When the elevator stopped, I stepped out, the soft hum of the hotel's quiet halls greeting me. My footsteps echoed in the corridor as I made my way toward my room. Yet, a chill prickled the back of my neck, as if someone was watching me. I stopped, heart pounding, and looked over my shoulder.
"Pathetic."
The word sliced through my thoughts like a blade, ringing loudly in my mind, as if it had been carved directly into my skull. It felt strangely familiar—too familiar—and for a split second, I wondered if I had heard it before. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. I turned, scanning the hallway.
And that's when I saw her.
She stood just at the edge of my vision, tall and impossibly poised, like a shadow shaped by something otherworldly. Her skin was unnaturally pale, glowing softly in the dim light. Her features were sharp and flawless, perfect in a way that made me uneasy. She carried herself with an air of authority, as if she weren't merely occupying the space, but commanding it.
Her clothes were elegant and perfectly chosen, tailored as though designed for the highest social circles. Every movement was graceful, smooth, deliberate—too perfect, too controlled. It was as though she had mastered the art of human expression, but never understood the imperfections that made people real.
"You're weak," she said, her voice sharp and cutting. "Pathetic, really."
I stiffened at her words, but it wasn't the harshness of her tone that hit me—it was the way she spoke, as if she were stating an undeniable truth. My heart raced, and for a moment, I wanted to turn away, to walk past her and ignore the sting of her words. But something kept me rooted to the spot, a strange pull I couldn't explain.
"All these pathetic little battles, all this power," she continued, stepping forward with unnerving fluidity. "You think you're strong, but you're not. Not yet. Not even close."
Her words cut deeper than I expected. Before I could react, she smiled—soft, almost warm, yet there was something chilling about it. The way her lips curved was too perfect, rehearsed, like a mask.
"But…" She tilted her head slightly, her gaze softening as she took another step closer. "That's okay, isn't it? No one's perfect. But I can help you change that."
Her voice shifted, smoother now, coaxing. "I can help you become stronger, Akame."
The weight of her words hung in the air, almost like a promise. "I know what it's like to feel like you're not enough. I can help you get stronger, help you grow into something greater. You don't have to do it alone."
She paused, watching me with those unsettling eyes—deep, swirling colors that seemed to peer into me, seeing things I didn't even understand about myself. Her gaze softened, and for a moment, I almost believed her. Almost.
"I'm here to offer you… friendship. To help you become who you were always meant to be."
I stood there, unsure how to respond, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Her words felt too sincere, too soft, and yet something about her presence felt wrong—too perfect, too controlled. Still, the promise of strength, the idea of becoming something greater, was hard to ignore.
"You can trust me, Akame," she added, her smile widening ever so slightly, but there was no malice in it. She wasn't trying to force me into anything. It didn't feel like a trick. "I want to be your friend, help you with whatever you need. Whatever you want. You don't have to face it all alone."
Her words settled in my chest, a mix of comfort and unease. I wanted to trust her. I wanted to believe that she could help me, that I wasn't alone in this. And yet, something deep down—something primal—was telling me to be cautious.
But as I looked into her eyes, I couldn't help but feel… a strange connection. She was offering me what I had always needed: help, strength. And yet, a voice in the back of my mind whispered that it wasn't that simple.
"I'll be here, Akame," she said softly. "Whenever you need me. You're not alone anymore."
I couldn't just trust her, whatever she was. Everything about her felt off—her smile, her presence. It was almost too perfect, too controlled. Beneath that surface, something didn't sit right with me. The air felt too still, her smile too flawless. It was as if the entire encounter was a well-crafted illusion.
I hesitated, my mind racing. She hadn't given me any real answers, just promises. But still… something tugged at me. She spoke like she cared, like she wanted to be my ally. But I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something I wasn't seeing. Some thread I couldn't quite grasp.
Her voice cut through my thoughts, smooth and knowing. "Are you suspicious of me?"
The question wasn't angry or accusing—it was almost understanding. She spoke as though she had already anticipated this, like she knew exactly what I was thinking.
"I understand," she continued, her eyes softening as she took a small step closer. "But… we are connected. Your star, I'm connected to it."
The words struck me, but in a way that I couldn't quite explain. Connected? How? What did she mean by that?
Her smile remained, but now it was colder, like the sharp edge of a blade just beneath the surface, waiting to cut. "You're seeking power to defeat Orion, right, Akame?" she said, her tone coaxing, smooth. "I can feel it, the same way you can feel it inside of you. That hunger. That drive. You and I, we share that. I can help you reach it… if you let me."
Her gaze never wavered, her eyes glinting with a strange intensity that seemed to dig into my very soul. She wasn't just offering help anymore—it was expected. Like it was only natural that I would accept. It was subtle, like the pull of a tide I didn't see coming until it was too late.
