Stupid bitch.

  She didn't understand what the hell he went through. The images weren't just flashes; they were branding irons on the inside of his skull. The violence wasn't a memory, it was a live feed from a hell he now inhabited. The blood on his hand wasn't just dried and flaking; it was still warm, still slick, a permanent stain that soap and water couldn't touch, a stench that clung to him like a second skin.

  She talked about him not processing it. How could you process a cancer that rewrote your DNA? The vision of the class wasn't some nightmare he could wake up from; it was his new reality.

  He could still hear the wet tearing sounds, the shrieks that weren't just pain but ecstasy, the sight of people he knew, people he'd had crushes on, people he'd hated, all reduced to a single, writhing organism of flesh and soul.

  They weren't just raping each other; they were consuming each other, merging into a single, screaming thing that was more alive than they had ever been. He saw their souls, little wisps of light, get shredded like confetti in a hurricane.

  And then there was the Demurge. It wasn't some monster outside of him. It was inside, a cosmic architect of despair, and it was using his memories as its blueprints. And by proxy tainting them.

  It took his childhood and turned its love into ravenous hunger. It took his first kiss and turned the tenderness into a violation. It took every good thing he ever was and perverted it, broke it, and used the pieces to build the theater of his damnation. Slaughter wasn't just something he witnessed; it was the new baseline.

  Self-loathing wasn't an emotion; it was the air he breathed. Hatred was the only fire left in the cold, dead ash of his soul.

  He hated the entity with every fiber of his being. He wanted to claw it out of his mind, to rip it from his soul, to burn it until there was nothing left. But he couldn't. Because most of all, he hated ——

  “Howard?”

  He blinked, focus snapping back into place as if he’d been dragged out of deep water.

  “Yes?” he said flatly.

  Doctor Yawlene smiled, clinical and thin. “We’re about to release your restraints. Will that be acceptable?”

  “Sure…”

  The guards moved in, methodical and cautious. Buckles came loose one by one, canvas peeling away as they removed the straitjacket. Howard rolled his shoulders when it was finally off, hands flexing like he wasn’t entirely sure they still belonged to him.

  Yawlene watched him closely.

  He looked lost. Disoriented. A boy dropped into the aftermath of something far bigger than himself.

  Comfort never occurred to her.

  Instead, she tapped her tablet and stepped closer.

  “Let’s begin a checkup,” she said, already scanning his vitals.

  Yawlene moved with quiet efficiency, checking his pupils, scanning his pulse, adjusting sensors along his collarbone.

  “How did your conversation with Savannah feel?” she asked, eyes never leaving the data stream.

  Howard shrugged faintly. “Tiring.”

  “That’s all?”

  He nodded. “I’m just… tired.”

  She paused, then glanced up at him. “Can the entity surface?”

  “No.” His answer came immediately. “I don’t want it to.”

  Yawlene studied his face. “Why not?”

  “I just want to go home.”

  She hummed, neither approving nor disapproving, and continued her examination. Questions followed—orientation, memory checks, emotional baselines. Howard answered them all. Briefly. Dutifully.

  Then she stopped mid-sentence.

  “So,” Yawlene said, scrolling back through the results, “from a clinical standpoint, you’re not an immediate threat.”

  Howard didn’t respond.

  She looked up. “You hear me?”

  “I hear you,” he said, though his eyes were already drifting.

  “It looks bad now,” she continued, voice taking on that familiar, academic cadence. “But you’re a special case, Howard. Potentially unprecedented. You might represent a transition point—something that pushes humanity into its next phase of existence.”

  Her words kept coming, confident, excited. The future. Evolution.

  Howard heard all of it.

  And none of it.

  The room dulled around the edges as he tuned her out, gaze unfocused, thoughts sinking inward. Whatever she thought he was—bridge, weapon, miracle—felt very far away.

  All he could think about was how tired he was.

  And how badly he wanted to leave.

  A few things had happened since the white cowgirl—later known as White Bullseye—had shot him.

  First there was limbo.

  Not darkness. Not pain. Just stillness.

  He and the entity floated there together, aware of one another in the vaguest sense. They didn’t fight. Didn’t talk. They just… stared. Time didn’t move. Or maybe it moved so slowly it didn’t matter.

  Then came the pull.

  A golden light tugged at them, gentle but insistent, like gravity remembering they existed.

  Howard had wanted to die. So he ignored it. Letting himself fall backward into the nothing. It felt right. Deserved. If this was punishment, he’d take it.

  The entity didn’t share that sentiment.

  It took over.

  And it lost—to the Crucible Knight guy.

  After that came tests. Exams. Evaluations stacked on top of each other until the days blurred together. Questions, probes, simulations. Always watched. Always measured.

