The room was bare concrete, cold and silent, buried somewhere beneath the city's rotting skin. No windows. No clocks. No exit signs humming with comfort. Only a single bulb swung from a chain above, casting a dim yellow halo over the center of the room—just enough light to see the sweat on her skin, the blade in her hand, and the scars she refused to name.
Calla Brandt stood barefoot on the cracked cement floor, chest rising and falling like she'd been running for hours. Her gray shirt clung to her body like a second skin, soaked through, nearly translucent. Sweat streamed down her arms in thin rivulets, falling from her fingertips each time she raised them again. Her breaths came in short, sharp bursts—measured not by pain, but by precision.
Knife. Throw. Hit.
Knife. Throw. Hit.
Each movement was mechanical. Brutal. Not training—exorcism.
The target at the far end of the room—a human-shaped dummy stitched from old burlap and duct tape—had become little more than a canvas for her fury. Its surface was shredded, its chest collapsed inward from repeated strikes. But none of that mattered.
Because tonight, it wore his face.
Drawn in ink—two thick black lines down the center, where a mouth should've been. Circles for eyes. Ember orange, the color of judgment. The color of him.
HeartEater.
She hurled another blade. It struck just below the mask's right eye, digging deep. The dummy rocked slightly, like it had been punched.
Still not deep enough.
She crossed the room with heavy steps and ripped the blade out with a jerking motion that split the fabric further. Then another. Then another.
Her hands were shaking now, but not from fatigue.
She turned again.
Knife. Throw. Hit.
> Why didn't he bleed? Why didn't he grunt? Why didn't he even flinch?
All she had were questions and not a single answer to carve from them.
Another throw. The blade struck the dummy's throat—right at the point where skin should rupture and blood should pour.
But there was no blood. Just cloth. Just silence.
Calla stood there, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, eyes wide and glassy under the dim light. Her lips didn't move, but inside her skull, her thoughts screamed like wolves in a burning cage.
> He didn't fight me. He judged me. Like he saw through me—
Not to the fire. Not to the pain.
To the rot.
She let out a breath through her nose and turned back toward the bench at the side of the room. Metal table. Dented. Blood-stained. A cold plate of food sat untouched beside a worn silver flip phone. The screen was cracked. The hinge crooked. She didn't remember where she got it. Probably off a corpse.
She reached for the last blade on the table.
And the phone rang.
A sharp, synthetic buzz pierced the silence. The kind of sound that didn't belong in this room. Cheap. Plastic. Real.
She froze.
It buzzed again. A third time. Then a fourth.
Finally, she answered.
She didn't speak.
"Little sister."
Her eyes narrowed. The voice scraped through her like gravel in warm water.
"Iosef," she said flatly. Her voice was hoarse. Used up.
"You sound tired," he said. His tone was light, almost boyish. "You alright? You still throwing knives at ghosts?"
She didn't answer. Her silence hung between them like a blade in the air.
"I'm out," he continued, as if rehearsed. "The pit fights, the chains, the screaming crowds—it's over. I burned the ring. Slipped out through the fire. Didn't even look back."
Her expression didn't change.
"You should've seen their faces," he chuckled, distant and wistful. "Men who thought they owned me. Ashes in their throats now."
"Iosef," she said slowly, "what do you want?"
He was quiet for a beat. Then:
"You. That's it. You and me. Like it used to be. No orders. No debts. Just us."
Her grip tightened on the blade.
"I saw what happened at KorrinTech," he said, the grin gone from his voice. "That wasn't just a job. That was rage. You're bleeding, Calla. You're not hiding it anymore."
She said nothing.
"I know you," he said. "You lash out when you're scared. When you're alone. When you're cornered."
A muscle jumped in her cheek.
"We've both bled for what they did to us. We've both earned the right to burn down everything they built. So let's do it together. You don't need this crusade."
There was something sickly sweet in his tone now, almost like affection—but twisted. Iosef didn't understand comfort. He only understood possession.
> He doesn't want you healed, her mind whispered. He wants you in pieces, so he can keep collecting them.
Her knuckles whitened around the knife.
"No," she said at last. Quiet. Solid. Unmoving.
There was a pause.
"…No?" he repeated, confused.
"I'm not going backward," she said. "Not for you. Not for anyone. I have work to do."
"Work?" he echoed with disgust. "What, chasing a ghost? That thing in the mask? That corpse who plays judge with glowing eyes?"
Her lips parted. Not a smile. Not quite.
"I see him," she whispered. "And he sees me. Not the little girl you locked in closets. Not the one who cried when your fists weren't busy. He saw what's left of me and didn't flinch."
"He's going to kill you," Iosef said. His voice was flat now. All warmth gone.
"Maybe," she replied. "But he won't use me."
She hung up.
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It roared.
The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.
She stared at the target.
The crude face. The burning eyes. The judgment.
She stepped back. Drew her arm.
And threw.
The final knife hit the mask dead center—between the eyes.
The dummy swayed. The bulb above flickered.
Calla stood still, breathing hard, throat tight, heart hammering beneath her ribs like it wanted to tear its way free. Her vision blurred, just slightly, just enough to make her question whether she was shaking or the room was.
She didn't cry. She never cried.
She watched the mask sway.
Then she turned back toward the table, gathered her knives, and began again.
She would not miss next time.
Not him. Not anyone.