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Rating:

Mature

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character Death

Category:

Multi

Fandom:

Parahumans Series - Wildbow

Characters:

Additional Tags:

Mystic Eyes of Death PerceptionConceptual DeathHorrorPsychological HorrorBody HorrorCosmic HorrorExistential DreadSad girl hoursAlt-Power Taylor HebertPower CorruptionIdentity CrisisCharacter StudyBeing Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver Is SufferingTaylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver Needs a HugMagicInsanityMurder

Language:

English

Stats:

Published:2025-06-21Updated:2025-11-06Words:56,264Chapters:9/?Comments:252Kudos:757Bookmarks:293Hits:29,582

She Who Sees Death

TheSmilingFox

Chapter 7: Bite the Dragon's Neck

Chapter Text

1/The Girl Who Didn't Die

Bite the Dragon's Neck

"Cut what stops me… Hide when watched… Kill the dragon."

The words leaked from me in a whisper, seeping into the wood slats. I curled tighter under the bed, eyes locked on the shifting glow beneath the frame. The lines shimmered crimson, twitching like veins alive with blood, then sank into black when they crawled into the light.

I pressed the knife to my chest.

Fold. Unfold.

Each click echoed in my ribs, syncing with my heartbeat until I wasn't sure which was calling the other. Steel and pulse. Pulse and steel. My palm sweated around the hilt. I let it burn there, acclimating, weight, sound, the sharp prickle in the skull before the cut.

Pain bloomed hot behind my eyes, a fire that wanted more. I steadied it with the knife again.

Fold.

Unfold.

Fold.

Unfold.

Tonight.

I would kill Lung tonight.

I'd already mapped the Docks, every rotten street and alley, every face of the grunts who hadn't gone into the ground yet. I knew the guns, the hands steady enough to use them, the ones who flinched, the ones who didn't.

I'd walk into the beast's belly and cut until it stopped moving.

The capes wouldn't touch the Docks after dark unless a war broke out. The cops would circle the crime scenes like moths, dissecting what I left behind. The ABB was raw and rattled, formations cracked, nerves frayed. If I struck now, I could strangle the breath out of them before it returned.

Otherwise, they'd keep.

Keep robbing. Keep breaking. Keep killing.

Not anymore.

The light in my room was a dull white, muted through thick clouds. I didn't need to look to know they were swollen with rain. The air pressed heavy, damp, sticky in my throat.

Lung would be dead before the sky broke.

Footsteps. Heavy. Dragging.

"Taylor," Dad called. "I got donuts. Your favorite. The one with chocolate inside."

The door creaked open. I curled into myself, breath stilled, knife pressed against ribs like a secret I couldn't let him see.

"Taylor?" His voice was soft, cautious. "You there, kid? Time for breakfast."

I didn't answer. Couldn't. If he saw me crawl out from under the bed—if he saw me like this—it'd ruin everything.

My stomach growled. Loud. Treacherous. I clamped a hand against it, felt the hollow ache gnaw deeper. No time for that. No space for soft, useless things like food or sleep. There was only one thing left to do.

Dad sighed. The door clicked shut.

I stayed in the dark, cramped hollow. Tried to let the silence smother me. But the hunger clawed. Not the hunger for food... worse. Eating at me from the inside, stripping me raw. I'd been starving myself down to the bones, only what was necessary, nothing to slow me.

Still, the pain crawled up my spine.

Horrible. Unbearable.

…If I went into the night with this gnawing emptiness, I'd break before Lung did.

I crawled out slow, careful, like the world was watching me through the walls. Stood on shaking legs. Pocketed the knife.

Walked out.

Kept myself small. Moved quiet through my own house like it belonged to someone else. Didn't want to run into Dad. Didn't want him to see me. Didn't want to see him.

Downstairs. I stalked the hall. Peeked into the living room.

He sat there, mug steaming, donuts on the coffee table. TV flickering. Didn't even notice me.

Not really watching either. He had a book in his other hand.

