Elliot's POV

"Who am I, if not myself?"

—Elliot Starfall

My gaze moves—tight, controlled—like I'm bound by invisible strings. A marionette. I follow the stoic expressions of the figures beside me. They wear the colors of their kind: blues. Noble. Untouchable. I feel the stirrings of anger, but I know it doesn't come from my heart—not mine. Not me. It's something foreign. Not a flame that burns from within, but one fed from the outside, stoked by invisible hands.

It isn't my hatred. It's this body's.

There's a tension here that doesn't belong to me, a barely restrained frustration humming just beneath the surface. Recognition—or the lack of it. Nervousness, too, laced with caution as the man at the head of the table stares at me. No—at Aston. The name makes sense now. The hanged man from my vision. The body I've been trapped inside.

The man—my supposed father—sits tall under the golden light of ornate chandeliers, his sand-colored beard gleaming like crushed coins. Calmly, mechanically, he slices into his meat—blue and raw—and lifts a piece to his mouth. The juice runs down his lips, staining them the color of his blood.

"How has your recent transfer of the reds in your possession been?" he asks.

The words roll out with such casual cruelty I nearly forget to breathe.

"Great," I hear my voice say—no, his voice. Cold. Smooth. Unshaken. "Profits of two hundred golden Elis notes. A bit less than the average day last week, but still more than yesterday and the day before." The breath that follows is slow, measured. "The profit should double by next week."

The man nods in approval. My tongue moves, my lungs fill and release air, but none of this feels like mine. I don't feel emotion from inside. Only as if I sit deep within a hollow core, and the world presses emotions onto me from beyond. A filtered experience, detached and sterile. I hear chewing. The clink of utensils. A sip of wine. Someone sighs.

There's no one else at this table besides these blues—no reds, no greens, no others. Just them. A family, perhaps. One that I'm a part of but don't belong to. My hatred for them creeps in again, subtle and gnawing, but it isn't because of their color. No. Shockingly—or perhaps not—I hate them because of the emotions forced on me. Not because I choose to.

Why am I here? Why can't I feel my own thoughts fully? Why is everything seen, heard, tasted, even felt, as if through cloth or glass?

It's not a prison made of bars. It's worse. Latex around a soul. A second skin wrapped around mine.

Yet still, this body moves. Even as my mind shouts for agency, it obeys something else entirely. I should panic. Should fight. But I don't. I just sit here, as this body clenches its jaw and swallows back a thorny frustration—like rose thorns caught in the throat.

"Sebastian," says the father, lifting his glass and sipping the deep violet wine.

"Yes, Father." The reply is sharp, immediate.

The man who answers—Sebastian—resembles the father in uncanny ways. Same beard, same sea-bright eyes, same angular jaw. He looks older, or maybe just colder. His suit is royal blue, the same shade as the blood that runs in his veins.

Under the table, I feel Aston's fist tighten. Rage, masked by etiquette.

"They want us to send more of the oranges," the father continues. "Silvestro says the invasion is going well. But the reds… they've found out about the blood."

He exhales, glancing toward the tall, arched window that frames the skyline. Then he reaches for the hand of the woman beside him—half his age, maybe less. Her skin is white touched with ice-blue, and her expression is carved from delicate frost. His words now shift from report to command.

"Those pigs have discovered our power, and we must admit—they have a far greater capacity for growth than we do."

A silence falls. Tension seeps in like fog. The others glance at each other, subtle but sharp.

Sebastian speaks first. "What shall I do?"

The father doesn't answer immediately. He watches the city through the glass as if it will reveal something. The silence thickens. I feel the body's legs tremble. Mine? No. His. Aston's. The father touches his ring with his thumb, polished gold glinting faintly in the light.

"You're on good terms with the royal family. Especially the second daughter," he says, voice low. "Pass this on. Quietly. If they know the truth, our business could fall apart. We can't afford that."

Sebastian nods stiffly. I see the disgust on his face when he glances at the young woman beside their father—his stepmother, maybe. Yet her smile doesn't falter. She drapes her hand over his, soft and pale and fake.

"Dear," she says sweetly. "Don't be so hard on yourself. As if those cockroaches could ever threaten us—the higher bloods."

Again, silence reigns. And this time it bites.

This hall could fit twenty houses from the slums. And yet it feels too full of tension to breathe.

...

When the meal ends, Aston waits until the others leave before rising. The moment stretches. Then finally, I'm outside—on the streets.

