Jack's breath quickened as the muffled sounds of footsteps outside the graveyard grew louder. He crouched low behind the crumbling stone of the grave, feeling the chill of the night air creeping into his bones. The world around him felt sharp and surreal—every creak of wood, every rustle of leaves, it all seemed louder than it should be. His fingers, pale and small in the boy's body, tightened around the rusty dagger that felt too large for him. The pulse in his throat throbbed. Whoever was outside, Jack couldn't afford to be discovered—not now, not when everything felt so wrong.
The figure outside moved slowly, cautiously, the soft shuffle of boots on the wet ground scraping through the dirt. It wasn't quick, the steps almost uncertain, as if the person was aware of something—something they couldn't quite name. Jack tensed, his senses sharpened by an awareness he couldn't explain, like a sixth sense born of the resurrection. His thoughts, still his own, raced in a haze, but the body's instincts fought against him. He felt the cold sweat on the back of his neck, the fear that pulsed through the veins of this body, the boy's body, and for the first time in years, he was uncomfortably aware of it.
The figure outside shuffled closer. The faintest whisper of fabric. Then, a soft voice, breaking the silence. "Bob… what in the gods' names happened to you?"
Jack's stomach twisted as the man's words reached him. Bob. The name was familiar, like a distant echo from the boy's fractured memories. But no matter how hard Jack tried to piece it together, he couldn't make sense of it. Was Bob someone important? Or was he just another casualty in the string of deaths that Jack had left behind in his previous life? He didn't know. He couldn't afford to think about it. He had to focus.
The stranger, now fully in view, collapsed beside Bob's body, his hands trembling. His voice cracked as he spoke, "You were supposed to be happy today. You were supposed to wear your new suit, your black coat. We were gonna celebrate—" The words broke off, swallowed by a sob. The stranger—Edrick—gripped the mutilated corpse of Bob, shaking with grief.
Jack felt a strange flicker of something in his chest, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the opportunity before him. Edrick was vulnerable, his back turned, his attention entirely on Bob.
Jack's breath evened out, despite the mounting tension. He stood, making his move swiftly. Silent steps. A ghost in the dark. His hand shot out, gripping Edrick by the hair, yanking him back with brutal force.
"Wha—" Edrick gasped, but before he could react, Jack shoved the rusty dagger into his neck. Blood sprayed out in a hot arc, soaking the ground beneath them. Edrick's body twitched, and he tried to scream, but it was too late. The dagger twisted, cutting deeper, and Edrick crumpled, his life draining out of him into the dirt.
Jack stood still, the knife slick in his hands, staring at the two dead men. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the sound of his own breathing. His heart pounded in his chest, but not from the kill—no, that wasn't the cause. It was something else. Something new.
The boy's body trembled, unbidden, as Jack looked down at the fallen bodies. There was a shaking in his hands, a terror he couldn't suppress, a weakness he had never experienced before. The emotions were alien, crawling through him like insects under his skin. Fear. Grief. Sorrow. Amon's memories, vague as they were, seeped into his mind like poison. The boy's name—Amon Grimveil—flashed in his mind, bringing with it an unsettling sense of familiarity.
Jack dropped the dagger.
The terror of this new body clawed at him. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold onto his calm, his control. But something in Amon's memories, in his emotions, refused to be ignored. It hit him like a wave—fragments of a life he had no claim to, flashes of warmth, of joy, of what had been.
"Amon… Grimveil," Jack whispered to himself, tasting the name in his mouth. But it didn't make sense. He wasn't Amon. He wasn't this weak child. His mind was cold, sharp. A killer. Always a killer.
But now, Jack was something else. Something trapped in a child's body. He had to move. He had to find answers.
The thought of leaving the graveyard, of walking into the unknown, was overwhelming. But Jack couldn't stay here. There were too many questions. Too many mysteries.
With a shake of his head, Jack started walking away from the grave, the dark, and the bodies behind him. The night air was cold, biting. His stomach growled with hunger, his body aching from the exertion of the day's events. He ignored it. He had to move forward.
The small city of Harrowshade awaited. And in its shadows, Jack would find the answers he sought. But he wouldn't let himself forget the name that echoed in his mind—Amon Grimveil. He didn't know what it meant, but it was a clue. A small thread that could unravel everything.
And so, Jack moved toward the city, the unknown, hoping that within its walls, he could finally reclaim the answers to his past—and his future.