  Yawlene had been the constant. The only one who spoke to him regularly over the past weeks.

  Howard sighed, shoulders slumping.

  “Howard?” Yawlene said. “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Sorry. I’m just…”

  “Scattered-brained,” she finished casually. “It’s fine. I suffer from the condition myself.” She tapped her tablet. “So I’ll paraphrase.”

  He looked up.

  “You’ll be working in G-Unit.”

  “G-Unit?” he echoed.

  “Yes. We would’ve placed you in a V-squad, but that would make disastrous sense.” She glanced at him over the top of her screen. “Besides, you’re technically a ghoul. We just don’t have a precise classification for you yet.”

  Howard frowned. “What’s a ghoul?”

  Yawlene answered without hesitation. “Any human who becomes humanoid due to residual rift energy exposure. Vampires. Gnomes. Werewolves.”

  She paused, then added matter-of-factly—

  “You.”

  Howard just stared at her.

  It was nice not being in a straitjacket anymore, but all of this—ghouls, Demurges, Veythari, and him sitting somewhere in the middle as an anomaly—was drowning him. Any other version of himself would’ve been fascinated. Biology, evolution, mutation. Even if his dream had been marine life, this should’ve lit something up in his brain.

  Instead, it all felt hollow.

  “Still feeling down?” A voice echoed.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Stop talking to me!” Howard snapped.

  The round blasian woman finally looked up from her tablet, eyes sharpening.

  “Is it talking to you?” she asked immediately. “Can you allow it out? I still have questions about Demur—”

  “PLEASE!” Howard shouted, hands clenching at his sides. “Stop asking me! I just wanna lay down!”

  The guards in the room stiffened, shifting their weight.

  Yawlene raised a hand without looking at them. “Stand down.”

  She studied Howard for a moment longer, then nodded. “You’re right. It’s been a long few hours.” Her voice softened—not with empathy, but practicality. “Go rest. You’ll be leaving in about an hour.”

  Howard didn’t argue. He stood, legs shaky, and allowed himself to be escorted out.

  Once the door closed, Yawlene exhaled slowly.

  “So close,” she murmured. “Yet so far.”

  She glanced back at her data, eyes gleaming as she scrolled. The situation was extraordinary. Howard’s biology alone was breathtaking—adaptive, fractured, resilient. His soul? An untapped well. A depth she’d never seen quantified before.

  Zoey. Howard.

  Two perfect specimens.

  A smile crept onto her face.

  She couldn’t wait to see Howard use more of his black magic. A human wielding it—truly wielding it—would be infinitely more valuable than any Demurge. And the entity… she shivered at the thought.

  For years, humanity had chased answers about Demurges—where they came from, what they were, why they existed. The intelligent ones always slipped containment or died in combat.

  Now they had one. Stable. Embedded.

  They might finally uncover the origin of everything.

  Her gaze shifted to another file.

  The A.A.A.P—the American Anti Anomaly Project—was going to have a nightmare trying to keep this contained. And for all her knowledge, all her expertise, one question still gnawed at her.

  Why would Devil’s Den do something like this?

  With Sofia Montez—Crimline—still unconscious, answers would have to wait.

  But the decision itself…

  It was reckless. Foolish.

  And that, more than anything, fascinated her.

  ———

  “God damn it!”

  The woman’s shout echoed through the office as she swept her arm across the desk, sending tablets, paper files, and a half-empty mug crashing to the floor.

  “Fuck—fuck—fuck!” she snarled, pacing. “Das ist eine verdammte Katastrophe. Absolute Idioten!”

  (This is a damn catastrophe. Absolute idiots!)

  She dragged a hand through her hair, breath sharp and uneven. “I give them one directive. One. And what do they do?” She laughed bitterly. “They make it worse. Every single time.”

  She kicked a fallen chair out of her way. “Und dann Ashara—natürlich Ashara,” she spat.

  (And then Ashara—of course Ashara.)

  “Everything she touches turns into a firestorm. Schei?e Entscheidungen, schei?e Timing.”

  (Shitty decisions, shitty timing.)

  She slammed her palms against the wall, eyes burning. “And now Crimline—Crimline—decides to fight the fucking E.R.O? Are you kidding me?”

  She turned back toward the wrecked desk, pointing at nothing and everything. “Warum? Warum zur H?lle würdest du das tun?”

  (Why? Why the hell would you do that?)

  “That wasn’t bravery. That wasn’t strategy. That was ego.” Her voice cracked with fury. “She picks a fight with the E.R.O, goes down, and now everything’s on lockdown. Assets burned. Cover blown. Everyone watching us.”

  She let out a harsh breath, shoulders tense. “Jetzt dürfen wir warten,” she muttered.