I walk. Or rather, he walks, and I go along for the ride.

Before I move too far, I reflect. These people. This place. It's so far removed from where I was first captured. The filth, the stench, the screaming—gone. Replaced with manicured streets, smooth stone, and gold-embellished buildings that glisten beneath towering lights.

Blues walk past me. No—not past me. Past him.

They don't recognize the difference.

And maybe... maybe even I'm forgetting it too.

Who am I? This body walks like theirs. Stiff posture, frozen expressions. No wrinkle of joy. No crease of pain. A sea of blank masks.

But I watch. My eyes—his eyes—scan their faces. Some are handsome. Some aren't. There are big noses, large bodies, crooked features—exceptions to their elegance. But overall, they're too perfect. Too sterile. And far more refined than the blues I've seen on the sewerage, or the ones I've killed.

In my peripheral vision, I catch the occasional smile.

But they're never for each other.

No. Those small, rare smirks curve only when their eyes fall on reds. On humans. On my people.

Slaves. Broken toys.

Children, too young to understand what's being taken from them, shackled and paraded like animals. And blue children—smiling at them. Laughing. Delighting in cruelty.

That's when it hits me.

Hatred.

True and vile.

But again—is it mine? Or his?

Is this Aston's contempt, bleeding into me? Or is It mine?

I don't know. I just know it burns now.

Ding!

I'm too focused on the periphery—on the strange blurs at the end of my sight—that I forget what lies directly ahead.

When this body takes three steps forward, I finally notice them. People. Dozens. All kinds. Every pair of lips I see is blue, polished like sapphire stone. Except for two—two red. My kind. Their color stands out like a wound. I freeze, or rather, Aston does, just long enough to let me realize we've stepped into what looks like a bar. A dull chime marks our entry.

Then the scent hits me. Sweat. Liquor. Drunken breath. A sticky, raw humidity that clings to the skin like second flesh. He walks deeper in—big, long strides, the kind only a nobleman would have the nerve to take in a place like this. Heads turn. Shoulders stiffen. Eyes narrow. Everyone here looks rugged, rough, and stained by life. And yet he—I—we shine like a polished coin dropped into the mud.

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Aston. A noble. That much I know. He looked at himself earlier, during the carriage ride, inspecting his reflection in the mirror embedded in the cabin's velvet wall. Blonde hair, sleek. Eyes blue like mine. And handsome—sharper features than I ever had, even before being dragged into this godforsaken hell.

I hate to admit it, but he looks... better. Stronger. Cleaner. Whole.

Still, I haven't grown used to this body. I feel too connected to it. The lines blur. Sometimes I forget who's walking. Who's breathing. Who's speaking.

"One Avelorian scotch," I—he—we say, voice cool and clear, "with a straw. Extra liquor."

The barkeep is a woman with skin like ice, lips tinted blue, eyes in a near-violet hue that seem to pierce through skin. Her dark blonde hair falls over her shoulders in perfect waves. She squints sideways, lips twitching.

"Follow me," she says.

The room, already tense, becomes still. Every pair of eyes locks on us. Glasses are raised again, more out of habit than comfort. I can feel them watching. Judging. Measuring. Then one of them whistles—a shrill, taunting note that breaks the silence like a blade on glass.

My jaw tightens. Teeth grind together.

But this body—Aston—doesn't break pace. We follow her into the back.

My head begins to throb. A migraine blooms like rot behind my eyes. Not sharp, but there. Persistent. I can feel the tension ripple beneath the skin, clawing its way inward as we step into the next room.

No sunlight here. Only candles.

The woman drifts across the dark wood floor with elegance, her silhouette moving like shadow over flame. She pours a drink, lips still, as I scan the space.

Then a voice cuts through the silence like a whisper crawling up my spine.

"You're finally here."

It's familiar. Uncomfortably so. Like something I should remember but can't place.

The presence is thick. The air hums.

My gaze follows the voice to its source—a man sitting by the dim light, half-hidden in flickering gold. He's burning paper between his fingers, watching the flames curl with a wry smile stretched across a scarred face.

I don't recognize him. But Aston does.

And somehow... I feel like I do too.

Beside him, three men lounge in silence. Two women as well. Eight of us, in total. Six men. Two women. All of them watching. Silent. Still. Their eyes glow unnaturally—two in green, two in orange—and only one pair mirrors mine: Arthur's. The man who spoke.