The hunger clawed at me. Hollow belly. Tight throat. Saliva pooling. I squinted, forced myself to focus on the cover and not in the sensations. Couldn't make out the title at this distance, but I knew it anyway.

Weathering the Storm.

…A book he bought three years ago. After Mom. After everything. He'd finished it long ago. Why now? Memories? Wounds reopening? Or just circling back, seeing if the words felt different this time?

Didn't know. Wouldn't ask.

The ache in my gut chewed through my spine. Couldn't take it. But I couldn't just walk in, grab a donut.

Backed off. Slipped into the kitchen instead.

And there. More donuts. Waiting on the kitchen counter. The fancy ones, the kind we never bought unless it was special. My legs carried me before I thought. My mouth watered. My belly screamed.

A note sat there. I snatched it up with shaking fingers, chest tight.

All for you, kid. Don't eat them all in one go.

A little smiley face drawn beside it. Wobbly lines. Crooked. Dad's hand.

I froze, stared down at the plate. Then I reached out.

The hunger tore at me. My throat burned. My eyes stung wet.

I wasn't sure if it was just the hunger, or something else. Something worse.

Didn't matter. No time for that. No time for Dad. Only this.

I picked one up. Pressed it to my mouth. Bit down—

"Taylor?"

"Hmmf—ghh—"

Choked. Swallowed hard, smacked my chest once, twice, until it slid down.

"…H-Hey, Dad," I mumbled, mouth still half full.

Footsteps. Close, steady.

"Easy there. Where were you?" His voice carried that awkward laugh of his, the one he used when he didn't know how to feel. "I checked your room, you weren't there. Did you… bathroom? Or sneak outside?"

"Foilef," I said around the donut, crumbs sticking to my lips. Too hungry to stop. "Didn't hear you. Sorry."

He put his mug down with a soft clink. Turned. Looked.

"There you go again, apologizing over nothing." He smiled faintly. "We've gotta break you of that, honestly. You don't nee—"

Stopped. Mid-step. Mid-breath.

Just stood there. Watching.

"…What?" I asked, stuffing another bite in, trying not to inhale it like an animal.

He didn't answer. Moved in slow, cautious. Like I was a cornered creature.

"Taylor," he said, softer now. "Are you okay?"

I chewed, swallowed hard. Raised a brow.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

His eyes roamed my face. Down, up. His hand lifted halfway, then dropped. "You look…" pause, "…you look terrible."

I tried to laugh. Came out flat. Tried to smile. My lips didn't listen.

"Bit harsh, Dad."

"I'm not being rude," he said quickly. "I just... have you been sleeping? Eating?"

"…I'm eating right now." I waved the half-gone donut. My voice caught. I forced it out anyway.

He didn't blink. Crossed his arms, shoulders tight.

"Before the donuts."

The word caught in my throat. I choked, coughed once, twice. Managed a hoarse, "Yeah."

But he just stayed there. Staring. Waiting. And I couldn't meet his eyes. Couldn't stand them. I locked onto the countertop instead, watched faint lines dance and shift there, phantom veins waiting to be cut.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" His tone leveled, that steady-dad kind of serious. "Or do I have to talk it out of you?"

I sighed through my nose, forcing calm.

"I'm honest about how I feel, Dad. No need to pull anything out. I'm fine."

His head shook slowly.

"You're my daughter. I love you more than anyone in this world. I would never push past your will. But I can't let you keep something buried if it's hurting you. You did it with the bullying. You almost did it with the locker. I won't sit and watch it happen again. Your wellbeing is not negotiable."

I slowed my chewing. Focused on the donut. On the chocolate bleeding out the middle. Something I could hold. Something simple.

He leaned forward. Voice pressing closer.

"I've been patient, Taylor. But I need an answer. A real one. What happened now? How do I help?"

Help. Not do you need it? Just… help, unconditional. Like love. Like friendship. Like things that burned hotter than hunger and weighed heavier than knives. Freely given, not so freely accepted.

