No one can be quick enough to escape their fate.
I walked over to Jo. I knelt beside her, brushing a lock of hair from her face. She looked peaceful, almost as if she were merely sleeping, her features untouched by time or pain. But her skin was cold, a sharp, cruel reminder of the grim reality. I didn't even notice when Coffee had woken up — her sudden movement caught me off guard.
Without warning, she shoved me aside, her eyes wild with panic as she frantically tried to wake Jo. But Jo didn't stir. No matter how hard Coffee shook her, how desperately she begged, there was no response. The silence between them felt suffocating.
Then Coffee's grief exploded. Her screams—raw, unrelenting, filled with such agony—tore through the air, each one like a blade through my chest. She crumpled to the floor, clutching Jo's lifeless body, her clothes twisted in her fists as if they could somehow undo the impossible.
I knocked her out—my hands shaking as I did. I couldn't fix it. I couldn't bring her back. So I did the only thing I could think of in that moment. I just couldn't bear to watch her suffer.
The battle had ended, its fury now a distant echo. The king and his vampires were captured, dragged away like shattered remnants of power. Most of the wild vampires lay lifeless, and the few who managed to flee were relentlessly pursued.
The fae vanished without a word, as if they had never been there at all. The hunters, grim and silent, counted their dead and mourned them in the midst of the blood-drenched earth. And I... I remained, kneeling on the cold stone, lost in a void, unsure of what to do next.
Nothing could bring her back. I felt the weight of that truth crush me. The hunters had tried to pull me away from Jo, but when they looked into my eyes, they hesitated. Slowly, one by one, they retreated, taking Coffee with them, leaving me alone with my grief. And I just knelt there and still didn't know what to do.
Behind me, I could sense Alex's presence—maybe he knew I needed him. I needed him more than I could admit. If he hadn't been there, I would have shattered, unraveling like Coffee had. Time stretched and warped, minutes slipping by like hours until I finally found the strength to rise. I gathered Jo in my arms and walked away from the ruins of the villa.
It all seems so far away as if it happened a century ago. Perhaps it was because, even then, I wasn't quite myself. It seemed as hazy as a dream. A nightmare, one that wouldn't let me wake.
And as we left the blood-soaked battlefield behind, the stench of death lingering in the air, I felt it more sharply than ever. The weight of it all. The burden of what had been lost. It would never leave me.
Most of the others bathed, rested, and tended to their wounds, but I did nothing. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, numb. The dried blood on my clothes and skin, the scent of the battlefield, filled the room. I couldn't bring myself to care. I felt hollow, as if the very core of me had been torn out. Maybe it was because the one person who had filled my heart was now gone.
That night, I didn't sleep. The hours dragged on in eerie silence. I could hear Alex sniffing quietly in the next room, but Rolo's room was dead silent, as if it had been swallowed by the darkness. No one came near me that evening, and I didn't expect them to.
In the morning, as the first rays of sunlight broke through the curtains, Des stormed in. He kicked the door open with a force that made the hinges creak, then recoiled, his hand covering his nose.
"Fuck," was all he said. Ignoring my weak protests, he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me toward the bathroom.
He shoved me into the shower stall and turned on the water with an almost violent twist. I watched, numb, as the pink water swirled down the drain, taking with it the remnants of the battle. Des grumbled something under his breath as he stepped out, but returned a moment later with a fresh set of clothes. The only thing that caught my attention was the incense stick he placed carefully on top of the clothes.
"It's already started," he muttered before closing the door behind him, leaving me alone.
I stared at the incense for what felt like an eternity. I couldn't tell if it was hours or just a few minutes. Time had lost all meaning.
A large number of hunters gathered at the Temple of the Night God.
Des sat silently on one of the steps, holding a bundle of incense sticks. I gripped mine tightly, my knuckles white. When he looked up at me, his eyes locked onto mine for a moment before he slowly rose to his feet. My throat tightened, and rather than speak, I started walking toward the entrance. Des fell into step beside me without a word.
The atmosphere inside the temple was heavy with grief. Many hunters sat in the benches of the Temple of Death, their red-rimmed eyes staring blankly ahead. Some buried their faces in their hands, while others simply sat in silence, holding incense sticks. Some lit them and carefully placed them in the sand of the altar, where the air was thick with a spicy, sweet fragrance.
I stood there for a few moments, staring down at the pristine white sand. Des, beside me, methodically stuck eleven incense sticks into the sand, lighting each one. It was a ritual—a tribute to the eleven men he had lost in the battle.
A hunter next to me made a sign, his fingers interlocking to form horns before touching his thumbs together. Des didn't attempt such gestures. After lighting his own sticks, he handed the lighter to me. I lit the incense stick slowly. As the smoke began to rise, Des returned the lighter to his pocket, and I placed my incense in the sand.
For a time, I stood there lost in my own thoughts, but Des's touch snapped me back to reality. He had taken my hand. Confused, I looked up at him and saw that no one stood beside us anymore. Without a word, Des began to pull me toward the steps along the side of the altar, and I let him guide me, too numb to resist.
