[Day 1]
Pain was the only reality.
Raven stumbled through maintenance tunnels, one hand pressed against the wall for support, the other clutched to his side where ribs ground against each other with every breath. Blood seeped through his fingers—slow, dark, wrong somehow.
"Keep moving," Azaelith urged beside him, manifested as solid as she could manage. "Tamers will sweep the area. We need distance."
"Can't... much further..."
"You can. You have to."
She was right. Dying here—after everything—would be pathetic.
The subway station appeared like salvation. Abandoned. Forgotten. Deep enough that sounds from above became muffled whispers.
Raven collapsed against the platform wall. Vision grayed at the edges.
"Stay conscious," Azaelith commanded. "I need to assess damage."
Her hands—somehow tangible through their connection—pressed against his wounds. He felt energy flow. Not healing. Just... stabilizing. Keeping him from bleeding out.
"Power's gone," he managed through gritted teeth.
"Not gone. Fractured. The backlash broke your connection. Like a shattered mirror—the pieces are there, but the reflection is distorted."
"Can you fix it?"
"Maybe. With time. If you survive long enough."
Outside, sirens wailed. Helicopters thundered overhead. The manhunt had begun.
Raven closed his eyes. Let darkness take him.
His last thought before unconsciousness: I should feel fear right now. Why don't I?
[Day 2]
Nightmares woke him.
Not dreams. Memories. Faces from the cathedral—cultists who'd died, Tamers crushed by tentacles, civilians erased from existence. All staring at him with accusation.
Your fault. You opened the Gate. You killed us all.
He jerked awake, gasping. Ribs screamed protest.
Azaelith sat nearby, watching. "Bad dreams?"
"Just dreams." He touched his side. The bleeding had stopped. Scabs formed—accelerated healing, residual benefit from the transformation. "How long was I out?"
"Sixteen hours. It's evening now. Day two."
He tried to stand. Made it halfway before dizziness forced him back down.
"Don't push it. Your body needs—"
A scream cut through the air. Distant. Above ground. High-pitched. Terrified.
Then another. And another.
Raven and Azaelith exchanged glances.
"Loose spirit," she said quietly. "One of the ones that escaped during the ritual."
More screams. Closer now. The sound of people running. Car alarms triggered. Glass shattering.
Raven forced himself upright. Staggered toward the platform edge where maintenance ladder led to street level.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking."
"You can barely walk. You can't fight—"
"I'm not fighting. Just looking."
He climbed. Slowly. Painfully. Emerged in an alley three blocks from the subway station.
And saw hell.
The spirit was one of the spawn-horrors from the cathedral. Skittering thing with too many legs, mouths where eyes should be, reality-breaking touch. Smaller than the main Horror but still deadly.
It chased a family. Mother, father, two children. The father had fallen—ankle twisted. The mother turned back, trying to help him up while the kids screamed.
The spirit closed distance. Ten meters. Five.
Raven watched from the alley mouth.
Should help. Could help. One Demon Flame burst would incinerate the thing. Save them.
But—
Tamers would detect the energy. Would converge on his position. He'd be captured. Killed.
Risk his life for strangers?
Calculation was instant: Not worth it.
The spirit reached the father. Touched him.
He didn't die. Worse. He un-became. Reality forgot he'd existed. The mother's expression changed—confusion, like trying to remember something important but failing.
Who had she been helping? Why had she stopped running?
The children's screams had different quality now. Not fear. Grief. They remembered. Kids always remembered.
The spirit moved toward them next.
Raven turned away. Climbed back down the ladder.
Azaelith stared at him. "You... you just let them die."
"One was already dead. The other three—Tamers will arrive. Might save them. Might not." His voice was flat. Empty. "Not my problem."
"Raven—"
"I should feel guilty. Should feel something." He looked at his hands. Noticed they weren't shaking. "But I don't. It's just... gone. Like a light switched off."
Azaelith's expression shifted. Horror. Understanding.
"Day two," she whispered. "It's starting faster than I thought."
"What is?"
"Emotional death. The transformation's price. You're becoming like us—like demons. We don't feel the way humans do. Can't."
Raven sat down. Processed this information with clinical detachment.
"What did I lose today?"
"Fear. And guilt. Both at once."
"Good," he said. "They were liabilities anyway."
And meant it completely.
[Day 3]
Azaelith found a working tablet in an abandoned homeless camp. Battery at 12%. Enough.
She pulled up news feeds.
"DEMON TERRORIST RAVEN ALTAIR - 200 DEAD"
"CATHEDRAL MASSACRE: FULL EXTENT OF CASUALTIES REVEALED"
"SPIRIT TAMER ORGANIZATION GIVEN EMERGENCY POWERS"
His face was everywhere. Security footage from the convenience store—grainy but clear. Enhanced images showing red eyes. Contract marking visible on exposed skin.
WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE
REWARD: 10 MILLION
The articles painted him as mastermind. Leader of Lucifur cult. Orchestrator of the Gate opening. Responsible for every death, every injury, every loose spirit now terrorizing the city.
