Pain woke him.
Not overwhelming. Not unbearable. Just present—constant reminder that his body was damaged, healing, rebuilding.
Raven opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. Metal beams. Rust. Abandoned industrial facility of some kind. Single lantern provided dim light.
He tried to sit up. Ribs protested. Shoulder screamed. He pushed through it anyway, forced himself upright.
"Good," Roger's voice from across the room. "You're tougher than you look."
Raven assessed. Bandages wrapped his torso, shoulder, knee. Someone—Roger—had treated the wounds. Basic field medicine. Enough.
"How long?" His voice was rough. Dry.
"Sixteen hours. It's evening now." Roger sat on a metal crate, cleaning his cursed spirit's summoning blade. "Your healing factor kicked in. Faster than normal humans, slower than it should be for a demon contractor. The backlash really did fuck you up."
Raven tested his shoulder. Range of motion reduced by thirty percent. Maybe permanent. Added to the list of damages.
"Where are we?"
"Old factory. Three kilometers from the subway. Nois doesn't know this location." Roger's eyes were hard. "Yet."
"Your five contacts?"
"Dead. All of them." No emotion in Roger's voice. Statement of fact. "Nois killed them before coming for us. Viktor. Elena. Marcus. Jin. Sarah. All gone."
Raven processed this. Felt nothing about it. "We're alone then."
"For now. But there are others. More illegal contractors across the city. We just need to find them before Nois does."
Roger set down the blade. Studied Raven with that veteran's gaze—seeing everything, judging everything.
"You let that woman die," he said quietly.
"Yes."
"No hesitation. No regret."
"No."
"Your last emotion. Mercy. It's gone now."
"Yes."
Roger nodded slowly. "Good."
Azaelith materialized beside Raven, solid form, expression pleased? "You're not horrified?" she asked Roger.
"Horrified?" Roger laughed—harsh sound. "Kid, I lost my emotions fifteen years ago. Empathy. Compassion. Fear. All of it. I know exactly what he's going through." He met Raven's eyes. "And I know it's the only way to survive what's coming."
Raven felt something click. Recognition. "You're empty too."
"Completely. Have been since" Roger trailed off. Then continued. "Since the Organization took my family. Wife. Daughter. Eight years old."
Silence.
"I was tier-3 back then. Good Tamer. Loyal. Did everything by the book." His voice was flat. Dead. "Then I started asking questions about ARD. About the experiments. About where the 'disposed assets' really went."
"They took them as leverage," Raven said. Not a question.
"Worse. They made me torture someone—a possession contractor, teenager, barely fifteen—to prove my loyalty. Said if I refused, my family would take his place in the cell." Roger's hands clenched. "So I did it. Broke the kid. Killed him slowly over three days while my superiors watched and took notes."
"And your family?"
"They killed them anyway. Called it 'insurance against future dissent.' Made it look like a car accident." Roger's smile was vicious. Empty. "That's when I understood. The Organization doesn't protect. Doesn't save. It controls. And anyone who threatens that control gets erased."
"That's when your emotions died," Azaelith observed.
"That's when I stopped being human. Started being a weapon." He looked at Raven. "You're on that path now. The difference is—you're choosing it consciously. I had it forced on me."
"Does it get easier?" Raven asked.
"No. It gets efficient. You stop wasting energy on things that don't matter. Focus purely on survival. On mission. On eliminating threats." Roger stood. "But there are costs. Long-term effects you need to understand."
"Tell me."
"First: people will fear you. Even allies. They'll see the emptiness and instinctively know you're dangerous. You'll be isolated. Always."
Raven shrugged. "Already was."
"Second: you'll make decisions that haunt you. Not emotionally—you won't feel guilt. But logically. You'll remember. And part of you will wonder if there was another way."
"I can live with that."
"Third:" Roger's expression darkened. "You'll lose your anchor. The thing that makes you you. Without emotions, identity becomes fluid. You'll start forgetting who you were. Why you started fighting. You'll become just... function. A machine that survives."
He pointed at his chest. "I don't remember what my wife's laugh sounded like. Don't remember my daughter's face clearly. Those memories faded because I can't feel them anymore. They're just data. And data degrades."
Raven absorbed this. Filed it away. "How do you prevent it?"
"You don't. You just accept it." Roger picked up his blade. "But you can slow it. By having purpose. Mission. Something external to anchor to."
"Revenge," Raven said.
"Revenge. Survival. Building something. Whatever." Roger walked toward him. "For me, it's destroying ARD. Exposing what they did. Making them pay." His eyes gleamed. "For you, it'll be whatever you decide. But you need something. Otherwise you'll fade into nothing."
Azaelith spoke up. "I can anchor him. Our contract—"
"Won't be enough," Roger cut her off. "Contracts are intimate but not purpose. He needs a goal that's his own. Not yours. Not the resistance's. His."
Raven stood. Tested his weight on injured knee. Held. Barely. "Then I'll find one."
"Good. Now—" Roger tossed him the summoning blade. Raven caught it one-handed. "Let's see if you can still fight."
