Matthew rode like the street owed him answers.
The crimson red mongoose bicycle cut through Karakura's late-spring traffic with surgical precision, tires humming against the asphalt, frame catching the sun in sharp flashes of scarlet. It wasn't a flashy bike—just well-maintained, efficient, built to endure abuse. Much like its rider.
Matthew himself cut an equally striking figure. Sharp cheekbones, narrow jaw, eyes always slightly narrowed as if the world were a puzzle that kept giving him wrong pieces. His hair was thin and light, kept short and brushed back not out of vanity but practicality, and his posture carried the quiet confidence of someone who didn't waste time posturing. He wore his black leather jacket despite the warmth, sleeves creased and worn like an old promise he refused to let go of. Heat didn't bother him. Discomfort never had.
He believed in momentum.
In impact.
In meeting problems head-on until they either broke or yielded.
For ten years, he and Orion had been inseparable in that way two men become when they share a vision instead of just a friendship. They had moved to Karakura together chasing something stupid and ambitious—finding an artist for the manga they'd been writing, a story neither of them were willing to let die quietly. Orion had ideas that sprawled. Matthew had ideas that cut. Together, they made something that felt real.
Matthew had never married. Never felt rushed to. Relationships, to him, were like foundations—you didn't pour them until the structure was ready. The right woman would come when his life had reached a point worth sharing. Until then, there was work. Always work.
As he pedaled, his thoughts cycled through panels and dialogue beats. A confrontation scene needed tightening. A character motivation felt weak. He mentally reworked it, stripped the sentimentality out, rebuilt it stronger. He was still refining the idea when—
The impact came without warning.
Metal screamed.
The world snapped sideways.
The bike vanished beneath him as a car slammed into his right side, hurling him off the frame like a discarded thought. Matthew's body met a concrete wall with a bone-rattling crack, the sound sharp enough to echo down the narrow street. His vision flared white, then dark, then settled into a pulsing haze.
Blood trickled down from his hairline, warm against his temple.
The car screeched to a halt.
A door flew open.
"Oh my god—oh my god, I'm so sorry!"
She rushed toward him, panic written into every movement. Small, auburn hair pulled into a loose knot, face pale beneath freckles. Mid-twenties, pretty in an unremarkable, approachable way. Her hands hovered uselessly as if she didn't know whether to touch him or flee.
"Are you okay? I didn't see you—I swear—I—"
This was the point where stories usually turned soft.
Where strangers bonded over accidents.
Where coffee was offered.
Where fate pretended it was gentle.
Matthew groaned and pushed himself upright.
Pain flared through his ribs, his shoulder protesting sharply, but he ignored it. He wiped the blood from his forehead with the back of his hand and looked at her—not with anger, not with shock—but with the cool disappointment one reserved for someone who should have known better.
"Don't be sorry," he said evenly.
His voice was calm. Controlled. Final.
"Be better."
The words hit harder than the collision.
She froze.
Matthew turned away, limping toward the mangled bicycle. The frame bore a deep dent along the side, metal bent inward like a scar. He scowled—not at the pain, not at the blood—but at the damage. He lifted it with a grunt, testing the alignment. Still rideable.
Behind him, her voice cracked. "Wait—please—you're bleeding. You need a doctor. Let me take you—"
He swung a leg over the bike and mounted it without looking back.
"I'll live," he said flatly.
And then he rode off.
The woman stood in the street, tears welling—not from guilt alone, but confusion. She watched the red bicycle disappear down the road, carrying a man who looked injured, bleeding… and utterly uninterested in being saved.
Matthew didn't slow down.
Pain was temporary.
Momentum was everything.
Orion
I almost didn't recognize him at first.
The day had wrung me out in ways I didn't have words for yet—left my nerves buzzing, my muscles sore, my thoughts frayed like exposed wire. I was heading back toward my car near the bookstore, replaying fragments of ice and lightning and screaming and silence, when I spotted a familiar shape hunched over a red bike.
Matthew.
