She closed the distance, red eyes glowing like fire. Her hand smeared Rayen's blood across Jack's shirt, slow and deliberate.
It's warm. Still warm. God, that's his blood. On me. On my chest.
"So," she whispered, almost playful, "what's your name?"
Jack's throat locked. His gaze flicked to Rayen's body, then back to her. "W‑what?"
Her fingers clamped around his jaw, forcing his face up. "I said—what's your name?"
Don't answer. Don't speak. She'll kill you. She'll— "J‑Jack," he stammered, tears burning his eyes.
She tilted her head, lips curling. "Jack. How… ordinary." Her eyes narrowed. "And him? What was he to you?"
"He is my friend,"
"He was Jack" Her smile widened, cruel and bright. "Friend. Sweet." Her hand slid to his shoulder and squeezed. Bone ground against bone.
Jack screamed, the sound tearing from his throat. Pain. White‑hot. Can't breathe. She's breaking me like nothing. Like I'm nothing.
"Mmm. Music." She leaned close, savoring it. "What do I do with you? Kill you? Ahhh… boring."
Jack gasped, voice ragged. "I can't outrun you."
Why did I say that? Stupid. Stupid. She'll laugh. She'll—
"Well, you've got a point." She tapped her chin, mock‑thoughtful. "Let's make it interesting. Three minutes. Head start."
Then, with deliberate contempt, she turned and sat on Rayen's corpse as though it were a throne.
She's sitting on him. Like he's nothing. Like he never mattered. Don't look. Don't—
Her eyes gleamed. "Run."
Jack's legs moved before his mind caught up. Run. Just run. Don't think. Don't stop. Don't die.
Jack's legs burned as he tore across the desert, lungs clawing for air. Sand scraped under his shoes, each step heavier than the last. Behind him, her laughter carried on the wind—mocking, patient, certain.
He risked a glance back. She was still there, standing in the road, smiling. She raised two fingers.
Two minutes. She's counting down. Like it's a game. That demon—she's going to kill me. This is it. This is the end.
The mountains loomed ahead, jagged shadows against the sky. Nowhere else to go. Hide. Just hide. Shame is safer than death.
He stumbled into a narrow cleft in the rock, darkness swallowing him whole. The air was damp, stale, thick with dust. He pressed himself against the stone, chest heaving, trying to quiet the thunder of his heartbeat.
Outside, her voice rang out, sing‑song and cruel. "Little mouse… time's up. I'm coming."
Jack's legs buckled. His heart hammered so hard it hurt. I can't run anymore. I can't breathe. Just sit. Just—
His hand brushed something cold, A lighter. Please… please work, His thumb scraped the wheel, Sparks. Then—flame, A weak glow flickered to life, painting the cave walls in trembling orange.
Dad should've been here. He should've taken care of us. But he didn't. He left me with this weight, and I dropped it. I couldn't protect Mom. Couldn't protect William. Couldn't even protect Rayen.
His throat tightened. The words clawed inside him, bitter and sharp.
I was supposed to be the man of the house. Instead, I was just another burden. Mom looked at William like he was her gift from God. And me? Just the reminder of everything she lost.
A thunderous shockwave rolled through the cave, stone dust raining from above.
Outside, her voice echoed, sharp and mocking: "Where are you, Mouse? I'll tear down every mountain, and find you, and send you to your friend!"
The lighter's flame wavered, shadows clawing across the stone. Dust sifted from the ceiling, stinging his skin. His shoulder throbbed with every breath, but the ache in his chest was worse—hollow, crushing.
The flame guttered, almost dying. Jack's hand shook, but he forced it steady.
I failed them all. Rayen's laugh still echoes. His blood still clings to me. She sat on him like he was nothing. Like he never mattered.
Jack teeth ground until his jaw ached. His breath came ragged, hot with rage. He clenched the lighter tighter, the flame trembling but alive.
I'll make her pay. On my father's grave, on Rayen's blood, on everything I've lost—I'll make her pay. She'll choke on the name she mocked.
The cave groaned with another shockwave. Her laughter bled through the stone, jagged and manic. But this time it didn't hollow him out. It lit something. A fire.
Jack pressed his forehead to the cold rock, whispering through clenched teeth: "Rayen… I'll avenge you. I swear it. She'll never laugh again."
Then—crack.
Jack froze, lighter trembling in his hand.
