“What… have I become?”

  The acrid scent of gunpowder and blood clung to the air, thick and suffocating. My breaths came ragged, shallow, every inhale tainted with something sickly—guilt, pride, both?

  Crimson stained my hands, my clothes, my very being. I stood in the center of carnage, surrounded by the consequences of my own brutality.

  The warriors stared.

  Their gazes were heavy, piercing. Some filled with disgust, some with unease, most with fear. I could feel their judgment press against my skin, an invisible weight suffocating me.

  Zara, still wrapped in the lingering embers of her flames, only snorted.

  "Geez, Mari! You could've left me some to scorch! Really didn’t have to rip through ‘em like that, but hey, I’m a fan!" She flashed me her usual manic grin, but something flickered behind her eyes—something unreadable.

  One of the warriors stepped forward, his expression tight.

  "Outsider," he said carefully, "even considering the ambush… was it truly necessary to shed… so much blood?"

  Zara’s grin snapped towards him. "Hey, we saved your asses. If it weren’t for us, y’all would be the ones on the floor instead of them."

  The warrior faltered, his face torn between gratitude and revulsion.

  "True," he admitted. "But this… this was excessive. The Resistance committed to sacrificing only what’s necessary. We’ve strayed from that path.”

  Zara’s grin vanished.

  Her flames flared, casting flickering shadows across the room.

  “Say that again.”

  The warrior stiffened, his muscles locking in place.

  "I—”

  Her fist lit up.

  “Tell us what to do again, I swear to god—your head will be rolling.”

  A tense pause. Then—her expression shifted back to that same reckless, devil-may-care grin.

  "Got it?"

  The warrior said nothing.

  Zara clapped him on the back, laughing. "Anyway, don’t be so tense now. Mission complete!”

  But the laughter did nothing to shake off the nausea curling in my stomach.

  I stared down at my hands. Blood-stained. Still trembling.

  What have I done?

  A sick smile tugged at the corners of my lips as tears pricked my eyes. What the hell was I even saying? The answer was so obvious.

  I was a murderer.

  And worse—

  I enjoyed it.

  The darkness in me, once a whisper, now screamed.

  A voice broke through the silence.

  “Warriors, gather. We must resume our mission. The official should be in the next room.”

  The others moved, silent, efficient, unshaken. As if what had just happened was nothing. As if I hadn’t just butchered a room full of people in front of them.

  A small, round disk was placed against the suite door. A click. A pulse.

  A muffled explosion.

  The warriors moved in.

  The suite was lavish. A grand, circular table overflowed with golden goblets, exotic fruit, and half-finished plates of indulgence. The air was thick with liquor and laughter.

  Men in expensive suits lounged around, deep in revelry. Unaware. Unbothered.

  Then—

  “NOBODY MOVE!”

  The warriors flooded the room, weapons raised. Glasses shattered, chairs scraped against the floor as the men jolted in shock.

  One of them, a wiry man with greased-back hair, lurched forward. "What—What are you doing here?! What happened to the Qi?! They should’ve killed you dogs by now!”

  A blur of movement—

  One of them reached for a weapon.

  Rope-like restraints flew through the air, snapping around the men like steel serpents.

  "HOW. DARE. YOU. I—I—I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU ALL!”

  The official screamed before his body sagged, unconscious.

  The warriors swiftly secured their captives, dragging them toward the waiting aircraft outside. The moment we stepped onto the vessel, the engines roared to life, propelling us into the night.

  Haven’s Reach welcomed us with open arms.

  The second we landed, cheers erupted. Warriors raised their weapons in triumph, the people gathered to celebrate. Victory.

  Angelus stood at the heart of it all, arms spread wide.

  “Welcome back, my warriors! I see the mission was a success!”

  The warriors knelt before their leader.

  "Yes, my liege. Though… there is something I must discuss with you." One of them stepped forward, voice low.

  The triumph in Angelus’s face flickered. A shadow of something colder—sharper.

  "Come," he commanded.

  Without hesitation, we followed him into one of the warehouses, leaving the sound of celebration behind us.

  And stepping straight into something far darker.

  "There is something you must see, my liege," the warrior said, stepping forward, presenting Angelus with a tablet.

  A tap of the screen.

  Screams filled the air.

  Not just the dying wails of the men I had torn apart—but my own laughter.

  The sound was unnerving. Almost… inhuman.

  Angelus's expression remained stoic. His fingers hovered over the tablet as he listened, his face betraying nothing.

  Then—"I see."

  He set the tablet aside, clasping his hands behind his back.

  "It appears you've saved my men. I thank you for that. We welcome you both to the Resistance."

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  The warriors didn’t cheer. They didn’t even acknowledge the words. The silence that followed was thick, oppressive.

  Still—Zara just grinned.

  Angelus cleared his throat. “As warriors, you will be provided with your basic necessities. Marcus, show our new recruits to their chambers.”

  A warrior nodded. "Yes, sire. Right this way."

  He led us through the village, past buildings made of stone and metal, the hum of activity filling the streets. The structure he stopped in front of was small, square, and painfully simple.

  "This will be your lodging," Marcus said, his tone flat, efficient. “The warehouse you saw earlier stores our supplies. The larger building beside it is the dining hall. Meals are served at 6 and 12. Do not be late.”

  Without another word, he turned and left.

  Zara took one look at the barebones interior—two beds, one small table in the middle—and groaned.