"Two hundred," Raven said. "They're inflating numbers."
"Does it matter? Truth doesn't matter anymore. Only narrative."
The video footage showed aftermath. Cathedral ruins. Body bags lined in rows. Survivors being interviewed—crying, traumatized, demanding justice.
One clip showed a woman holding a child's shoe. Her daughter's. Lost in the chaos.
Raven watched her sob. Watched her curse his name.
Felt nothing.
"They made me into this," he said quietly. "System, Organization, world. They created the conditions. I just filled the role."
"That's not absolution."
"I'm not seeking absolution. Just stating facts." He looked at Azaelith. "You were right. Empathy is dying. Day two I lost fear and guilt. Today..."
He trailed off. Tested the emotion. Tried to feel compassion for the woman on screen.
Nothing. Just void.
"Compassion," he finished. "Gone."
"Three days. Three emotions. Raven, if this continues—"
"I'll be empty. Like you were." He met her red eyes with his own. "Maybe that's better. Maybe caring was always the problem."
Azaelith looked away. Couldn't argue. She'd lived five hundred years without those emotions. Survived. Thrived, even.
But she'd also been miserable.
"There's one thing they got right in the news," she said, changing subject.
"What?"
"You're dangerous. Even weakened. Even at Tier 2. The combination of abilities, the unpredictability, the intelligence..." She smiled slightly. "You're going to be a nightmare for them."
"Good." Raven's own smile mirrored hers. Cold. Predatory. "Let them hunt me. I'll make them regret it."
"Assuming we survive long enough."
First moment of dark humor. Slight. Brief. But there.
[Day 4]
Raven had ventured topside for supplies. Stupid risk. Necessary risk.
He needed food. Azaelith could sustain him somewhat through their connection, but his body required actual calories to heal.
The convenience store was two blocks from subway entrance. Late night. Minimal customers.
He wore stolen hoodie, head down, moving quick through aisles. Grabbed protein bars, water bottles, instant noodles. Nothing that required cooking.
Approached counter. Kept face hidden.
The cashier—young guy, maybe twenty—barely looked up from his phone.
Then the door chimed.
Two Spirit Tamers walked in.
Not high-tier. Just patrol. Routine check on businesses. Standard procedure in the new martial law city.
Raven froze. Calculated.
Options: Run—too obvious. Fight—too loud. Hide—nowhere to go.
So he did nothing. Continued setting items on counter. Casual. Normal.
The Tamers walked past. Scanning. One glanced at Raven.
Hoodie shadow hid his face. But the eyes—
Spiritual sight activated unconsciously. The Tamer's contracted spirit manifested slightly, checking energy signatures in the room.
It passed over Raven. Paused.
Detected something.
"Hey—" the Tamer started.
Raven moved first.
Charm. Full force. Aimed at the cashier.
The young guy's will evaporated instantly. Weak mind. No resistance.
"Fire alarm," Raven commanded. "Pull it. Now."
The cashier stumbled to the wall. Yanked the alarm.
Sirens blared. Sprinklers activated. Chaos erupted.
Customers screamed. Rushed for exits. The two Tamers were caught in the surge, trying to maintain position while civilians panicked.
Raven slipped out in the confusion. Left items on counter. Didn't matter.
He ran. Enhanced speed carrying him three blocks before the Tamers could organize pursuit.
Behind him, he heard shouts. Orders. The beginning of coordinated search.
Made it to subway entrance. Down the ladder. Into darkness.
Safe.
But his heart—if it still qualified as a heart—didn't race. No adrenaline surge. No relief.
Just cold calculation: Too close. Need better planning.
"That was smart thinking," Azaelith said when he returned to the platform. "Using Charm on the civilian instead of the Tamers."
"Civilians are easier to control. Tamers have spiritual resistance." He sat down, breathing steady. "I should have been afraid just now. Almost captured. Almost killed."
"But you weren't."
"No. Just... annoyed. Inconvenienced. Like missing a bus."
"Day four," she said softly. "What died today?"
He thought about it. Searched for what should be there but wasn't.
"Compassion," he realized. "Completely gone now. That flicker from yesterday—extinct."
Azaelith nodded. Said nothing.
What was there to say?
[Day 5]
Marking had spread to his elbows. Black-red lines pulsing with faint light. Not painful. Just present. Reminder of what he was becoming.
Raven tested his powers methodically. Building understanding of his new limitations.
Demon Flame: Reduced output. Could maintain for thirty seconds before exhaustion. Previously—minutes.
Demon Step: Range cut in half. Two meters instead of five. Cooldown doubled to four minutes.
Charm: Still functional. Possibly stronger—desperation made it sharper. But range limited. Had to be close.
Enhanced physical: Decent. Strength about three times human average. Speed similar. Not the five-fold multiplication from before.
Spiritual sight: Unaffected. Maybe even clearer. Connection to that sense remained strong.
Shadow manipulation: New. Emerging. Could feel it at the edges—ability to control darkness itself, not just move through it. Hadn't mastered it yet.