And I didn't know what to do with it. Couldn't.

"Do I need to spell it out?" he pushed gently. His voice cracked just a little. "You're pale as chalk. Eyes sunken. Like you've been locked inside too long, but stepping out would set you on fire. Do you understand how it feels to see you like this? I can't simply—"

"I can't sleep."

It slipped out sharp, rough. A shard of truth. Enough to stall him.

He stopped. Silence heavy. Then a breath. I felt the panic soften in him, bend into something else. Gratitude, maybe. Relief.

"…Why not, kid?"

I licked my lips, dry and cracked. Thought of excuses, lies, half-truths. Thought of the book he read over and over, the nights he'd spent in the car, the emptiness that clawed like hunger and death at once.

My stomach twisted. With shame. With guilt.

One word cut through anyway.

"Mom."

Another pause. Then…

"…Nightmares."

Dad didn't speak right away. I tore into another donut, sugar and grease sticking to my fingers. Halfway through I stopped, throat tight. I was chewing like an animal, feeding while dropping that kind of weight on him. The food sat heavy, twisting in my stomach with something worse than hunger.

Trash.

That's what I was. For lying. For twisting the knife in wounds that hadn't closed. For being nothing more than a shadow at his table.

But there was nothing else I could give him. Better to stir up ghosts than bury myself alive with the truth.

I risked a glance. He was smiling.

"Thank you," he said softly. "For being honest."

The words dug deeper than the hunger ever could. I just nodded, bit again, kept my mouth busy.

"How often does it happen?" His tone sharpened. I forced a swallow.

"…On and off. No pattern. It just… comes."

He crossed his arms, nodding as if that meant something.

"I see. I understand. Would you want to talk about it? Maybe… not with me, if it's too hard. A therapist, someone you can open up to. An expert."

I shook my head, exhaled through my nose. "I don't need help, Dad. I'm not broken. These things happen, no matter what. Best to accept it and move on."

Silence. His eyes stayed on me. I pushed through.

"Knowing you're here… that's enough."

I heard him let out a long breath. Not tired, not beaten down the way he usually got. This one was light, almost relieved. He smiled like something had been set right. Maybe proud of me, maybe proud of himself, like we'd finally had a heart-to-heart worth keeping.

I couldn't tell.

All I knew was that his relief curdled in my stomach. Sat heavy on top of the donuts.

Maybe it wasn't the lie. Maybe it wasn't even dragging him by the nose. Maybe it was dragging her into it, Mom's name, fresh salt over an old wound. All to cover the black gnawing inside me.

He still looked at me like I was just his kid. His darling daughter. Not some starving thing chewing lies between bites of sugar.

"Okay," he said, voice soft enough to almost vanish. "Okay, I understand. But promise me… if something's wrong, you'll tell me. If you need me. I'll always be here."

My throat clenched. The hunger eased for a breath, like it had been soothed by his words, then came right back sharper. I nodded anyway. Forced out some raspy words.

"Thanks, Dad."

He left me to the donuts. I left for my room.

Thought about crawling under the bed again, but my body collapsed onto it instead. Pillow to chest, legs pulled in tight. The taste of chocolate and grease still clinging to my tongue.

I told myself I'd sleep. Told myself it was just tonight. Just one kill. Then maybe… maybe I'd rest. Maybe I'd eat without shame. Maybe I'd even tell Dad I'd finally done something good. That I was worth something. That he could be proud.

I tried to picture it: coming home to warmth, to a meal that filled me instead of hollowing me out. Tried to feel the weight of being useful, after three years of scraping by as nothing.

But when I closed my eyes, there was no warmth. Just the black of night. Just the weight of steel in my hand. Just the faces of people staring at me from the wrong end of a blade.

I opened my eyes. Saw the shifting lines again, crawling at the edges of everything. Waiting.

I curled tighter, tighter, as if I could squeeze myself small enough to vanish. Small enough to stop wanting.