Across the room, on the opposite balcony, an organ loomed. But so many had gathered there that it was hidden from view. On our side of the altar stood a massive stone table, surrounded by fewer hunters—mostly the leaders of the battle. Des pulled me closer, and my gaze drifted toward the table.
Pinned to the stone was a figure. Ephraim. The execution was carried out. His veins had been cut open, blood slowly pooling into small trenches carved into the table. But nothing happened.
The moment of his death—one would expect the world to tremble, to burst into tears of joy and celebrate. Nothing happened. No shaking earth, no jubilant cries. One moment Ephraim had been alive, his heart still beating, and the next, his breath stilled, leaving only silence.
The power that had once threatened humanity vanished without a trace, in mere minutes. It was terrifying how easily a life could be snuffed out, how a dream could crumble to dust.
Then the sun set. And yet, the sun would rise again, and eventually, it would set. The world would keep spinning, unaware of the doom silently creeping closer.
Slowly, the hunters began to stir, moving toward the exit. Des, still holding my hand, led me toward the stairs. As we passed the altar, drops of dark red blood fell from a pipe embedded in the wall. The blood seeped into the sand below, eagerly absorbed, vanishing without a trace.
(...)
I sat in front of the grave and looked up at the sky as I was talking to Jo. I didn't say anything profound—just simple words to let her know Alice was doing better. I didn't really believe she could hear me, but somehow I felt compelled to speak. It was the first time I had visited her resting place—I hadn't been able to attend the funeral; it would have been too much to bear.
In the early days, I tried to deny it, tried to bury the pain in my chest. I spent entire days lying in bed, too numb to do anything else, thankful that Alex didn't push me to talk or get out. He simply brought me food and left it by my side. Then, hours later, he'd return to collect the untouched bowl with a long, heavy sigh.
Hajnal, of course, didn't tolerate my silence so easily. At first, she tried to reason with me. When that failed miserably, she just shouted at me, tired and frustrated. I should've felt grateful for her patience, for her willingness to stay with me, but in that moment, I couldn't find gratitude for anything.
By the end of the first week, the agony twisted into helpless, seething rage. I couldn't stay there, and even if I could, it wouldn't have been a good idea anyway.
The weeks dragged on, heavy with frustration and anger, each day blending into the next. The city, once full of life and promise, now felt like a battleground—me against the world, the world against me. My fury had no release, no way to vent. It churned inside, relentless, a storm brewing in the pit of my stomach.
I found myself taking it out on anything I could—lampposts, cars, even abandoned storefronts. There was something cathartic about smashing a window with my bare hands or kicking a streetlight until the metal twisted and broke beneath my strikes. I would scream until my throat felt like it was on fire, the rawness of it leaving me hoarse and empty, only for the anger to surge again, demanding release.
The monsters didn't escape either. In fact, they became a necessary part of the cycle. Whenever I could no longer contain the violence within, I would hunt them down. They had a way of finding me, drawn by the rage in my aura. And I welcomed them. The familiar scent of their blood became a bitter solace, even as it burned its way through me.
But even their blood couldn't fill the void. Every victory, every broken body, left me emptier, as though nothing could ever be enough to quiet the fire inside. I fought with an animalistic ferocity, my movements fueled by rage, my strikes ruthless.
I stood there, staring at the broken creature at my feet, my chest still heaving from the fury of the battle. Its blood soaked into the earth, mixing with the grime and dust of the city. But even as the adrenaline faded, the anger inside me didn't— it was still there, pulsing, raw, an unrelenting ache in my veins. Nothing ever dulled it.
And then, that familiar shift in the air. The hairs on my neck prickled, and I knew. I didn't want to look, but I couldn't stop myself.
Simon.
His form flickered, weak and almost delicate, like something that could vanish at any moment.
A sarcastic smirk spread across my face as I glanced up at him. "Well, look who finally showed up," I said, voice dripping with bitterness. "Came for my life, did you?
Simon's ethereal form flickered once, his eyes narrowing in that familiar way that made me feel like I was an idiot for even opening my mouth. It wasn't anger, not really—just that tired disappointment that seemed to always hang around him.
"You're an idiot," he said simply, his voice softer than I remembered, like it couldn't bear the weight of the world anymore.
I let the silence stretch between us, my gaze still locked on him.
I broke the silence with a question I wasn't even sure I wanted the answer to. "Did you come alone?"
Simon didn't answer right away as though he were considering something far more important than my simple question. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before, almost sad. "Yes."
All the other ghosts had vanished. I should have been relieved, but something about it felt... wrong.
I sat down on the corpse, the blood beneath me cold and sticky, and looked up at Simon's fragile form. "They're gone, huh?"
Simon gave a small nod. "Vanished. Whatever was keeping them here is gone."
