Jack doubled over, clutching his stomach. A fire burned inside him, raw and merciless, as if someone had poured coals into his gut. "Ahh—what the hell?"
[I told you, Mouse. You need pulse energy.]
"What do I do now?" he hissed.
[Eat. A lot. It won't last, but it will quiet the fire.]
He staggered to his feet, every step heavy, and forced himself down the stairs. The smell of frying bacon hit him before he reached the kitchen, and his stomach twisted with both pain and hunger.
The kitchen was alive with warmth and the smell of bacon. His mother was already seated at the table, robe wrapped tight, a faint smile on her lips as she watched William at the stove.
They answered in unison, "Good morning."
God, it hurts. Like fire chewing through my stomach. I can't let them see. Mom already looks at me like I'm a mistake. William doesn't even bother hiding it. If they knew what's inside me… No. Don't think about it. Just breathe. Just walk.
He slid into the chair across from his mother, trying to mask the tremor in his hands. Her eyes lingered on him, sharp and searching.
"So… what happened yesterday?"
"I told you. I went drinking."
"No, I mean the shirt. William said you came home with blood on you."
Jack forced a crooked smile. "Nosebleed. Too much whiskey. Don't worry about it."
Her expression hardened, disappointment flickering across her face. "Never change, Jack."
William turned from the stove, carrying two plates of eggs and bacon. He set one before his mother, then placed the other down with practiced ease. "Thank you, William," she said warmly.
"My pleasure, Mom," he replied, sliding into his seat.
The smell hit Jack like a blow. Grease, salt, heat. His mouth watered uncontrollably, saliva pooling as though he hadn't eaten in years. The fire in his stomach roared, clawing at him.
[Yes, Mouse. Feed it. Pretend it's just hunger. Pretend it's not me.]
Jack reached for the plate of eggs and bacon, dumped it onto his own, grabbed a slice of bread, and tore into it. He ate like a starving animal, grease slicking his lips.
"Geez, slow down," William muttered, staring at him like he was something feral.
"I'm sorry," Jack said quickly, smiling through a mouthful of food. "Woke up hungry. Drank too much last night."
His mother's eyes narrowed. "I thought you didn't like bacon."
Jack forced a laugh. "Well, today I do." He shoveled more into his mouth, the fire in his stomach roaring louder with every bite.
"What are you planning to do today?" his mother asked.
Jack shrugged.
"Drinking," William said with a smirk.
"William," she scolded lightly.
He stood, kissed her cheek. "I'm off to school. Bye, Mom."
He left without a glance at Jack. The door shut, and the air in the kitchen shifted.
His mother's face hardened. She reached across the table and pulled his plate away.
"I'm not finished," Jack said, his voice low, almost pleading.
"You are," she replied flatly.
Jack dropped his gaze, shame burning hotter than the fire in his gut.
[They hate you, Mouse.]
They don't. They just… blame me.
[Keep telling yourself that.]
Jack pushed back from the table, forcing a smile. "Thanks for the meal, Mom."
She didn't answer.
He left the kitchen, the silence clinging to him like smoke.
Jack stepped out of the old house, the screen door creaking shut behind him. The morning air was dry, sharp, carrying the smell of dust and sagebrush. The land stretched wide and empty, the city's edge fading into desert scrub and sun‑bleached fences.
The fire in his stomach didn't ease. If anything, the emptiness around him made it worse. His gut twisted, burning, as though the desert itself had crawled inside him.
[See, Mouse?] the voice purred. [No crowded streets here. No noise to hide behind. Just silence. Just hunger.]
He pressed a hand to his stomach and staggered down the porch steps. The boards groaned under his weight.
The horizon shimmered in the distance, heat already rising though the day had barely begun. A lone crow perched on the fence post, watching him with black, unblinking eyes.
[Food won't last. Not for long. You need fuel. You need souls. Supers burn brightest.]
Jack's jaw clenched. He forced his gaze away from the crow, away from the endless desert. His hands trembled. The hunger roared.
"I can't fight a Super," he muttered. "I can't even dream of defeating one."
Her laughter slid through his skull, velvet and cruel. [Oh, Mouse. You don't have to fight them all. Just one. And not even a good one.]
"What do you mean?"
[There are Supers who crawl through the city like rats. Not heroes. Not saints. Predators. Parasites. One of them walks the freight yards every night, dripping blood and coin.]
Jack's breath caught. "Is he like you?"
