The alley was too small.

  Not because of the walls, or the dark, or the neon glow bleeding from the city outside.

  It was the voices.

  They filled every inch of space, pressing, clawing, sinking into my skull. Wrapping around my ribs like wire, tightening, twisting, crushing.

  "Kill him. Burn it all. Tear them apart. Kill Adam. Kill Eve. Take what’s yours."

  My hands slammed over my ears. It didn’t help.

  It never helped.

  "You were nothing to them. Nothing. Nothing—"

  “Shut up,” I gasped. My throat burned, my lungs too small to hold the weight of the words. “Shut up. Shut up.”

  But they wouldn’t.

  They never did.

  The Whisper had always been there, slinking between my ribs, curling tight around my spine, murmuring into the cracks of my thoughts. It had always spoken in pieces, in urges, in truths that I didn’t want to hear.

  But now?

  Now it wasn’t alone.

  It was thousands of voices, overlapping, suffocating. Some screaming. Some laughing. Some pleading.

  "Remember the pain. Remember what they did to you."

  "Rip them apart."

  "Make them regret it."

  I clenched my teeth. My skull felt like it was splitting open, pressure building behind my eyes.

  This was wrong.

  But… wasn’t it right?

  I shook my head. No. No.

  I had been fighting so long. Holding on so long.

  But holding on to what?

  To restraint? To mercy?

  What had mercy ever done for me?

  Nothing.

  Nothing—

  And then—

  One voice cut through the noise.

  Not screaming.

  Not demanding.

  Just cold. Sharp. Precise.

  "Kill them all. The Provenance."

  I jerked.

  The other voices collapsed into static.

  For the first time in what felt like hours, I could think.

  I could breathe.

  The Provenance.

  The ones who let Adam rise. Who stood by while he crushed everything beneath his heel. Who watched—watched—as I was taken, broken, discarded.

  They let it happen.

  This wasn’t madness.

  This was justice.

  "Yes."

  The Whisper sighed, satisfied.

  And then—

  "Looks like you finally understand."

  Slowly, I lifted my head.

  Desire leaned against the alley wall, golden eyes glinting in the dark, silver limbs shifting like liquid metal.

  Watching.

  A chill slithered down my spine. My throat felt dry. "You…?"

  He tilted his head, smirking. Too relaxed. Too knowing.

  "Took you long enough."

  I stared at him.

  His voice was too smooth. My pulse throbbed behind my eyes. The static still hummed beneath my skin, waiting for me to let it crawl back in.

  But Desire had heard it.

  He wasn’t supposed to hear it.

  I swallowed. My fingers twitched. "You—" My voice came out thin. Fragile. "You heard that. How?"

  Desire blinked.

  Then, he smiled—wider this time.

  "I’m proud of you, Mari," he said, his tone almost… affectionate. "You’re finally seeing clearly."

  The Whisper curled inside me, thrumming, pleased.

  "Yes."

  No.

  No, this wasn’t—

  But it was, wasn’t it?

  I exhaled shakily, pressing my palm against my forehead. My skin was too warm, like something was burning just beneath the surface.

  None of this was right.

  And yet—

  I let the words settle inside me.

  I trusted him.

  Didn’t I?

  He had been there from the start. When I woke up drenched in fear, drowning in confusion. He was the first voice I had heard. The first one to reach for me.

  A friend.

  He had called himself my friend.

  And I had believed him.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.

  I exhaled, breath slow and deliberate. "Why did you help me?"

  Desire blinked.

  He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "Just now? Or—?"

  "At the start." I didn’t look at him. "Back in the Pyramid. When I first woke up. When I was—" I swallowed. My throat felt tight. "When I was shot."

  Desire went still.

  Not in fear. Not in guilt. Not in anything that would suggest he hadn’t been expecting this question.

  Then, he smiled.

  Because of course he did.

  "Ah," he hummed, almost amused. "You’re asking why I called myself your friend."

  My stomach twisted.