I clenched my fists at my sides, unsure what to do. Something in me screamed that I shouldn't trust her, that I was treading dangerous ground.
"You'll be stronger, Akame," she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I'll help you become everything you've ever dreamed of. You just need to trust me."
The calm in her voice, the certainty in her gaze—it was like she already knew I'd give in. Like she knew me better than I knew myself.
And despite the nagging feeling deep in my gut, I couldn't help but feel… seen. Like she understood me.
She took one more step closer, the space between us closing, and her smile stretched just a little wider. "You're not alone anymore, Akame. You have me. And I will help you get what you want."
She stuck out her hand. "We're friends now… right, Akame?"
I hesitated. Everything about her felt off—her smile, her presence—it was almost too perfect. Too controlled. But she had that strange calmness, that quiet assurance that made me feel like pulling away would only show how weak I was.
I looked at her outstretched hand, uncertain. Her gaze never left mine, and that smile didn't waver.
The chamber was silent, save for the rhythmic hum of energy pulsing from Orion's outstretched hand. He stood at the heart of devastation, his figure illuminated by the fiery glow of a planet dying below. Around him, his followers—loyal acolytes of destruction—watched in reverent silence. A handful of captured enemies, bound and trembling, knelt at his feet, their gazes locked on the crumbling world outside.
"Do you see it?" Orion's voice was calm, almost gentle, as he gestured toward the view. The planet's surface fractured like shattered glass, molten rivers swallowing cities, tectonic plates grinding together in their death throes. "This is not chaos. This is balance."
One of the captives—a defiant soldier wearing the insignia of the fallen world—snarled through gritted teeth. "You're a monster. Billions of lives—gone, just like that. What kind of balance is this?"
Orion tilted his head, his expression serene, though his golden eyes gleamed with something ancient and unfathomable. "You speak of lives as if they are permanent. As if they hold meaning beyond this brief flicker in the darkness. Tell me, soldier: what becomes of your people in a thousand years? Ten thousand? Will your names be remembered? Your struggles revered? No. All that you are, all that you fight for, will be dust."
One of his followers—a woman with a fierce gaze and a staff glowing with residual starlight—spoke up. "Master Orion, the planet's core destabilization is nearly complete. Should we prepare to withdraw?"
"Not yet," Orion replied, raising a hand to silence her. "Let them witness the full cycle." He turned back to the captives, his voice soft yet unyielding. "You call me a monster because you lack perspective. You see the end and fear it. I see the end and understand its necessity. This destruction—" he gestured to the disintegrating planet, "—is not an act of malice. It is the natural progression of the universe. Birth. Death. Rebirth."
Another captive, trembling, muttered, "You… you could stop this. You could let us live. Spare us."
Orion crouched to meet the man's gaze, his calm expression unwavering. "Spare you? And for what purpose? So you may rebuild? Repeat the same mistakes? The cycle demands change, not preservation." He stood, raising his hand toward the crumbling world. The energy surrounding him flared, the light of a dying star incarnate.
"Take comfort in this truth: your destruction is not the end, but a beginning. Your ashes will fuel the next cycle. Your existence will become the foundation for something greater."
As the planet's core finally collapsed, a shockwave of energy rippled outward, swallowing what remained of the surface. Orion's acolytes stood firm as the blast passed over them, protected by the aura of his bonded star. The captives screamed, shielding their eyes from the blinding light.
Orion turned to his followers, his tone calm yet commanding. "We leave now. There is nothing left here but echoes."
One of the followers stepped forward. "And the prisoners, Master Orion? What should we do with them?"
Orion paused, his golden eyes glinting as he looked down at the captives. "Release them. Let them carry the weight of this lesson back to the stars. If they survive, perhaps they will understand."
The follower hesitated but obeyed, cutting the prisoners' bonds. Orion turned his back on them, walking toward his ship. As he ascended the ramp, he spoke one final time, his voice carrying over the wreckage.
"Remember this: nothing is permanent. Not your lives, not your pain, and not your hope. But through destruction, there is always creation. I am simply the hand that ensures the cycle continues."
The ship's engines roared to life, and the vessel rose, leaving the captives and the remnants of a dying world behind. Orion stood at the viewport, watching the planet collapse into a sea of molten fire, his expression as calm as ever.
The silence was palpable until he turned slightly, his golden eyes falling on one of his closest followers, a tall figure cloaked in flowing robes of deep crimson.
"Have we found the location of Lunar?" Orion's voice was steady, carrying an undertone of urgency that was rare for him.
The follower stiffened, lowering their head in reverence before speaking. "Not yet, Master Orion. She has concealed herself well, but our scouts continue their search. Her bond to the star—"
"Is unlike any other," Orion interrupted, his tone sharpening just slightly. "She is a variable we cannot afford to ignore. The star she wields carries an energy far beyond her comprehension. If left unchecked, it could disrupt the cycle." He turned fully now, his presence as commanding as the supermassive Hypergiant he was bonded to. "It is important that we find her. Soon."
