Sunday afternoon.
Adam woke with a sharp gasp, his chest heaving as though he had surfaced from drowning. For a long moment he simply lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling above, the faint patterns of plaster swimming in and out of focus. His head felt thick, fogged, as though someone had stuffed his skull with wool. He pressed the heel of his palm against his brow, trying to remember.
The night before, what had happened?
Fragments drifted through him, slippery and weightless. A sketchbook, the rooftop, the distant hum of crickets. But then… nothing. A gaping blackness where memory should have been. The harder he reached for it, the more it slipped away.
Instinctively, his hand moved down to his chest. His fingers pressed against his sternum, tracing the rise and fall of his breath as though his body remembered something his mind refused to. A faint ache lingered beneath his skin, a phantom throb he couldn't explain.
He sat up slowly, sheets sticking faintly to his damp back. His gaze wandered across the dorm room, sunlight bled in through the thin curtains, a lazy golden wash that stretched across the floorboards. On the far side of the room, Bryce sat at the study table, hunched over a thick textbook, pen tapping rhythmically against the margin.
Bryce looked up. "Finally awake, Sleeping Beauty?" His lips quirked into a grin.
Adam rubbed at his eyes. "What time is it?"
"One in the afternoon." Bryce leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "You missed church."
Adam blinked, startled. "Wait, it's already Sunday? Afternoon?"
"Yeah." Bryce tilted his head, studying him. "You were out cold, man. Tossing around in your sleep like you were wrestling demons. Thin sheet of sweat, face pale as chalk. I figured you had a fever, so I didn't wake you."
Adam frowned, trying to process. "A fever?"
"That's what it looked like," Bryce said. "You feel alright now?"
He hesitated. The fog in his head, the strange ache in his chest, it didn't add up. "Yeah. Maybe. Just… off." He slid his legs out of bed, feet touching the cool wood floor. "I'll hit the showers. Maybe swing by the nurse."
Bryce gave a mock salute and turned back to his book. "Don't collapse in there."
Adam grabbed a towel from his closet, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped into the hall.
The dorm corridor smelled faintly of old varnish and detergent, a mix of sweat and soap carried on the stale Sunday air. Other students' doors were shut tight, muffled music or chatter leaking faintly from behind some of them. At the far end, the showers waited, white-tiled, perpetually damp, always filled with the low hum of pipes groaning in the walls.
Adam slipped inside, the echo of his bare footsteps magnified by the hollow acoustics. The communal shower room stretched in a row of individual stalls, each separated by narrow frosted partitions. A single window high above let in a weak stripe of daylight, cutting across the rising steam.
He chose a stall at the end, hung his towel on the hook, and stepped beneath the spray. Hot water thundered down, sluicing away the last of his grogginess. The heat sank into his bones, loosening muscles he hadn't realized were clenched. For a while he just stood there, letting the steam envelope him, the hiss of water drowning out his thoughts.
When he finally shut it off, the world felt sharper, clearer. He reached for his towel, rubbing briskly at his hair before dragging it down across his chest and arms.
The mirror waited outside the stall, fogged and dripping. He wiped a streak clean with the flat of his palm and froze.
His reflection stared back, pale and wet and breathing hard. But his eyes weren't fixed on his face. They were locked on his chest.
The tattoo.
At first, years ago till today, it had been something simple. A slender spear of black ink cutting straight down the center of his sternum, ending in a neat crescent curve. Above it, a star-like cross flared out, balanced by the half-moon that crowned it. Minimal, symmetrical, sharp in its geometry. Strange, but not frightening. It had carried the sterile grace of an emblem, a symbol etched in secrecy.
But now…
The design had changed. Grown. Warped.
The once-straight spear had stretched and multiplied into vicious black strokes that dragged lower, tapering into needle points like claws reaching for his stomach. The crescent cradle and the star had fractured, splitting outward in jagged arcs that hooked like horns, curling and clawing across the planes of his chest. The neat, almost ceremonial shape was gone. In its place sprawled something alive, untamed, an emblem reborn into a sigil of teeth and talons.
Adam leaned closer. The ink seemed darker now, thicker, as though freshly etched, veins of black spreading like roots beneath his skin. He could almost swear it pulsed faintly with his heartbeat, as if it had fused with him completely.
A sting flared suddenly, a faint, burning tingle. His chest prickled under the design, the kind of sensation that made him want to scratch, to dig at it. He sucked in a breath as his skin grew hot, almost feverish.
For an instant, steam curled upward, not from the shower, but from him. Wisps of vapor drifted off his chest like smoke from smoldering coals before vanishing into the already humid air.
He staggered back a step, towel clutched to his waist, pulse thundering in his ears.
"What the hell…" he whispered, voice hoarse.
The mirror offered no answers. Only the sight of the twisted, predatory mark etched into his skin.
Adam tied the towel around his waist with shaking hands and stepped out into the hallway. The floorboards seemed longer now, the corridor stretching endlessly before him. His chest still burned with that faint, unnatural heat. Each breath felt heavier, each step more unsteady.
Halfway back to his room, the walls seemed to tilt, the light dimming at the edges of his vision. His knees buckled. The towel slipped loose as he stumbled, one hand clawing at the wall for balance.
And then, everything went black.
***
The bells of St. Aram's had long since gone quiet, their echoes swallowed by the gray hush of Sunday afternoon. The town of Albridge; smaller, humbler, forever in the shadow of Moonstone lay under a pale sky that seemed drained of warmth. The air smelled faintly of wet soil and old stone, the kind of scent that clings to cemeteries long after the flowers have wilted.