He straightened as I approached, black leather jacket still on despite the heat, his crimson mongoose leaned against the curb like it had survived a small war. There was dried blood at his hairline, hastily wiped clean, and a fresh scuff along his cheek. His backpack—his signature backpack, stuffed with whatever tools and notebooks and half-baked plans he deemed essential that week—hung from one shoulder like nothing had happened.
We stared at each other for a second.
Then he frowned.
"You look like hell," he said.
I snorted despite myself. "Funny. I was about to say the same."
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing—not with concern exactly, but assessment. The way Matthew looked at problems. At systems. At people.
"You smell like sweat and ozone," he added. "Which is… new."
I glanced down at myself. My shirt was damp, my jacket streaked with grime. I probably still had residual static crawling under my skin. Great.
"Long day," I said.
"Yeah," he replied immediately.
Then he tilted his head and jerked a thumb back toward the bike. "Got hit by a car."
I blinked. "What?"
"Negligent driver," he continued flatly. "Didn't look. Didn't think. Apologized a lot instead of paying attention in the first place." His mouth tightened. "Personal responsibility is a dying concept."
I opened my mouth, then closed it again as he went on.
"Interrupted my train of thought too," he added, irritation bleeding through for the first time. "That's honestly the worst part."
Only Matthew could get hit by a car and be more annoyed about losing a story idea.
"You're bleeding," I said.
"Was," he corrected. "Stopped."
That was it. No drama. No complaint.
He studied me again, longer this time. "Your turn."
I hesitated.
The question shouldn't have been hard. What happened today? Normal people answered that with traffic or work or a bad coffee order. But my chest tightened anyway, full of things that sounded insane out loud. Soul Reapers. Parasites. Lightning prisons. Rukia.
I rubbed the back of my neck. "Stuff's been happening."
Matthew waited.
"I don't think you'd believe me," I added.
He didn't even scoff.
"Orion," he said, evenly, "with you? I'd believe anything."
I looked at him.
He met my eyes without flinching. "You've never lied to me. Not outright. Not once. You dodge sometimes, sure. Deflect. But when you say something happened, it happened."
That was Matthew. No fluff. No comfort. Just a quiet, unshakable statement of fact.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the day settle deeper instead of lifting.
"Yeah," I said finally. "Okay."
I glanced back toward the bookstore, half-expecting ice or lightning or screaming to still be there.
"Then I guess I owe you a really weird story."
I glanced around the lot, instinct screaming louder than reason for once.
"Not here," I said quietly. "Toss your bike in the back. I think a demonstration without prying eyes is more appropriate. I'll explain on the way."
Matthew followed my gaze, then nodded once. No questions. He lifted the bike with a grunt, wincing just enough to betray the pain he was ignoring, and slid it into the trunk.
I popped it open wider and rummaged around, producing the sad excuse for a first aid kit I'd been meaning to replace for years. I tossed it to him.
"Patch yourself up," I said. "I'll take care of the bike."
He caught it easily, eyes flicking to mine in quiet acknowledgment. While he worked, I adjusted the bike, wedging it in so it wouldn't slide around, then shut the trunk and climbed into the driver's seat.
Moments later, he joined me, the car settling under our combined weight.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Matthew broke the silence.
"You know," he said, fastening his seatbelt, "normally you'd already be loudly announcing something unhinged. Or talking about ghosts. Or aliens. Or government conspiracies. Sometimes just to mess with people walking by."
I snorted despite myself.
"The fact you wanted privacy," he continued, eyes forward, "means this isn't one of those times."
"It is," I admitted.
My fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The words pressed against my throat, heavy and sharp.
"Honestly," I went on, quieter now, "I'm afraid you're gonna judge me. In fact… I know you will. But you're the only person I trust to listen and stay objective—even if what I did goes against your core beliefs."
Matthew turned his head then, really looking at me.
Not with sympathy. Not with concern.
With the same calculating focus he used in sparring, in planning, in tearing ideas apart to see if they held up.
"You're different," he said at last.
The words landed harder than I expected.
He leaned back slightly, studying me like a puzzle he hadn't seen before. "I've fought you. You're not just tired or stressed. Something's changed. You feel… heavier. More. Stronger."