When I woke, everything was dark. I slid out of bed, then out of the house, the hunger leading me on.

The sky sagged low, dark grey smeared with smoke. The air pressed down hot and heavy, wrong for winter. I could taste it.

Metal on my tongue. Blood on the back of my throat. A thirst nothing would quench.

Blue uniforms ringed the Dragon's den. Streets clogged with cops corralling people, waving papers, voices flat with exhaustion. I stayed clear of the big roads. Too open. Too loud. The alleys were worse, sealed with tape, flashlights, watchful eyes. Traps waiting for something like me to walk into them.

Capes hovered at the edges, some stiff, some slack. One in particular... blue armor, heavy frame, visor lit with cold light. Armsmaster. His patrol loop cut close, bike growling low. I shrank back into the dark, felt my pulse in my throat. Wrong time. Wrong hunter.

Wait.

Wait—

Lag in his circuit. Just seconds, but seconds were enough. I slipped across the street, breath thin, body tight.

I picked the middle ground. A street cluttered with the herd, civilians bristling at barricades, cops barking orders, everything restless. Too busy to notice me threading through.

Coffee-stink on the breath of one officer. Complaints about murder, about shifts, about pay. Mundane noise, dull enough to cover me. I crouched, slid past their cordon, skin prickling as if the air itself wanted to catch me.

"Get out of my way already!"

A voice broke through, sharp, angry. I froze, ducked behind a car. Peeked.

She was there.

Dark green uniform, tight, clean. Olive skin taut with wiry muscle, scarf catching the light. Beret and sash bright against the fog, knife at her hip. Empty hands now, but never unarmed.

Miss Militia.

The air shifted. I shrank smaller.

War, given a human face.

"Please, sir." Her voice carried, steady, almost ceremonial. "We just need a name. An address. For your safety. Then you can go."

The man spat his answer, bitter and cracked. "I ain't got time for this. You're paid to block me. Paid to waste my time. I'm not. Look at the clouds - it's about to rain! Great job, hero."

Static buzzed in my head.

Wait.

Wait—

More officers stepped in, voices rising, bodies shifting. Militia's focus divided, spread thin over sheep.

And I slid through the gap. Quiet, breathless, into the Dragon's den.

The Docks were thinner tonight. Fewer bodies, but thicker tension. Every step felt watched. Shadows bristled like hackles raised. I kept to walls, sliding through alleys, eyes low.

A warehouse ahead. Windows shattered. Lights bleeding through cracks. I slipped inside, crouched low.

Voices. Sharp. Hungry. Violet threads snapping restless across my sight. Five, no, eight targets. Too many.

Wait.

Knife in hand. Fold. Unfold. Fold. Unfold. The click echoed in my chest like a second heartbeat.

"Damn, these babies ain't nothing like those little pistols! Feels like I'm a terrorist or some shit—"

A smack, hard. Steel parts clattering.

"That baby is an AK-47, moron. Point it at my face again and I'll break your arms. Boss wants a sweep. Eyes open. Focus or die."

"Hey, hey, that a threat? Don't like your tone, man."

Laughter. A shove. Something crashed. A crate, maybe.

"No threats. Just truth. You saw the last crew. Four men, cut into pieces. Dead meat. This thing - we don't know if it's a cape. Don't know if it's a monster. Doesn't matter. Guns are the bare minimum if we want to breathe tomorrow. Gear up and move out. You, you, and you, stay. Anything moves? Shoot. Then shoot again. And if it's bigger than you can handle… torch the place."

Boots stamped in rhythm. A pack, priming itself for the hunt. Doors slammed. Lights dropped, leaving the bare glow of bulbs overhead.

I stayed still. Counted breaths. Counted seconds. Till their shoulders eased, their voices loosened.

"Shit, all this for one guy? Boss should take care of him himself."

"Yeah, genius idea. Except no one who's seen him lived, dumbass. The two who did? Hospital beds. Rat knows he can't touch the boss, so he hides. We gotta flush him out."A pause. The scrape of a mag slamming home.