Tier 2 assessment was generous. Low Tier 2. Possibly high Tier 1.
He'd been brought low.
And found himself... unbothered.
"You're adapting well," Azaelith observed. "Most contractors lose their minds when power gets stripped away. You just... adjust."
"Because I don't care about the power itself. Only what it enables." He flexed his marked hand. "Survival. That's all that matters."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you planning to find other contractors? Why build a resistance? Survival would mean hiding. Disappearing. Never fighting back."
Good question.
Raven considered it. Tried to find the answer in himself.
"Because hiding is slow death. And something in me—some last piece—refuses to just lie down and die." He looked at Azaelith. "What is it? What's left that makes me want to fight instead of fade?"
She studied him. Those ancient red eyes seeing something he couldn't.
"Mercy," she said finally. "The capacity to show mercy when you don't have to. To spare enemies. To choose the harder path."
"That's not strategic."
"No. It's human."
"Then it'll die soon."
"Probably." She smiled sadly. "Day five. Last ember burning. When mercy dies, you'll be fully demon in spirit if not body."
Raven absorbed this. Filed it away.
"How long do I have?"
"Hours. Maybe a day. Depends on what you encounter next."
"And when it's gone?"
"Then you'll be like I was. Empty. Efficient. Surviving but not living."
She paused.
"And I won't be able to reach you anymore."
That almost sparked something. Almost. Like muscle memory of emotion without the emotion itself.
"Would you miss me?" he asked. Curious. Clinical.
"Yes," Azaelith whispered. "I'd miss the person you were. The one who chose to close the Gate instead of run. The one who hesitated before killing that old man."
"I'd miss the human."
Raven nodded. Stored that information.
Prepared for the final death.
[Day 6]
The nightmares continued. Worse each night.
Faces. Hundreds of them. Staring. Accusing. Dying. Erasing. Burning.
Aldric's final smile. Kirana's Guardian Spirit shattering. The Masked One accepting her end. Cultists screaming as tentacles consumed them.
And behind them all—the Horror's eye. Watching. Judging.
You did this.
Raven woke gasping. Not from fear—that was gone. From memory. From weight.
"Ironic," he muttered to the darkness.
"What is?" Azaelith asked from across the platform.
"I don't feel guilt anymore. Can't feel guilt. But the nightmares continue. Like my subconscious hasn't gotten the memo yet."
"Guilt and memory aren't the same thing. You can remember without feeling."
"So I'm condemned to remember everything while feeling nothing about it?"
"Yes."
"That's..." He searched for the word. "Efficient, actually. Information without emotional bias. Pure data."
"That's horrifying, Raven."
"Is it?" He sat up. Ribs fully healed now. Body mostly recovered. "Seems practical to me. Emotions cloud judgment. Memory informs it. This is optimal state."
Azaelith stared at him with something that might have been grief.
"You're almost gone," she whispered.
"Almost." He stood. Stretched. "But not yet. That last ember—mercy, you called it—still burns. Barely. But there."
"What will kill it?"
"Don't know. Maybe nothing will. Maybe it'll fade naturally." He looked at his hands. Marking had reached his shoulders now. Creeping toward his neck. "Or maybe I'll encounter something that requires mercy. And I'll choose efficiency instead."
"And then?"
"Then I'll be what I need to be. A survivor. A weapon. A leader for others like me."
He walked to the platform edge. Stared into tunnel darkness.
"Tomorrow I start looking for them. Other illegal contractors. Outcasts. People the Organization wants dead." His red eyes gleamed. "If I'm going to die, I'm taking Tamers with me. As many as possible."
"That's not mercy."
"No." He smiled. "It's war."
[Day 7]
Which brought him to now. To this moment. To the mob fleeing his presence.
Raven walked through the subway tunnels. Azaelith beside him. Heading deeper. Following rumors he'd heard in his brief surface excursions—whispers of others hiding in the underground. Others with contracts. Others hunted.
The ember of mercy had flickered during the mob encounter. Almost died when he'd raised his flame-wreathed hand to kill the old man.
But Azaelith's words had stopped him. Not because he felt mercy. But because he remembered feeling it once.
Memory without emotion.
That's what he'd become.
"Do you regret it?" Azaelith asked quietly.
"What?"
"Everything. The contract. The transformation. The choices that led here."
Raven thought about it. Honestly tried to feel regret.
Couldn't.
"No," he said simply. "Regret requires believing you had better options. I didn't. This was always the only path for someone like me."
"Someone empty."
"Someone pragmatic." He glanced at her. "You understand. You lived it. Five hundred years of this."
"I do understand. That's why I'm trying to save you from it."
"Too late."
"Maybe."
They walked in silence. Deeper into darkness. Toward whatever came next.
Raven's last thought before finding the first contractor was simple:
Seven days. Seven emotions died. One left. And then I'll be free.
Free from the burden of feeling.
Free to survive.
Free to become the monster they feared.
And somewhere in the depths of his fractured mind—so distant he could barely acknowledge it—a voice whispered:
Is that really freedom?
He ignored it.
Kept walking.
Into the dark.