Elliot's POV

"I shall not see a future where others, who have dragged me into misfortune, can live a life full of happiness."

—Elliot Starfall

It happens quickly—smoothly—like disconnecting my Bluetooth from my ear pods back in my old world. Only, instead of a soft chime confirming disconnection, hands drag me back into the void. They tear me from that other body with the same unnatural pull as before. And, as always, there is no feeling in this void—just weightless nothing. Still, it passes as swiftly as the last time I severed my link to the Hanged Man.

When I open my eyes, I'm back. I sit in a dark room where the only light slips in through narrow gaps in the curtains. The rest is heavy shadow. I am alone—if I ignore the boy, little Paul—his name oddly reminiscent of Paula, the one Frank had mentioned. The connection strikes me as strange, but I push it aside.

I feel better than I did moments ago. Now that I'm in my own body again, the cold sweat clinging to my skin begins to fade. But the moment my consciousness reclaims this flesh, I double over and vomit. It's not much—there's little left in me to give. Just the same filth as always: a few writhing maggots, and those dark, bluish-black particles that shouldn't exist in any healthy body.

"I am Elliot," I murmur, my voice rasping through the stillness. I repeat it again, firmer this time. "I am Elliot." The third time, I add, "And nobody else." My own name becomes a tether, something to keep me grounded.

I wipe the bitter taste from the corners of my mouth and reach for the curtains with my left hand. The fabric feels worn beneath my fingers. I pull it aside, and my eyes catch the colors—dark yellow, with a sickly hue that leans into green. Outside, the streets of Elisia carry on as if my life hasn't been cracked in two.

Men in suits walk with their canes loosely tucked into their palms. Some sport gleaming monocles that catch the sunlight. Their steps are out of rhythm, though the occasional clop of a horse's hooves tries to impose order—only to be broken again by the groan of the carriage they pull.

Paul sits in his corner, small and silent, just as he always does when Gene isn't here. He doesn't look at me, doesn't speak. My attention drifts from him back to the world beyond the glass. My gaze moves from building to building, shop to shop, blue to blue, the colors of Elisia's well-fed. My foot taps softly against the floor as I lean against the window ledge, drinking in the details of a life I'm no longer part of.

I cough twice, the sound harsh in the quiet. A few moments later, three more coughs tear through me, these ones into my palm. The fabric of the curtain slips from my grasp—my reminder that I have only one functioning arm—and as it falls back into place, I see the smear of red in my hand. My blood.

It's not a good sign. It never is. I should feel frustration, maybe even fear. Instead, there's a dull acceptance, as though I've already resigned myself to the path I'm walking. I pull the curtain open again and, for a moment, something inside me lifts.

Two men, no older than I am, cross the shimmering, water-washed street with their heads bowed. Above them, the sun burns bright, the doves scatter from the sharp-angled rooftops, and the turquoise sky stretches endlessly. It's beautiful in a way that feels cruel.

I let the curtain fall shut again, leaving the light outside where it belongs. My steps take me back into the room, away from the window and the world I no longer fit into. This time, I don't sink to the floor—don't settle beside the cold, silent family whose presence still clings to this space. Instead, I sit on the table, the same one where the Blues must have eaten their breakfast not long ago.

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It's the oh-so-familiar sound—one I used to hear when Ren would come visit me back then. The memory stirs something inside me. I miss it, deeply, but I allow myself the faintest smile. A cough rises in my throat, and I force it down, trying not to show it too obviously. My hands brush along the sides of my trousers, smearing away the faint stains. They're not mine. The fabric is tainted with blue blood.

Gene and Cham stand before me. Neither of them looks pleased. More than that, they can't meet my eyes. There's something in their posture—a stiffness, a quiet guilt.

"What is it?" I ask, pressing my left hand against my arm, where a dull ache is beginning to pulse beneath the skin. My lungs burn as I straighten in the chair, an ache that makes each breath heavier. I try to rise, but this time the cough forces its way out—louder, drier. I feel it splatter warm against my bare arm, where the sleeve of my shirt ends at the elbow.

But it isn't the red I expect. Thin streaks of blue run across my skin, the texture watery yet clinging in places. The sight makes them shift uncomfortably, their unease deepening.

"E–Eos," Gene finally says, his voice higher than usual. He doesn't look at me—his eyes search for Paul instead, as if the boy might have an answer.

"What?" My tone comes out sharper than I intend, more irritated than curious.

Gene stays silent. I draw breath to ask again, but Cham speaks first. "We've… talked to others. Many. They all said the same thing. If someone consumes too much blood—especially from other kinds—they can die from something called corruption."

He says it quickly, as though trying to keep me from fully hearing it. Maybe I'm imagining things. But he won't meet my eyes either.

"And you believe them?" My voice is low, flat.

Cham doesn't answer. Gene steps in instead, his bulk towering over me as I sit hunched in the small chair. "Eos…" He says my name almost gently, but there's pity in his gaze.

I swallow hard and clench my teeth at that look. I hate it.

"We killed them all," he continues. "That was what they said in their last moments. We promised to let them live."

My hands curl into fists. What now? Don't they realize I already know something's wrong with me? What difference does this make if I'm dying anyway?

Gene doesn't stop there. "Maggots… manifest inside the body. Vomiting is common. Blood tries to force its way out." He stammers now, his eyes flicking up to mine in a way Cham's never do.

"How long?" I ask.

As if in answer, the taste in my mouth thickens, metallic and bitter. I spit into my palm—just enough to soak a pencil in crimson.

"A month at most."

A short laugh escapes me, low and humorless.

"It's said there are three phases," Gene continues. "The first is what you're going through now—vomiting, coughing, weakness. In the second, the mind begins to break down. Corruption… It clouds your thoughts. You can't think straight. You crave only destruction… and more blood."

He hesitates.

"And?" My voice lashes out, sharper now, forcing him to finish.

"And… in the third phase, you turn. Into one of those brainless things. The ones we call zombies."

I can't help it—I laugh again, though this time it's tinged with something close to amusement. "Any cure?"

He shakes his head. "No—Eos."

I look down at my hands. "What a life…" The words slip out in a mutter. My tongue runs along the inside of my mouth, pressing hard against the upper jaw until it aches. The pressure travels down my throat, sharp enough to make me wince.

A few weeks. That's what I have left. What meaning does that hold?

This time, the sound that escapes me isn't laughter. It's broken, ragged breathing. It shakes my chest and tightens my ribs until the edges of my vision blur. But it never becomes a true sob—not until my breath catches and the tears finally come, falling heavy into the cradle of my hands. The skin there is rough, crusted with drying blood, but the tears carve warm trails through it.

I turn my head, my gaze drifting toward the curtain. Just beyond it, the boy sits on a small wooden chair, silent as always. My eyes narrow as I peer past him through the gap in the fabric. Shapes move beyond the window—a family of blues.

I watch them. My eyes sting, the red bleeding into my vision as the tears continue to fall. I can make out their faces clearly when the curtain stirs to the right. Smiles. Laughter. Light in their expressions.

And it devours me from the inside.

The sadness twists, darkens, sharpens into something else—something deeper, heavier. It swells until it's no longer grief but a heat that burns in my chest.

No… not just anger. Something far beyond that.

Hatred.

I want to kill them. All of them.

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