"…I dunno," another muttered. "If he can just fillet people like that… I ain't sure even the boss could handle him. Just sayin'."

Silence. Uneasy. Thick with the weight of their own words.

Good.

"Pray he can, then. Or we're fucked. Anyway, where'd the others go?"

"The usual. Y'know, the factory. Green doors. Boss wants a meeting before the hunt."

My tongue dragged across my lips. Factory. Green doors.

The Dragon's den.

I unfolded the knife, the steel whispering open like a promise.

I waited. Waited. Waited.

Then I slid behind one. Close enough to smell the heat of him. My hand moved before thought. A flicker.

Dark.

The lights were gone, but I didn't need them.

The floor was wet. Sticky. My steps left quiet sounds that weren't echoes. The walls breathed, sweating red.

Shapes sprawled at my feet. Not bodies. Too many parts, too few wholes. Things I didn't remember carving.

And they moved. Moaned. Scratched at air with fingers that weren't there anymore. Voices bubbling out in pieces, too broken to form language.

My stomach lurched. Something inside me twisted, sharp and sweet, a nausea that wasn't entirely revulsion. I staggered back, hand clamped over my mouth.

A box hit my hip. I slipped my hand inside. Cold metal brushed my skin. Bullets. Guns. Then... something round. Heavy. Familiar. I pulled it up into the dim light.

Grenade.

I rolled it in my palm, its weight pressing deep into my skin. I set it down. Kept digging.

Another shape. Cylindrical. Letters catching light: incendiary.

A touch on my ankle. Fingers... or what used to be fingers. I jerked, breath tearing out of me, and kicked. A sound followed, broken and wet. The thing crawled anyway.

I yanked the pin and dropped the canister into the box. Fire would do what I couldn't.

But I hesitated at the door.

They were still moving. Still pleading in sounds too mangled to be human.

I swallowed hard. Then I dragged each one into the street. Every shuddering, half-living scrap. They clawed and moaned, too weak to stop me, too stubborn to die.

Behind me, the warehouse began to crackle. To breathe smoke.

I ran.

"Taylor… please. Don't shut me out. I'm here."

A voice. Warm. Too warm. A tether tugged inside me. My breath caught; the hunger loosened, dulled.

"I'm still here," I whispered back, and kept moving.

I pressed to walls and shadows, slipping between alleys and containers. The Docks were empty, but the air wasn't. It pulsed with something nervous, watchful. The kind of silence that twitched if you breathed too loud.

Then I heard it. Feet shifting. Voices stacking. The click and snap of guns being fed and readied. I followed the noise until I found it: a rotting factory with faded green doors, light bleeding through cracks like a corpse twitching on dirt.

I circled low, taking my time. Every window watched. Every door barred. Too many men to walk straight in. No gaps, except—

A hole. Just where the wall sagged into the ground. Too narrow for a man, wide enough for something thin, patient.

I dropped flat. Crawled. Felt cobwebs drag over my face, a spider caught on my cheek. I speared it with my knife and wiped the blade against my sleeve without breaking rhythm. Inch by inch, until I was inside.

Boxes, shelves crumbling to powder. A faint light under a door. I crept to it, pressed my ear. Voices, blurred. The knob refused to turn.

So I crouched again, belly scraping the dust. The lines writhed at the bottom of the wall, waiting. I slid the knife into one and dragged sideways. The plaster gave with a clean crack. I pulled the piece free, careful. Looked through.

A crowd. Dozens in red and green, skin scrawled with beasts and monsters. Knives, pistols, rifles… an arsenal in wrong hands. Every voice silenced, listening.

All watching the man at their center.

Muscle corded tight across his back, dragons burning red and green on his skin. Shoulders broad enough to carry violence like nothing. Hands thick and scarred, jeans too clean, out of place on something feral.

Lung.

The Dragon.