I swallowed.
He was right. On a level I didn't fully understand yet.
"I can't guarantee I won't judge you," he continued calmly. "That's not who I am." Then he paused, and his voice softened—not kinder, just more honest. "But you're still my friend."
He looked forward again.
"I've known truly bad people. And I've known people who pretend to be good because it's convenient. You're neither." A faint huff of breath. "You're not perfect. Not by a long shot."
That almost made me laugh.
"But," he finished, "you embody certain qualities that lifelong Christians never manage to obtain. Accountability. Intent. Willingness to face consequences."
He met my eyes again, steady and unflinching.
"You aren't a bad person, Orion."
The tension in my chest didn't vanish.
But for the first time all day, it loosened enough that I could breathe.
I started the car.
The afternoon light sat heavy on Karakura, that washed-gold glare that made everything feel slower than it really was. Traffic hummed. People walked. Life went on like nothing in the world had cracked open under my feet.
I didn't know how to start.
That was the problem—I never did, not when it mattered. But a part of me was quietly grateful that with Matthew, at least, I could speak in English. No translating myself. No filtering for tone. I could fumble, hesitate, circle the truth like a wounded animal and he'd still track it.
My phone buzzed in the console.
Kerstie.
Of course.
I stared at it for half a second too long before just handing it to Matthew. "Please."
He didn't even blink before answering. "Yeah?"
I kept my eyes on the road, jaw tight.
"What? No—he's driving," Matthew said flatly, then paused. I caught his reflection in the window as his gaze flicked to me.
I mouthed, car accident.
His expression didn't change. His voice did.
"Yeah. I got hit by a car," he said, as if discussing the weather. "Pretty hard. Orion's giving me a ride. He'll be home later."
There was a muffled spike of concern through the speaker. Kerstie's anger collapsed into worry the way it always did, fast and loud and consuming.
Matthew handled it with the same calm authority he brought to everything. He reassured her. Minimized the damage. Promised I'd bring him back alive.
She trusted him. She always had.
She'd known Matthew longer than I had. Hell, she'd introduced us.
When the call ended, Matthew handed the phone back and leaned into the seat. "She's as high-strung and needy as ever."
I exhaled slowly. "I've given her every reason to be."
He didn't argue. That was worse than if he had.
The road curved, the scenery thinning, buildings growing more familiar in a way I hadn't expected to feel comforting. The abandoned hospital loomed ahead in my mind like a confession booth I hadn't agreed to enter.
I swallowed.
"Where to start…" I said, mostly to myself. "Um. Maybe with… I met someone."
Matthew turned his head just enough to look at me.
"A woman."
It wasn't a question.
It was a statement—measured, weighted, disappointed but unsurprised. Like he'd already put the pieces together and was just waiting for me to confirm the picture.
"Yes," I said quietly. "A woman. But it's not that simple."
Of course it wasn't.
"Her name is Rukia."
I hesitated then, fingers tightening on the wheel as I searched for a way to explain the impossible to the most devout man I'd ever known. A man whose faith wasn't loud, but deep. Structured. Unmoving.
"She's… not from our world," I said carefully.
That earned me a raised eyebrow.
"I had another out-of-body experience a few weeks ago," I continued. "Like the ones I told you about before. Only this time… I met her there."
I forced the next words out before I could overthink them.
"She's a reaper. A Soul Reaper."
The silence that followed was dense.
Matthew didn't laugh. Didn't scoff. Didn't immediately quote scripture or argue theology.
He just looked at me.
Slowly.
The eyebrow rose a fraction higher.
"You're aware," he said evenly, "that what you just said directly challenges my entire understanding of the afterlife."
"I know," I said. "Trust me—I'm very aware."
He studied my face the way he always did when he thought I might be lying or joking.
And for once, there was nothing for him to catch, no grand joke for me to immediately reveal.
"I can prove it," I said quickly. Too quickly. "I promise."
The words tumbled out after that, like I was afraid silence would swallow them.
