Heart hammering, breath fogging the cold as I venture deeper. The further I go, the more the storm fades, replaced by the low hum of the estate breathing above me. I follow the winding paths, lit by warm sconces, desperately scanning for an exit, a forgotten grate, a broken ladder, anything to pull me beyond these cursed grounds. Hope flares once, fragile and trembling. Maybe I can slip out. Maybe I can disappear before they decide my fate.
But then I hear it.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Familiar.
The sound burrows into my bones before my mind even catches up.
Him.
The man who hurt me. The man whose face I still see in my dreams, nightmares, scars carved into my skin, daggered through my hands.
Balor steps into view, blocking the narrow corridor with a smile that curdles my blood.
My breath stutters, panic clawing straight up my throat.
And I run.
I don’t think, don’t breathe, don't pray, I just run, the tunnel spinning around me as terror takes me by the spine and drags me forward. The air tastes like metal. The walls feel like they’re caving in. Footsteps pound behind me, faster, too close, hunting. And every echo reminds me just how alone I am.
I slam my shoulder into a rusted door at the end of the tunnel, praying it gives, and it does.
A mausoleum erupts around me in a burst of cold light and dust as I stumble out, scraping my palms on stone, lungs burning. The storm has passed, leaving only the echo of dripping branches and the sharp scent of shattered hail melting into the earth. I suck in a desperate breath, freedom, open air, sky, and sprint towards the nearest row of crypts, feet slipping on wet grass.
I barely make it ten steps before the world is ripped out from under me.
His weight slams into my back, hard, crushing, driving me straight into the ground. Knocking the breath from my chest, splitting my lip as it crushes against my teeth, leaving me tasting copper and dirt. I claw at the earth, kick, fight, but his hands press against my spine, my skull, pinning me with brutal familiarity. His breath hits my ear, rancid and triumphant, and despite his silence, I can hear what he’s saying.
You thought you could run?
Terror detonates behind my ribs. I twist, gasping, nails tearing at his grip, at the ground, at anything that might save me. My vision blurs. Heartbeat turning feral. I’m screaming without sound, body thrashing beneath him.
He’s tearing at my clothes, ripping the fabric in his haste to get it off, and then a chain is connecting with my spine, making me cry out, squeeze my eyes closed, feeling him lash me with it again and again.
I feel faint, sick, dizzy, like I’m not really here, my soul swaying, caught somewhere between life and death.
But then I feel it.
Another presence.
Another shadow falling over us.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Charging the air with something electric.
Balor goes still. Freezing above me. His entire weight crushing me into the consecrated earth beneath. But I’m forcing my head up from the mud, craning my neck, eyes stinging, breath ragged, I see boots.
Scuffed toes, worn black leather, unlaced. The hem of a familiar long grey coat, dripping wet from the storm. A black shirt, the top few buttons open, proudly displaying his branding. A ‘two’ in roman numerals.
Billy stands over us like a judgment.
A storm that never needed the sky.