  “What the hell? This is all we get? The fuck? Hey Mari, wanna go back to the Golden Motel?”

  I let out a weak grin. “Man, if only we had more money. Maybe we'd get another job that’d pay for it.”

  She flopped onto one of the beds with an exaggerated sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Who knows? Maybe a bounty will drop on some idiot and we’ll get lucky.”

  I chuckled softly but found my thoughts drifting.

  Jobs.

  It had been a while since I’d gotten one. Why?

  As I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, guilt twisted in my gut. I couldn’t shake the feeling—something was off.

  "Hey, Zara?" I muttered. "Mind if I go for a walk?"

  She waved a lazy hand. "Do whatever, kid."

  The night air was cool, damp. Rain threatened to spill from the sky at any moment. The streets were quieter now, fewer people, fewer distractions.

  As I wandered, lost in thought, I caught sight of a figure slumped in the alleyway.

  A man. Thin, frail. His breathing was slow, uneven.

  I hesitated before approaching.

  "Young gal. Got any change?" His voice was rough, hoarse from dehydration.

  Mom's voice rang in my head. Never give money to the homeless.

  Instead, I pulled out an MRE from a previous job, along with a bottle of water, and handed it to him.

  The old man's eyes lit up. His fingers trembled as he accepted it. "Bless you, child. Bless you."

  I nodded, sitting down beside him as he ate in silence.

  Then, his gaze lifted, a spark of something deep in his weary eyes.

  "As thanks, let me tell you a story."

  "A long time ago, a man stood beside Angelus."

  His voice was low, measured. Each word carried the weight of years.

  "He was strong. Wise. A beacon of hope—just as Angelus was, leading us through the darkest of times. But when the Resistance began to embrace darker methods, our hope became… corrupted."

  I listened, unmoving.

  "This man, he sought control. Power. He challenged our king, calling him unworthy of Angelus's name—unworthy of the throne."

  His fingers tightened around the water bottle. "He lost."

  "And was banished to the dungeons."

  I swallowed, my throat dry.

  "The dungeons," the old man repeated, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Where he met the Whisper."

  Something cold slithered down my spine.

  "The Whisper?"

  "The darkness that took root in him," he continued. "It spoke to him, offering power in the form of a mask."

  I stiffened.

  "And with that mask… he returned."

  The old man exhaled shakily. "He was different. Stronger. More monstrous. He wreaked havoc on our village. Then, he disappeared."

  A long pause stretched between us.

  "That’s all I remember," he finally said, finishing his meal. He gave me a weary smile. "May you bathe in Angelus's grace, child."

  I nodded and rose, continuing my walk, but his words clung to me.

  The rain finally fell.

  Cold droplets slid down my skin, soaking through my clothes. But I didn’t move.

  The story.

  The mask.

  Something about it gnawed at me, creeping into the edges of my thoughts.

  Then—

  A hand grabbed my ankle.

  My breath hitched.

  Something yanked me down.

  Darkness swallowed me whole.

  When my vision returned—

  I was somewhere else.

  And I was not alone.

  A man stood before me.

  Or—something that looked like a man.

  He was tall, draped in white. A featureless mask concealed his face—no eyes, no mouth, no expression.

  His robe billowed, but his limbs—

  His limbs were wrong.

  Deep blackness wrapped around his arms like living shadows, twisting and warping, swallowing the very light around them.

  One elongated, stretching forward like a tentacle.

  I took a step back.

  The mask tilted.

  "Host. Found.

  Invade.

  Invade.

  INVAAADE."

  The voice—whispering at first—

  Then screaming.

  I barely had time to react before he lunged.

  The illusion of humanity peeled away.

  Beneath the mask—a metallic body. A machine. A nightmare.

  His arms snapped forward, tendrils of blackness lashing out, wrapping around my limbs.

  Pinning me to the ground.

  I thrashed—no use.

  The shadows coiled tighter. Colder. Heavier.

  I gasped for breath.

  And then—

  The mask moved.

  The blank, emotionless surface shifted, split open—

  Revealing nothing but endless, screaming void.

  Trapped beneath its relentless grip, I gasped for breath, panic tightening its vice around my chest. My limbs trembled, my body refusing to respond.

  Move. Move. MOVE.

  But I couldn’t.

  I tried to call out.

  "Desire… Zara…"

  Nothing came.

  My throat clenched shut, the words trapped, strangled.

  I was alone.

  "Host. Captured. Invasion. Start."

  Then—pain.

  A white-hot agony seared through my back, ripping a scream from my lips. Something slithered, writhing, its touch cold and foreign, burrowing into my spine.

  I couldn't see it. But I felt it.

  Clawing. Crawling. Fusing.

  My breath hitched. The grip on me vanished.

  The metallic man—lifeless, motionless.

  And yet, I wasn’t free.

  Something else had taken hold.

  A mask.

  It appeared out of nowhere.

  Floating. Watching.

  My cybernetic eye locked onto it. My vision glitched, flickered.

  Then—

  A grotesque tearing sound.

  Metallic appendages erupted from my back.

  Long. Sinuous.

  They twisted through the air like living things.

  I couldn’t move.

  No—I was moving.

  The tendrils lifted me up, dangling me in the air.

  A voice slithered into my mind. Soft. Reverent. Inescapable.

  "My host… I’ve found you…"

  "My queen…"

  "Aclima."