There’s warmth.

  Not the kind you chase on winter nights. This is heavy. Wet. Sinking into myskin like blood into fabric.

  My blood.

  The thought lands before the memory does.

  I open my eyes slowly—like peeling apart something that’s been glued shut. The light stings. It’s dim, amber, flickering… but it hurts anyway. My ribs scream when I breathe. My side burns like something’s still inside it.

  I’m not dead.

  Yet.

  The ceiling above me is wooden, rough, uneven. I catch the corner of a tarp nailed over a crack in the wall. Herbs hang from the beams. There’s a chair. A bucket. A basin with red water.

  And a man.

  Sitting in the corner. Silent. Still.

  I don’t move. Don’t speak.

  Just stare.

  He's sharpening a blade—slow strokes, measured and methodical. The kind of rhythm that doesn't come from panic, but practice. Muscle memory. A man who’s done this before. Too many times.

  Something in me tightens.

  Not fear.

  Recognition.

  But I don’t know him.

  I shouldn’t know him.

  My voice scrapes out dry. “Where am I?”

  He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look up. Just finishes the stroke before speaking.

  “Eden. Medical room. You’ve been out for three days.”

  His voice is rough. Low. Like gravel dragged through dust. There’s no warmth in it, no malice either. Just… weariness.

  I try to sit up, and instantly regret it. Pain blooms across my side like fire ripping through paper.

  “Don’t,” he says, still not looking at me. “Stitches’ll tear.”

  I let out a breath. “The others?”

  He pauses. Just for a second.

  “Mark’s fine,” he says. “The third one didn’t make it.”

  I close my eyes. Damn it.

  Silence settles between us again. I try to read him. The coat, the sword, the scars. The way he doesn’t ask me who I am—doesn’t look at me like I’m a stranger.

  Something’s off.

  “You… saved me,” I murmur.

  This time he looks up. Just briefly. His eyes are like steel pulled from a dying fire—still hot at the core, but cold on the surface.

  “You would’ve bled out.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I watch him stand, stretch, slide the blade back into its sheath.

  “Why?” I ask again, softer this time.

  He stops at the door. Doesn’t turn around.

  His shoulders drop. Just a little. Not defeat—something else. Like memory pressing down on him.

  He lowers his head.

  For a moment, he just stands there—silent, distant, as if pulled halfway out of the present.

  Then, without a word, he steps out and shuts the door behind him.

  Leaving nothing but the sound of dripping water, the smell of dried blood… and a name echoing in my head I don’t remember learning:

  Rex.

  _______

  The door clicks shut behind me.

  I stood there for a second. Just long enough to listen—to make sure she doesn’t try to sit up again. Her breath is shallow but steady. Good enough.

  I turn down the hall and step into the open courtyard. It’s still early—sky washed gray, wind biting. The kind of morning that reminds you the world hasn’t quite ended yet, but it's trying.

  Mark’s leaning against a support beam just outside the clinic, arms crossed, axe strapped to his back. He looks up as I approach, tension softening a little.

  “How is she?” he asks.

  “She woke up,” I say simply.

  His shoulders sag with relief. “Oh thank God…”

  Silence stretches between us. Long enough that I think he’ll leave it there.

  But then, “Hey… thanks. For saving her.”

  I glance at him. He means it. That boyish kind of gratitude, unfiltered, honest. I don’t know what to do with that anymore.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  So I just nod.

  “I don’t suppose we can convince you to stay,” he says, half-smiling, like he already knows the answer but wants to try anyway.

  Before I can respond, a voice cuts in.

  “You’re still limping.”

  I turn to see the doctor walking toward us. Mid-thirties maybe. Tired eyes, gloves stained with Luna’s blood. Marisol.

  “You push too hard, and you’ll open that leg up again,” she says, matter-of-fact, then adds more gently, “How’s it healing?”

  “It’s fine.”

  She gives me a look like she doesn’t believe me, but doesn’t press.

  “Whatever you did back there… if you hadn’t started first aid when you did, Luna would’ve been gone before we even got her inside.” She steps closer, studying me. “You a doctor or something?”

  “No.” I pause. “Just… learned from one.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Who?”

  I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.”

  But it does.

  It was her.

  Marisol.

  Not this version. Not this loop.

  But another time, another version of her—before the fire, before the walls came down.

  She taught me everything I know.

  She just doesn’t remember.

  And it doesn’t matter anymore.

  Marisol glances at Mark, then back to me. “You should stay. Rest. We could use someone like you around here.”

  Mark nods. “You’ve seen the outside. You know what’s coming. Eden needs people who can fight, who know what they’re doing.”

  I let the words hang a moment before answering.

  “I didn’t come here to stay. I’ll take a rifle. Some ammo. Then I’ll be on my way.”

