Lucian POV
The cold floor pressed against my cheek, rough and damp, as though it had
soaked up every misery ever spilled here. Somewhere in the distance, water
dripped steadily, each drop falling like a slow, mocking clock counting down in
this forgotten corner of the city. The air was thick and stale, carrying the
scent of mold, decay, and despair.
I groaned as I shifted, my muscles screaming in protest. The gritty surface
scraped against my palms as I pushed myself up onto my elbows. My head
throbbed in time with my heartbeat, each pulse a cruel reminder of the chaos
that had led me here.
My chest tightened as I inhaled, a deep, bruising ache radiating through me. I
glanced down, catching the faint glow of the mark carved into my skin. Its
intricate lines shimmered faintly in the dim light, a cruel work of art branded
onto me.
I ran my fingers over it, half-expecting the skin to burn or blister under my
touch. It didn't. The heat ran deeper than flesh, searing into my soul. A
reminder of what I'd taken into myself. Or maybe what had taken me.
The room was barely a room—four cracked walls leaning inward as though even
they had given up. Trash littered the floor, scattered remnants of lives long
forgotten. A broken window let in a faint sliver of gray light, its edges jagged,
like teeth waiting to devour anyone foolish enough to come too close.
Dragging myself upright, I leaned against the wall for support. Every step I took
was like dragging a corpse behind me. My body was stronger now, faster,
deadlier—but it came with a price. The mark pulsed faintly, like it had its own
heartbeat, perfectly in sync with the rage simmering beneath my skin.
I pressed a palm against the cracked wall, breathing shallow, as the city
whispered its usual lies outside. Promises of survival. Hope for anyone desperate
enough to cling to it.
But I wasn't here to survive.
I was here to finish what I started.
The cold wind bit through the torn gaps in my coat as I stepped outside. The
slums were no better than the room I'd just left behind. Rusted metal frames
leaned precariously, their shadows stretching over narrow alleyways that reeked
of stale piss and garbage. Broken glass crunched under my boots as I walked,
weaving through streets that felt more like graveyards for the living.
Children sat huddled in corners, their eyes hollow, their faces streaked with
grime. They watched me pass with a mix of fear and curiosity. I didn't stop. I
couldn't. I'd seen that look before—on my own face, staring back at me in
cracked mirrors when I was younger.
The sky above was a dreary gray, smothering the sun like a lid over a coffin. It
fit the mood of this place, a city that never promised anything but took
everything.
I kept my head down and pushed through the streets. The cold seeped into my
bones, but it was the weight on my chest that slowed me. Every step felt
heavier, as if the mark was trying to remind me who I was now.
When I finally reached the edge of the slums, the city began to shift. The
streets widened, the buildings grew taller, and the air became... lighter. Cleaner.
But it wasn't the kind of clean that came naturally. This was the kind that came
from money—scrubbing away the filth of reality and pretending it didn't exist.
My home loomed ahead, an imposing structure of glass and steel. It stood out
against the backdrop of decay like an arrogant king in a kingdom of beggars.
I punched the code into the gate and stepped inside. The warmth hit me
immediately, the artificial heat almost too much after the chill of the slums.
The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the air system.
I shrugged off my coat, letting it fall carelessly onto the floor, and made my
way to the bathroom. My reflection caught me as I passed a mirror—disheveled
hair, dark circles under my eyes, and the faint glow of the mark on my chest
visible through my torn shirt.
I stopped, staring at the man I'd become. Or maybe the man I always was.
The mark pulsed faintly, and for a moment, I thought I saw movement in its
glow—a ripple, like something alive. I turned away and stepped into the shower.
The water was scalding, and I let it burn away the grime, the stench of the
slums, and the weight of the morning. Steam filled the room, fogging the mirror
and blurring the lines of reality.
But no amount of heat could wash away the mark. It stayed there, etched into
my skin, a constant reminder of what I'd sacrificed.
As the water poured over me, I leaned against the wall, letting my head rest
against the cold tile. For a brief moment, I let myself feel the exhaustion, the
pain, the emptiness.
Then I pushed it down, shut it away. There was no time for weakness.
I turned off the shower and stepped out, grabbing a towel. The mark on my
chest caught the light, glowing faintly, as if mocking me.
The water scalded my skin, but I welcomed it. The sharp sting grounded me in a
way nothing else could, slicing through the dull, gnawing emptiness. Steam curled
around me, clinging to my skin like a shroud. I leaned against the cold, tiled wall,
my chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm as the weight of the mark bore
down on me.
