The gun aid at the girl.
The one crouched in the dark behind the rman—the one he’d stayed chained for.
And yet... I didn’t look at her.
Not directly.
My eyes stayed locked on it. On the rman.
Because this wasn’t just about her. It was about the seven girls above on deck. It was about a promise that was yet to be fulfilled.
This was about it.
The protector. The prisoner. The scaled, defiant storm barely held back by rusted iron and old grief.
My gaze told it everything. Or I hoped it did.
"Don’t make do this."
"I don’t want her blood on my hands."
"But I will if you leave no choice."
"So move. Now."
I didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t need to. Not that it would understand. Words were cheap here. Everyone lied with their mouth. But eyes? Eyes betrayed everything. Especially when they stared down a barrel.
Its golden irises widened slightly. Not in fear—it was past that. But in so ancient, quiet understanding. I didn’t know if it believed . But it understood .
Even if only as a threat.
It wasn’t moving yet.
But neither was I.
And then I felt it.
The shift.
The demon had stopped.
He’d taken two steps before he realized. Then froze. Mid-step, mid-sentence, mid-whatever fantasy he’d been whispering into the rman’s ear.
He wasn’t laughing anymore.
Not properly.
Oh, the sound still slipped from his mouth—those broken little giggles, soft and high and wet like at hitting stone. But they weren’t full. They were hollow now. Cracked. Uncertain.
Because now he was watching too.
His eyes weren’t on the rman. Not anymore.
They were on the gun.
And where it pointed.
And then on .
His stare was heavy—sharp and wide, like knives dipped in tar. It pierced straight through the haze of sweat and blood, straight into . Like he was trying to look past skin, past muscle, past bone—and into the decision I was making.
The gesture had broken sothing.
Not just the rhythm.
The illusion.
He looked... puzzled.
Not afraid. Not yet. But genuinely confused.
The laugh that spilled from him ca too late. Too off-beat. The kind of laugh you let out when everyone else is laughing and you’re still trying to figure out the joke.
Confused giggles. Disoriented joy.
The cracks were spreading.
He had planned to kill . That much was certain.
The mont that bullet hit his back, I was a marked thing. A broken toy he’d rip apart just to hear what kind of sound I made when I died. That was his intention. That was his rhythm.
But now?
He stood there like soone slapped the script out of his hands mid-performance.
Because the gun wasn’t aid at him anymore.
It was aid at her.
At the girl behind the rman.
At his leverage.
At the thing that was keeping the chain from being ripped apart.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s what made him hesitate.
Because he was starting to realize sothing.
This wasn’t about versus him.
This wasn’t predator and prey.
This was sothing else.
A third beast in the cage.
The rman.
And I wasn’t fighting to win.
I was forcing him to choose.
And that made dangerous in a different way.
The demon blinked, once. Slowly.
And I could see the stars spin in his eyes—those cursed, swirling things that weren’t human. Weren’t right. They rotated like clockwork dipped in oil. chanical. Unfeeling.
But now they weren’t spinning as smoothly.
He was trying to read . Trying to make sense of .
Was this real?
Was this bluff?
Was this madness?
Would I really pull the trigger if I was forced to?
He stepped forward slightly—but not toward .
Toward the rman again.
And then I heard it.
Low. Quiet. lodic.
He was singing.
Whispering sothing into the rman’s face, his voice soft like a lullaby and sweet like syrup. I couldn’t catch the words, but I didn’t need to. It was the tone that mattered.
He was seducing again.
Not with charm. With control. With old rhythms. With the lody of promises and poison.
He was trying to bind him again.
Trying to soothe the anger, to stroke the loyalty, to remind him of whatever hold he thought he still had.
Because now I knew.
The rman wasn’t just valuable to him.
He was priceless.
More than a prisoner. More than a product. He was sothing the demon had invested in. A possession he had plans for. And I’d just jeopardized that investnt.
Even a bullet to the back hadn’t mattered this much.
But a gun pointed at the girl?
That was different.
Because it threatened to undo the one piece he’d used to hold the rman in place.
It threatened to snap the leash.
So he did what all manipulators do when they’re losing ground—
He got soft.
He got close.
He started spinning lies in pretty shapes, whispered sweet with guilt and nostalgia. He tried to bury the anger beneath a lody.
Because he knew.
He knew the rman was the storm.
And if it rose, it wouldn’t stop at the chains.
It would tear everything.
And that included him.
But still, the rman didn’t move.
Still didn’t act.
Still didn’t strike.
Just watched.
And so did I.
My gun didn’t waver. My eyes didn’t blink. I stared into the rman’s face and waited for him to understand what I had done.
What I was doing.
This wasn’t a threat.
This wasn’t cruelty.
This was desperation.
I was trying to save it.
Save her.
Save myself.
Fulfil a promise.
And I knew the demon wouldn’t give us all four.
So soone had to make the hard call.
And I’d made mine.
Now it was its turn.
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