  Desire stretched his arms behind his head. "Well, let’s think about it. You had just been murdered. Or at least, you were supposed to. You woke up in a place you didn’t recognize, surrounded by people who didn’t care if you lived or died, and I was the first familiar thing you saw."

  He turned to me, his golden eyes bright, sharp.

  "It was the easiest way to earn your trust."

  My breath hitched.

  He never broke eye contact. He never softened his words, never softened anything.

  "Confused, desperate little Mari," he cooed, "alone in the dark, waiting for someone—just anyone—to take her hand." His lips curled. "And I did."

  My fingers twitched.

  He kept talking.

  "And that’s all it took, didn’t it? Just a few nice words. Just a name to latch onto. Just one little lie to make you feel safe." His wings fluttered as he sighed, almost fondly.

  "People are so simple when they’re in pain."

  My jaw clenched.

  The Whisper stirred, slithering beneath my ribs, waiting for my reaction.

  Desire chuckled. "Oh, don’t give me that look. You trusted me, didn’t you?"

  I stared at him.

  He was still smiling, still relaxed, still acting like this was nothing.

  Like I was nothing.

  A part of me wanted to lunge for his throat. To shut him up—to force that smirk off his face and replace it with something real, something breakable.

  But I didn’t.

  Because the Whisper wasn’t whispering anymore.

  It was laughing.

  Because, of course, I already knew.

  Didn’t I?

  I exhaled through my nose. My hands had stopped shaking.

  "...But you still helped me," I murmured.

  Desire’s grin widened. "And look at how well that turned out!"

  He gestured grandly toward the city, reminding the chaos, the bodies, the blood.

  "Did you really think I did this out of the goodness of my nonexistent heart?" His voice dripped with amusement. "You were always meant to be something greater, Mari. I just helped you see it."

  The Whisper purred in agreement.

  "Yes."

  I let out a slow, steady breath.

  So that was the truth.

  And yet—

  Nothing changed.

  I didn’t feel betrayed. I didn’t feel used.

  I didn’t feel anything at all.

  Because, at the end of it all…

  Desire was right.

  I had been alone. I had been drowning. And I had let him pull me back to the surface.

  And now, here we were.

  I turned to face him fully. "So what now?"

  Desire’s smile glowed.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Now?" He leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Now, you rise."

  He held out his hand.

  I took it.

  I exhaled.

  The air felt different now. Lighter. Easier to breathe.

  The doubt was still there, wasn’t it? That small, distant voice whispering that this was wrong?

  …No.

  Not anymore.

  Desire watched me closely, waiting to see if I would falter. If I would slip.

  But I didn’t.

  I met his gaze, steady. "What do you need me to do?"

  His grin sharpened. "I was hoping you’d say that. Provenance has been comfortable for too long," he said, voice dripping with satisfaction. "Hidden behind their power, their influence, their untouchable status." He tilted his head. "But they’re not untouchable, are they, Mari?"

  Something stirred in my chest. A slow heat curling in my ribs.

  "No," I said, and it was easier than I expected. "They’re not."

  Desire let out a soft, delighted laugh.

  "Good girl."

  The Whisper thrummed.

  "Yes."

  Desire turned, his body flickering in and out of the alley’s neon light.

  "There’s a man you’ll want to meet," he continued. " A Provenance big shot. A real nasty piece of work. Controls a whole sector through fear and violence."

  My fingers twitched.

  Desire’s eyes flicked to my hands, watching, noting.

  "He keeps his base locked down tight," he went on, as if we were discussing a business deal instead of an execution. "Doesn’t trust anyone outside his inner circle. And for good reason."

  He smiled, sharp.

  "Because everyone wants him dead."

  I tilted my head. "Then why hasn’t anyone killed him yet?"

  Desire chuckled. "Because they’re afraid."

  The Whisper curled around my throat, purring.

  "But you’re not, are you?"

  No.

  I wasn’t.

  Not anymore.

  Desire grinned. "I’ll give you his location. You do what you do best."

  He floated past me, movements casual, like he wasn’t weaving the threads of something dangerous. Like he wasn’t guiding me down a road I had already chosen.

  "Oh, and Mari?"

  I glanced at him.