The follower nodded quickly. "And if she resists?"
Orion's gaze drifted back to the viewport, the dying planet's glow reflected in his eyes. He clasped his hands behind his back, his calm demeanor returning like a tide. "Then we remind her of the truth. Power without understanding is a fleeting thing, as fragile as the worlds we destroy. If she cannot see reason, the cycle will claim her as it has claimed countless others."
For a moment, silence reigned once more, the only sound the faint hum of the ship's engines. Then, Orion spoke again, softer this time, as if to himself.
"Stars burn brightly, but they all die eventually. Lunar's fate will be no different… unless she learns."
The follower bowed deeply and left the observation deck, leaving Orion alone with his thoughts. As the ship disappeared into the vastness of space, the faintest flicker of intrigue crossed his otherwise stoic face.
"Lunar," he murmured, as if testing the weight of her name. "Let us see if you are truly worthy of the star you hold… or if you will become another fragment of the cycle."
She stuck out her hand. "We're friends now… right, Akame?"
I hesitated. Everything about her felt off—her smile, her presence—it was almost too perfect. Too controlled. But she had that strange calmness, that quiet assurance that made me feel like pulling away would only show how weak I was.
I looked at her outstretched hand, uncertain. Her gaze never left mine, and that smile didn't waver.
For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. The distant hum of the hotel's air conditioning was the only sound. I reached out slowly and shook her hand, the contact surprisingly cold, like her touch sent a ripple through the air itself.
"Yeah," I said, my voice quieter than I intended, "we're friends now."
Her smile deepened, a glimmer of satisfaction flashing in her eyes. "Good. I'm glad we understand each other, Akame."
The way she said my name—it felt familiar, like she had known me for far longer than I was comfortable with.
Before I could say anything else, she withdrew her hand and turned toward the door. The way she moved was fluid, almost too graceful, like she was gliding more than walking. I noticed how everything about her seemed perfectly tailored, from the way her clothes fit to the precise way she held herself.
"You don't need to worry about anything," she said, her voice still soft, but the words carried a weight that seemed to press against me. "You're not alone anymore."
She reached the door, and I expected her to step out of the room, but instead, she paused and looked back over her shoulder.
Something in her eyes shifted—lesser, but still unsettling. "Remember, whenever you need me… I'll be here."
And just like that, she didn't walk away. She didn't fade into thin air. Instead, her form seemed to blur at the edges, like the space around her bent just slightly, distorting for a moment before she simply wasn't there anymore.
One moment, she was in front of me. The next, I was alone in the hallway again.
I stood there, staring at the door she had just walked through, my heart pounding in my chest. Her presence lingered in the air, a faint echo of her calm voice still pressing against my mind.
"Whenever you need me."
The words ran through my head like a mantra.
I wasn't sure if I should be relieved or terrified. Her sudden departure, the way she slipped away as if she had never been there—it made my skin crawl.
But at the same time, a part of me… felt drawn to her. To her promise.
I shook my head, trying to push the thought away. But no matter how hard I tried, the feeling of her presence didn't fade. It clung to me, wrapped itself around me like a cold whisper in the back of my mind.
I had a bad feeling about this. A deep, gnawing sensation that I couldn't shake.
I looked around, then quickly turned and began walking down the hallway toward my room. The hotel felt quieter now, almost too silent. My footsteps echoed in the narrow corridor as I tried to ignore the strange tension that still clung to the air.
My heart was still pounding in my chest, and though I told myself it was nothing, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong. It wasn't her words—it wasn't even what she said. It was the way she said them, the way she made it sound like everything was already decided, like she had all the control in the world.
I finally reached my door, the feeling of unease weighing heavier as I stood in front of it. The hallway stretched behind me, still empty. The figure—my "friend"—was gone. She was gone.
I stepped inside my room, closing the door behind me. The weight of the day, the strange encounter, and the exhaustion from the mission all hit me at once. I was too tired to think clearly, too drained to question what had just happened.
With a sigh, I kicked off my boots and flopped onto the bed. The room was dark, the only light coming from the crack beneath the door. It was enough to see, just enough to make out the edges of the furniture, the softness of the sheets that beckoned to me.
I rolled onto my side, closing my eyes, trying to push the strange feeling away. But her words echoed in my mind, steady and soft, like a mantra:
"Whenever you need me, I'll be here."
I turned over, burrowing my face into the pillow. But no matter how I shifted, no matter how tired I was, sleep didn't come easily. Her voice lingered, pulling at me, a constant whisper in the back of my mind.
It took longer than usual, but eventually, I drifted off into a restless sleep.