The apartment was too quiet.
Not in the peaceful way—not in the normal way. It was the kind of quiet that wrapped around your bones and dared you to move. Not Nice didn't mind it. He didn't feel anything about it. His daughter's painting, a crayon-streaked blur of a family holding hands beneath a crooked sun, hung above the coat rack. He stared at it without blinking. It should've meant something. It had once.
He couldn't remember the feeling.
He checked his revolver.
Hourbringer was warm today—an omen. Six gleaming, mirrored notches shimmered where a normal chamber would be. Not bullets. Memories. Time, frozen and folded into murder. Each forged from a piece of himself, each more precious than the last.
He holstered it under his coat and looked at the kitchen clock.
07:32 a.m.The clock ticked forward.07:32 a.m.
Time stuttered. His gift bleeding out, unconsciously. He was burning through minutes just by existing. He exhaled, slow and even.
"Control it. Or it controls you."
That was what Karnessa had said, the day she explained the clause. Her voice is gone now—memory spent on a target who moved too fast.
He opened the drawer and picked up Reclaimant, the onyx ring cool against his skin. He stared at the kitchen photo frame before slipping it on—his wife, his two kids, all frozen in time, mid-laughter. It might as well be strangers.
Just one charge left.
He shouldn't waste it. But today was their anniversary. And he had made a promise. Not in words—those were gone too—but in silence, every time he loaded a new memory into Hourbringer, he made the same vow.
"I'll find a way back to you."
Downtown Skarvale09:13 a.m.
The hunt was effortless.
The mark was a soul debtor named Tiggs, a minor conjurer who defaulted on a blood-oath loan. He wasn't dangerous. He wasn't fast. And he definitely wasn't worth more than one shot.
Not Nice stalked him across rain-slick rooftops, eyes silver beneath his hood. Tiggs stopped to light a cig. The flame danced in slow motion. That's when Not Nice pulled the trigger.
BOOM.
No gunpowder. No recoil. Just time shattering like glass around Tiggs' head. The man moved like he was underwater—eyes wide, lips stretching into a scream that never reached air. Not Nice walked up, calmly. Pressed Hourbringer to Tiggs' chest.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Not because he meant it. He didn't feel sorry. He didn't feel anything.
He pulled the trigger again. No need to rush. Tiggs collapsed, eyes caught forever in that moment of betrayal.
Two shots used.
One for the slow. One for the end.
Back Home. 10:47 a.m.
The ring burned when he slid it on.
His knees buckled as the soul rushed in.
Grief. Terror. A love for someone named "Mira." It all flooded into him like warm liquor.
And then—emotion.
He gasped.
And for the first time in weeks, he cried.
Tears, actual tears, slipping down his face as he stumbled to the kitchen. He grabbed the photo off the counter and clutched it to his chest.
"God... I miss you," he whispered, voice breaking.
His phone buzzed. It was his wife.
[Mira Calling...]
He answered. Voice shaking.
"Happy anniversary," he said.
Her breath caught. "…Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he lied. "I just wanted to hear your voice."
They talked for ten minutes. He smiled—genuinely. Laughed. Asked about the kids, their school, the neighbor's annoying dog. It was perfect. Temporary.
He hung up and looked at the ring.
22 hours left.
That was the cost.
A day to feel. A soul to fuel it.
Six bullets.Six memories lost.One day of humanity at a time.
"I kill to feel… just so I can feel what I've lost."
And tomorrow?He'd do it again.
11:02 a.m. — The Hollow Hours
The apartment was warm. Not Nice—real name long forgotten—sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee he didn't even like. Bitterness had returned to his tongue. That meant the ring was working.
He watched the sun reach through the blinds, slicing the room into glowing bars of light. Dust floated lazily, and for a second—just one—it looked like a memory. A real one. Saturday mornings. Pancakes. Sticky fingers. Laughter.
"Daddy, make the pancakes dance!"
That voice—his daughter's—rippled through him, pure and sharp. Not a hallucination. Just a ghost. A sliver of stolen time replaying itself in his newly-fueled nerves. He closed his eyes and felt it.
Joy.
It hit him like a train.
And with it came guilt.
He had killed a man an hour ago for this feeling. A man who loved someone. A man who probably had pancakes too.
No. No thinking like that. The ring's active. It doesn't make you a better person. It just makes you remember you were one.
The door creaked open.
Little feet pitter-pattered across the hardwood. Then—
"DADDY!"A tiny blur slammed into his chest.
His daughter. Arms around his neck. Warm. Alive.
"Hey, little bear," he whispered into her hair. "How was school?"
"We made slime! And Miss Braxon said I was the BEST sharer today! Look—look what I made!"
She shoved a glittering glob into his face. It smelled awful. It was beautiful.
Behind her, his wife entered.
She was wearing that tired smile—the one she always wore when she didn't believe what she was saying, but said it anyway to hold their world together.
"You're home early," she said.
He nodded. "I wanted to see you both. Thought I'd surprise you."
She squinted. "You're… smiling."
"Yeah."
Pause.
"You charged the ring," she said quietly.
He didn't answer.
She sat across from him, rubbing her eyes. "I can't even be angry. Not when you're you again."
Their fingers touched over the table. She flinched—but didn't pull away.
"I still love you," he said, and meant it.
"I know," she said. "But this… this isn't sustainable. You can't keep trading lives for dinners and bedtime stories. We'll all drown in the blood eventually."
"I'm looking," he whispered. "There has to be a clausebreaker. A key. Something."
She shook her head, but her eyes were wet. "You always say that."
8:57 p.m. — The Ring's Shadow
The ring was dimming.
Twenty-three hours used. One left.
The fear started crawling back. Not Nice clutched his wife's hand like a man about to drown. He didn't want to let go. But the cold was already returning. He kissed her forehead. The warmth was fading.
"I'll try again tomorrow," he said.
"I know," she replied. "But one day…"
She didn't finish.
He stood.
The pain was coming. The numbness. He'd forget the way her hair smelled. The sound of their daughter's laughter. All of it, until the next soul.
But tonight, for one more hour—he remembered it all.
And as the clock hit 9:57 p.m., and the last flicker of feeling faded from his chest, he sat alone in the dark, arms wrapped around a stuffed bear that still smelled like his kid, and waited.
Tomorrow, he would kill again.
But tonight, he had one final breath of love.
And that was enough.
For now.