I pressed lower, breath shallow against the dirt, fingers clawing dust. My hair fell forward, curtains around my eyes. I listened.

His voice rolled out, heavy, jagged. Like the lowest piano key, pressed too long, too hard.

"Fifteenth to twentieth. Empty the houses. If you find a family, kill a parent. The children… take them with you. Kill them if he does not come. Anyone runs, you shoot."

The words thudded in my ear, rhythm steady as a war drum. Not rage. Not indignation.

Recognition.

He raised a fist in front of his face.

"He likes to play hero. We make him play."

The room shifted. Uneasy. Their silence wasn't morality, but fear. A collective flinch. Not enough to stop them.

And in me, something cracked.

Happy. Furious. Both at once. Because he did this for me. Because people would scream and burn because of me.

And the thought filled me with a sick rush, like a piece sliding into place.

For once, someone saw me and didn't turn away.

The grunts murmured assent. Began to scatter. Two figures remained.

Oni Lee. Skinny shadow wrapped in knives, face a white demon grin. And beside him, someone new. Smaller, armored in black, gas mask lenses glowing red. Hair glossy, straight, falling down her back.

Lung turned to Oni Lee first. Finger jabbing like a spear. "You. Follow the groups. Alternate. If they hesitate, kill them with the families. If you see that shit sneaking around… break his arms. His legs. Bring him to me."

Oni Lee nodded once.

A heartbeat later, his body unraveled into ash. Gone.

Lung turned to the other. She tilted her head, one hand on her hip, voice bright.

"Yes, mister bossman, sir. I walk around. Make things go boom-boom. Already know the drill."

"No." His voice dropped deeper. "Standby. Back to base."

"What?!" she snapped. "But I can blow that killer-wannabe fuck to smithereens! It'd be a cinch. Done and over. Beer after." Then, quieter, flatter, "Sir."

"Exactly. If you kill him, I kill you. Do not test me, Bakuda."

I swallowed hard. My tongue flicked across dry lips. The knife—my steel claw—tightened in my grip until my knuckles burned.

He didn't want anyone else touching this. He wanted me for himself.

Good.

It would be between us. But not how he thought.

I curled smaller, pressed lower to the ground. Waiting. Breathing shallow. Waiting until the factory thinned out, until Bakuda's complaints shrank into mutters.

Then—

"F-Fire!" a man burst in, eyes wide, voice cracked. Panic punched through the room. "One of the caches - it's burning! Our guys, they're… they're cut apart, but alive! It's him!"

The crowd jolted like a single body. Shouts broke out. Hands twitched for weapons. Bakuda snapped her head around, sharp as a blade, eyes locked on Lung.

He didn't even flinch. Arms folding across his chest, voice low, iron.

"Leave it to burn," he said flatly. "Do what I said. Now."

Something passed through them. Clarity, or fear sharpened into obedience. The mob scattered, boots thundering out into the night.

Bakuda lingered, whispering sharp, fast. I couldn't catch the words. He growled, deep enough that the walls seemed to hum, and she fell back. One last glance, then she too slipped out.

Silence.

Only him left. Still. Vast. Arms hanging loose at his sides, fingers flexing like claws against the dark. His back turned.

Lung stayed there. Still. I counted seconds. Then minutes. Then stopped counting.

His back was a wall of muscle, black ink crawling over tan skin. The tattoos shifted in my eyes, lines writhing into patterns that didn't follow bone or flesh… etching something else, something older.

The script of his death.

I glanced at the locked door at my side, its seams alive with black threads waiting for a knife. Easy. Too easy. A cut, a crawl, and he'd be mine.

I looked back.

Gone.

He was already walking out.

Urgency gripped me by the throat. I slipped from my hole, slithered outside, kept to the dark as I rounded the factory. There... his shape against the streetlight glow. A giant strolling into dead ground. Empty street. Broken windows, gutted houses, nothing left alive. Nothing left but us.

THUMP.

I hugged the walls, the crates, anything that cast a shadow. Knife in hand. An ache twisted in my ankle. I ignored it.

