Step. Step. Step.
From the midst of the snarling goblin horde, one figure slowly emerged—taller, broader, darker. The crowd parted for him as though his very presence demanded it.
The Ashen Goblin.
He walked with a measured, deliberate pace, every step pounding like a drumbeat in Steve's skull. And then—he stopped.
Right in front of him.
Steve was already trembling, his breath ragged and uneven. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the creature. The goblin raised a hand, fluid dripping from his clawed fingers—thick, translucent, and unmistakably familiar.
It was the same liquid. The same slimy veil Steve had just been yanked out from.
So it was him.
He's the one who pulled me out. He's the one who stopped my escape.
Steve dropped to his knees instinctively, trying to lower himself, to make himself smaller. The beast loomed, then—casually, like he had all the time in the world—lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged before Steve, as if they were about to have tea.
