The floor beneath my feet changed.
Not suddenly.
Not violently.
It decided.
Darkness spread outward in a slow, deliberate ripple, swallowing the pale hospital tiles like ink poured into water. The sterile white vanished under black that wasn't empty — black that moved, thickening as it advanced, folding over itself as if remembering a shape it had once been.
The lights overhead flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then dimmed, their glow bending wrong, shadows crawling up the walls and pooling along the ceiling like gravity had inverted.
My feet sank.
"What—"
The word barely escaped my throat before the ground answered.
Shadow wrapped around my boots, cold and viscous, clinging like wet clay. It climbed fast, dragging me down as if the floor itself had grown hands.
The pressure wasn't uniform.
It shifted.
One moment my left foot felt submerged, the next my right calf was being crushed inward, like the shadow was testing different ways to hold me. The surface beneath my boots softened and hardened at the same time—yielding just enough to drag me down, resisting just enough to hurt.
It wasn't pulling me.
It was claiming me.
My body locked.
Muscles screamed as I tried to pull free, tendons burning under sudden resistance. It felt like being caught mid-stroke by a current that didn't exist — pressure from every direction, precise and merciless.
Across from me, one of the assassins raised his hand.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The darkness tightened.
For half a heartbeat, my mind refused it.
No.
This wasn't real.
This couldn't be real.
This was a hospital — a corridor that smelled like disinfectant and blood, fluorescent lights humming overhead, monitors still beeping in nearby rooms.
I could list everything that made this place real.
The scuffed linoleum beneath the shadow.
The distant rattle of a gurney somewhere down the hall.
The sharp sting of antiseptic in the air that burned my nose every time I inhaled.
Reality had rules.
This broke all of them.
People didn't do this.
Things like this belonged in manga panels. Stylized. Exaggerated. Safely unreal.
Not here.
Not gripping my legs like living hands.
The shadow was cold.
Heavy.
Solid.
Panic punched into my chest.
This isn't a trick. This isn't an illusion.
Whatever they were doing —
It was real.
And I was trapped.
Another assassin stepped forward and pressed his palm flat against the floor.
The shadow surged.
It climbed my thighs. My waist. My ribs.
Pressure crushed inward, pinning my arms closer to my sides, squeezing breath from my lungs. My chest tightened, air turning shallow and sharp.
I tried to move.
Nothing.
The shadow crept higher, deliberate now, patient — like it had learned exactly how long I could endure before breaking.
My heartbeat roared in my ears.
No—
Then something shifted.
Not in the shadow.
In me.
I was a swimmer.
This sensation — resistance, drag, the world tightening around my body — I knew it better than breathing. Years of fighting water had taught me something simple and brutal:
You don't overpower resistance.
You enter it.
Every lesson I'd ever learned screamed against instinct.
Fight.
Struggle.
Panic.
But water had taught me otherwise.
The harder you thrash, the faster you drown.
The tighter you tense, the quicker you sink.
I exhaled sharply.
Let my shoulders drop.
Relaxed.
The shadow hesitated.
Just for a fraction.
Not mastery. Not control.
Habit colliding with something that hadn't learned how to stop me yet.
And even as I felt it — I knew the opening was already closing.
I moved.
Not upward.
Through.
My arms cut into the darkness the way they always had through water, muscles screaming as I slipped instead of pulled. The sensation was nauseating — like diving into something that wanted to swallow me whole — but instinct carried me forward.
The shadow rippled.
Confused.
I dove.
My hand closed around something solid.
An ankle.
"—!"
I twisted hard, using momentum instead of strength, ripping the assassin off balance the way I would spin an opponent underwater.
The shadow reacted.
It screamed.
Not with sound — with vibration.
The corridor shuddered.
Pressure slammed into my skull, teeth rattling, vision flashing white. The shadow tightened again, furious now, lashing upward around my torso, crushing breath from my lungs.
I was losing it.
I knew it.
I burst free anyway.
Darkness tore away in thick strands as I dragged the assassin down with me, air ripping back into my lungs in a painful, burning gasp.
I staggered.
Nearly fell.
My legs didn't feel like mine anymore.
He hit the floor hard.
I went after him — and almost blacked out.
The world tunneled violently. Sound lagged behind motion. My body moved a half-step ahead of my awareness, like I was chasing myself through molasses.
I fought anyway.
No technique. No form.
Just momentum and grief.
My knee slammed into his ribs. Something caved.
The impact landed —
and the corridor blinked out.
Not darkness.
Absence.
It wasn't black.
It was missing.
Like someone had erased a fraction of reality and forgotten to fill it back in. Sound didn't echo there. Light didn't reflect. Even pain hesitated, as if it wasn't sure where to land.
When it snapped back, I was already swinging — fist cracking into his throat, then his jaw. Blood sprayed across the warped floor, slick and hot against my skin.
Another assassin rushed me from the side.
I pivoted too late.
A blade buried itself into my shoulder.
White pain detonated.
I screamed — not loud, not long — just enough to force air back into my lungs.
I ripped free, blood slicking my arm, and slammed my elbow backward into his face. Bone cracked. He staggered.
I grabbed his collar and drove him into the wall.
Once.
Twice.
My vision blurred.
I missed the third strike.
He didn't.
A knife slammed into my side.
Deep.
The shock stole my breath completely. I stumbled back, nearly dropping the sword.
The sword didn't help me.
It hesitated.
Not physically — something worse.
Like it wasn't sure about me anymore.
That hesitation almost killed me.
The assassin yanked his blade free and ran.
He didn't look back.
And I couldn't follow.
My legs buckled.
I caught myself against the wall, gasping, blood soaking my clothes, ribs screaming in protest. The shadow surged again, snapping tight around my calves, dragging me down.
I was done.
I knew it.
My breath came in broken pulls.
The corridor pulsed — walls flexing faintly, lights flickering out of rhythm. Hospital alarms warped, voices stretching and snapping back like tape under tension.
The shadow wielder staggered.
Not hurt.
Disoriented.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
We locked eyes.
He raised his hand again.
The shadow answered.
I almost collapsed.
Then —
We both stopped.
Breathing.
Just for a second.
Rain hammered against the windows. Monitors beeped unevenly. Someone sobbed behind a closed door.
Blood dripped steadily from my fingers, each drop striking the warped floor with a soft, hollow tap. Beneath it all, the shadow at my feet twitched in short, broken jerks — like it no longer trusted the ground it came from.
We circled each other slowly.
Not hunters. Not prey.
Two things that had pushed too far and needed air.
My arms trembled violently now.
Not fear.
Fatigue.
Every muscle felt overextended, like I'd gone past failure and kept going anyway. My lungs burned with shallow breaths, each inhale scraping raw against my ribs.
I couldn't do this again.
I knew it.
Then a sound cut through everything.
A cry.
High.
Sharp.
Familiar.
My vision shattered.
Sound vanished — not faded, gone — even my heartbeat lagging, trying to catch up.
My heart stopped.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
The shadow loosened.
Just enough.
And I knew —
Whatever this was… Whatever I'd become for these few minutes…
It wasn't enough.
✦ End of Chapter 9 - When The World Decides ✦