I glanced down at it again, the faint glow pulsing in time with my heartbeat. It
wasn't just a mark—it was a chain, a brand, a prison. A constant reminder of
what I'd chosen—or maybe what had been chosen for me.
Resentment boiled up, sharp and bitter. This wasn't power. This was a curse, a
poison eating away at whatever humanity I had left.
The mark flared brighter, as if it had heard my thoughts. And then, like a blade
slipping between ribs, a voice slithered into my mind—smooth, mocking, and all
too familiar.
"You wanted power, didn't you?" The Demon King's tone was honeyed venom.
"Now live with it."
My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. The words echoed in the space
between my thoughts, carving deeper than I wanted to admit.
"You're wrong," I muttered through gritted teeth, though the words felt empty.
A low, resonant laugh filled my head. It wasn't malicious—no, it was worse. It
was knowing. Certain.
The mark burned hotter, and I hissed under my breath, my jaw tightening.
I turned the water off abruptly, the hiss of the shower giving way to silence.
Steam still clung to me as I stepped out, the cold air biting at my skin. My
reflection stared back from the fogged mirror, distorted and fractured, like
the man in the glass was only a shadow of who I used to be.
I rubbed a towel over my face, trying to scrub away the voice, the heat, the
suffocating weight of being watched—even in my solitude. But none of it went
away.
The glow on my chest flickered faintly in the dim light, and the Demon King's
voice slipped back into my thoughts, softer now, almost tender.
"You resent me now, but you'll thank me later. You'll see—power is worth every
drop of pain."
I turned away from the mirror, tightening the towel around my waist. My jaw
set, my mind forcing itself forward. There was no space for questions. No room
for doubt.
The mark was a leash, yes. But it was also a weapon. Until the day I broke it, I'd
wield it against those who had created this world I loathed.
And when that day came, there wouldn't be a single chain left to bind me.
The vibration of my phone pulled me from my thoughts. I hesitated for a
moment, staring at it as the screen buzzed to life on the counter. The name
"Marcus" flashed across the screen, sharp and insistent.
I picked it up, bringing it to my ear. "What?"
"Found him," Marcus's voice came through, rough and curt. "Took longer than I
expected, but I've got your guy. Name's Veer. Lives in the western district,
some rundown apartment block on Millstone Avenue. Shouldn't be hard to find."
For a moment, I didn't respond. My grip on the phone tightened as memories of
our last confrontation flickered through my mind. His words, his excuses, his
supposed innocence.
"Good work," I finally said, my voice calm. "We're even now."
Marcus scoffed. "Yeah, sure. Good luck."
The line went dead, and the address popped up on my screen seconds later. I
grabbed my coat and headed out.
The drive was a blur, my thoughts cycling through the details of our last
encounter. His words still grated on me.
"I was there because I was dumbfounded," he had said, his voice trembling. "The
crash—it wasn't normal. I froze. I didn't know what to do. Everything about it
was wrong."
Those excuses had felt hollow then, nothing more than the weak words of a man
trying to escape guilt.
But now... doubt crept in.
The apartment was as rundown as expected—peeling paint, flickering neon, and
an air of decay. Room 2B wasn't far. I knocked once. Twice.
The door opened just a crack. His face appeared, the same one I remembered—
calm, unafraid.
"You," I said, my voice sharp as steel.
"You're back to get beaten again?" he shot back, smirking faintly as he opened
the door wider. "Didn't you get enough last time?"
His casual tone caught me off guard, and for a moment, I just stared at him.
"Come in," he said, stepping aside. "If you want answers, let's talk. I've got
nothing to hide."
I stepped in, shutting the door behind me. The room was sparse—barely more
than a bed, a table, and a flickering lamp. He gestured for me to sit, but I
stayed standing.
"Talk," I said, my tone cold.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "I told you last time—I didn't
cause that crash. I had nothing to do with her death."
"You froze," I said, my voice laced with sarcasm. "That's what you're sticking
with?"
His eyes narrowed. "Yes, because it's the truth. I didn't kill your wife. I didn't
even know her. I was just... there."
"Wrong place, wrong time?" I asked, the anger in my chest rising again.
"Exactly," he replied, his voice steady. "But you've already decided I'm guilty,
haven't you?"
Something about the calmness of his words grated on me. He wasn't afraid. He
wasn't lying.
"Why didn't you run this time?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
"Because I'm done running," he said simply. "You want to know the truth? Here it
is—I don't care what you think. I didn't kill her."