"I— I've got a lot of questions for her myself. About the Soul Society. That's what they call… well, not exactly heaven, but close. And yeah, there is a hell. Soul Reapers are kind of like angels, I guess. There's a Soul King who's basically God, or at least fills that role. I don't have the details yet and I'm not trying to invalidate your faith, I swear, I just—"
I stopped myself, breath hitching. Rambling. I was rambling.
Matthew didn't interrupt.
He just stared out the windshield, jaw set, absorbing it like I'd told him the sky was fake and gravity was optional.
Finally, he spoke.
"The Bible is old," he said calmly. "Translated. Transcribed. Touched by a lot of human hands." He glanced at me. "I don't follow man. I follow Jesus. So yeah—this raises questions. Big ones. Ones, I'm guessing you can't answer."
He paused, then shifted gears with surgical precision.
"So let's focus on this Rukia person."
I pulled into the cracked lot in front of the abandoned hospital and parked. The engine ticked as it cooled. I stared at the steering wheel for a long moment, debating how to frame this.
In the end, I didn't.
I leaned forward, forehead resting against my hands, and exhaled.
"I'm just gonna be blunt," I said. "I cheated on Kerstie."
The words came out fast, like ripping off a bandage.
"I'm having an affair with Rukia. I didn't plan it. I didn't mean to. It just… happened. We clicked in a way people spend entire lifetimes chasing. I talk to her and it feels like I've known her for a hundred years."
I swallowed, voice quieter now.
"It's not just sex. She's beautiful—yeah—but she's strong, smart, awkward in this stupidly cute dorky way. She puts other people before herself. She calls me out when I'm being an idiot. And she sees me. Like actually sees me. In a way Kerstie never really has."
I realized I was smiling when I talked about her.
That realization hurt.
The silence afterward was sharp.
Matthew shifted, rubbing his face, collecting himself. When he spoke, his voice was blunt—but not cruel.
"Orion," he said, "you're married. This is adultery. Plain and simple."
He sighed, shaking his head.
"Dude, you really fucked up. Like… Kobe-level fucked up. And let's ignore the ghost-lover angle for a second."
He turned toward me, eyes hard but honest.
"You're cheating on your wife with a woman you barely know. You're putting your family at risk. Worse—you're putting yourself at risk. This is you begging for Kerstie to take you to court, strip you down to your undies, and let the lawyers clap away at your ass cheeks, while they take turns fucking you."
I winced.
"You know what you did was wrong," he continued. "And yeah… I can see why you did it, I don't know a single man who could have put up with her as long as you have…I don't approve. Not even a little."
Then, softer—but heavier—
"But I expected better from you."
That one cut deeper than the rest.
I opened the car door and stepped out, the afternoon heat slamming into me.
"You're right," I said quietly. "About all of it."
I shut the door and leaned against the hood, looking back at him.
"But there's more," I added. "It gets way more complicated."
I let out a bitter, humorless laugh.
"And honestly? Why would confessing an affair not come with a surprise bonus round of strange?"
"You're right," I said, more quietly now. The heat of the afternoon pressed in, cicadas buzzing like static in my skull. "About all of it."
I leaned against the hood, folded my arms, stared at the cracked concrete at my feet like it might offer absolution.
"But there's more," I added. "This gets… way more complicated."
Matthew finally got out, slow and deliberate. He winced when his weight settled wrong, adjusted automatically, then fixed me with that same steady look he'd used a hundred times before—when I was lying to myself, not him.
"And frankly," I continued, rubbing my face, "why would confessing an affair not come with a surprise bonus round of strange?"
He stepped out of the car and crossed his arms after the door thudded shut ."I was afraid you were going to say that."
I exhaled a humorless laugh. "Yeah. Me too."
I looked up at the hospital then, really looked at it. The boarded doors. The sagging awning. The faint spiritual pressure humming under my skin now that I knew how to notice it. A place where worlds thinned, whether people believed in that sort of thing or not.
"Rukia isn't just… some woman," I said. "She's not human. She doesn't age the way we do. She's lived longer than nations. And what we just dealt with back there?" I gestured vaguely behind us, toward the city. "That wasn't metaphorical evil. That was a soul parasite wearing a badge and draining people like livestock."
