Page 37 of Veil of Dust

I move through the hall. The boards beneath my boots creak. I leave streaks of swamp water and mud behind me—faint trails. Nothing I care to clean up.

I step into the main room.

She’s behind the bar, cleaning. Her movements are slow, focused.

Then, she stops.

The moment she hears the door shut, her head lifts. Her eyes lock onto mine.

No hesitation.

She sees the shirt. The blood. The dirt. The sweat. All of it.

Her face doesn’t change right away.

But then I see it—worry. Then recognition. Then something else. Something sharp. It holds her gaze as if she’s trying to figure out what I’ve done without needing the full picture.

Her eyes drop to my hands.

Blood remains. Dried. Caked under my nails. My fingers stained, my shirt stiff with it.

I don’t speak yet.

I step forward. The weight of what I’ve done is still on my chest, but it’s quiet now.

I stop at the edge of the bar.

We don’t touch.

We just look.

Her eyes search mine.

I let her.

“Done,” I say, voice rough. It comes out low, strained.

She doesn’t respond.

I stay there.

Closer than I should be.

Not saying more.

Not explaining.

She looks at me like she already knows. Not every detail. Just enough.

She knows it’s not over.

I know it too.

That voice in the swamp—it’s still with me.

You’re next.

I don’t know what that means yet.

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