[I'm insulted. He's worse than me, Mouse. Much worse.]
Jack's breath caught. "You're lying."
"You're lying."
[Am I?] Her voice curled like smoke, low and intimate. [Wait for the night. Go south, to the freight yards. You'll find Calder Vey. he is a Registered super, yes—but the Association is hunting him. He chains the weak, drains them dry, and leaves their bodies in the dirt. Even the crows won't touch what he leaves behind.]
Jack pressed his palms to his temples. The fire in his stomach roared louder at the name, as if the compass itself recognized it.
"I'm not a killer," he whispered.
[No. You're a hunter. And hunters don't kill the innocent. They cull the beasts.]
The compass at his belt pulsed once, hard enough to make him flinch. His breath caught. The horizon shimmered, the crow still watching.
[So, Mouse… what do you want before night falls?]
Jack's jaw tightened. "Taste the compass."
[Mmm. Brave.]
He stretched his arms and rose from the house, leaveing the ground under him.
[Where are we going?]
"Somewhere empty. Away from people."
[Afraid they'll see what you are?]
"Shut up."
[Hhhhhh.]
He hovered until the desert broke into jagged mountains. A hollow waited there, stone and silence. He landed hard, dust curling around his boots.
[This feels familiar. Where we first touched.]
"That was yesterday."
[Feels longer.]
Jack's fists clenched. "Enough. Tell me what this compass can do."
A pause. Then silk and steel: [Stretch your the mark arm. and Say the word.]
Jack frowned. "What word?"
[Azimuth.]
The scar on his arm burned. His gut seared. He lifted his arm, voice shaking. "Azimuth."
The compass flared. Red light bled through his skin, crawling up his arm, spilling from his stomach like molten veins. The air split with a sound like tearing flesh.
And she came through.
The woman in crimson. Her dress shimmered like liquid blood, clinging and shifting as if alive. Her hair spilled black as oil, her eyes bottomless pits rimmed in ember-red. Her smile was a wound that never healed.
Jack staggered back, breath caught in his throat.
"No way…"
She tilted her head, lips curling. [Did you miss me, Mouse?]
Jack's voice cracked. "How… how do I have the power to summon people?"
[Not people. Souls. The ones you've absorbed. Don't be afraid—I can't hurt you, even if I wanted to.]
Jack's stomach turned. "Then what was that word you said?"
[When a soul is taken, the compass brands it. It fuses the true name with its own tongue. That becomes a summoning name.]
Jack swallowed hard. "Your name…"
Her smile widened, sharp as glass. [Azura. That was mine. The compass broke it, remade it—Azimuth. Speak it, and I appear. That is the compass's law. Every soul you take will carry two names: the one they were born with, and the one the compass gives them.]
Jack reached out, fingertips brushing her shoulder. The heat of her skin startled him. "God… you're real."
Her lips curved. [Do you want a touch?]
She seized his hand and pressed it against her chest.
Jack yanked back, heart hammering. "What are you doing?"
[You can do what you want with my body.]
"What?"
[If you wish, you can command me. Anything.]
"You're kidding."
[No.]
Jack's throat tightened. She's serious. Bound to me. Like a puppet on strings I never asked for. If I can command her… "Then cut your hand."
Her smile faltered. [What?]
"I said—cut your hand."
God, did I just say that? Testing her like she's some animal. No—worse. Like she's a weapon. But I have to know. I have to see the truth of this curse.
Azimuth's face flickered with pain. Her left hand began to glow, veins of red light crawling beneath the skin. She extended her right hand, trembling, tears spilling down her cheeks.
She doesn't want this. She's fighting it. And still… she obeys. Because I told her to. Because the compass told her to. What kind of power is this? What kind of monster does it make me?
"Don't—" Jack whispered, but it was too late.
With her glowing hand, she sliced through her own flesh. The scream that tore from her throat was nothing like the laughter he remembered when she killed his friend. It was raw, human, agonized.
Jack staggered back, bile rising. That sound… it'll never leave me. I thought she
was a demon, a phantom. But she feels pain. She bleeds. She cries. And I made her do it.
Azimuth cradled the severed hand, her face streaked with tears. Then, with a shuddering breath, she lifted it toward him.
[Here, Master.]
Jack's stomach twisted. Master. She called me Master. Not Jack. Not Mouse. Master. The compass doesn't just feed—it enslaves. And if I can command her like this… what's to stop me from doing it again? What's to stop me from liking it?