6:00 a.m. The shift ended.
Raven locked the convenience store door from the outside, turning the key twice until he heard a click. The sky was still a dark gray—dawn hadn't fully arrived, just a thin orange streak on the eastern horizon. The morning air was cold, biting his skin, and his breath was puffing white.
The street in front of the store was starting to get busy—garbage trucks were passing by, a few cars were heading to work for the morning shift. But as Raven turned into the narrow alley leading to the bus stop, the hustle and bustle faded. Only the echo of her footsteps on the dew-drenched asphalt.
This alley was a shortcut. A five-minute walk to the bus stop, a 15-minute bus ride, and a three-block drop to her apartment. The same routine every morning.
But this morning felt different.
Raven felt that cold again.
Not a cold from the air. A cold that crept from within, like something touching the very marrow of her bones. Her breath seemed thicker, billowing like smoke. The temperature dropped dramatically in seconds.
he stopped in the middle of the alley. he looked back.
Empty.
Just the brick walls of old buildings on either side, trash cans, faded graffiti. Nothing moved.
But his instincts—honed by years in the underground—screamed that he was being hunted.
Raven continued walking. Faster. his hand reached into his jacket pocket, fumbling for his phone. There was no signal—three bars suddenly vanished to zero.
His footsteps echoed. Too loud. Too clear.
Then he heard other footsteps.
Behind him.
Slow. Steady. Dragging.
Raven stopped. The footsteps behind him stopped.
he turned quickly.
A figure stood 10 meters behind him.
A human—or what used to be a human.
He was unnaturally tall, nearly two and a half meters, but his body was emaciated, like a skeleton wrapped in thin skin. His arms were too long, hanging down to his knees, his fingers like black claws. His head was bowed, long, tangled hair covering his face. His clothes were in tatters—a white shirt covered in dark stains, his pants torn.
But what made Raven freeze was the sound.
Breathing.
Wet, heavy, ragged breaths. Like a punctured lung.
The figure lifted its head slowly.
Raven saw its face—and his stomach churned.
Half its face was gone. The skin had torn away, revealing jawbone and teeth. The left eye was gone, just a black socket. The right eye was still there—but it was jet white, pupilless, staring with a familiar blank stare.
Just like the woman in the shop last night.
His mouth opened—too wide, his jaw cracked almost to the point of breaking—and a sound escaped. Not words. A long, low groan, like rusted metal being rubbed.
Then the figure moved.
Fast.
Too fast for a body that large.
Raven reacted instinctively—jumping to the side, rolling across the asphalt. Black claws struck where he had been standing, scraping the concrete with a sharp squeak. Five deep scratches were etched into the ground.
Raven rose, his heart racing. Adrenaline pumping.
This was what he had been looking for. This was what made him feel alive.
But something in the back of his mind whispered: This is different.
The figure turned—a jerky movement, like a puppet with broken joints. Its head tilted 90 degrees to the right, its neck bones cracking. White eyes locked on Raven.
Then it struck again.
Raven stepped back, dodging a horizontal claw swing. Fighting reflexes took over—he stepped into range, throwing a hard straight punch to the figure's ribs.
His fist went through.
Literally.
His arm sank into the figure like it was piercing water—no resistance, no flesh, just bone-chilling cold. Like plunging his hand into liquid nitrogen.
Raven withdrew his hand quickly, taking three steps back. His hand was numb, frozen, the skin on his fingers turning purple.
Not solid.
The figure wasn't bleeding. Unharmed. It just stood there, its head tilted, as if considering Raven.
Then it laughed.
It was a distorted laugh—a mix of a cry and a scream, echoing from deep within its hollow chest.
Raven stepped back again. For the first time in his life—the first time since he started fighting—he felt something foreign.
Helplessness.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
The figure charged.
This time there was no finesse. Just brutal speed. Raven threw himself sideways, rolling toward the trash can. The claw hit the barrel with a loud CLANG, tearing through the metal like paper. Trash spilled out.
Raven got up and ran.
