
Thunder cracked. A scream cut through the rain from inside the house; it broke into a choking sob so quickly that it rattled the porch. Footsteps thundered within, frantic and rapid, then a voice:
"What's wrong?!" a man shouted, breathless and obscene with panic. The sound was swallowed by more sobs.
"OH MY GOD, NOOOO!!!" another voice cried, raw and dissolving into wails. The couple's grief spilled outward like a breaking thing.
Mr. Hadet stood. "The sign calls my name—may tomorrow weave us close; fate cuts without care." He did not look back. Cradling the baby, he walked into the driving rain and away down the path, the couple's sobs muffled behind the door he left ajar.
Rockie remained seated on the bench beneath the umbrella, the house's lamplight washing the rain into pale ribbons. He sat alone with the small shelter over his head and the echo of Mr. Hadet's words still ringing in his ears.