Cassius Vane walked slowly between the rows of gravestones, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. He carried no flowers, no token of remembrance, only the heavy silence of a man who had buried too much already. His black coat, worn at the edges, clung to him in the breeze, and his eyes were locked on one name carved into granite.
John Grove.
Beloved son, brother, and friend.
1996 – 2025.
The words had no weight compared to the life behind them. Cassius crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees. For a long time, he said nothing. His jaw tightened, and his breathing grew shallow, as if any word spoken aloud would break him in two.
He stayed like that, head bowed, lips moving in a whisper only the dead could hear.
A voice broke the silence. Sharp, bitter.
"So you did come."
Cassius lifted his gaze to see a woman standing by the grave. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, her eyes red from weeping yet burning with something far fiercer. John's mother. She clutched a withered bouquet in her hands, its stems trembling as if her grief alone could crush them.
"You should've died with him," she spat. Her voice cracked but never softened. "All of you, out there playing soldiers against nightmares. You brought my boy into that hell and left me with a headstone."
Cassius didn't flinch. He didn't defend himself. He let her words pierce, because they were true enough.
"I wish you'd burn for what you've done," she said, tears streaking her cheeks. "I pray every night you feel it, the same pain I feel now."
Cassius rose slowly, shoulders bowed under invisible weight. He didn't argue. Didn't beg forgiveness. He only inclined his head, a silent acknowledgment of guilt, and stepped aside to give her room.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, though it barely carried in the wind.
But she didn't want his sorry. She turned from him, kneeling by her son's grave, and wept into the cold stone. Cassius walked away.
The road back to Albridge was long, a ribbon of cracked asphalt weaving through patches of quiet farmland and low woods. Cassius walked it without hurry, the sound of his boots crunching gravel filling the silence. He passed by a field where children kicked a ball, their laughter drifting on the wind, but it did not reach him. His world had narrowed to grief.
By the time he reached his house, a small, modest home tucked at the edge of town, the sky had dimmed to the soft blue of late afternoon. Paint peeled at the edges of the shutters. The garden out front had gone untended, weeds curling around the fence. But the door creaked open, and warmth spilled out.
"Dad!"
A boy of twelve came rushing toward him, dark-haired and wide-eyed, his face lighting up with a smile too big for his small frame. He nearly tripped over himself in his hurry.
"You're back!" the boy said breathlessly. "I thought you'd stay in Moonstone all week—"
Cassius set a hand on his shoulder. Not harsh, but firm. "Go inside, Aaron."
The boy blinked. His father's voice carried no joy, no echo of reunion. The smile faltered, confusion flashing across his face before obedience pushed it down. He nodded and stepped aside, retreating into the house.
Cassius followed, closing the door behind him.
The home smelled faintly of cedar and dust. Aaron's shoes lay scattered by the mat. On the wall, framed photographs lined a crooked row, memories of years that felt like someone else's life. Cassius passed them without a glance and moved into his room.
The door locked with a soft click. He sat on the edge of his bed, reaching for the small frame on his nightstand. A woman's face smiled back at him, gentle eyes, hair wrapped in a scarf. His wife. Taken by cancer long before Aaron had learned to read.
His hands trembled. He set the picture down and pressed his palms to his face. For the first time in months, maybe years he let himself break. Silent sobs shook his chest. The tears carved lines down his scarred cheeks as he wept for all he had lost: his brother Marcus, his niece Emily, the men under his command, his best friend John.
The house was quiet enough that Aaron might have heard, but the boy had learned not to ask.
When the storm passed, Cassius wiped his face with the back of his hand. He opened the drawer beside his bed. Inside lay an object he had not touched since the mission, a simple, battered burner phone. John's. The one he'd shoved into Cassius's hand before the end.
Cassius hesitated. He had never powered it on, respecting the dead man's privacy. But tonight… the weight of grief was heavier than hesitation. He flipped it open.
The screen flickered to life, revealing old messages. And one unread. From a contact saved only as Joe.
Cassius read it. His expression hardened. The lines of exhaustion etched deeper into his face, but behind his eyes something else lit, a fire he thought had gone out. He understood, suddenly, why John had given it to him.
Cassius stood, phone clutched in his hand. He dialed a number from memory. The line rang once, twice, before a voice picked up.
"Cassius?"
"Ready the men," he said, voice low, steady. "We meet at dusk."
"But—"
"No questions," Cassius cut in. "I know who's behind it. The Thornes."
Silence on the other end. Then: "Understood."
Cassius ended the call. His grip lingered on the phone, his reflection caught in the darkened screen.
In the hallway, Aaron leaned against the wall, barefoot, listening through the door. His small fists clenched at his sides.
He wished his father had stayed with him, just this once. Not as a soldier. Not as a hunter of monsters. Just as Dad.
At school, some of the kids whispered that he was an orphan, that his father was nothing but a ghost who left him behind. He never corrected them, but each word cut deeper than the last. He wanted to believe Cassius was here for him. That he mattered more than the battles or the dead.
But now, hearing the call, he knew his father would leave again. At dusk.
Aaron pressed his forehead against the wall. He didn't cry. He was used to the ache. But in that still house, the boy's loneliness pressed louder than any words his father had spoken.
And somewhere, beyond the silence, the dead still spoke.