Nellie stood over me, her posture straight, her gaze sharpening like steel. Then her eyes shifted, glowing faintly with flames, as if danger itself had stepped into her vision. She muttered under her breath, "Crimson Dance," and swung her hand in a smooth circle.
Flames shimmered into existence at her command, crawling across the ground to form a ring around me. The heat pulsed outward, and the rats that usually prowled the ruins at night scattered in a frenzy, squealing as they fled from the fire. But the heat didn't touch me. It was as if the circle was meant for everything else, except me.
She didn't explain or offer a word. And without hesitation, she stepped through the wall of fire as though it were nothing, leaving me behind in its glow.
"Nellie…" My voice cracked, low but firm enough to stop her mid-step. "I know you're going to look for it. But if you find whoever has it… promise me you won't hurt them?"
Her head tilted slightly, her face turning just enough for me to catch her expression in the light.
"I won't…" she said at last, "If they haven't eaten it yet. But that also depends on how they handle my presence."
With that, she moved on; her long skirt whispering against the dirt, her bare feet leaving no sound. She drifted forward like a shadow carried by the night, gliding over the ruined neighbourhood until the firelight swallowed her figure.
Nellie is an Onai, a Fourth Generation, master of heat and flames, and a Third-Grade ghost. That's why she could conjure something like this. Unlike spirits, ghosts don't lose their Generation abilities when they die; they carry them into death, wielding them as if their bodies never rotted away. Spirits on the other hand are different. After evolving from ghost to spirit, they obtain spiritual energy.
Nellie drifted between the scattered homes like the ghost she was, her movements slow but deliberate, every step soundless on the ruined earth. To anyone watching, she wouldn't have looked real at all, more shadow than flesh. She stopped suddenly, as though drawn, before an abandoned chicken coop sagging under age and neglect, its door hanging loose on its hinges.
A faint creak broke the silence as she pushed it open.
The stench hit first; blood, thick and coppery. It streaked the wooden floor in uneven smears, dried in some places, fresh in others, as though dragged across again and again.
Inside, curled into the corner, sat an old man. His frame shook like brittle glass in a storm, his eyes wide and wet with terror. And clutched in his trembling hands… was my heart. It pulsed faintly against his fingers, alive but misplaced.
Nellie's voice sliced the air, sharp and merciless. "Are you planning to eat it?"
The man froze, the question pinning him harder than any blade could. His mouth opened, then closed again, teeth chattering in fear.
The heart quivered in his hands, twitching with every shake of his frail body. At last he croaked, voice breaking. "If… if it's the heart you want, take it. I mean no harm, I swear."
"Neither do I," Nellie replied calmly, her tone almost gentle which somehow made it worse. But before the man could flinch, she reached out, fingers steady and unhurried, and plucked the heart from his trembling grip. There was no struggle, or resistance. It was as though he had never truly been holding it at all.
The old man sagged against the wall, breath rattling, eyes wide with disbelief as if he'd just been robbed of more than flesh.
Nellie held the heart loosely in her hand, its faint pulse flickering against her skin like a dying ember.
She returned quietly, her steps barely brushing the earth, and stopped a short distance away. Against the faint wash of dawn, her silhouette was cut in shadow; a figure both familiar and unreal.
"Ash… are you still alive?" Her voice carried low across the broken street, calm but edged with something I couldn't place.
I forced my eyes open, lids heavy as stone, and managed the faintest nod. "Yeah… barely."
She knelt beside me, her movements deliberate and careful. In her hands, the heart pulsed faintly with fragility, as though it were deciding whether to keep beating. Her eyes fixed on it, cold and calculating, yet unreadable.
"Now… how do we even fix this?"
My throat rasped as I whispered back, "Just… place it there. I'm sure my body will handle the rest."
Without hesitation, she pressed the heart back against my chest. Her hands were so cold it burned, the chill searing into me like frostbite laced with fire. I gasped, the air tearing into my lungs, and then… slowly, the impossible began.
My breath steadied, ragged at first, then fuller. Heat spread from the wound outward as flesh began to stitch itself, skin knitting, veins sealing and the muscles pulling taut again. The torn gap closed with each beat, drawing me back from the edge.
It felt the same way my back had once healed; unnaturally, forced, but complete.
But the scars remained. Every mark carved into me by this life, every line burned into my skin from the experiments I'd endured, none of it vanished.
Nellie didn't seem surprised either. She lowered herself onto the ground beside me, silent once more, her posture calm, her gaze unwavering. She watched without flinching as the pale light of dawn crept over the ruined homes, spilling gold over broken stone and splintered wood. To her, the silence was enough.
Time stretched with each heart beat.
Then, faintly, the crunch of footsteps broke it; soft and hesitant, inching closer.
An old man emerged, shoulders hunched, his movements cautious, as if each step might earn him wrath.
Nellie's eyes narrowed instantly, her calm snapping into suspicion. Her voice, sharp as a drawn blade, cut the morning air.