Aston knows them. His pulse spikes.

My heart feels like it stops.

Why does this feel familiar?

Not to me—to this body. These are his people. Blues. Not mine. Never mine.

Mine are red.

Red is the blood that flows through my veins.

"Long time no see, Arthur."

The words slip from my mouth automatically, yet the expression I wear doesn't change. Not a twitch.

The fire crackles, eating away the last scraps of paper between Arthur's fingers. He leans forward, eyes reflecting flame. There's an unsettling calm to him—too still, too knowing.

"Everyone," he says, standing now. "This is Aston. He'll be part of the missions from now on. Consider him a hidden agent. Spy. Call it whatever you like."

He stares at me.

"But most importantly..." Arthur gestures toward the scarred man, who still holds the last blackened ember in his fingers.

"He'll be our financer. Our donor. Or, as Grim likes to call him..." A pause. Eyes piercing into mine. "...our money pig."

A pressure builds behind my eyes. A pulse of pain. The headache sharpens, driving deeper.

No.

The body stumbles. I feel it—hands trembling, vision wavering. Something wraps around me. Hands—not real ones, but something else. Something cold, clawed, and spectral. They press into me. Through skin. Into muscle. Into bone.

They aren't touching Aston. They're touching me.

Invisible hands tear through the body's flesh, not leaving marks, but dragging. Begging. Grabbing.

Whispers flood my ears. Breath quickens. My chest burns.

Sweat beads at my temples. My hands start to shake. The world turns red. Then dim. Then black.

The flame dies.

In a flash, all I see are those eyes. Orange. Green. Glowing in the dark.

They pierce me like knives dipped in oil.

I'm gasping. I—he—reaches for his chest, falling forward, stumbling blindly. But I'm slipping. I'm no longer inside the body.

I'm being pulled away.

Heartbeat after heartbeat, I drift farther. The bar vanishes. The people. The fire. The eyes. Gone. It's not that they fade—it's that I do.

I'm the one leaving.

My senses fail. One by one. Sight dims. Sound dulls. Touch melts into nothingness.

I feel nothing. I smell nothing. I am nothing.

And for a moment, I want to be afraid.

But I can't.

I'm motionless. Thoughtless. Shapeless. Floating in a void that knows no end. A silence where even the concept of screaming has no meaning. No shape. No sound. No edge.

Just me.

Alone.

Forever.

…

"Golden Reaper."

That voice again. Crooked, familiar, hated. It comes from nowhere—everywhere. A whisper. A scream. A chant. A curse. It doesn't stop.

Golden Reaper. Golden Reaper.

Over and over, relentless. A plea, a condemnation, a memory. It pierces through the void like rusted wire pulled through my skull.

This voice... it's the root of everything, isn't it? The fault of everything. Of this place. Of this fate.

Why?

Why was I in Aston's body—the hanged man?

Why was I cast into the void?

Why am I still here?

No answer.

It could be seconds. It could be weeks. It could be years. Time doesn't work here. It's a black hole, a prison. Am I in one? No. Maybe? The thought doesn't help.

Sometimes, when I'm not thinking about the void, I try to remember my parents. Their faces blur. Slippery shadows. Gone. But Ren... Ren is vivid. Not clear—but present, like a single drop of tear lost in a storm. His face is distorted by the same waters that now fill me. A pool I've cried into so long that I no longer remember when I started.

I feel nothing. I feel lost.

Is this loneliness?

Maybe.

Or maybe not. Everything feels like a dream, or the echo of one. What's the point of my life? Of all of this?

Sometimes, I just... stare. Blankly. Into the dark, and it stares back at me. I don't wish for rescue—no, that would be foolish. I wish for destruction. For crushing.

I want to die.

But do I really?

Wouldn't that betray Ren's sacrifice?

What sacrifice again? For me? He shouldn't have. I wasn't worth it. And now—now I can't even cry. Not properly. Not one tear. I just know things, feel things, without truly feeling them. As if all emotion is a memory I'm trying to recreate with numb hands.

"Golden Reaper, I was in hell. I died only to see the truth."

The voice again. Crooked. Scraping. A monologue that drills into the silence. It's the only thing that gives me something. I don't know what that something is—but it's something.

"The truth of you betraying. Committing genocide out of vengeance. The blood you sheared equals the one you devoured."

I stare into nothing. Hollow.

"My dear—" the voice splinters, glitching through the black, "—sorry."

