The wind howled as I threw open the hatch, stepping into a world of ice and death.
Above me, the storm had thickened into a white hell. Snow fell sideways, flung across the sky like shattered glass. The shrieking of steel rails and the distant, haunting whistle of the engine echoed through the mountains. I pulled myself onto the roof of the train, boots sliding against slick iron, the world beneath me trembling with relentless motion.
I didn’t dare look down.
"Aurel, stay back," I had said. My last words before vanishing into the blizzard.
Each breath I took stung like needles down my throat. The wind clawed at my clothes, my hair, my skin—tearing, ripping, biting. Ice crusted over my lashes. My hands burned inside their gloves, numb from gripping the edges of each passing train car as I climbed forward, crossing the divide between safety and whatever awaited me at the front.
I couldn’t see more than a few yards ahead. The snow was too dense. A pale sheet of nothingness. Time unraveled. The rhythm of the train blurred. I was moving through a dream of cold and steel, caught between every breath I had taken in this life and the ones I might never breathe again.
A flicker of movement. A silhouette. A blot of shadow near the frontmost car.
I froze mid-step, kneeling low against the wind. The train groaned beneath me.
Through the storm, I saw the shape of a man standing still atop the engine, completely untouched by the violence around him. Cloaked in black, tall, motionless. One arm was extended casually to the side, and dangling from his hand by the hair was—
His body hung like a marionette strung up by cruelty. His legs thrashed. His arms flailed, fingers clawing at the air. He screamed. Not words—just raw, cracked sound—shattered pleas that disappeared into the wind.
His eyes locked with mine.
Terror. Pain. Recognition.
I tried to move, but my legs wouldn’t obey. My body turned to stone.
The wind cut through me, but it was nothing compared to the ice unraveling in my chest.
Snow parted for an instant, and his face was revealed in the pale glow of the engine fire and lightning-slashed clouds.
My knees gave out, and I fell hard, the impact jarring through my bones. I stared into a face I thought I’d buried in the blackest depths of my mind.
I knew that name like a wound knows the blade.
He had not changed in the slightest.
Pale eyes devoid of light. Skin ashen and unbothered by the cold. Tangled hair running down to his waist, splayed in any which direction. Lips pressed in a faint, bored line, —like Miko’s suffering—was just another chore to him.
Lost memories ruptured through me like glass.
Chains in the dark. Blood on the floor. My body curled under the weight of hands that knew too much. Screams echoing against stone. A broken wrist. A bite mark that never healed. And Elias.
Her body, lifeless in my arms. Still warm. Eyes half-open.
"You," I breathed, but the word barely left my mouth.
Vincent tilted his head at me.
"Cecil," he murmured. His voice was a lazy drawl, almost a sigh. "You always find me when I’m least in the mood."
The storm tore at us, but he didn’t seem to care, or even notice for that matter. Snow slid off his coat like it refused to touch him. He looked back at Miko, then exhaled a tired breath.
"This one wouldn’t shut up," he said, voice barely above the wind. "Been whining for you the whole time. Thought he’d get tired before I did. Guess I was wrong."
And then he yawned. Actually yawned.
My limbs wouldn’t move. My jaw clenched so hard I thought it might break.
"Let him go," I said, barely recognizing my own voice. It was low, strangled, almost begging.
Vincent regarded me, then reached into his overcoat and pulled something small and metallic from his pocket.
A silver pocket watch. Delicately carved. Clean. Unhurried.
He clicked it open and studied the time. A small smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"I want you to remember this exactly," he said, almost sweetly. "Every second of it."
Miko’s eyes widened in raw, naked terror. His legs kicked wildly, hands scrabbling against Vincent’s grip. Tears streamed down his face, hot and useless in the freezing wind.
"I don’t want to die," he sobbed. "Cecil—please—I don’t want to die!"
His voice cracked, high and broken like a child’s plea for his mother.
Then Vincent slipped the watch back into his coat.
And without another word—he drove his hand into Miko’s chest.
It wasn’t like what I’d imagined death sounded like. It was wetter. Richer. Like tearing through soaked fabric, mixed with the crunch of bone and the thick, intimate suction of something being pulled from the depths of a body that still lived.
Miko’s mouth opened in a scream so shrill and agonized it didn’t even register as human. Blood exploded from his lips, spraying in gouts down Vincent’s arm and soaking into the snow-drenched roof. His body spasmed, back arched violently.
Then Vincent twisted his wrist and pulled something red and steaming into the open air.
Still beating. Twitching. Alive.
I dropped to my hands and knees and retched, violently.
Hot vomit hit the cold metal with a sickening splash, mixing with blood and snow as I convulsed. My body spasmed uncontrollably, lungs heaving, stomach muscles cramping with every heave. I tried to look away—couldn’t. My eyes were locked open.
I sobbed. Not from sorrow. Not yet. Just from the sheer violence of it. The wrongness.
Vincent held the heart like a delicate trinket. Studied it. Turned it slightly, admiring the color.
Then, slowly, he crushed it in his fist.
It ruptured between his fingers. Blood and viscera sprayed across the train roof in strings of scarlet. Chunks slapped wetly onto the metal. The remains dripped from his palm like pulp.
Miko’s body went limp.
And I watched my boy—my fragile, innocent boy—vanish over the edge of the train, swallowed whole by the white storm below.
Not words. Just sound. Fury. Grief. Horror. My throat tore with it. My ribs heaved. I couldn’t stop shaking.
I pressed my hands against the bloody metal, fingers slipping, trying to feel something, anything, that wasn’t gone.
Vincent turned away from the edge.
"You always break so easily," he murmured. "I guess some things never change."
Tears froze on my cheeks, mixing with vomit, with snow, with blood.
"You’re dead," I whispered.
He shrugged, as if it took too much energy to argue.
He stepped toward me, quiet as death.
I tried to rise. I wanted to rip him apart. Tear his limbs from his body. Drown him in what he’d done.
"I wired the train," he said, crouching beside me. His breath didn’t fog in the cold. "All of it. From the cargo hold to the engine. You touch me—everyone on this train dies. You lunge, you scream, you even twitch the wrong way—boom."
He smiled faintly, like a man delivering a gentle correction.
"I rigged it personally. Took forever. So don’t make it a waste."
He leaned close, brushing my hair behind one ear. I flinched, revolted, but his hand lingered.
"You’ve done well for yourself, though," he continued, stepping forward. "I watched. The brothel. The cathedral. Your little fiefdom of flesh. All very impressive. Truly you are on your path toward enacting your role as the representative of lust. The Maker would be very proud."
Then he stood behind me.
I was on my knees. Vomit, blood, and snow pooling around me.
I just breathed—jagged, shallow, broken.
"However, it’s evident that our characters naturally oppose each other. Sloth and lust don’t mix well under pressure. You always look like you’re trying so hard when learning to love," Vincent said, voice barely audible. "It’s exhausting just watching you."
The silver glint of the pocket watch flashed one final time as he pulled it from his coat.
Then he reached down.
One hand grasped my chin.
The other braced my skull.
And with a sharp, wet twist—
Everything went black.
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