"So, looking for something?"
The voice came from an overly excited girl in her early twenties, her tone far too bright for the cold atmosphere clinging to Whispering Lake's southern stretch.
Lysander didn't bother hiding the irritation on his face. He wasn't in the mood for idle chatter. Especially not while mentally dissecting half a dozen methods to commit the perfect murder—hypothetically, of course.
The girl—Gwen, as she had introduced herself—had been following him ever since he parted ways with the Colonel a few hours ago. Apparently, the Colonel decided that gifting Lysander a "guide" was easier than owing favors to a suspicious, bony-eyed stranger who looked like he belonged in a morgue.
After mulling over the events of the past few hours, Lysander spoke at last, his gaze fixed on the moonlight rippling across the lake's surface.
"So, who else is here besides that Red Fang tattoo cult?"
Gwen blinked, caught off guard by the question. A short silence followed, broken by a giggle—too soft, too rehearsed.
"Well, we're in the southern part of Whispering Lake right now. As we move toward the center, we'll run into a group of self-important idealists calling themselves the Bellow. They've clustered under someone named Jason."
"Jason?"
Lysander's voice didn't change, but the flicker of relief in his eyes didn't escape Gwen's notice.
"Jason Verethen, by any chance?"
"Oh? You know him?" she asked teasingly, nudging closer.
Lysander didn't answer. Instead, he stood, brushing dust from his sleeves. "Anything else I should know?"
Unfazed by the cold dismissal, Gwen continued with the same overbearing cheerfulness.
"Yeah, there's also a fanatic cult that worships the System like it's divine truth. They call themselves… hmm… right, Mirrored Faith. Don't get involved with them. Their leader, Aisle, is a straight-up psychopath."
Lysander raised a brow. "Oh. Okay. More."
Gwen smirked and leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Also… the Colonel mentioned something shady going on. Apparently, Erwell—Jacob's father—is doing questionable work for Central. Thought you'd want to know."
That name made Lysander pause.
He knew Erwell wasn't exactly a saint. But neither had he been openly corrupt. This new information complicated things.
While Lysander stood lost in thought, Gwen's voice cut through again, a touch uncertain now.
"Um, Ghost? If you don't mind… mind if I freshen up? I got injured earlier. I shrugged it off, but I think it's getting infected."
He glanced at the blood-soaked edge of her tunic, then nodded.
"Fine. I'll scout ahead. We move in an hour. Wait for me."
Without another word, Lysander disappeared into the woods.
---
Back at the makeshift camp, Gwen sat alone, dressing her wound. Her mind drifted—toward Lysander. Toward Ghost, as he introduced himself. When the Colonel first asked her to spy on the masked drifter, she assumed he was just another lunatic unleashed by the Trials.
But… he wasn't. Gwen had expected discomfort, maybe even dread. Instead, she felt strangely safe in his presence. And that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
She shook her head. She was a hardened veteran. Orders were orders. No time for second-guessing.
Then she felt it—movement. Her instincts screamed.
Before she could fully react, something slammed into the camp's edge with brutal force. She rolled aside, barely avoiding a fatal blow.
Four men emerged from the dark, each wearing a crest etched with a crown—the mark of the Aristocratic Front.
She reached for her bow and let an arrow fly. It struck one of them in the arm—but only seemed to enrage him.
"You bitch!" he spat. "I was gonna give you peaceful death due to orders from sir erwell but now we will enjoy your warm body before slicing your throat."
They rushed her. She fought. For a time, she held her ground, wounding one, disarming another. But numbers won. They pinned her, held her down, laughter thick with lust and cruelty.
Her vision blurred. The cold, cruel weight of their hands pressed against her.
She screamed.
"GHOST! If you're real—save me!"
No answer.
She clenched her jaw. "Or please at least… kill me before they do."
X-X-X
The woods near the lake had gone quiet. Too quiet.
Lysander heard movement—dull thuds, a scuffle. A muffled sound like someone choking.
He didn't break into a run. He moved fast, silent. Every step felt like it belonged to someone else.
Then he saw them.
Gwen was half-curled in the dirt near the edge of the woods, her face ground into the roots. One of them crouched on her back, fists locked around her wrists with the ease of someone who'd done it before. Another pawed through her satchel, grinning as he tossed aside supplies like a bored scavenger. A third stood a few paces off, slowly undoing his belt, his eyes empty, like his mind had already left his body. And then there was the last one—leaning against a tree, arms folded, not moving, not speaking. Just watching. His face was too still. Not excited. Not afraid. Just... waiting, like this was a scene he'd seen many times before, and never once stopped.pppp
None of them noticed him.
Until he was already moving.
"You lost, pal?" one called.
Lysander didn't answer. His fist struck the speaker's jaw with a wet snap. Bone cracked. The man dropped before his knife even left its sheath.
Gwen's attacker turned too slow. Lysander grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off her, then slammed the man's skull into the nearest tree. Once. Twice. Blood smeared across the bark. The man's legs folded.
The one with the machete charged. The blade caught Lysander's side, tearing through the shirt and skin. He barely flinched.
He caught the man's wrist mid-swing and twisted—hard. Something popped. The man screamed. Lysander punched him in the throat, then drove him to the ground. His knees pinned the bastard's arms. Fists rose and fell. Over and over. Flesh gave way. Teeth snapped. Blood sprayed up his forearms.
The last one ran.
Lysander tackled him from behind, dragging him down into the dirt.
"Wait!" the man cried. "I didn't touch her! I didn't—"
"You watched."
"They didn't say they'd— I didn't think—"
"You thought enough to stay."
Lysander's hand pressed the back of the man's neck into the ground. His fingers curled slightly. He felt the spine shift. One squeeze. That's all it would take.
But he didn't.
He let go.
The coward scrambled away on all fours and vanished into the trees.
For a moment, Lysander just stood there. Covered in blood. Breathing heavy, but not tired. His side stung. His knuckles ached.
Gwen sat slumped near a tree. One of her shoes was missing. Her lip was split. She stared at him—not with terror. With something colder. Like she didn't know what he was anymore.
Lysander looked down at his hands.
Blood. Bits of flesh under his nails.
He wiped them on his shirt, but the stain only spread.
He turned and walked, saying nothing. Not out of shame. Not guilt.
He just couldn't stand to look at her. Not when she was still looking at him like that.
The lake waited in the distance. Still. Silent. But for a moment, Lysander thought he heard it breathing.