RUNNING. ALWAYS RUNNING.
The rhythm of heavy boots against damp earth was the only music I cared for. My target was desperate, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps that signaled his lungs were giving out. How pathetic. Every stumble he made was a countdown to the end.
I put on a burst of speed, my shadow stretching long and monstrous under the moonlight, and tackled him. We hit the ground with a sickening thud. I pinned him down, the air escaping him in a pathetic grunt.
"Please... spare me," he wheezed, clawing at the dirt. "I didn't kill him! I swear!"
I leaned in, my face inches from his, a slow, predatory grin spreading across my lips. "I don't trade in mercy. It's a currency I've never learned to spend."
He trembled so violently I could feel it through the soles of my boots. Fear. I breathed it in like incense. Fear consumes the soul; it makes the strong brittle and the weak shatter. In my world, weakness was a death sentence.
"I'm debating," I whispered, the edge of my voice like a razor. "A slow, memorable departure? Or an instant one? What do you choose?"
The man could only shake his head, his jaw locked in terror. The silence irritated me—it was a void where a plea should be. I reached for the small dagger at my belt and drove it through the meat of his right hand, pinning him to the earth like a butterfly in a display case.
His scream shattered the night. I leaned back, enjoying the sound. "Still no answer? You have more guts than I gave you credit for."
I stood up and began to circle him, my rapier unsheathed and gleaming. I didn't take my eyes off him for a second. He was sweating now, the scent of salt and panic thick in the air. He knew death had arrived, yet he still clung to his miserable, selfish existence.
"How should I end this?" I mused, tapping a finger against my chin. "Perhaps a slit throat? Quick, clean, and you can watch the life drain out of you in a beautiful red tide."
He whimpered.
"A wonderful idea, isn't it? Let's begin—"
"No! Please! Spare him!"
The voice was high and frantic. I spun to my right, my blade leveled. A woman in her twenties stumbled out of the shadows. She wore a white dress, now stained with mud and briars, her face pale with grief. She threw herself onto her knees, shielding the man with her own body.
"What are you doing here, Mila?!" the man spat, his voice cracking. "Go back!"
"No, Sed! I won't leave you," she sobbed, clutching his bloodied shirt. "I love you. We... we have a child."
The world seemed to tilt. I froze, my gaze dropping to her midsection. Beneath the dirtied fabric, the curve of a pregnancy was unmistakable.
"What the hell are you saying?" Sed snarled, his face contorting with a sudden, ugly malice. "I told you to abort that thing! You're just another whore to me, Mila. I have a dozen women who can satisfy me better than you."
Mila's world shattered right there in the dirt. Her head dropped, her shoulders shaking with silent, devastating sobs.
The anger in my chest didn't just boil; it turned to ice. I stepped closer to her, my voice dropping to a low hum. "What do you want me to do to him, Mila?"
She looked up, her eyes swimming with a mixture of betrayal and sudden, cold clarity. She looked at the man she had tried to save—the man who had just discarded her like trash.
"Kill him," she whispered.
I nodded. Mila stood, her movements robotic, and stepped aside. I looked down at Sed. He wasn't a man anymore; he was a stain on the world.
"You worthless creature," I said, the "Black Reaper" returning to my voice. "Your sins are a debt you can't pay. It's time for judgment."
I didn't give him a chance to beg again. I drove my rapier through his chest, finding the heart with practiced ease. I didn't stop once. I struck again and again until the screaming stopped and the only sound left was the wind in the trees.
I wiped my blade clean and sheathed it, turning toward Mila. She was slumped on the ground, staring at nothing. I reached out a hand.
"Stand up," I said, my voice softer now. "Don't let a ghost keep you down."
"Why didn't you kill me?" she asked, her voice hollow. "You're the Reaper. There's no point in me living now."
A flash of heat flared in my chest. I didn't think—I just reacted. I slapped her, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to snap the trance. She looked at me, shocked.
"There is a point, you idiot," I hissed. "The child. Let them experience the world. Let them be loved by a mother who survived. You live, Mila. For the baby."
I wiped a stray tear from her cheek.
"I have nowhere to go," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I stayed with him because I had nothing else."
"You have me now," I said, pulling her up. "I have a friend. He's... decent. He'll give you a place."
The walk to Dylan's was silent. When we arrived, he opened the door, the scent of toasted bread and herbs drifting out. He looked at Mila, then at me, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"What brings you here, Lysia?"
"Mila needs a room. And I know you won't say no."
Dylan laughed, stepping aside. "You've gone soft, Reaper."
"Say it again and I'll remind you why they call me that," I countered, though there was no bite in it.
He led Mila to a guest room. Before she closed the door, she looked back at me. "Thank you... Black Reaper."
"Call me Lysia," I said firmly. "From now on, you're under my protection. Just live your life. Give that child the love it deserves."
Once the door clicked shut, I followed Dylan into the kitchen. He was finishing a sandwich—his specialty—and pushed a plate toward me. I took a bite, the tension finally beginning to bleed out of my muscles.
"Why did you spare her, Lysia?" he asked softly, sitting across from me.
"She's been cast aside. Like us."
"Is that all?" Dylan tilted his head. "You've seen castaways before."
I looked down at the table, my throat tightening. "She's pregnant, Dylan. She looked just like my mother did... before they took her."
Dylan didn't say anything. He just moved his chair next to mine and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. The mask I wore every day—the cold, iron mask of the Black Reaper—finally cracked. I turned into his shoulder and let the tears come.
In the streets, I was a nightmare. I was the shadow that ended lives. But here, in the quiet of this kitchen, I was just a girl trying to outrun the memory of a ghost.