The Sol crawled.
Its legs were gone—clean cuts at the joints, precise enough that there was almost no spray. Black ichor smeared across the concrete as the thing dragged itself forward, jaws snapping uselessly, body twitching in violent, desperate spasms.
It didn't scream.
It gurgled.
Isaac stood a few meters away, breathing through his nose, Isen lowered at his side. The katana hummed faintly, black ice crawling along the blade in thin veins that evaporated into mist.
One of the trainees behind him gagged.
"J-Just kill it," someone whispered.
Isaac didn't move right away.
He watched the Sol struggle—not with fascination, not with pity, but with something quieter. Understanding. The creature didn't know what it was. Didn't know why it existed. It just knew pain, instinct, and the need to keep moving forward no matter how broken it became.
"Yeah," Isaac said softly. "I will."
He stepped forward and ended it in one clean motion. Isen slid through the skull with surgical finality. The Sol's body went slack instantly, ichor pooling beneath it.
No flourish. No anger. No hesitation.
Just an ending.
The tunnel fell silent except for heavy breathing.
This was supposed to be a controlled training mission—minor rift, low-level Sols. Isaac wasn't even meant to be on point. He'd been assigned support, backup in case something went wrong.
Something always did.
When the rear line collapsed and a trainee froze, Isaac hadn't shouted. Hadn't criticized.
He'd just moved.
By the time GRIMM reinforcements arrived, the tunnel was a scarred mess of concrete, scorch marks, and cooling bodies. Three Sols neutralized by Isaac alone. Two by the others.
No casualties.
Antonio arrived last.
His gaze swept the scene, lingering briefly on the severed remains before settling on Isaac.
"You broke formation," Antonio said.
Isaac wiped Isen clean on a torn sleeve. "If I hadn't, two of them would be dead."
Antonio stared at him for a long moment.
Then nodded once.
"Dismissed."
Word spread faster than official reports ever did.
Not that Isaac was powerful.
That Isaac was reliable.
Trainees started drifting closer to him during missions—not because he asked, but because when things went wrong, Isaac didn't panic. He didn't freeze. And he didn't shame them for doing either.
One night, a younger Reaper cornered him in the mess hall.
"How do you do it?" the boy asked quietly. "Killing like that without… losing it."
Isaac considered the question.
"I don't think about killing," he said after a moment. "I think about stopping."
That wasn't the whole truth.
But it was the part he could live with.
Lisa noticed the changes.
He slept less. Spoke softer. Smiled just as often—but it didn't always reach his eyes.
She dragged him into meals. Mocked his posture. Started arguments just to hear him argue back.
"You're not allowed to turn into some quiet GRIMM statue," she told him once, jabbing his shoulder. "If you do, I'll punch you."
Isaac laughed.
For real.
"I'd deserve it," he said.
Lane watched from a distance.
She didn't tease. Didn't interrupt.
She watched the way Isaac positioned himself between others and danger without thinking. The way his eyes tracked exits. The way his grip tightened whenever missions were delayed.
She recognized it.
The same thing she'd seen in Vance.
That night, Isaac trained alone.
No instructors. No audience.
Just steel and echo.
Each strike was controlled. Each movement deliberate. When his grip slipped, he corrected it immediately. When his stance faltered, he reset.
He wasn't chasing strength.
He was chasing control.
When his arms finally gave out, he collapsed onto his back, staring up at the cracked ceiling.
"I won't lose anyone else," he whispered.
The words settled heavily in the air.
No answer came.
But the silence felt… attentive.
Isaac sat up sharply, scanning the room.
Nothing.
Still, the weight lingered long after he left.
And somewhere deep inside him, something had shifted—not toward darkness, not toward power—
But toward resolve.