Page 22 of Ravaged By the Reaper
He chokes. Drops. His weapon clatters against the metal.
I don’t watch him fall. My eyes are on the Reaper.
He’s moving now—toward me. Notatme. Notagainstme.
With me.
Coalition reinforcements pour into the corridor from the south wing. Five. No—seven. They’re barking commands I can’t hear over the rush of blood in my ears. One lifts a high-grade scatterbeam. The hallway lights up with arcs of yellow fire.
I dive into a slide, roll to my knees, and slash. My blade sears through the ankle of the nearest attacker—he shrieks as he topples.
Then he’s there.
The Reaper crashes into the front line like a demon unleashed. His chain whip lashes through two at once, slicing them open like fruit. He lifts the weighted end andsmashesit into a third soldier’s head—helmet and skull folding inward with a sickening crunch.
We fall into rhythm.
I duck beneath a flailing arm, pivot on one heel, and thrust upward—my blade finds ribs. He spins to my right, deflecting a blast meant for my head with his forearm. Smoke hisses where the shot landed, but he doesn’t flinch.
It’s like we’ve done this before.
We haven’t.
I don’tknowthis man.
But my body does.
Every movement we make is mirrored, measured. Like we’re halves of the same whole—striking, blocking, twisting in tandem. My pulse thrums to a new beat, synced with his footfalls.
His laughter comes again, but softer now. Not mockery. Not madness.
Joy.
A savage kind of joy that lights his red eyes like stars going supernova.
I catch him watching me between strikes. Watching the way I move. The way I kill.
He likes it.
I should be disturbed.
I’m not.
Two more soldiers rush in from the west. I leap sideways, blade catching one across the thigh—his scream turns to a gurgle as the Reaper’s hook impales his chest from behind.
Blood spatters across my cheek. I don’t wipe it off.
I justkeep going.
The corridor becomes a war dance.
His scythe slashes, pulls, tangles. My blade flicks, stabs, sears. I use the walls, the floor, even the low ceilings—every inch of this station becomes a weapon in my hands.
I don’t ask who he is.
I don’t need to.
He’s not a hallucination. Not a dream. He’sreal.
