The city was quiet. Not peaceful—just quiet. The kind of quiet that settled over the streets long after midnight, when the bars had closed and most sane people were asleep. Rainwater dripped from rusted fire escapes overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. And in a narrow alley between two crumbling buildings, a trail of blood stretched across the wet pavement.

Fresh blood. A lot of it. At the end of the trail was a man slumped against a brick wall. Bandages. Messy black hair. A massive scythe discarded several feet away.

Isaac Foster. Zack.

His chest rose unevenly. One eye remained shut, blood running down the side of his face. His hoodie was torn apart, exposing old burn scars beneath fresh wounds. Whoever he'd fought—or whatever happened after he'd fulfilled his promise—had left him in terrible shape.

Honestly? He should've been dead already. Yet somehow he was still breathing. Barely. His fingers twitched weakly against the concrete

After everything, after all the blood, all the promises, all the death...

This was how he ended up? Bleeding out in some filthy alley? He almost wanted to laugh again. Almost. Instead, his head rolled against the wall as exhaustion dragged at him. The world blurred. Darkened.

Then— Footsteps. Not his imagination. Real footsteps. Approaching. Slowly. His remaining eye cracked open. For a moment he thought maybe it was another hallucination. Wouldn't be the first tonight.

But no.

Someone was actually there. His hand immediately twitched toward the knife at his side. Instinct. Even half-dead, that instinct remained. The movement sent a sharp bolt of pain through his body.

Still, he glared through the darkness, eye narrowed like a wounded animal backed into a corner.

Dangerous. Terrified. Ready to bite.