HeartEater groaned low, a guttural sound clawing up from deep within his chest. The world was a haze of dark shapes and cold steel beneath him. He pushed himself slowly upright, knees scraping the floor, muscles aching and sluggish as if weighted by years of buried pain. The air was thick with the scent of burnt ozone and dried blood, the remnants of violence hanging like a shroud.
His foot caught on a slick patch of tile. A flash of motion, a loss of balance—and then his face slammed hard into the cold floor. The impact exploded behind his closed eyes. Pain flared sharp and immediate, but it was the kind of pain he welcomed, something solid and real in the fog of weakness.
With a ragged breath, he forced himself up again, this time steadier. His knees bent beneath him, heavy and uncooperative, yet determined. Trembling fingers, weak and foreign, reached behind his neck. He hesitated for the first time in a long time, uncertain with this new vulnerability crawling under his skin.
He found the nape—the place where flesh met bone, where steel had carved deep wounds before. His fingertips lifted the skin, careful, deliberate. He could feel the warmth of his own blood beneath his touch, slow to flow but steady, like a dark river beginning to move again.
His other hand searched the floor beside him, catching the glint of cold steel. One of his sickles lay there, its edge still sharp, stained with the memory of recent carnage. Without a flicker of hesitation, he gripped the handle and pressed the blade's sharp edge against the skin he'd just lifted.
A slow, cruel cut opened—a thin line running down the nape, releasing a dark ribbon of blood. It trickled steadily, warm and sticky against the cold of the floor. Pain throbbed through the cut, raw and alive, but it was nothing compared to what lay beneath.
His gloves, thick and black, were next to come off. He peeled them away slowly, revealing pale, scarred hands beneath—the hands of a soldier and a monster both. The skin was cracked, almost translucent, veins running like dark rivers beneath. Without flinching, both hands returned to the wound at his nape.
Fingers dug in deeper, ripping flesh aside with a wet, sickening sound—tearing muscle, crushing tissue, blood pooling between his fingers and dripping onto the floor.
He paused just a moment, breath ragged, heart hammering against his ribs. Then, with the sickle forgotten at his side, he shoved a finger deeper still.
A slick, hard object lay embedded against his spine—a foreign parasite that had been the source of the incessant ringing, the mindless control Morgana had wielded over him like a puppeteer.
He gripped it tightly, feeling it twitch and squirm as if alive.
For a split second, the ringing returned with a vengeful scream, trying desperately to claw back control, but he was stronger now. He twisted violently, ripping the device free in one savage motion.
There was no scream from him. No cry of pain or relief. Just the sound of wet crushing in his hand.
He stared at the parasite—slick and beetle-like—before smashing it under his fingers. Bone shattered beneath the pressure, fragments scattering across the floor like broken hopes.
The wound at his neck began to close instantly, muscle knitting itself together with brutal efficiency. Blood ceased to flow as skin pulled taut, sealing the damage as if it had never been.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he adjusted his mask back into place, the familiar weight settling over his face like a second skin.
His twin sickles lay nearby, glinting cold beneath the harsh lighting. He reached for them, gripping the handles tightly as his body flexed and stretched, muscles awakening from their dormant state.
His neck cracked quietly, a deep, satisfying sound as he flexed through stiffness. Every movement was calculated, controlled. His steps slow but steady as he rose to his feet.
The room was silent but for the hum of servers lined up like sentinels—Morgana's throne room of data and power.
Ahead, through the doorway, faint light spilled from the next chamber. He walked toward it with measured pace, the dull scrape of his boots on tile echoing off cold walls.
The door creaked open before him. Inside, Morgana sat poised in her chair—calm, untouchable. Her eyes were fixed on the wall of blinking servers, a smirk playing on her lips as she worked her unholy craft.
HeartEater paused just outside the door. The air was thick with tension. The machines hummed low, almost like a heartbeat, pulsing through the silence.
A single curved blade slipped through the narrow crack of the door, catching the light for a moment before disappearing again into shadow.
The moment hung suspended between worlds.
The hunter was awake.
The nightmare was far from over.