No shame. No ego. Just cold calculation: I can't hurt this. I have to get out of here.
he sprinted out of the alley, turning left onto a wider street. Dawn was breaking, the streetlights going out one by one. A few cars passed, but Raven couldn't stop to call for help—his instincts told him if he stopped, he'd die.
The sound of shuffling footsteps behind him. Faster now. Closer.
Raven turned—the figure was pursuing with strange movements, its body bent almost horizontally, its clawed hands gripping the asphalt to pull itself forward like an animal. Unnatural speed.
15 meters. 10 meters.
Raven turned sharply to the right, entering an old residential area. Low-rise apartments, windows still dark, no one awake yet. he jumped over a short fence, running down a narrow alley between two buildings.
Dead end.
A high brick wall ahead.
Damn.
Raven turned. The figure was standing at the end of the alley, blocking the only exit. Its head tilted to the left now, its white eyes gleaming faintly in the shadows.
Its mouth opened again, its cracked jaw hanging. A sound came out—not a moan. Words. Distorted, hoarse, but clear.
"Empty... like... me..."
Raven pressed his back against the wall, breathing fast but controlled. His mind was spinning rapidly.
Can't run. Can't hurt. Options?
None.
The figure took a step forward. One step. Two. Three. Long shadows stretched across the asphalt, swallowing the light.
"Empty... but... warm..." the voice continued, as if tasting the words. "Soul... still there... I... want..."
Then it struck.
Raven ducked, claws flashing overhead, scraping the brick wall with sparks. But the other hand—the figure's left hand—clutched Raven's shoulder.
Cold exploded.
It wasn't just physical cold. This was different. Like something was tearing at something inside him. Like something was pulling—not flesh, not bone—but something deeper. More essential.
His soul.
Raven screamed—a strange sound from his own throat. His legs gave out, his vision blurred. The world spun. he felt empty. Like a hole had formed in his chest, sucking everything from within.
Energy. Warmth. Life.
The figure pulled him closer, its distorted face mere centimeters from him. A putrid breath—the smell of rotting flesh and rusted metal—blasted into his face.
"I... eat... empty souls... like... me..."
The white eyes stared directly into Raven's. And in the depths of their missing pupils, Raven saw something.
Other faces. Dozens. Hundreds. Human faces with blank expressions, blank eyes, trapped inside this monster. They all screamed silently.
Its victims.
Raven tried to move—a hand, a foot, anything—but his body didn't respond. Like the cord had been cut. Only the cold spread, drawing in deeper, deeper.
His vision began to blacken at the edges. The sounds of the world faded.
This is how I die?
The question floated in his mind with a strange calm. There was no panic. No regret. Just curiosity.
Finally, someone can kill me.
But then—at the edge of consciousness—he heard another voice.
Not this figure. Not a moan or a distorted whisper.
A clear voice. Cold. Melodious but with a sharp edge.
A woman's voice.
"Pathetic."
The figure stopped. Its head jerked up, staring at something behind Raven.
The grip on Raven's shoulders loosened slightly—enough for him to fall to his knees, breathing heavily, the cold still gnawing at his chest.
he turned weakly.
There was no one.
But the figure retreated. Slowly. Its claws exited Raven's shoulder, leaving five gashes that billowed with cold steam.
The monster stared into the empty air beside Raven. Its white eyes widened—the first sign of emotion.
Fear.
Then it ran.
Spinning and sprinting at unnatural speed, its distorted body disappeared at the end of the hallway in seconds. The sound of shuffling footsteps faded away, fading away, until it was gone.
Raven was left alone.
he collapsed on the asphalt, his back against the wall, his hand clutching his wounded shoulder.
Blood flowed—but strangely, it felt cold. Like melted ice.
his breathing was heavy, erratic. Her vision was still blurry. His body trembled—not from fear, but from the cold that lingered in his bones.
What had just happened?
There was no answer.
Only the morning breeze began to blow, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and garbage.
Raven stared at the slowly brightening sky. The sun was beginning to rise in the east, its orange rays touching the rooftops.
A new day.
But his world had changed.
For the first time in his life, Raven Altair felt something unfamiliar.
Not adrenaline. Not emptiness.
Fear.
And even more terrifying than that, relief that he was alive.