It's the first one of many throws that follow.
That's when I get it. Mark Dilano was never the one to save me. If anything, he was always meant to be my doom.
One I could never escape from.
Nathaniel joins the others in cleaning the basement room. The only sounds are the scrape of rags against stone, the rustle of garbage bags, and the occasional drip of something I don’t want to think too hard about. No one speaks to me. Not while they scrub the blood away, not while Nathaniel picks up a UV flashlight and scans the walls for anything they might have missed.
Not even when I start trying to flicker out.
I’ve been at it the whole time—concentrating, pushing, trying to drop down into the earth like I’ve done a thousand times before. But the flickering just… won’t come.
It’s funny. Flickering has always been a funny business. Technically, it's something I’ve mastered over the years—enough that I don’t do it by accident anymore. But getting it to work on command, the way it did when I dropped through the concrete above, requires focus. And usually, focus isn’t a problem. There’s not much that can rattle me.
But now? I'mstruggling.
Maybe before, when Nathaniel wasn’t here, I could’ve just closed my eyes, put my fingers together, and dropped into the earth without thinking twice. Back then, I didn’t even know I had the ability. But now? Now, with those symbols written on my bones, something’s changed deep inside me.
That alone is enough to keep my mind too tangled to focus properly.
In other words, I'm stuck here.
Nathaniel stands up, wiping his hands on a rag before finally looking at me. I've been watching him work alongside the others. Actually, I've been watching all of them. But he's the most meticulous one. When he was wiping away the blood, the movement of his hand was slow and smooth, never wavering or hesitating for a second.
That’s not all.
Unlike Foxface, who's been sneaking glances at me every five minutes, or even Cassian who can’t seem to stop himself from looking my way every now and then, Nathaniel hasn’t spared me a single glance.
He’s entirely focused on his work.
Like aleader.
Cassian and Foxface seem to listen to him. Sometimes it’s subtle, like when they follow his movements without thinking, instinctively falling in line. Other times, it’s more obvious. They glance at him before making a decision, waiting for his approval without him needing to say a word.
And now, this leader of the two murderers, the man who dug my grave and looks like a goth piercings addict—Nathaniel—is staring at me.
His two blue eyes pierce right through me, just like they did below the willow tree. Bright side? Unlike the eyes of his companions, his are not mismatched.
Makes him feel a little more like a human than a monster.
“I'm going to wipe the binding circle now,” he says, without any emotion in his voice. “You'll be free to move around once I do.”
“I can go anywhere I want?” I ask. The idea of freedom is tempting, but I can't shake the feeling that this might be some kind of test—or worse, another trap I’d be walking right into.
The truth is, these men are a mystery to me. I don’t know what they want or how much they know. But one thing is clear—they understand the supernatural far better than I do, and that realization feels like a noose tightening around my throat. Because ifI, a Grim Reaper, am in the dark… then what does that makethem?
Some… shadow walkers? No, too dramatic. Ghost whisperers? Too wholesome. Paranormal cryptid enthusiasts with a subscription box for cursed objects?
I narrow my eyes at them.
Nathaniel does look like the type who reads ancient forbidden texts for fun and would absolutely, without hesitation, lick a haunted object just to see what happens.
“You’ll see,” he says ominously.
Not quite a yes. Not quite a no. So, there’s hope. A sliver of it. Maybe.
It also makes me way more suspicious.
Pain ruffles its feathers beside me—restless, eager to take flight. It stomps one sharp little foot, then another, like it’s impatient. Nathaniel glances up at it, and the smirk that tugs at his lips…
