He steps too close. The blocking is wrong. He’s invading my space, looming over me in a way that triggers a muscle memory I thought I’d buried. The smell of the fake rubble, the flicker of the strobe lights—it all snaps into focus. For a second, I’m back in the tunnels. Back in the dark.
I stumble back, genuine panic spiking in my chest. “Get back!”
Kane grins, thinking it’s part of the scene. He lunges.
And then the air changes.
It’s subtle at first. A shift in pressure. A scent cutting through the fake smoke—ozone. Hot metal. Old blood. Real blood.
A shadow detaches itself from the darkness behind the lighting rig.
“That’s not how a Reaper moves,” a voice growls.
It’s low. Gravel and thunder. A sound that vibrates in the floorboards.
Kane freezes. The crew goes silent. Miles stands up so fast his chair tips over.
I stop breathing. I know that voice. I’ve heard it in my nightmares. I’ve heard it in my dreams.
A figure steps into the circle of stage light. He towers over Kane. His armor isn’t plastic; it’s scorched, scarred alloy that has seen orbital re-entry and war. His horns aren’t glued on; they spiral back from his skull, dangerous and regal.
Gyon.
He’s here. Alive. Real.
Kane DeSoto squeaks—actually squeaks—and drops his scythe.
Gyon ignores him. He ignores the cameras. He ignores the stunned crew. His eyes—glowing with that familiar red predatory light—lock onto mine.
“Hello, Liora,” he says.
My knees give out. I sink onto a prop rock, my hands shaking.
“Cut!” Miles screams, but this time it sounds like a cheer. “Keep rolling! Nobody cut! This is gold!”
I don’t hear him. I don’t hear anything but the blood roaring in my ears.
He came back.
CHAPTER 28
GYON
The studio is a wreck of lights and cables, a mockery of the hell we survived. I stand in the center of the stage, the heat of the lights beating against my real armor. The air smells of fear now—the actor’s fear. Kane DeSoto shrinks back, clutching his plastic chest plate like it will save him.
It won’t.
I turn my gaze from Liora—who looks pale, shattered, and beautiful—to the director scrambling down from his perch.
“You!” Miles Maximus points a shaking finger at me. “You’re… you’re the real one. The wildcard. The Reaper.”
“Gyon,” I correct him. My voice is calm, but my claws are flexed inside my gauntlets.
“This is incredible,” Miles breathes, circling me like I’m a prop he ordered. “The look! The authenticity! The menace!” He turns to his assistant. “Get a contract. Now!”
He thrusts a tablet at me. “Sign this. Whatever you want. Credits? Done. Residency sponsorship? Done. Just… stay. Be the monster.”
I look at the tablet. Then I look at Liora.