  Mark’s face tightens. Marisol opens her mouth to argue—

  Gunfire.

  Sharp. Repeated. Close.

  We all freeze.

  That wasn’t random. It wasn’t hunting fire.

  “Is coming from the north gate,” Mark says, eyes narrowing.

  The wind carries another burst of shots—then screaming.

  And just like that, peace shatters again.

  ______

  We sprint.

  Footsteps hammer across rusted catwalks and half-rotted platforms, the sounds of Eden coming alive with panic. Voices shout from towers. Chains rattle. The wind howls with the scent of ash and blood.

  And then we reach the north gate.

  A woman stands alone on the platform, rifle braced against her shoulder, boots planted firm. Black braids snapped tight behind her head. Dirt smeared on her jaw. She fires with the calm of someone who’s run out of panic long ago.

  Each shot is deliberate. Clean. Measured.

  Three rounds. Three kills.

  Demons swarm the barricade below—twisted limbs, bone-plate faces, claws that scrape metal like nails across teeth. Thirty-five. Maybe more. Shrieking. Foaming. Piling over themselves to tear through.

  Mark skids beside her. “What’s the situation, Wren?”

  She doesn’t look at him. Reloads. Fires again.

  “Thirty-five confirmed,” she mutters. “The other two guards went to call for ground support. Ammo’s running dry—we’re holding fire until they breach.”

  Before she’s done speaking, I’m already moving.

  Mark turns too late. “Rex—!”

  But I’m already over the edge.

  The wind slaps my face as I grab the rope left tied to the post—standard for patrol. I slide fast, friction burning through the gloves, knees tensing for impact.

  I hit hard.

  Pain shoots through my leg, but I roll with it. Rise, draw steel, exhale.

  The first demon lunges.

  I sidestep, bring the blade down hard, split its shoulder open. Bone cracks. It screams, thrashes, grabs at me. I kick it away and finish the job. Second one’s faster—rakes its claws across my ribs before I can block.

  Cloth tears. Skin burns. Blood flows warm beneath the coat.

  I don’t flinch.

  Third one leaps—I duck low, drive the katana upward through its gut, feel it catch in something. It screams. I twist and rip free. Blood hits my face.

  Another slash across my thigh. Sharp. Deep.

  Still, I move.

  The pain’s there, but dull. Like it’s happening to someone else.

  After this many loops, you stop reacting to it. Pain’s just background noise now.

  I push through.

  Four. Five. Six. Bodies drop around me. I parry. Riposte. Shift weight. Step into every strike like it’s a dance I’ve performed a thousand times.

  Because I have.

  There’s blood in my mouth. Not mine. One caught me across the lip—sharp, quick. The cut stings.

  Good.

  I want to feel it. Just a little.

  Another lunges. Too fast—I stumble back, barely avoid its teeth, catch a claw along my shoulder. Warmth spreads beneath my collar. Doesn’t matter.

  I don’t stop.

  Steel sings.

  The rhythm takes over. One movement flows into the next. Blade finds bone. Boot finds jaw. The world fades to motion and muscle and instinct.

  And for a moment—

  I smile.

  It’s wrong. I know it.

  But there’s something clean about this.

  No lies. No regrets. No memories.

  Just now. Just kill or die.

  And I’m good at it. Too good.

  They keep coming.

  Twelve. Fourteen. Nineteen.

  One pins me to the ground. Claws dig into my arms. I twist, ignore the tearing skin, drive my blade up through its jaw and scream as it collapses on top of me.

  I roll free. Legs screaming. Breath ragged. Vision blurry from sweat and blood.

  I rise again.

  I keep going.

  When the last one drops, I’m swaying on my feet—coated in red, wounds open, fingers trembling. My lungs fight for air. My arms ache from exhaustion and overuse.

  I stagger a step. Then another.

  And then I stop.

  In the center of the blood-soaked street. Surrounded by corpses.

  Everything is still.

  My katana hangs low, the tip dragging against the ground. My knuckles are white around the hilt.

  I can’t hear the crowd anymore.

  Just my breath.

  And the voice in my head.

  I feel it rising in my throat—shame, grief, whatever’s left of my conscience.

  And I hate myself.

  Because some part of me liked it.

  The rush. The clarity. The control.

  I wipe blood from my face with a shaking hand. A tear falls with it. Then another.

  I look at the sky, gray and unfeeling, and whisper so quietly I almost miss it myself:

  “…I’m sorry, Luna.”

  Not the one in the clinic.

  The one who meant something.

  The one I made a promise to.

  Never give up.

  I close my eyes.

  And I feel it.

  I know I fight like I’ve got nothing to lose.

  And I hate it.

  I’ve already broken that promise.

  And I’m not even sure when.