Not outside. Inside.
The sound echoed brittle and wrong, like bone snapping underfoot. Dust rained from the ceiling. His breath hitched, every muscle locking tight.
Slowly, he turned the flame toward the darkness. Shadows leapt and twisted across the cave wall.
Another creak. A scrape. The sound of something shifting that should have been still.
The glow revealed a figure slumped against the wall. Bones draped in tattered cloth, ribs jutting like broken bars, a skull tilted sideways as though listening.
Jack's stomach lurched. The skeleton's jaw creaked open.
From its hollow mouth came a voice, dry as dust yet heavy with age: "Boy… you bleed fear. You burn with rage. I have waited long for one such as you."
Jack staggered back, lighter shaking in his hand. The figure's eye sockets flared with a sickly green glow, pinning him in place.
His chest tightened. "What are you?" he whispered.
"I am a soul… bound here, chained to stone. Take what I could not wield. In this box lies my last gift. Take it… and leave disappointment behind."
Stone cracked as the skeleton's bony hand pushed forward a small, ancient box. The lighter's glow caught on its surface, etched with symbols that seemed to writhe in the firelight.
Jack's fingers hovered over the lid. The box was heavy, its surface cracked with age, symbols etched deep into the wood as though carved by fire itself. The lighter's flame trembled in his grip, shadows writhing across the cave walls.
He swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed to leave it shut. But Rayen's blood was still on his shirt. His mother's words still cut him. His name still mocked.
He pulled the lid open.
The moment his fingers brushed the compass inside, fire seared through his palm. He screamed, collapsing to his knees, but the object clung to him, branding itself into his flesh.
A hiss of stale air escaped, like the box had been holding its breath for centuries. Inside, wrapped in rotting cloth, lay a compass—its casing gold, dulled with age, its glass cracked but glowing faintly from within. The needle spun wildly, as if caught in a storm, then froze—pointing outward, toward the sound of her laughter.
The moment Jack's eyes met it, the lighter's flame flared high, shadows stretching long and jagged. The compass pulsed faintly, a heartbeat not his own.
His hand shook as he reached in. The instant his fingers brushed the metal, fire ripped through his palm. Jack screamed, collapsing to his knees. The compass seared into his palm first, fire lancing through his veins. Jack screamed, clawing at it, but the metal clung like a parasite, fusing with his flesh. The smell of burning skin filled the cave.
Then the pain spread downward, a molten vein of light carving across his torso. His shirt split as the fire branded itself into his waist, etching the same writhing symbols into his skin. The belt coiled around him, locking into the wound as if it had always belonged there.
Palm and waist—hand and core—both bound to the compass's will. He was no longer just carrying it. He was wearing it. He was it.
It's fire. It's alive. It's inside me. I can't let go. I can't breathe. It's killing me.
Outside, her voice rang out, sharp and cruel: "I hear you, mouse."
"Now you carry it. My curse. My vengeance. My gift."
The skeleton's head tilted back, jaw falling open in a final sigh. "Thank you," it whispered, before crumbling into dust.
Leather straps coiled around his torso, fusing to his skin like living armor. Metallic guards locked into place over his shoulders, etched with the same writhing symbols that marked the box. A heavy belt cinched itself around his waist, its circular emblem glowing with the compass's light.
A deep red cloak unfurled from his back, snapping in the cave's stale air like a banner of blood. A scarf coiled around his throat, its fabric whispering against his skin, warm and suffocating all at once.
Finally, a hood pulled itself over his head, shadows swallowing his face. Jack gasped, reaching up—but his fingers met only darkness. His reflection was gone. His face was gone. In its place stood something faceless, nameless, cloaked in menace.
The compass pulsed in Jack's belt, its glow bleeding through the leather like molten veins. Symbols etched into the buckle flared to life, crawling across his armor.
Jack staggered upright, the weight of the armor pressing down on him, yet filling him with a strength he had never known. His breath echoed inside the hood, steady, cold.
I'm not the screw‑up in a tank top anymore. I'm not the burden. I'm not the mouse.
Her laughter bled into the cave, jagged and cruel. "Little mouse… I can smell you."
Jack's gloved hand clenched into a fist. The cloak shifted around him like living shadow.
Not a mouse. Not anymore.
The compass burned a final word into his mind, a name that was not his own but felt carved into his bones:
NIGHT REAPER.