“Run!”

  Sister Carmel’s voice rang sharp, fierce, as she threw herself between Zeke and the incoming vampire.

  Jovic's icy voice cut through the chaos. “Jester. Bring the boy.”

  Zeke bolted into the trees. The world blurred past—branches whipped his skin, roots snagged at his feet. His chest burned.

  Behind him—laughter.

  Playful. Mocking.

  “Run faster, little mouse...”

  A blade nicked his shoulder—then another slash across his leg.

  Zeke stumbled.

  Blood ran.

  Then—

  A voice. Not Jester’s.

  Inside his head.

  “Is this all you are?”

  Zeke shook his head, dizzy.

  He tripped.

  Fell hard. A root caught his foot and slammed him into the dirt.

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  Laughter grew closer.

  “Let’s end this, shall we?”

  That voice returned—calm, cold.

  “You run, you die.”

  Zeke looked at his trembling hands, at the dirt stained with his blood.

  “No more running.”

  He stood. Weak. Shaking. He raised his fists.

  “Just one hit,” he whispered. “Even if I die.”

  Jester lunged—Zeke waited—

  Then moved.

  His elbow crashed into Jester’s jaw, sending the vampire flying.

  Silence.

  Then laughter again—but darker.

  Jester rose. His body cracked, bones reshaped. Skin turned corpse-pale. Red eyes lit up like fire.

  His true form—monstrous, fanged, feral.

  Zeke froze.

  But before Jester could strike—

  The air thickened.

  Darkness folded in on itself. A figure stepped out, shrouded in black mist.

  Golden eyes gleamed in the void.

  Jester instinctively stepped back.

  Jovic appeared beside him and dropped to one knee.

  “The Night Clowns pay their respects to—”

  The figure raised a hand. Silence fell like a blade.

  He spoke—his language unknowable, ancient and commanding.

  Jovic responded, “By your will.”

  He and Jester vanished in an instant.

  The golden eyes turned to Zeke.

  Zeke couldn’t breathe.

  Those eyes. The ones from my dreams...

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  No answer.

  The figure disintegrated—like sand in the wind.

  Zeke dropped to his knees.

  His arms were torn, his side bled, but Sister Carmel—

  She needs help.

  He forced himself forward, deeper into the woods.

  The trees opened near a cliff.

  A figure stood in the fading light.

  “Help! Hey—help!” Zeke shouted.

  The man turned.

  Zeke's breath caught.

  Zion.

  “Bro...? What are you doing here?”

  Zion didn’t reply.

  Then, in a blink—he was in front of Zeke.

  Pain.

  Zeke gasped. Looked down.

  A knife.

  In his chest.

  His knees buckled. He grabbed Zion’s shirt, eyes wide, searching for answers in his brother’s face—

  But Zion’s expression was cold. Empty.

  Why...?

  No answer came.

  A blur—Sister Carmel burst through the trees, fists blazing.

  Her face was battered, clothes torn, but her fury burned like a wildfire.

  She launched a punch—Zion dodged effortlessly.

  “Zion! What have you done?!”

  No response.

  He turned and with a brutal roundhouse, sent her crashing through trees—splintering bark and snapping limbs.

  He faced Zeke again.

  Raised his hand.

  Zeke felt the air shift—cold. His breath came in gasps.

  Frost crept over his arms. His fingertips turned pale, rigid.

  Zeke looked up at him, heart breaking.

  But Zion’s gaze was unreadable. Icy.

  “This ends now,” Zion said.

  Sister Carmel’s voice tore through the woods.

  “ZION! STOP!”

  Zeke couldn’t move. Frozen solid.

  Zi

  on stepped forward, calm as a winter storm.

  Then kicked—

  Zeke’s body flew backward—

  Over the edge of the cliff.

  As he fell, the sky spun.

  The last thing he heard was Sister Carmel’s voice screaming into the night—

  “NOOOOO!”