The morning on the island rose beneath a thick, humid mist that smothered the sounds of the tropical forest. At the makeshift camp, the group clung to routine as if it were the only thread keeping them sane. Foxy—agile, sharp-tongued, and elegantly reckless—was teaching Dante the basics of hand-to-hand combat.
"The secret, kid, isn't how hard you punch," Foxy said, slipping past Dante's sloppy jab with a tiny sidestep. "It's timing. Anticipate the enemy, let their own weight do the dirty work. Got it, or should I draw it in the sand?"
Dante, drenched in sweat, tried to catch his breath. Before he could respond, Alex's silhouette appeared between the trees. The leader's expression was grim, his eyes burdened by the doubts planted by the discoveries in Salazar's cave.
"Foxy. We need to talk," Alex said, his tone slicing through the lesson.
Foxy dusted off his hands and looked up with his usual crooked grin.
"Just to be clear, pretty boy, I like girls," he said, sarcasm dripping like venom from a practiced blade.
Alex didn't flinch. He stepped closer, arms crossed.
"Save the jokes for Smith. I want the truth. Harry called you something yesterday—a name. 'The Black-Eyed Reaper.' I want to know who I'm walking beside before the next trial."
The smile faded from Foxy's face. His eyes wandered from Dante to the roaring waves smashing against the cliffs. A heavy silence followed.
"Here we go again," Foxy muttered, sitting on a fallen log. "Fine. Since you're so eager to dig up corpses… But don't expect a happy ending."
Memories of a Pale Life
Foxy's mind drifted back to a time when his biggest problem was surviving the boredom of school halls.
He was fifteen—thin features, naturally white hair that defied genetics, and eyes so dark the pupils blended with the irises. Two black abysses in a pale face.
He sat in his usual spot at the back of the classroom, watching dust dance in the sunlight.
It was the day of the annual school trip. The bus was a chaos of laughter and teenage drama. Beside him sat Fred—the only one who didn't treat him like a freakish albino vampire.
"Honestly? I don't care about the jokes," Foxy told him, voice quiet, more tired than bitter at the time. "As long as they don't get physical, I'm fine. I just want this trip over with."
"I'd snap if people talked to me the way they talk to you," Fred said, pushing up his glasses.
"It's… inconvenient," Foxy shrugged, closing his eyes.
But fate wasn't interested in giving him peace.
A thunderous impact shook the bus. The driver slammed the brakes. Three black vans blocked the road. Masked men stormed inside with rifles, turning laughter into raw, animal terror.
The Awakening
They were dragged to an abandoned meat-processing warehouse—a cold tomb smelling of dried blood and rust. Students, teachers, and the driver were thrown into heavy-barred cages like livestock waiting for slaughter.
The kidnappers didn't want ransom. Their cruelty had ritual in its rhythm.
"Great… should've stayed home," Foxy muttered from the corner of the cell. Something stirred inside him—not fear, but a chilling calm that numbed everything else. "Guess I'll have to do this again…"
This wasn't his first dance with death. Months earlier, he had defended his mother during a home invasion. But this time, the scale was far darker.
When a guard approached to drag a girl away, Foxy moved. Instinct took over.
Using a wire stripped from the cot frame, he picked the lock with inhuman precision. When the guard entered, Foxy leaped onto him. With a shard of metal sharpened on stone, he slashed the man's jugular. Hot blood soaked his white hair.
The body hit the ground. Foxy didn't shake.
He took the guard's gun, checked the magazine, and slipped into the dark corridors like a predator returning to its natural habitat.
That night, the warehouse became a battlefield—and then a graveyard.
One by one, the kidnappers fell, caught in the shadows, on meat hooks, under the weight of their own panic. By the time the police arrived, led by terrified survivors, they found a black-eyed boy sitting at the entrance, drenched in blood, holding a knife, staring at nothing.
The Weight of the Name
Back on the island, Foxy exhaled deeply. Alex and Dante watched him with a mix of fear and reluctant respect.
"I didn't become a killer by choice," Foxy said quietly. "I was pushed into the abyss. And I learned I could fly in the dark. After that night, the world kept testing me. Gangs tried to recruit me. Assassins tried to challenge me. I killed to survive so many times that the cops stopped calling it self-defense."
His reflection rippled in the puddle as he stepped closer.
"That's when they named me 'The Black-Eyed Reaper.'"
He turned to Alex, dark eyes glinting beneath the filtered sunlight.
"This island, Smith's games, the acid… this is just another Tuesday for me. I'm not a hero. I'm the one who does what you don't have the stomach to do. Remember that before you judge me. Some of you are only alive because of the Reaper."
Alex held his gaze. Behind the sarcasm, he finally saw the pain—and the isolation—of someone condemned by his own ability to survive.
"I'm not judging you," Alex said softly. "I just needed to know who I'm walking with. And if Smith chose you on purpose… it's because he fears what you can do."
Foxy scoffed, slipping back behind his usual careless smirk.
"He should fear it. Enough drama. Dante, back in position. If you don't learn to block that hook, the next guy won't tell you a bedtime story before gutting you."
Dante nodded shakily and resumed training. Alex walked away, studying Salazar's plans. Only now did he truly understand: their group wasn't made of survivors—it was made of shattered lives sharpened into weapons.