THUMP.

The lines lit red, crawling over him, pulsing with every step. They weren't just showing me the kill. They were calling me to it.

I licked my lips. Felt them curl into a grin.

THUMP.

The knife burned hot in my grip. Sweat slid down my temple, cold as ice.

Closer.

THUMP.

Closer still. Close enough to see how massive he really was… and how breakable.

I fixed on a single line, a diagonal slash across the dragon on his back. From here, not a beast. Just a throat waiting to be cut.

TH-UMP.

A rival. A kill that mattered.

TH-UMP.

The hunger coiled, hot and wet in my chest.

TH-UMP.

The sky pressed down, swollen, ugly, ready to burst.

Saliva dripped between my teeth. My jaw ached.

TH-UMP.

I tensed. Every muscle pulled tight. Ready to leap.

TH—

He stopped.

Fists clenched. A growl rolled out of him, deep and raw, rattling in my bones.

"I know you are there," he rumbled, voice thick as iron. "Come out and fight me, little killer."

I froze. Eyes wide, unblinking.

The first drop struck.

Pat. Pat-pat. Pat-pat-pat.

The rain came.

I moved.

Lung turned instantly, a grunt tearing from him, half-snarl, half-laugh. His arm detonated in orange flame, clawed fingers of fire stretching for my skull. A dragon's talon, eager to crush, to burn.

And I saw him. Not a costume. Not a mask. A monster's face in flesh and steel, eyes lit with dawnfire.

I didn't meet them. Too dangerous. I looked at his arm. The flames. The lines shifting inside the blaze. Waiting.

Ready.

I swung as he did.

Duck low. The world went white-hot. Pain ripped through my shoulder, sharp, searing. The smell of my own meat cooking clawed at my throat. I gagged on it.

My knife carved across his bicep. The fire bit into my hand. I dragged anyway.

I hit the ground on all fours, choking, coughing like an animal left broken in the dirt. My shoulder screamed. Rain hissed against the burn, carried the stench into my lungs until bile rose.

But I'd known worse.

I staggered upright. Turned.

Lung loomed, fire-wrapped. His body was already splitting, veins glowing orange, steam ghosting up as rain boiled on his skin.

A beat.

Then he twisted his neck. Looked down.

A wet sound. Flesh parting.

His arm hit the ground.

The stump glowed, lava-bright, bleeding molten sludge that hissed and ate through the street.

He straightened. His chest rumbled.

A growl. A laugh. Both.

And his eyes—burning into mine—held no fear.

Only fury.

THUMP.

I cut his arm. Severed it as easily as anything else.

He didn't retreat. He didn't falter.

He'd kill me or die trying.

THUMP.

His body cracked, little sounds like breaking glass as his skeleton twisted, thickened, forced his muscles outward. White-hot blades erupted through his flesh, welding themselves into a second skin of metal. The mask stayed in place, the last remnant of something human caging what no longer was.

He stood there. Waiting.

THUMP.

Flesh split. Bone snapped. His skin greyed as ash over coals. Taller. Broader. The lines grew with him, stretching over his body, fusing with the veins of molten light pulsing beneath the armor. His legs smoldered through the ruined fabric of his pants.

Man to beast.

Beast to something worse.

THUMP.

The longer I stared, the less I believed.

THUMP.

I…

THUMP.

…I'd already failed. I hadn't killed him with the first strike. I hesitated. And hesitation was death.

The hunger lied to me. The lines lied to me.

I'd lost the fight before it began.

THUMP.

I stepped back.

He stepped forward, talons of steel gouging the concrete with each stride. His eyes burned holes through the mask, steady, unblinking.

Then his stump lashed out.

A whip of molten blood carved the air.

I threw myself flat. The stream hissed through the wall behind me, stone collapsing like sugar.

I rolled to the side.

His fist followed. The pavement buckled where I'd been. The shockwave sent me tumbling.