  His grin widened, eyes gleaming with something close to reverence.

  "Make it beautiful."

  It was easy to get inside.

  Too easy.

  A sector this filthy ran on fear. The kind that hollowed people out, left them cowed and obedient. Doors locked when I passed. Windows shuttered. No one asked questions. No one looked me in the eye.

  They knew who owned this place.

  And soon, they’d know who really owned it.

  I moved through the corridors like a ghost, my steps light, my heartbeat steady. The Whisper was silent now, patient, waiting.

  It wouldn’t have to wait much longer.

  I flexed my fingers, feeling the cold weight of the knife against my palm. A curved blade, serrated at the edges, sharpened to perfection—the one I had taken with Zara from Droge’s shop. It was light, effortless. I could barely feel it in my grip.

  The black had already begun to spread.

  It slithered over my skin, shifting, writhing, alive. Thick veins of ink bled down my arms, curling past my wrists, wrapping around my fingers. My legs burned as they stretched, bones twisting, warping, elongating into something unnatural. My boots no longer fit right. My stance felt too tall, too light, too fast.

  I was changing.

  No— I was becoming.

  I reached the first guard before he saw me.

  His back was turned, rifle resting at his hip, a cigarette between his lips. His head tilted slightly as if he sensed something—too late.

  The knife glided through his throat.

  A gurgled choke. A flash of blood in the neon light. A body crumpling to the floor.

  Silent.

  I stepped over him.

  Another turned the corner, talking to someone on his comm. His eyes met mine—shock flared across his face, too slow to reach for his gun.

  I was already moving.

  My elongated legs closed the distance in an instant. The Whisper thrilled, pulsing with the beat of my own heart.

  "Faster."

  The knife pierced through his ribs. I twisted. Ripped it free. He dropped before he could scream.

  The third one fired.

  The bullet grazed my shoulder, slicing through my sleeve. I barely felt it.

  The Whisper laughed.

  I moved before he could fire again.

  One step—two—I was already behind him.

  His breath hitched. He turned, wide-eyed.

  The knife cut through his gut.

  I pulled up.

  His insides spilled onto the floor.

  There was no hesitation now.

  I was unstoppable.

  The hallway narrowed, the main room just ahead. Three more guards barreled toward me, weapons raised.

  "Kill."

  I lunged.

  The first one fired—I ducked. His bullet buried into his friend’s chest instead.

  The second swung his rifle at my head—I caught it mid-air, wrenched it from his hands, and drove my knife under his chin.

  The third turned to run.

  I slammed into his back, tackled him to the ground. He kicked, thrashed, screamed. My fingers curled around his skull.

  And I slammed his head against the floor.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  The skull gave in before I did.

  The Whisper shuddered in pleasure.

  "Yes."

  The scent of blood thickened. The bodies were piled behind me. The halls were silent now.

  The only thing left was the main office.

  I stepped forward.

  The door was thick, metal-reinforced, meant to keep danger out.

  I pushed the door open.

  The gang leader sat behind a massive desk, half-lit by a flickering blue screen, fingers tapping absently against the surface.

  He didn’t flinch at first. Didn’t reach for a weapon.

  He just looked annoyed.

  Another man who thought himself untouchable.

  "Who the hell—"

  I lunged.

  His chair clattered backward as he shot to his feet, hands already reaching for his pistol—too slow.

  I closed the distance before he could aim.

  My fingers locked around his throat, slamming him back against the wall.

  The impact rattled through my bones.

  I didn’t loosen my grip.

  His hands clawed at mine. He was strong. But I was stronger.

  I squeezed.

  His breath hitched. Panic flared in his eyes.

  His gun dangled in his grip, trembling. His fingers twitched—then froze.

  Something shifted in his face.

  He was looking at me now.

  Really looking.

  At the black ink crawling over my skin, at my stretched, inhuman limbs, at my fingers wrapped around his throat that didn’t look human anymore.

  His pupils shrank to pinpricks.

  The gun slipped from his hand.

  He tried to pull away.

  I let him fall, watching as he hit the ground, hands fumbling for balance.