Matthew's jaw tightened.
"And you," he said carefully, "are somehow in the middle of all this."
"I didn't go looking for it," I said immediately. "I swear to God, Matt, I didn't. I was barely holding myself together when it started. I felt like a ghost in my own life. Weak. Invisible. Like every woman I've ever loved had to carry me."
The words spilled now, ugly and raw.
"And then Rukia looks at me like I'm not broken. Like I'm… useful. Like I matter. And I did something today. I didn't just stand there. I protected people. I fought. I bound a fucking Soul Reaper with lightning and ritual magic my stepdad taught me as a kid."
That finally got a reaction.
Matthew's eyes sharpened. "You did what."
"I can prove it," I said quickly. "I told you. I'll show you. Not out here—"
Silence stretched again.
When he spoke, his voice was quieter, stripped of humor.
"Orion," he said, "you're telling me you're cheating on your wife, sleeping with a god-of-death, fighting invisible monsters, and discovering that your childhood pagan nonsense actually works."
"When you put it like that," I muttered, "it really sounds insane."
He huffed once, a short breath through his nose. "A bit."
Then, unexpectedly, he shook his head.
"But you're not lying," he said. Not accusing. Observing. "I've known you ten years. You reveal your hand immediately after you make your jokes. This?" He gestured at me. "This is you telling the truth and hating yourself for it."
I swallowed.
"That doesn't make it okay," he continued. "Doesn't make it righteous. Doesn't magically un-fuck your marriage."
"I know."
"But," he went on, sighing, "it does mean I can't just write you off as some horny idiot chasing a fantasy."
I almost laughed at that. Almost.
He looked back at the hospital. "So. Surprise bonus round. What's next?"
I met his eyes.
"I need you to see something," I said. "Something that will either convince you I've lost my mind… or change how you see the world."
"And after that?" he asked.
"After that," I said honestly, "I don't know. But whatever happens—Soul Society, Rukia, Kerstie, all of it—I don't want to keep doing this alone."
Matthew studied me for a long moment.
Then he nodded once. "Alright."
A pause.
"But if this ends with you getting smote," he added, "I'm saying I told you so at your funeral."
Despite everything—the guilt, the fear, the weight in my chest—I laughed.
I led Matthew through the broken doors of the abandoned hospital, the hinges screaming like they resented being woken up. Inside, the air was cooler, heavy with dust and old disinfectant, the kind of place no one wandered into by accident. Perfect. No prying eyes. No phones. No witnesses.
We stopped in what used to be a reception area—cracked tiles, overturned chairs, a dead directory map peeling off the wall.
I turned to him.
"Matthew…" My voice caught, and I hated that it did. "I have powers now. And it's killing me not telling anyone. So I'm telling you."
He didn't interrupt. He just watched me, alert, grounded, ready for whatever nonsense he thought I was about to pull.
"I'm showing you."
I held my hands out in front of me.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then I let go.
My reiatsu flared like a breaker snapping—blue-white energy erupting outward, the air buzzing, dust lifting off the floor in a slow spiral. Electricity crawled over my forearms, around my fingers, snapping and popping like live wire.
Matthew took an involuntary step back.
"What the—"
I gathered it, instinctively now. The chaos pulled inward, condensing between my palms into a dense, humming sphere of light. It hurt—not pain exactly, more like pressure—but it felt right.
I shaped it.
The ball collapsed into a hard-edged cube, lines crisp and glowing. Then the edges softened, stretched, folding into a long, narrow blade—a knife, sharp and precise. With a thought, it extended again, lengthening into a sword, crackling with restrained violence.
Matthew stared.
I stepped toward the wall, raised the blade, and slashed twice—fast, clean. The lightning blade carved through concrete like it was chalk, leaving a glowing X etched into the surface, edges smoking faintly before the light faded.
Silence followed.
I turned back to him, adrenaline buzzing in my veins, half-grinning despite myself.
"…Pretty awesome, right?"
Matthew blinked once. Twice.
Then, slowly, a crooked smile crept onto his face.
