Silence killed the atmosphere around Emile's prison cell. Unlike the bleak, disheartening silence one would expect from a prison block, this silence was shrouded by awkward embarrassment.
"I'm not saying it again." Luna said sternly as she crossed her arms and yet continued to face away from Emile.
Emile searched his cell, an old habit of looking for someone to join this uncomfortable conversation, "Aren't you like sixteen?"
Luna quickly spun around and gripped the bars, pushing her head between the space in between.
"I'm not sixteen!" She yelled, "I'm eighteen! Eight-teen!" She pointed her chin up, reveling in her own age.
"Are you sure?" Emile shattered her moment of confidence, "You're pretty small…."
Luna dramatically flailed her arms, "Really?! You've got a lot of nerve calling me small!"
"Listen, I need to rest eventually. Your dad kind of painted the cell with my blood." Emile gestured around him.
Luna scoffed and walked down the hall, but she stopped before the gate and yelled back.
"Hey! Be careful tomorrow! Your opponent is pretty good!" And with that she left, granting Emile the long overdue peace he's been needing.
'Where the hell are you Blood?!'
Without any interruptions, Emile finally fell asleep. Unfortunately, he was haunted by the tattooed boy even in rest. Emile continued to replay his death in his dreams.
The impact of his knuckles on the boy's cheek, the noticeable crack when his nose broke and shifted. As his spit and blood mixed, long strands of goop stuck to Emile's fist each time he raised it.
The worst part of it all though was the boy's eyes; they weren't fierce. Neither were they enraged or hateful, spiteful or insidious, they were scared and flushed red.
Before he died, before his life was violently ripped from him, he cried, presumably in tantamount fear. He didn't want to die, and how could he? How could any kid accept death? He probably learned, in the moments leading to his death, that he actually wanted to live.
Maybe that was what shook Emile so much, maybe it wasn't killing people, but killing hope that took such an immense toll on his being. And who carried with them the greatest hope of all? Children. Children carried with them the hope of infinite possibilities, an endless array of futures laid out before them.
Never do they expect one of their paths to end their lives so soon. Was it fate? Was the boy supposed to die? Did it happen for a reason? Emile couldn't bring himself to believe anything like that, he was death's messenger for that boy and, given his current predicament, he was going to be the death bringer for a lot of others as well.
By the time a guard came to collect Emile, he still hadn't healed fully. He could move his broken fingers, but they were stiff and continued to ache. It was probably smart to consider that hand out of commission.
The rest of his body also wasn't in perfect condition. His open wounds were all sealed and he wasn't losing anymore blood, but his body had been so aggressively thrashed both by the tattooed boy and by Khon.
His headache persisted, his muscles screamed in overexhaustion leading to a plentiful harvest of cramps for Emile to enjoy. But, even though it hurt like all hell to move, he could move. Nothing was broken or torn beyond repair.
Emile limped behind the guard, his ankles were fine, it was his thighs that strained after each step. They finally reached the familiar gates and heard the elated crowd overhead.
'Hopefully my opponent offs themselves and I can call it a day'
Emile passed underneath the gate and entered the pit. The crowd immediately recognized him and grew even more animated in their cheers.
Unsure of what to do, Emile slowly raised his arm and waved to the audience. Then, the other gate rose and his opponent's silhouette creeped out of the darkness.
Long black hair, a black and gold matching suit, and deep red eyes. Blood passed underneath the gate, both of his hands stretched into the sky, a bright smile covering his face.
Blood happily waved to the crowd. He put his hand to his ear and gestured that he couldn't hear their cheers. A true showman at work.
Meanwhile, Emile stared dead-eyed at Blood, uninterest replacing his previous expression. After Blood had his way with the crowd, he turned to Emile and winked.
The blood within the arena began to move across the floor. Puddles turned to rivers before the blood spun around itself and formed a spiral tower at the center of the arena.
Emile's eyes followed the blood during this process, the blood spire towered over him and almost reached the top of the walls encasing them.
Blood snapped his fingers and the tower of blood came barreling down like a tsunami. It crashed into Emile and pinned him to the wall where it hardened, forming an inescapable enclosure.
Blood strolled up to Emile and stopped just an inch away from his ear.
"Don't worry—" he whispered, "I have a plan."