The fire was dying.
It hadn't gone out, but it felt... hesitant. Like even the flames didn't want to shine too far beyond the circle.
They'd taken turns watching the perimeter, weapons ready, eyes darting to every little movement.
Then… it started.
First, a sound — like wind brushing through branches that weren't moving.
Then a voice — low, familiar, but wrong.
Hughie spun around, eyes wide."Did anyone else hear that?"
Deadpool stood slowly."I heard it. And I also heard myself peeing a little."
Alex's system sparked back to life just long enough to flash a single word:
"Approaching."
And that's when it happened.
They all felt it — like gravity shifted sideways.
And from between the trees, he emerged.
For the first time, they saw him clearly.
Tall.Shrouded.Wounded.
Layers of black drifted around him like oil-soaked fabric, his chained left arm glowing faintly red.
But it wasn't just him—
—it was the sword.
Buried deep into his chest. Straight through the ribcage. Glowing faint gold at the hilt, like the last light of a dying sun.
It didn't bleed.
It didn't heal.
It just existed. Like it had been there for a century, maybe more. Not sealing him. Not empowering him. Just… a part of him.
Deadpool's eyes widened behind his mask.
"…Okay."
He pointed directly up at the sky.
"HEY AUTHOR."
He screamed like a kid throwing a tantrum at a theme park.
"DID YOU JUST SLAP A TRAGEDY BACKSTORY, A CURSED SWORD, AND A BLEEDING GOTH DEMON INTO ONE CHARACTER?! THIS ISN'T A VILLAIN — THIS IS A TWITTER AESTHETIC! I WANT ROYALTIES!"
The figure didn't react.
Just watched.
Even Butcher went stiff, eyes locked on the being.
His voice, normally so sharp and sarcastic, dropped to a gravel whisper:
"…That thing ain't human."
They stared for what felt like minutes, but it was probably seconds.
And then — like before — he vanished.
Not into the woods.
Just… disappeared.
The air snapped back.
The weight lifted.
And all at once — the trees looked like trees again. The night sounded like a night again.
Alex's system dimmed.
[Presence faded. Hallucinations disengaged.]
Deadpool slowly sat back down, crossed his arms, and muttered to himself.
"If this ends up being a ghost that needs a hug, I'm quitting this crossover."
Later That Night — In the Van
They were all tucked into the cramped van, trying — and failing — to sleep.
Deadpool was curled up in a sleeping bag designed for someone half his size, whispering comforting things to one of his swords.
Hughie lay awake, staring at the ceiling."I don't think I'm ever gonna unsee that sword."
Alex stayed quiet.
He hadn't blinked since.
Butcher, meanwhile, sat in the front seat, quietly cracking open a beer with one hand and grabbing a flashlight.
No one said anything as he slid out of the van.
"Bloody hell…" he muttered, stretching his legs and heading behind a tree for what he dubbed "God's midnight eviction notice."
He unzipped, took a long swig of beer, and glanced up at the moon.
"Should've retired. Should've opened a pub."
Then — that feeling returned.
The pressure.
The pull.
He turned.
And there he was.
Closer than before.
Less obscured.
Just… standing.
Not ten feet from him.
The sword gleamed slightly in the moonlight.
Their eyes locked.
And for once — Butcher didn't say a word.
He couldn't.
Because that wasn't just an enemy.
That was a grave still walking.