  (Now we get to wait.)

  “I hear you,” Seyvon said calmly from across the room.

  The Den Mother’s office was a place someone lived in. Warm, low lighting replaced sterile fluorescents, casting amber shadows across shelves lined with old books, bone-carved trinkets, relics sealed behind warded glass, and half-disassembled tech that hummed softly to itself. The walls were thick—reinforced and soundproofed—but draped in dark fabrics and sigils meant to soothe rather than intimidate. The air smelled faintly of incense, ozone, and something earthy beneath it all.

  Behind the overturned desk stood the Den Mother herself—tall, sharp-featured, her expression carved from fury that hadn’t quite cooled. Her hair was pulled back messily, streaked with silver that didn’t come from age so much as stress. Her gothic style made it hard to tell her age. Her age showed in the lines at the corners of her eyes—late forties, maybe older—but her posture was straight, dangerous. Her eyes were a pale steel-gray, sharp enough to feel like they could peel skin.

  Seyvon lounged on one of the leather couches opposite her, legs spread comfortably, posture relaxed to the point of disrespect. A red blindfold covered his eyes, deliberate—contrasting sharply with his designer bomber jacket. The jacket shimmered subtly under the lights, paired with ripped jeans that looked torn by choice. His Gucci shoes were pristine, planted casually on the rug. In his hand, he held a bright orange Fanta, condensation dripping onto the coaster beneath it.

  Across from him, on a matching couch, sat Recardo Lucio.

  Second-in-command of Devil’s Den.

  He was composed in a way that bordered on elegant—long black hair falling neatly over his shoulders, romantic features softened by sharp intent. His dark teal eyes watched everything without urgency, as if time bent slightly around him. He wore a tailored black suit, immaculate and understated, one hand resting on his knee while the other lifted a ceramic cup of mushroom tea to his lips. He sipped slowly, unbothered by the chaos that had just unfolded.

  Between Seyvon’s bright drink and Recardo’s earthy tea, the room felt suspended between two extremes.

  Seyvon tilted his head toward the Den Mother, blindfold unmoving. “You’re not wrong,” he continued lightly. “But screaming won’t undo what Crimline did.”

  Recardo lowered his cup, eyes finally meeting hers. “What matters now,” he said smoothly, “is how we respond. Not how loudly we regret it.”

  The Den Mother paced as she spoke, her words slipping between languages the way her thoughts did when she was furious.

  “Das ist nicht nur ein Fehler,” she snapped, voice sharp. “This is a cascade failure. One bad decision stacked on top of another.” She stopped, turning slowly. “Idioten mit Macht sind immer das gr??te Problem.”

  (Idiots with power are always the biggest problem.)

  Recardo set his tea down with deliberate care. “Anger won’t help,” he said evenly. “We need to relocate assets. Pull our operatives back into shadow. Crimline fighting the E.R.O changed the board—”

  “Oh, spare me,” she cut in. “Ich wei? genau, was sich ge?ndert hat.”

  (I know exactly what changed.)

  She jabbed a finger toward him. “You want to run. Hide. That’s not strategy—that’s fear wearing a suit.”

  Recardo’s dark teal eyes hardened. “And charging forward blindly is ego wearing a crown. We are exposed. If we don’t move now—”

  Seyvon shook his head slowly, locs swaying beneath the red blindfold. “Both of you need to breathe,” he said. “Because this isn’t just the E.R.O anymore.”

  They paused.

  “The E.R.O, other governments, your enemies, and yeah—probably the Church too,” he continued. “Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s hunting. If you make the wrong move, Devil’s Den stops existing.”

  He leaned forward, Fanta can hissing softly as he set it down. “So here’s the plan. You go dark in layers. False trails. Sacrifice noise to protect the core. For a small price I’ll help. Let me have them chase ghosts while you stabilize—”

  The Den Mother stopped pacing.

  She smirked.

  Recardo blinked. “What?”

  Seyvon tilted his head. “Yeah—what?”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, utterly unbothered. “Geduld,” she said simply.

  (Patience.)

  Both men stared.

  “We wait,” she continued, slipping back into English. “We watch who moves first. Wer zu früh zuschl?gt, verliert.”

  (Whoever strikes too early loses.)

  Recardo frowned. “That’s it? Waiting while the world closes in?”

  She met his gaze without flinching. “Be patient,” she repeated, this time softer, almost amused. “They think they’ve cornered us.”

  Her smile widened just a fraction.

  “Let them.”

  ————

  Back at Echo-9, Howard lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Calling it a cell would be a lie. It was a suite.

