But I try not to dwell on it. That would mean diving into the mess of my newfound jumbled emotions, and that's the last thing I want right now.
Instead, I just cross my arms and head to a different part of the basement, one that's been thoroughly cleaned.
Nathaniel lifts an eyebrow from his crouched position near the corner, where he's been meticulously shining a UV light over the space between the wall and the floor. He sets the device down, cocks his head to the side, and gives me one of the darkest looks I've ever seen. And that's saying something—I was literally murdered.
“Thought the corporeal doesn't affect you,” he says, his voice hanging somewhere between a question and an accusation. The tone is deeply unsettling, like he’s either testing a theory or waiting for me to confess my sins. And honestly? Either seems plausible at this point.
He saw my reaction when Foxface almost touched me. He knows something’s changed—something I should no longer feel as a Grim Reaper. And yet, he wants me to spell it out for him. No way I’m giving him that.
“It doesn't,” I breathe out. “It's just… not great being treated like a wisp of nothing.”
His fingers drum idly against the edge of his knee before he lets out a quiet hum and returns to work. Cassian, on the other hand, seems to latch onto my words. His shoulders stiffen from where he stands across the room. I can only see his broad back before he tilts his head slightly over his shoulder. He still won’t look at me, his eyes locked onto some particularly interesting crack in the concrete floor. But it’s me he’s talking to.
“Isn't that what you are?” he asks. “A wisp of nothing?”
My voice dies in my throat.
I mean… I’m not alive. To everyone but them, I’m not even real. But somehow, the way he repeats my words makes my stomach twist.
A wisp of nothing.
I should agree. I should throw it right back at him, make it clear that I don’t care what he, or the other two think. But the words won’t come. Because deep down, something inside me refuses to accept that.
I was murdered. Erased. My body discarded like trash, my name already fading from the world I used to belong to.
And yet—I’m still here.
A wisp of nothing wouldn’t feel this rage curling in my gut.
“Doesn't matter what I am,” I manage to say. “Just don't pass through me. That's all I'm asking. You three already locked me in some magic circle, took the soul I was supposed to reap, dug up my grave, and carved my bones. The least you can do is give me this small thing, right? If you hate what I am, just try to remember what I once was.”
To any religious person, this list of offenses would sound like the résumé of a group of dudes getting express-shipped to hell. Murderers, defilers, maybe even some off-brand cultists who started with satanic rituals and then just got really into taxidermy for some reason. There’s no denying they’ll have to face the consequences of their crimes. But not yet. Not until they actually die.
Given who they are, I don't expect Cassian to take me seriously now. He doesn't seem the type to respect the dead, or the living, for that matter. But for whatever reason, my words seem to hit him.
His jaw tightens. His muscles flex. He exhales sharply through his nose, then turns back toward the grimy basement floor. His hands freeze over the garbage bags for just a second, his fingers curling—like he’s resisting the urge to say something—before he lifts one of the heavier bags over his shoulder.”Fine,” he grumbles. “No more passing through you. I'll remember that.”
Just like that. No argument, no sarcastic retort.
To say I'm surprised is an understatement. And even though I should feel relieved, that stupid, stubborn twist in my stomach only tightens. No, it gets evenstronger.
“Right,” I murmur. “Thanks.”
But before he can hear me, he's already hauling three garbage bags toward the exit. I guess his courtesy for the dead extends only so little.
I sigh and glance around the room again. The blood that once coated everything is gone now. Same for the body, the plastic that separated the main area from the rest, and the creepy occult markings on the floor that made up my binding circle.
The smell of acid still lingers in the air, but the chlorine in it has cut through the moldy, grimy undertones. It’s cleaner now. Which is ironic, considering a whole-ass man got unalived here.
I have to give it to these guys, though. They really know what they're doing. The cover-up is flawless. No evidence left behind, no traces of struggle, no remnants of the horror that unfolded in this very room. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d think nothing ever went down here.
Foxface claps his hands together, a sharp sound in the stillness, then stretches with a sigh. “Alright, gentlemen, I’d say we’re just about done here.” His eyes flick to Nathaniel, who’s still running the UV light over every possible surface. “Well? Are we clear?”
Nathaniel grunts, standing up and shaking his head. “Not a single trace left. We’ve outdone ourselves.”
A pat on the back.
It still takes a little bit of time for Cassian to come back to the room and take another round of the garbage bags, while the other two check up every single little corner, nook, and cranny for any remnant of their crime, but around twenty minutes later, they're all done.