The training was brutal.
Roger didn't ease him into it. Didn't account for injuries. Didn't show mercy—ironic, since neither of them had that anymore.
"Stance," he barked. "You're favoring the knee. Compensate with shadow-step. Don't stand and take hits."
Raven adjusted. His shadow manipulation was crude—unrefined compared to Nois's mastery—but functional. He could feel shadows, pull them, move through them with effort.
Roger attacked. Fast. Precise. Pulling punches just enough to not kill.
Raven shadow-stepped—pulled darkness around him, displaced two meters left. Emerged disoriented but alive.
"Faster. The disorientation is your mind rejecting the transition. Override it."
Again. Roger attacked. Raven stepped through shadows. Emerged. Stumbled.
"Again."
And again. And again. Dozens of repetitions. Each one slightly smoother than the last.
His body screamed protest. Ribs ground against each other. Shoulder burned. Knee threatened to give out.
Didn't matter. Push through. Adapt. Survive.
"Better," Roger finally said after two hours. "You're learning. Shadow-step will be your primary defense now. Your Demon Step is too limited with the cooldown. Master this—become untouchable."
Raven collapsed against the wall. Breathing hard. Sweat mixed with blood from reopened wounds.
Roger sat beside him. Offered a water bottle. "You accept pain well. Most people fight it. You just... process and move on."
"Pain is data. Tells me what's broken. What needs attention."
"Exactly." Roger nodded approvingly. "That's empty thinking. Efficient. Optimal." He paused. "Your demon—Azaelith. She's adjusting well to your change."
Raven glanced at Azaelith, manifested nearby, watching the training. "She's been demon for five hundred years. Empty is her baseline."
"But she's different around you now. More present. More connected." Roger's eyes narrowed. "She actually cares about you. That's rare for demons. They don't usually form attachments."
"I didn't expect to," Azaelith admitted. "But emptiness recognizes emptiness. We're the same now. That creates... intimacy."
"Dangerous intimacy," Roger warned. "Emotional or not, attachments create vulnerabilities. Nois will exploit that if he figures it out."
"Let him try." Raven's red eyes gleamed. "Anyone who threatens Azaelith dies."
Not said with passion. Not with emotion. Just cold fact. Like stating water is wet.
Roger smiled. "Good. Protect what's yours. That's anchor enough for now."
Night fell. They ate—stolen food, cold, tasteless. Fuel for bodies that needed repair.
"The woman who saved us," Raven said between bites. "You know her?"
"No. But I've heard rumors." Roger leaned back. "High-tier Tamer who went rogue. Tier-5, maybe beyond. Specializes in shadow manipulation—actual mastery, not your crude version or even Nois's refined technique."
"Why save us?"
"Don't know. Tier-5 rogues don't share motivations." He scratched his chin. "But she's been spotted before. Always intervening in contractor hunts. Always on the contractor's side. Some call her the Shadow Warden."
"Allegiance?"
"None. She works alone. Appears, saves someone, disappears. No pattern. No predictability." Roger's eyes narrowed. "But she'll come back. That type always does. They have their own agenda."
Raven filed this away. Potential ally. Potential threat. Unknown variable.
"What's next?" he asked.
"Next, we hunt." Roger pulled out a hand-drawn map. Marked locations. "ARD has three main facilities across the city. Black sites. Where they do the experiments. The torture."
He pointed to one. "This one—Facility Omega. It's the smallest. Weakest security. And it's where they took my family before killing them."
Raven understood. "You want to hit it."
"I want to burn it to the ground. Kill everyone inside. Expose what they do." Roger's empty eyes met Raven's empty eyes. "And I need backup. Someone who won't hesitate. Won't show mercy. Won't stop until the mission's complete."
"When?"
"Three days. Gives you time to heal. To master shadow-step. To prepare." Roger extended his hand. "You in?"
Raven looked at the hand. Thought about it.
Calculated: attacking an Organization facility was suicidal. Would make him an even bigger target. Would likely get him killed.
But—
It would hurt them. Make them bleed. Show that illegal contractors could fight back.
And it would give him purpose. Anchor. Goal beyond just survival.
"I'm in," he said. Shook Roger's hand.
Azaelith manifested fully. "This is war. Open war. You understand that?"
"Yes."
"No going back after this. No redemption. No peaceful resolution."
"Good. I don't want those anyway."
She smiled. Proud. Possessive. "Then let's burn their world down."
Roger laughed—genuine sound despite the emptiness. "I like you two. We're going to do terrible things together."
"Terrible necessary things," Raven corrected.
"Is there a difference anymore?"
"No."
They sat in comfortable silence. Three monsters planning violence against the system that created them.
Three empty souls who'd found purpose in destruction.
Outside, the city continued its panicked existence. Tamers hunted. Spirits terrorized. Martial law tightened its grip.
But down here—in the abandoned darkness—a resistance was forming.
Small. Brutal. Uncompromising.
And it started with two broken men and one ancient demon who'd all lost their humanity.
Lost it.
And found freedom in the emptiness.