  His foot scrambled back, searching for an escape. His body twisted, turning toward the desk, toward the door—toward anywhere that wasn’t me.

  But there was nowhere left to go.

  His back hit the wall.

  His legs buckled.

  And then—

  He slid to the ground.

  Breath shallow.

  Eyes locked on mine.

  Horrified.

  Because he finally understood.

  I wasn’t just here to kill him.

  I was here to make a statement.

  I was here to begin something new.

  A slow breath filled my lungs.

  The Whisper thrummed, electric.

  "Yes."

  And above us—

  A voice rang out.

  Loud. Exultant. Echoing through the chamber.

  "Behold!"

  I didn’t have to look.

  I already knew who it was.

  Desire stood above us, perched on the balcony railing, arms spread wide, golden eyes shining.

  "Glory to the Empress!"

  The word hit me like a brand.

  The gang leader shook his head, trembling. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

  He couldn’t even beg.

  Because he already knew.

  It wouldn’t change anything.

  I tilted my head.

  I squeezed tighter.

  He twitched. His body convulsed, hands grasping at nothing.

  Then—

  I let go.

  His body collapsed forward, gasping, choking.

  Not dead yet.

  Not yet.

  I reached down and fastened a sign around his throat—a message for everyone to see.

  Then, gripping him by the collar, I dragged him toward the rooftop.

  The gang leader gasped, clawing at my grip, his fingers weak, desperate.

  He kicked against the ground, boots scuffing against the rooftop’s edge as I lifted him higher.

  The neon glow of the city stretched below us—a hollow sector built on greed and fear.

  A sector that wasn’t his anymore.

  I held him there, dangling over the abyss, his weight meaningless in my grasp.

  He was struggling.

  Still fighting.

  Still clinging to the idea that he mattered.

  "Please—" His voice cracked, breathless. His hands clutched at my wrist, trembling. "I can give you whatever you want, I—"

  He didn’t understand.

  This wasn’t about want.

  This was about taking.

  And then—

  A voice.

  Loud. Exultant.

  "Glory to the Empress!"

  Desire’s voice split the night, ringing through the sector like a declaration of war.

  The sector stirred.

  Lights flickered on. Windows creaked open.

  Shadows moved behind shattered glass, behind rusted railings and metal grates.

  Eyes.

  So many eyes.

  They weren’t looking at him.

  They were looking at me.

  I could see it—the realization washing over them.

  The slow, dawning recognition of who hung in my grasp.

  This man.

  The man who took their money.

  The man who beat their people.

  The man who sold their women.

  For years, he had ruled this sector with a hand wrapped in blood and greed.

  And now—

  Now, he was nothing but dead weight in my palm.

  The tension in the air shifted.

  No fear.

  No pleading.

  No screams.

  Just watching.

  Just waiting.

  And then, like a breath in the dark—

  Someone cheered.

  A single voice, small, raw, desperate.

  And then another.

  And another.

  A wave of voices swelling through the streets, building, rising, a storm rolling toward me.

  I tightened my grip around his throat.

  His breath hitched.

  He knew now.

  Knew there was no saving himself.

  No power.

  No escape.

  Only me.

  I let the weight of their voices fill my lungs.

  I let them tell me what I already knew.

  I wasn’t their executioner.

  I was their savior.

  My fingers curled, the black veins along my arm pulsing.

  The Whisper sighed, satisfied.

  "Yes."

  And I let him fall.

  The silence that followed was absolute.

  His body swung beneath the glow of neon lights, suspended by steel wire, his final throne at the edge of oblivion.

  Pinned to his chest, a single sign swayed in the wind.

  "DEATH TO PROVENANCE."

  The people below looked up at him, then back at me.

  And they bowed.

  One by one.

  A slow ripple.

  A tide shifting toward something inevitable.

  They weren’t just thanking me.

  They were accepting me.

  And as the Whisper curled beneath my ribs, as Desire grinned from the rooftop’s edge, as the sector finally began to wake—

  I smiled back.

  Because I knew.

  This was only the beginning.