"You said a demon took the heart?"
My throat tightened. I glanced between them, then gave a small, uneasy nod.
"Hmmm… yeah."
"Well… I found the heart with that man," she admitted slowly, her eyes still fixed on me. "I think… he followed me back here."
We both turned to the old man in a swift motion.
He froze under our stares, shoulders curling inward as though the weight of our gaze alone might crush him. His hands twisted together nervously, fingers wringing like he was trying to squeeze courage out of his own skin.
"Excuse me," he muttered, voice thin and hesitant. "Would you… mind coming to my house? There's something I need to talk to you about."
I blinked, thrown off balance. An invitation was the last thing I'd expected from anyone.
Then my stomach growled, sharp and hollow, a reminder that it had been two weeks since anything had passed my lips. The sound echoed too loudly in the quiet, almost embarrassing.
I sighed inwardly: in my state, I didn't have the strength to refuse, and Nellie's silence left the choice to me. So, against instinct, we followed him.
His house was small and weathered on the outside, wood worn gray by time and wind, but when we stepped inside, warmth wrapped around us. The air smelled of smoke, herbs, and freshly cooked food. It was almost unsettling as if he were trying to make peace with ghosts by offering them a feast.
The table was crowded with breakfast dishes: eggs, bread still steaming, bowls of porridge, cured meats glistening in the low light. My stomach twisted painfully at the sight, two weeks without food had left me hollow.
I didn't wait for an invitation and dropped into a chair and began to eat, shoving down mouthfuls with little care for manners. Each bite steadied me, though it made me realize just how weak I'd become.
Nellie, of course, didn't touch her plate. Although, it's not like ghosts and spirits get hungry, so they eat for pleassure. She sat perfectly still, hands resting on her lap, her eyes never leaving the old man. Her voice, when it cut the air, was cold and precise. "What do you want to talk about?"
The old man shifted in his chair, his thin frame curling slightly under her stare. His fingers twitched along the edge of the table. "First… let me apologize," he said bowing his head slightly.
Nellie's eyes narrowed as I frowned, pausing with bread halfway to my mouth. "For what?" Nellie asked.
The old man swallowed, adam's apple bobbing, his voice trembled, each word dragged from him. "I was asleep when I heard the chickens scream. So I got up to check. And there, just inside the coop stood a demon. He was holding something covered in blood, staring at it like he didn't know what to do with it."
"When he saw me, he sneered. [Ah… what are you doing here, old man?] His smile spread wide, too sharp and cruel.
"I snapped back, [I should ask you the same thing, Drazel.]
"He laughed; short jagged bursts that echoed like broken glass. [Brought you a souvenir. You should hang it on a frame,] he said, before tossing the heart at me as if it were nothing more than garbage. Then, just like that, he vanished, dissolving into the shadows.
"I stumbled back, fear gripping my bones so tightly I could barely breathe. And that's when Nellie arrived. But… I couldn't stop myself. I followed her anyway. Curiosity dragged me, even when terror told me to run."
"So, you saw what happened, didn't you?" I asked, my tone low, my eyes narrowing as I studied him.
He hesitated, fingers twitching nervously against the edge of the table. "Yes. I saw the way your heart healed back to its place. It was like how a demon heals."
Beside me, Nellie let out a faint groan, the sound low and sharp, clearly implying she was already tired of this conversation and she was ready for action.
The man raised his hands quickly, palms open with a shaky smile tugging at his lips. "But I won't tell anyone. I promise."
I shook my head, muttering under my breath, "The problem isn't telling anyone… because everyone already knows." My gaze shifted, sweeping the small room, then fixed on him again. "The problem is what you think."
His shoulders slumped as though the weight of the truth had crushed him. For a moment, his eyes softened, his voice unsteady but sincere. "I think… you're just a kid trying to survive the world around you."
I could already tell from his words that this old man knew who I was. Yet he stayed calm the whole time, even offering me food and a change of shirt. The look he gave me was different too, different from the fear or suspicion I had grown used to.
I stared at him for a moment, trying to read the lines of his face, then finally gave a small nod. "Thanks for the kind words." After reading sincerity in them. "You mentioned his name as Drazel. Do you know him?"
The man's lips twitched, almost breaking into a grimace. "Well... he's my son, or he used to be." His voice shifted with desperation, "I'm the reason he became a demon and later lost everything he once cared for..."
Nellie's voice cut through his explanation, sharp as a blade. "Then what do you want from us?"
The old man lowered his head, shoulders slumping as if the admission itself had drained him. "I just… wanted to apologize for what he did," he murmured. "And to also ask that you don't hurt him, or send any Exo-hunters after him. That's all."
My chest tightened: this old man didn't even seem to grasp the full weight of what his son had done. And yet, here he was, asking us not to hurt him. Did he think I was the only one? What if there were others, others who had suffered the same way I had?