The demon walked down the stairs.
Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just steady. Measured. Like he had all the time in the world—and every second belonged to him.
Each step was a declaration. The wood beneath his boots cried out with long, groaning creaks, as if even the ship itself was tired of holding his weight. Every footfall hit with a heavy thud—not just sound, but impact. You could feel it in your chest, like distant thunder getting closer. The vibrations crawled through the floorboards and into my boots, like the ship was warning me he was coming before my eyes could confirm it.
His steps weren't loud because they needed to be.
They were loud because silence would've been a lie.
Even the air changed with his descent—heavier, hotter, like the deck itself was leaning into him. With every movement, his shadow stretched farther, darkening the edges of the blood-soaked deck. A creeping eclipse.
And the worst part?
He was smiling.
That giggle again—light, breathy, like he was in on a joke no one else got. Like this entire nightmare was a game to him. Every few seconds, it slipped from his throat, just loud enough to be heard, just frequent enough to feel planned.
It made my skin crawl.
It made his men collapse.
The ones who still stood—those twelve breathing sacks of failure—shrunk deeper with every sound. One dropped their weapon. Another whispered a prayer. A third couldn't stop his own hand from shaking. No one dared speak. No one dared run.
They weren't scared of me anymore.
They were scared of him.
Good.
They should be.
He made even Reacher—the bastard of war himself—look like a schoolyard bully. Built like something that didn't belong in this world. He wasn't just tall—he was wrong. Broad where a man shouldn't be broad. His neck thicker than most men's thighs. Arms long enough to touch his knees without bending. Shoulders wide enough to blot out the moon if he stood against the horizon.
He wasn't huge.
He was wrong.
A miniature giant. Compressed muscle and cruelty in one skin-tight shell. Every part of him looked like it was made to break something softer. Something human.
Even from where I stood, I had to tilt my head just to meet his gaze. And he knew it. The bastard didn't even acknowledge me at first. Not directly. He didn't need to. His steps alone said everything.
This was his deck.
These were his men.
That wasn't his concern.
I wasn't his concern.
He didn't walk like someone entering enemy territory.
He walked like a lion in the open savannah. Like he was born here. Like every inch of this blood-drenched hellhole belonged to him—and always had. His presence didn't ask permission. It demanded acknowledgment.
And still—he didn't look at me.
Not once.
His gaze didn't waver. Not toward the bodies. Not toward the blood. Not toward the bone-picked corpses lined up like offerings.
He walked past them like they were furniture.
Like they didn't matter.
He had a destination.
And I saw it the moment he took that last step down onto the main deck.
The raft.
My raft.
His eyes didn't leave it.
Locked in, laser-focused, like everything else was dust.
The raft sat still where it had been dragged earlier. Just wood and rope. Just a floating coffin that somehow didn't sink, even when the world tried to drown it. The thing that had carried me here. The cursed little miracle that had refused to break—just like me.
And now he wanted it.
The way he looked at it—it wasn't curiosity. It wasn't confusion.
It was greed.
Pure, feral greed.
The kind that lived in men who already had everything but still wanted more. Like gold had grown legs and started walking toward him. Like fate had gift-wrapped his prize and left it sitting under the tree.
That giggle came again.
High. Hollow.
It echoed off the sails and made the air feel thinner.
He kept walking.
His men didn't move. Not an inch. Not a breath. They just watched, paralyzed, like if they even flinched, he'd turn on them instead.
I stood there, fists clenched, rifle across my back, fingers twitching like they wanted a reason.
I stared at him. Burned holes into him with my eyes.
And still, he didn't look at me.
He didn't need to.
Because in his mind, I wasn't the problem.
I was just the pre-show.
The warm-up act before the real event.
I was the mess someone else would clean up.
He was here for the raft.
Not me.
Not the blood.
Not the ritual.
I matched his pace.
He walked to the raft—slow, deliberate.
And I? I walked to the skulls.
The four that were still being worked on—still twitching, still trembling, the blood beneath their skin finishing its feast.
He had his prize.
I had mine.
Neither of us spoke.
Our steps sounded in tandem, like we were walking opposite ends of the same funeral march. Each footfall a beat in the countdown.
I didn't look at him.
Not because I feared him.
Because I refused to.
Because if I looked—if I broke pace—I'd acknowledge something I wasn't ready to yet.
Not him.
Not his size.
Not his power.
His pull.
I reached the skulls. Dropped to a crouch. Let my fingers hover just above the closest one's forehead. I could feel the heat still rising off his skin—see the way his veins pulsed unnaturally under the surface, like worms writhing in shallow soil. The blood was almost done.
Almost.
And just as I started to lean closer—
I felt it.
Not heard.
Felt.
The weight behind me stopped moving.
The demon's steps had halted.
No more creaking boards.
No more rhythmic thuds like war drums announcing his arrival.
Silence.
The kind that tightens your spine without asking permission.
I didn't turn.
Didn't have to.
I could feel it in my bones—the way his gaze drilled into the back of my skull. Not curious. Not idle. Focused. Sharp. Like he was trying to measure the exact spot he'd drive something through.
He was looking at me.
First time.
Finally.
And I could feel the question hanging in the air between us. Unspoken. Heavy.
"Should I kill him now?"
The question lingered there like smoke.
He wasn't afraid of me. That much was obvious. But he was... considering.
Calculating.
Weighing.
Whether it was worth the effort to deal with me now, or just let me crawl around a little longer like a fly buzzing on the wall of his feast.
Let him stare.
Let him contemplate.
He could stare holes into my spine for all I cared.
Because he wasn't my focus.
Not yet.
The skulls—they mattered more. The ritual mattered more. These last pieces, this final stitch of horror and justice… they were sacred.
And until they were complete, nothing else got to matter.
Not even him.
I lowered my hand to the twitching skull beneath me and muttered, just loud enough for the dying thing to hear:
"You're almost there. Just hold on."
Behind me, the silence stretched longer.
He hadn't moved.
Still staring.
Still deciding.
But I didn't give him my back out of carelessness.
I gave it to him because it made a point.
He wasn't the center of my world.
Not yet.
Our war was coming.
But right now?
I had bones to clean.
And justice to finish.
And the last of the blood to settle.
Let him watch. Let him wait.
He could have the raft.
I would have my ritual.