And then I feel it. A spark.

My eyelids flicker. Sweat pours down my cheeks. My fingers twitch, clawing at something sticky. Wet. Filthy. My body aches. And then—

My eyes snap open.

A darkness. A real one.

I gasp, disoriented. Terror rises. Hatred too. Tears burst from my reddened eyes, uncontrollable. And for the first time in what feels like eternity—

I see light.

And I break.

A scream tears from my chest like my soul's being ripped out. The smell—rank, sour, human—chokes me. "Eos!" A shrill voice.

Sharp, caring, distant. But it makes my insides twist. Saliva floods my throat—I gag.

Then vomit.

Into dark, shit-streaked sewer water.

I'm on fire. My skin, my veins. Boiling. My throat tears open with every scream. My face is half in blood. I must look like a corpse. Pale. Lifeless. I stare ahead, unblinking. The red world stares back.

A man shouts again. "Are you alright?!" But I don't respond. I can't. My mouth won't work. My head won't move. My knees are buried in blood—green blood.

And I break again.

I don't move for what feels like an age. The tears don't stop. The dam has cracked. And not because I wanted it to—but because it had to. My body remembers how to cry even if my mind forgot. I sit in it—half an hour maybe—still, trembling.

They call me twice. "Eos."

Again. "Eos."

Then silence.

They stop calling me by the name I gave myself.

I remember them now. Gene. Cham. They don't know my real name. Elliot.

The same time flows over us, but I am not them. They wait for me to rise, but I don't. I can't. I just breathe and cry.

Only when the final tear drops into the sewage, into the blood of the green, does my heart begin to stir.

Only then do I see it—my right arm is gone.

A sharp pang. Disbelief. Horror.

Gone.

Just gone.

Beside me, a creature—massive. Its limbs are thicker than mine, and half its torso is missing. Its insides spill out—entrails and organs and maggots feasting like workers in a tavern after long labor.

I am broken.

The tears are done.

The water has taken everything from me—drenched me, drowned me, destroyed me.

I move at last, slow and heavy. I look at them—Gene and Cham—two boys who still believe in something. I once called myself their god. Now I'm just this.

My gaze drops to the monster's blood—still warm. Still fresh.

Then to Cham. His expression unsettles me. He doesn't look shocked or disgusted—he looks melancholy. Like he's seen too much for his age. A boy like him should be in school. Chasing grades. Laughing. Like Ren once did.

Ren.

That means the void… was only seconds here? Minutes?

A hollow sigh leaves me. My eyes are dead oceans now. The water is gone. Only the red remains. Maybe that's rage. Maybe that's life.

I turn.

My body shifts. I feel my right arm reach forward—only to remember it's not there.

Phantom pain stabs at me. Sharp. Lasting. My jaw clenches. My left hand rises to my ear—half of its gone too.

Lucky it wasn't my entire head.

Gene smiles—still trying to pretend things can be normal—but Cham doesn't. He just watches, sorrow heavy in his gaze. I lean forward, drooling slightly as blood steams off my soaked body.

I need blood.

Only one thought guides me now.

I move toward the corpse.

No resistance. No strings pulling me back. Only light. Only the red.

My hand touches the surface of the pooled blood. The heat—the power—it calls me. My lips lower. I drink.

Sweetness hits my tongue like honey laced in copper. A metallic aftertaste, but I gulp greedily. A maggot slips in. I feel it crawl down my throat.

I don't care.

I need it. Now.

For the future.

Everything fades—the void, the darkness, the pain. I don't think. I feed. And with each swallow, I feel it—the rush.

The surge in my veins. The boiling. The fury.

This is what it feels like to be alive.

This is the power—the curse—the cycle. I have nothing to lose. And everything left to take.

I keep drinking. The blood bubbles on my tongue. My body soaks in the strength. I bite down. Flesh tears. I don't stop.

Then a voice. Real. Sharp.

"Eos."

My eyes fly open. My head snaps back from the offal.

Blood stains my chin. My heart pounds. My mind collapses.

I vomit—hard. It splatters against Gene's trousers. He flinches back—too slow. The next wave comes fast. My stomach contracts again, wringing itself dry.

Then I see him.

Cham.

Still watching. Still silent. A single tear runs down his cheek.

He doesn't wipe it.

A memory, maybe. Family? Friends?

I don't know enough about them.

I vomit again. Then gasp. My sight blurs. When I blink, Cham's tear is gone.

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