The Sol crawled.
Its legs were gone, severed cleanly at the joints. Black ichor smeared the concrete as it dragged itself forward, jaws snapping uselessly at the air. Its body twitched, spasms rippling through malformed muscle as it tried—desperately—to keep living.
Isaac stood a few meters away, breathing hard.
His katana was lowered, blade dripping.
One of the trainees behind him gagged.
"J-Just kill it," someone whispered.
Isaac didn't move immediately.
He watched the Sol struggle, not with fascination, but with something closer to tired understanding. The creature didn't know what it was. Didn't know why it existed. It just knew pain and instinct and hunger.
"Yeah," Isaac said quietly. "I will."
He stepped forward and ended it in one clean motion, blade through the skull. The body went limp instantly, ichor pooling beneath it.
No flourish.
No anger.
No mercy either.
Just an ending.
The tunnel fell silent except for heavy breathing.
This was supposed to be a training mission—low-level Sols emerging from a minor rift beneath an abandoned transit line. Isaac wasn't even meant to be the point man. He had been assigned support.
That changed the moment the Sols breached the rear line and one of the trainees froze.
Isaac didn't yell.
Didn't criticize.
He just moved.
By the time GRIMM reinforcements arrived, the tunnel was a butchered maze of bodies and scorch marks. Three Sols neutralized by Isaac alone. Two by the others.
No casualties.
Antonio arrived last.
He surveyed the carnage, then looked at Isaac.
"You disobeyed formation."
Isaac wiped his blade clean on a torn sleeve. "If I hadn't, two of them would be dead."
Antonio stared at him for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
"Dismissed."
Word spread fast.
Not that Isaac was strong.
That Isaac was reliable.
Trainees started positioning themselves closer to him during missions. Not because he asked. Because when things went wrong, Isaac didn't panic.
He didn't hesitate either.
One night, a younger reaper cornered him in the mess hall.
"How do you do it?" the boy asked. "Killing like that without losing it."
Isaac thought for a second.
"I don't think about killing," he said. "I think about stopping."
That wasn't the full truth.
But it was the part he could live with.
Lisa noticed the change.
He slept less.
Talked a little quieter.
Smiled the same—but it didn't always reach his eyes.
She tried to pull him back into normalcy. Forced him to eat with them. Dragged him into arguments. Mocked his brooding.
"You're not allowed to turn into some edgy GRIMM statue," she told him once. "If you do, I'll punch you."
Isaac laughed.
For real.
"I'd deserve it," he said.
Lane watched him more closely than either of them realized.
That night, Isaac trained alone.
No audience.
No instructor.
Just him and the echo of steel.
Each strike was measured. Each movement deliberate. He corrected mistakes immediately, adjusting grip, stance, breathing.
Not chasing power.
Chasing control.
When his arms finally gave out, he collapsed onto his back, staring at the cracked ceiling.
"I won't lose anyone else," he whispered.
The air felt heavy.
For just a moment—so brief he almost missed it—Isaac felt something watching him.
Not hostile.
Not kind.
Interested.
He sat up sharply.
Nothing was there.
Still, the feeling lingered long after he left.