Ignoring the stalker for now, I focused on the task ahead.
Two days had passed since my return.
2:57 PM, 24/12/25. The day was slipping by. I needed to hurry.
I reached the supermarket in fifteen minutes. I needed to buy every shelf-stable food item available. It was going to be expensive, but money was never a real problem. We belonged to the upper-middle class of this current society. Our parents left us enough to live a carefree life, even after the betrayal of my father's family, who abandoned us and were the reason we had to leave our original home and country.
That memory always stings—the way one's own blood turns against you for wealth. But what mattered now was survival. They were irrelevant.
I pushed the cart through the aisles, scanning the shelves with calculated eyes. I focused on long shelf life and high caloric density: rice, canned goods, pasta, salt. These were the items people dismissed in normal times but killed for when the world burned. Every package I placed into the cart felt like a small, desperate victory, buying days of life itself.
Other shoppers glanced at the full cart, their expressions curious. A young man stacking supplies just days before Christmas drew attention, but I ignored their judgment. They wouldn't understand until it was too late.
When I finally stopped, the carts were piled high. The total flashed on the register—an amount that would make most people hesitate. I didn't blink. Money was worthless in a collapsing world. Food was life.
As the cashier bagged everything, she offered a polite, querying smile. I gave a silent nod back, forcing myself not to explain.
Outside, the air was sharp, and the sky had turned a dull, early gray. Snow clung to the edges of the parking lot, crunching under my boots as I began loading the supplies into the car.
December 24th. Day Three.
For a moment, my reflection in the car window caught my eye. Tired, focused, carrying the weight of something no one else could see. One task done. Eight more days.
I shut the trunk, slammed the door, and took a deep breath. "How long are you planning to watch your master like a stalker?" I said to the chill air, but a reply came—a voice that made me feel absurdly relaxed, the voice of my protector from my previous life.
"Not long," she said. Her tone was soft, ethereal, and laced with quiet amusement. "Just long enough to ensure you made it."
The words slid over me like a warm hand on a cold night. Watchers don't bring comfort; they bring endings. Yet, I let the feeling settle.
"You left me alone the last time," I muttered, crossing to the driver's seat.
"You did not need me then," she answered, the certainty at the edge of thought. "You needed someone to remember your fate. That is different."
"You deciding that on your own is arrogant," I said, finally letting my eyes rest on her after all these years. Her presence was now beside me, a certainty that defied the laws of the universe. "Your master never gave you permission to leave, did he, Maeve?"
"My master?" Her lips curled into an intangible, playful smirk. "Look at you—weak, fragile, and yet you claim to be mine? I was the one who had to protect you, remember?"
"Protect me?" My voice sharpened. "Don't forget the full picture. I had to drag you back from the brink, challenge a god's authority, and give you my life essence just to save you. And still, you left me. You died before me." The words cut deeper than I intended.
Maeve's smirk faltered, replaced by an expression of profound, aching composure.
"Whatever you believe," I went on, steady but hollow inside, "you are no longer his servant. The God of Death himself gave me authority over you. You belong to me now. And you are not permitted to leave me again."
"Ooo, so it's true," she teased, though her voice vibrated with a sharp intensity. "You really convinced him to hand over one of his Watchers to a mere human? But… do you even need a Watcher who has already died?"
I gave her a small, deliberate smile. "What? Don't you want to stay with me? Maybe I should ask for another instead—"
Her reply was instantaneous, shattering the stillness in the car. "No!" The word thundered, yet carried the fragile sound of breaking glass.
"I'm not leaving you," she cried, her voice cracking with spectral grief. "Do you even know how empty the world felt without you?"
I exhaled, regret weighing heavily. "I'm sorry. You know I'd never cast you aside. Don't cry. Do you want your lover to cry?"
Silence. Then, quieter, steadier:
"I am already yours," I said, my voice easing as I started the car. "Now, stay steady. You are a Watcher of Death, an angel who shouldn't belong to any human. The other gods will be watching. You must be strong, and so must I."
She gave a small, defiant breath of laughter. "And yet, my master is strong enough to protect me… isn't he? They will think twice before meddling with Death's business. There are not many who can stand against the God of Death."
My resolve hardened as I looked upward, past the clouds, where I knew unseen eyes were already watching. My words carried like a blade drawn from its sheath, directed at the vast sky:
"To the watchers of other Gods, spread this, if you dare. I, Aris Ashford, swear on the foundation of the universe itself—if any god so much as harms a single atom of what is mine, I will tear down the heavens."
The heavens did not answer—but I knew they heard.