For a heartbeat, I thought of running. But then, lines. So many lines. A target crawling across his leg. If I cut it…

...Cripple him. End him. Escape.

I lunged. Knife ready.

His foot struck out, a claw of fire and steel. I ducked late. Too late.

The graze ripped air from my chest. My body spun, weightless, collapsing into the street.

I clawed at the ground, stopped myself, choking for breath. My ribs burned. My shoulder screamed. My knife—charred, steaming—still in my hand. I gripped it until my palm hurt.

I looked up.

Gulp.

Lung smashed his remaining arm into a car.

Metal shrieked. He lifted it like a toy, hoisted it above his head, turned toward me.

"…Come on."

He threw.

The car filled my vision. Falling. Crushing. No time. No space.

Instinct. My knife shot out, desperate. Metal shrieked.

The blade sank into a line running across its frame.

The world cracked.

Rain exploded into my face as the car split, halves crashing down to either side. I lay between them, coughing, sputtering, alive.

Alive.

A sound scraped my throat raw. "Ha… haha."

I sat up. Every joint groaned like breaking hinges. Pain gnawed through me, bone and muscle and fire.

But I saw him again.

Lung. Taller now. Broader. A shadow crowned in flame, eyes burning through the rain. The stump of his arm dripped liquid fire, each drop hissing, eating into the street. Cracks blazed across his body like a furnace breaking free of its shell.

My heart slammed once, hard enough to hurt.

He would not stop.

I tried to stand. My legs buckled, dumped me back into the water. Rain splashed up cold against my face.

The ground rumbled beneath me – steady, merciless.

Footsteps.

Lung, closing in. Not rushing. Not cautious either. Just approaching.

I glanced around. Empty street. Empty buildings. No one left but him and me.

I dragged in a ragged breath, knuckles whitening on the knife. A fight meant death. He was too strong, too fast. This would be like a fly throwing itself at a furnace. Running was possible, but he'd catch me. Snap me. Burn me.

Think. Think.

I braced on the pavement, forcing my body to rise, and then I saw them. The lines. Slick and shifting, rainwater crawling into them like they were more than fractures.

My heart thudded, sharp and hungry. I remembered. The day I saw Glory Girl and Armsmaster in action, the way the lines moved across asphalt.

Death, written into the world's skin.

I pressed my knife into the line beneath me and held it there, still.

I fixed my gaze on Lung, rising onto one knee. Let him see me. Let him hear me. The only chance I had left.

I breathed. In. Out. Let the rhythm settle into my hand.

Fold. Unfold. Fold. Unfold. Thump. Th-ump. Thump. Th-ump.

And then I smiled from under my hood, lips pulled tight around the hunger burning my throat.

"Is that all you've got?"

He froze.

For a heartbeat, only rain. Only the knife in my hand. My own breath hissing in my ears. His eyes burned through the dark, shining and inhuman.

Then - gone.

Now.

I rolled, dragging the knife across the line as I moved. The world split.

Lung slammed down where I'd been, an eruption of fire and steel tearing into the street. Not just a crater. The ground gave way in slabs, sidewalk and asphalt collapsing with him.

I kept rolling. Staggered into a run, half-blind. Slid into an alley before the fractures could claim me too.

I didn't look back.

Didn't stop.

Ran until the night blurred together, until my body betrayed me and dropped me into another half-flooded alley.

I slumped against a wall, knife heavy in my hand before I pocketed it. My chest rose and fell in ragged gasps.

Rain drummed over me, into my eyes, until the world swam.

I tried to shape words, lips trembling.

"Next time…"

The rest never came. Or maybe I choked it back.

There wouldn't be a next time.

I wasn't sure why.

Wasn't sure if it was the fire, the pain, or the blood on my hands. I only knew that, at one point… none mattered. Not anymore.

It was all for nothing.

I curled into myself as the rain poured down, let the hunger slip, and finally—finally—let sleep take me.

1/The Girl Who Didn't Die

END

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