  The room was spacious, clean in a way that felt deliberate rather than sterile. Soft lighting recessed into the ceiling adjusted automatically, dim enough not to strain his eyes. A real bed—not bolted to the floor—sat against one wall, thick mattress, neutral sheets. A desk occupied the corner with a terminal he wasn’t allowed to access freely, a chair that actually padded his back, and shelves stocked with mangas, books, comics he hadn’t asked for. There was even a small bathroom beyond a sliding door, complete with a shower and towels that didn’t feel like sandpaper.

  Comfortable.

  Controlled.

  He exhaled slowly, trying to empty his head.

  That was hard when he wasn’t alone in it.

  “Talk to me now.”

  “No.”

  “Talk to me now…”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  Howard clenched his jaw. “Because you ruined my life.”

  The entity didn’t answer right away. When it did, its tone was maddeningly casual. “Could be worse. You could’ve just died.”

  Howard swallowed. “I want to die.”

  “Fine”, the entity said. “Then let me take over.”

  “No.”

  “You just said—“

  No!” Howard snapped internally. “I won’t give you my body.”

  Silence.

  Then, softer: “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a demon.”

  That gave the entity pause. He could almost feel it thinking, rearranging itself around the word.

  “…Fair”, it finally said. “I don’t like that term, but I get it.” A beat. “So. What do I have to do to gain your trust?”

  Howard frowned. “Why would you even want that?”

  “Because I want to fight strong Veythari, the entity replied. And Manifestation is interesting. Fun. Complicated. I like complicated things.”

  Howard scoffed. “At least you’ve got goals.”

  ”Exactly”, it said. “You don’t. All you do is blame yourself.”

  That stung.

  Howard started to argue, but the entity cut in.

  “This is my fault.”

  The words landed wrong.

  Howard froze.

  “I pushed. I took over. I chose this outcome, and had fun. So don’t blame yourself.”

  He hated that part—the way it sounded sincere. He couldn’t think of it as a person. He refused to. It spoke like one, reacted like one, but it wasn’t real. It was closer to an algorithm with instincts. A convincing imitation.

  And yet.

  Howard sighed, staring up at the ceiling again. Maybe… maybe he could still make something right.

  “Fine. I’ll consider allowing you time out.”

  The entity perked up immediately.

  “But—Howard added—you have to save at least three people. No matter the situation.”

  “Deal”, the entity said without hesitation.

  “No.” Howard grimaced. “I want to learn how to make it binding first. Rules. Something I can enforce. That’s the condition.”

  Another pause.

  Then: “…Okay.”

  The word settled between them.

  Not empty.

  Just… still.

  A buzzer chirped, sharp and brief, followed by a knock at the door.

  Howard exhaled. “Come in,” he sighed.

  The door slid open.

  She wasn’t human. He knew that instantly.

  White hair fell straight and loose to her shoulders, stark against skin that looked untouched by age. A black and blue jumpsuit with G on the chest. Her eyes were red—not glowing, not hostile, just red, like that was the most natural thing in the world. But it wasn’t the hair or the eyes that settled it. It was her aura.

  It wasn’t a Demurge.

  It wasn’t a Veythari.

  It was something else entirely.

  She was shorter than him, but when she looked at him, Howard felt… measured. Not hunted. Not threatened. Just assessed. He wasn’t afraid—but respect settled into his chest before he could stop it.

  Inside his head, the entity stirred once, glanced her way—

  —and immediately lost interest.

  “Not a Veythari”, it muttered, already bored.

  She tilted her head slightly, eyes dragging over him from shoes to shoulders. “Mm,” she said. “They didn’t lie. You look tired.”

  Howard blinked. “Uh. What?”

  “I came to get ya,” she said easily. “But I gotta admit…” Her gaze sharpened, amused. “I thought you’d be different.”

  “Different how?” he asked.

  She smirked. “Hard to say. Less broken, maybe.”

  He snorted despite himself. “You talk weird.”

  She laughed—low, smooth. “Baby, I been around a while. Accents stack. Slang sticks. You learn to mix ‘em if you wanna survive every era.”

  Howard studied her more carefully. “So… what are you?”

  She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “You can’t tell?”

  “No,” he admitted. “I’ve never seen anyone like you.”

  Her smile widened just enough to show a hint of fang. “Vampire, darlin’.”

  “…Wow,” Howard said, genuinely. “Uh. I’m Howard—”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” she cut in lightly. “You don’t get a suite like this without your name bein’ whispered in a dozen meetings.”

  He laughed quietly. “Fair. So what’s yours?”

  She considered him for a moment, eyes softening—not kindly, but thoughtfully. “I’ve gone by many names in my life.”

  Then she stepped aside, gesturing toward the door.

  “But for this era?” she said. “You can call me Cellirna.”