I raised an eyebrow, my gaze flicking to Simon as the silence stretched between us. "What's keeping you here then?" I asked, a hint of curiosity mingling with the bitterness in my voice.
Simon remained silent. His eyes met mine, but there was no emotion—just an unreadable depth, like there was something inside of him he wasn't ready to share. He had always been a ghost of few words, but this felt different. He wasn't just being cryptic; there was something more.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, he simply shook his head, as if dismissing the question altogether. "I'm not... sure," he murmured, the words barely audible over the wind. His gaze was distant, like he was lost in his own thoughts, or perhaps in memories I could never understand.
I let out a long, exasperated sigh, wiping the blood from my hands onto my clothes, the dark stains blending with the fabric. My eyes lingered on Simon.
I stretched my hand out toward him, my voice dropping to a more serious tone. "Come."
Simon didn't move, his form as still and distant as before.
My fingers twitched in frustration, and I rolled my eyes. "Come on," I pressed, my voice laced with a hint of sarcasm. "You're so weak I'm afraid you'll be gone in a second."
There was no immediate response, no motion from him. "If you're still stuck here, then you might as well make yourself useful." The words felt harsh, but they were the truth.
For a long moment, he remained unmoving. But then, just as I thought he might truly slip away, slowly, cautiously, Simon stepped forward, his translucent figure moving in that hesitant way he always did.
"You really are an idiot, you know that?" Simon muttered, his voice almost lost in the breeze. But there was something softer about it, less cold than before. He reached out, taking my hand in his, and I could feel the chill of his ghostly touch, though it wasn't as biting as it once had been.
"Yeah," I said with a half-smirk, a little too exhausted for the usual sharpness in my tone. "I've been told before."
My energy was fading, pulling away from me. I could feel the drain in my bones, like I was giving too much, like I was handing him pieces of myself I couldn't get back. And then, after what felt like an eternity, I pulled my hand away.
Simon's voice cut through the silence that followed, soft yet firm. "How long do you plan to keep killing monsters aimlessly?"
I glanced up at him. I let out a slow breath, my chest tightening in ways I didn't want to acknowledge. "I don't know," I muttered. "Maybe until my heart stops beating." The words were too honest, too raw, but it was the truth. It felt like the only thing I could do that made any sense.
Simon looked at me, his expression unreadable. "That doesn't help."
I felt a flicker of irritation burn in my chest, but it wasn't really directed at him. It was the kind of frustration I felt every time I asked myself the same thing.
"What can help, then?" I asked, my voice low and tinged with something that almost sounded like desperation.
Simon didn't answer right away. He was thinking, carefully, his gaze scanning my face as if he could see every unspoken thing I hadn't allowed myself to face. Finally, after a long pause, he spoke.
"You won't find the answer in thoughtless killing," he said. "You might think it brings relief, but all it does is pull you further away from what you need."
I opened my mouth to protest, but Simon continued before I could interrupt.
"But maybe…" He hesitated, his gaze shifting just slightly, as though he were measuring his words. "Maybe you could try to find it in the company of your friends. The ones who care about you."
The words hit me harder than I expected. Friends. A part of me recoiled, not because I didn't want them, but because I wasn't sure if I deserved them anymore. The longer I lived in this cycle of destruction, the more I felt like I was slipping away from anyone who might still be there, still be willing to stand by me.
But his words lingered.
Simon took a step back, his form growing fainter again, but his eyes never left mine. "I'll be around," he said, his voice soft but steady. "When you're ready."
I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I was ready yet.
A month and a half passed before I found myself standing outside Hajnal's house again. I was exhausted—broken—and I had no idea how I had managed to get there. Alex must have sensed me because the door swung open. His eyes locked onto mine, filled with a strange mix of relief and pain. I must have looked worse than he did. Slowly, a cautious smile spread across his face, as though he'd trusted I'd return but could hardly believe it.
He handed me a steaming mug of cocoa.
"I'm glad you're back," he said, his voice quiet, laden with emotion.
He pulled me inside and guided me to the couch. Without a word, I sank into the cushions and slowly sipped the cocoa, its warmth soothing the cold emptiness inside me.
I smoothed my hand over the cold stone of Jo's grave, and the memory hit me again—the last moment of her life, the memory that had tormented me ever since. Cold tears streamed down Jo's face. Her lips moved, but the roar of my own frantic thoughts drowned out everything else. If only she hadn't spoken. If only she hadn't said anything at all. Anything would have been better than those few words: I forgive you.
But how could it not be my fault? If I hadn't met her, if I hadn't loved her, Jo might still be here. I lost the only person who truly loved me, the one person I loved in return. I buried my face in my hands, trying to hold back the tears, but they came anyway, hot and unstoppable.
And then, something strange happened. For the briefest moment, it felt as if someone had wrapped their arms around me from behind. I whipped around, but there was nothing there. Still, just for that instant, I thought I could almost smell Jo's scent in the air. Then it vanished, leaving me with nothing but the harsh reality of life, and the hollow space that was left behind.