His words hung in the air, and for a brief moment, I felt the anger falter.
But then the mark on my chest pulsed faintly, its warmth spreading through me.
A reminder of what I'd become.
I took a step forward, my hand clenching into a fist.
"Lucian," he said, his voice softer now. "I get it—you're angry, grieving. But
killing me won't bring her back."
For a moment, I hesitated. The rage, the doubt, the pain—it all swirled inside
me.
Then I struck.
His eyes widened as the blow landed, sending him sprawling to the floor. He
scrambled to his feet, blood trickling from his lip, but he didn't fight back.
"Why?" I demanded, my voice shaking with fury.
"I told you—I didn't do it!" he shouted.
The mark burned hotter, its influence drowning out reason. A dark aura erupted
around me, the room trembling under its weight. Veer staggered back, his
expression shifting from defiance to shock as the oppressive force pressed
down on him.
He coughed violently, blood splattering onto the already stained carpet. His legs
buckled, and he collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest.
"What... what is this?" he rasped, his voice barely audible.
I took a step forward, the aura intensifying with every movement. His strength,
his confidence—everything drained from him. It was as if the very essence of
his being was stripped away, leaving behind only a broken shell of a man.
"Please," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I... I didn't—"
The words died in his throat as my shadow loomed over him. The power coursing
through me surged, drowning out any lingering doubt or hesitation.
"You're lying," I said coldly, my voice devoid of emotion. "You were there. You
watched her die. And now, you'll pay."
Veer's eyes widened, panic replacing whatever composure he had left. "No... no,
wait! I didn't—"
I raised my hand, the dark energy coiling around my fingers like a serpent ready
to strike. His body convulsed, the energy wrapping around him, binding him in
place.
"If this is what you want," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Then do it. But it
won't change anything."
My jaw tightened. The mark pulsed, urging me forward, feeding my need for
retribution.
"You're right," I murmured, my voice deathly quiet. "It won't change anything.
But it will bring me peace."
The dark energy surged as I clenched my fist, and Veer let out a strangled gasp.
His body writhed, his eyes pleading with me one last time. But I didn't stop.
The energy tightened around him, crushing the life out of his body. A final,
gurgled breath escaped his lips before his head slumped forward, lifeless.
Silence fell over the room, broken only by my own ragged breathing. The aura
dissipated slowly, leaving the air cold and heavy. Veer's body lay crumpled on the
floor, his once-defiant face now eerily calm in death.
I stared down at him, the weight of my actions pressing down harder than the
mark ever had. My chest heaved as I struggled to steady myself, the adrenaline
fading and leaving a hollow ache behind.
"Justice," I muttered, though the word felt foreign now, almost mocking.
I turned away from the body, stepping into the cold night. The mark on my
chest pulsed faintly, a sinister reminder of what I'd done—and the path I was
bound to.
As the door closed behind me, the slums seemed quieter than before.
The darkness inside me had grown.
And for the first time, it felt like it was winning.
I stared at the lifeless body for a moment longer, the silence around me heavy,
almost suffocating. My hands trembled, not from fear or regret, but from
something else. Something I couldn't quite place.
"I killed him," I muttered to myself, the words rolling off my tongue like a
confession, but they didn't sting. Instead, a hollow chuckle escaped my lips,
growing louder, breaking the stillness of the room. "Ha... ha... just like that. I
ended someone's life."
I raised my hands, staring at them as if they belonged to someone else. Blood,
invisible yet tangible, clung to my fingers. "What is this feeling?" I asked aloud,
though no one could hear me—not Veer, not the world outside. "Is it happiness?
Joy?"
My laughter faded, replaced by a strange stillness. I placed a hand over the
mark on my chest, feeling its faint pulse, its quiet approval. "Or... is it both?"
I leaned against the wall, sliding down until I was sitting on the cold, hard floor.
My breaths were uneven, but my heart—my heart was steady. Calm.
"I don't know anymore," I whispered, a small, almost childlike smile tugging at
the corners of my lips. My gaze flicked back to Veer's lifeless form. The
emptiness I'd carried for so long felt lighter, replaced by something darker.
"But I like it."
The words hung in the air like a promise, or perhaps a curse.
I stood slowly, brushing the dust off my pants as I took one last look at Veer.
There was no going back now—not that I wanted to. The path ahead was clear,
illuminated by the faint glow of the mark that had claimed me.
For the first time in years, I felt free.
And for the first time, I didn't care what that freedom cost.