"So," he said, voice hovering somewhere between shock and disbelief, "you're Kuwabara now?"
I barked out a laugh, the tension snapping loose all at once. "Oh thank God, that was your takeaway."
He stepped closer, eyes locked on my hands like they might explode again at any second. Awe crept in despite himself—raw, unfiltered.
"Okay," he muttered. "Yeah. That's… that's real."
We sat on overturned chairs after that. Then paced. Then sat again. Time blurred.
We talked—for over an hour.
About the powers. Where they came from. How they felt. How they scared me. About Rukia—who she was, what she meant, why she mattered so much it hurt. About Kerstie. About guilt and responsibility and the kind of choices that don't come with clean answers.
Matthew challenged me. Questioned me. Called me out when I tried to justify too much.
But he listened.
And for the first time since all of this started—since the lightning, the spirits, the impossible woman with violet eyes—I didn't feel like I was carrying it alone.
That, more than the power, felt like the real miracle.
"I learned last week that I can basically use my energy to draw diagrams and stuff… symbols and junk, mostly pentagrams cause that makes sense to me in terms of directing the energy when I attempt a spell like the lightning prison I told you about,"
The light in my hands pulsed softly as I rolled the little sphere of lightning back and forth between my palms, like a kid killing time with a baseball. It was easier now—less strain, more instinct. The crackle had settled into something almost… companionable.
Matthew sat on a half-collapsed gurney across from me, arms folded, brow furrowed in that way he got when his worldview was being forcibly remodeled.
"So," he said slowly, "let me recap. You cheated on your wife with a death god, learned how to weaponize lightning, and there's an entire invisible ecosystem of monsters and psychopomps operating parallel to our reality."
"When you say it like that, it sounds irresponsible," I replied, flipping the lightning ball up and catching it again. "But yes."
He snorted. "You've always had a talent for understatement."
I smiled, but something inside me tightened.
The air… shifted.
It wasn't dramatic at first. Just a pressure change. Like the moment before a storm breaks, when the world collectively holds its breath. The lightning between my hands sputtered, reacting before my brain caught up.
I froze.
Matthew noticed immediately. "What is it."
I didn't answer. I let my senses stretch outward—still clumsy, still limited, but sharper than they'd ever been before.
And then I felt it.
Not approaching.
Watching.
A presence clung to the shadows near the far end of the hall, pressed flat against the wall like it belonged there. Sleek. Patient. Predatory.
"Matt," I said quietly, letting the lightning dissipate. "Do not freak out."
"Orion," he replied, already standing, "that sentence has never once ended well."
The thing stepped forward.
It unfolded from the darkness with feline grace—long, low, powerful. Its body was shaped like a panther's, muscle rippling beneath pale, bone-like armor. Where its head should have been, a hollow mask curved in a predatory mockery of femininity—smooth, elegant, with slitted eyes that glowed a sickly violet.
Two long tentacles rose from its back like living whips. One dripped with a viscous, translucent substance that sizzled when it hit the floor. The other crackled faintly, energy gathering at its tip.
Claws scraped softly against tile as it paced.
"Oh good," it purred, voice smooth and amused, echoing unnaturally in the space. "You can sense me. I was worried I'd have to introduce myself."
Matthew's looked to me and then to where I was looking, straining to see what he couldn't
"That," I said, swallowing, "is a Hollow."
The creature tilted its head, studying us like curiosities in a display case.
"Mmm. Correct." Its eyes slid back to me, hunger sharp and focused. "And you are loud, little lightning man. You shine like a beacon. I could hear you playing with your power three blocks away."
My heart hammered. "You've been following me."
"Stalking," it corrected pleasantly. "Following implies a destination."
It circled us slowly, claws clicking, tail swaying with deliberate control.
"I was going to wait for your Soul Reaper," it continued. "The small one with the sharp tongue and colder heart. But…" A low, delighted hum escaped it. "This is better. Bait that walks and talks."
Matthew's voice was tight. "You said the others didn't talk, you're having a conversation. It's talking. I really don't like that it's talking."
The Hollow's gaze flicked to him, amused. "Oh, don't worry. You're not the prize."
Not that he could hear that was said.
Its eyes returned to me.
"You, however… and her?" It licked its mask with a tongue that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago. "Three souls. One feast. I think she'll come running."
Every instinct in my body screamed danger.
Rukia was gone. The detainment team was gone. And this thing was smart—too smart.
I felt lightning stir in my veins again, unbidden.
I took a step forward, putting myself between it and Matthew.
"Yeah," I said, forcing my voice steady. "That's not happening."
The Hollow smiled wider.
"Oh," it whispered, tentacles coiling, energy building. "It already is."
The lights overhead shattered.
That got Matthew's attention.
My eyes never left it.
That was the problem—and the only thing keeping us alive.
Matthew couldn't see it. Couldn't hear the soft scrape of claws on tile or the way its presence warped the air, like heat over asphalt. To him, the hallway was empty. Just dust, broken lights, and me staring at nothing with lightning crawling over my hands.
"Okay," he said carefully, shifting his weight, reading my posture the way you read an opponent's shoulders before a punch. "So I'm guessing that thing you're glaring at like it owes you money is bad."
My pulse was roaring in my ears. Adrenaline hit hard and fast, sharp enough to taste.
"It's bad," I said. "And it's smart."
That realization scared me more than the claws.
I drew on my reiryoku, splitting it fast—too fast—letting it snap and fragment into thin, flat constructs that took shape instinctively. Rectangles. Clean edges. Symbols burned into them without me meaning to, I blame my love for X-Men.
Lightning playing cards.
They fanned between my fingers, crackling blue-white, humming like angry hornets.
I flicked my wrist.
The cards screamed down the hall in a staggered spread, slicing through the air where the Hollow was—
—and missed completely.
It flowed around them with lazy grace, body blurring sideways like a panther slipping through tall grass. The cards embedded themselves in the far wall, detonating in sharp cracks of thunder that shook loose dust and old memories.
Matthew flinched, then squared up anyway, fists raised, knees bent.
"One of those demons you mentioned?" he asked, voice steady despite everything.
"Yeah," I said, breath tight. "A Hollow. Kinda looks like a displacer beast with a bone mask—"
He blinked. "I don't know what that is, dude. I play Yu-Gi-Oh, not D&D."
"Big panther," I corrected quickly, never blinking. "Tentacles on its back. Probably shoots stuff. Definitely dangerous."
The Hollow laughed.
It laughed—a smooth, feminine sound that slid right under my skin.
"Oh, I like them," it purred, voice curling around our words. "They describe me while I listen. How intimate."
I threw more cards—harder this time, faster, layering angles, trying to herd it instead of hit it.
Still nothing.
It danced between them, mocking, eyes locked on me alone.
"I think," I muttered to Matthew, jaw tight, "it might be a girl."
"Of course it is," he muttered back. "Our lives have a theme."
The Hollow's body coiled.
Then it moved.
Not a step—an eruption.
It lunged, claws first, one tentacle flaring with gathered energy as a blast screamed toward us—
"DOWN!" I shouted.
I barely had time to react.
I snapped my arm up and forced my reiryoku outward, shaping it into a buckler of solid lightning just as the claw slammed into me. The impact detonated through my bones, white-hot pain flashing up my arm as the energy blast went wide and obliterated the gurney behind us.
Metal screamed. The frame folded like wet cardboard.
Matthew hit the floor hard, rolling instinctively as debris rained down.
I wasn't so lucky.
The force sent me flying backward, my shoulder slamming into the wall with a crack that knocked the breath out of me. Old plaster exploded around my head, spiderwebbing outward as my vision blurred and the world tilted.
I slid down the wall, ears ringing, lightning sputtering erratically around my hands.
The Hollow reappeared a few yards away, perfectly composed, tail swaying.
"Oh," it said pleasantly. "You'll do nicely."
My head throbbed. My heart hammered.
And somewhere beneath the fear, one clear thought cut through the noise:
I wasn't just fighting to survive anymore.
I was fighting to make sure Matthew didn't die without ever knowing what killed him.