The merman was still listening.
Every sickly-sweet word oozing from the demon's mouth dripped like venom into the air. His tone was smooth, too smooth—coated in that same poison-laced charm that probably broke a hundred others before. Promises dressed in silk. Lies marinated in just enough truth to taste real.
But the merman's eyes?
They were locked on me.
Not on the demon. Not on the girl. Me.
More specifically—the gun in my hand.
I hadn't moved it. Not an inch.
Still aimed at the girl he was trying to protect. Still steady. Still sending a message I wasn't even sure I could live with.
And the demon? He just let it happen.
No bark. No threat. No retaliation.
Nothing.
Which, coming from him, was strange.
The bastard who laughed at blood and barked at bones… suddenly quiet. Suddenly watching.
Maybe he thought it wouldn't matter. Maybe he thought I was bluffing. Or maybe—just maybe—he believed in his own control so much that even this didn't scare him.
Fine by me.
Because it was working.
I could see the girl clearer now.
Still tucked behind the merman. Still mostly shadows. But her face—those eyes—they weren't screaming.
She was scared, yes. But it wasn't fear of dying.
It was fear of being lost.
The kind of fear that asks "What happens to the ones I love if I'm not there?"
And she held it like a goddamn warrior.
Trembling, yes. But brave.
Brave enough to make me question what the fuck I was doing.
What the fuck was I doing?
Was I really about to put a bullet through her, just to push a sea-bound stranger into action?
Was I that far gone?
I didn't know.
My grip on the pistol tightened. My finger twitched on the trigger, like it wanted someone else to make the call for me.
I stared at the merman.
Those golden eyes, wide and sharp and unreadable, were still locked on mine.
I wasn't sure what he saw in me.
A threat?
A fool?
A last chance?
I didn't know what my face looked like in that moment. Probably torn between determination and self-hate. Probably grief at what I had become.
But whatever I said with my stare, I hope it was this:
"Don't make me do it. Don't fucking make me."
Because I would.
Even if it burned through my godless soul.
I'd kill her. I'd do it.
And I'd carry that stain with me into hell if it meant completing this fucking ritual. If it meant finishing what I started.
If it meant vengeance. If it meant giving the girls peace.
I closed my eyes for half a breath.
Opened them again.
Took one long, deep inhale. Let the blood settle in my veins.
Then I made my decision.
"Fuck it."
If the merman wouldn't move—if he wouldn't rise—then I would.
I was fucking done. Hoping to have a ally. What a dream.
The hope I had nursed—that fragile, pathetic little flicker—that maybe, just maybe, someone would come to my aid in this sinking hell? Even if I forced him to.
Gone.
Shattered.
The dream of an ally when the world was gnashing its teeth.
The dream of a brother-in-arms, of a shield to cover my back in the cold, godless waters.
Gone.
Nothing.
There was nothing.
No mercy. No miracles. No hands reaching back when I reached forward.
Only silence.
Only betrayal.
Only me.
I am fucking alone.
Fucking alone.
In these waters, in this ship, in this world that never had any intention of letting me crawl out alive.
Not even the system that latched onto me was in my favor.
The sentient blood inside me?
It wasn't saving me.
It was devouring me.
Bit by bit.
Organ by organ.
Replacing the man I was with something else. Something darker. Something monstrous.
And it smiled as it did it.
I could feel it, laughing in the cracks of my ribs. Curling tighter around my heart. Whispering promises I couldn't trust but had no choice but to carry.
I am fucking alone.
And for a moment, just a moment, I let it break me.
Let the weight crush me down into the muck and blood and rot.
But not long.
Not enough to bury me.
Because rage floated up like bile in my throat.
Because spite stitched my broken ribs back together.
I am alone.
But I am not done.
Not yet.
Not while my breath still fogs the air.
Not while my bones still creak in defiance.
Not while my hands can still hold steel.
I still have promises.
Two of them, etched into the marrow of me.
And a pinky promise—small, stupid, sacred—burned into the softest part of my rotted soul.
And I plan to keep them.
Alone if I have to.
I will do it.
I will finish this.
I will see this through.
I don't need a friend.
Even if the waters swallow me whole.
I don't need help.
Even if the blood eats the last of my name.
I will complete what I started.
And may the heavens, the earth, and the drowned gods all bear witness to what a single broken thing can do when it's too furious to die.
I turned the gun away from the girl.
Swung it smooth and fast until the barrel lined up with the demon's thick, ugly neck.
His back was still to me. That wide, twisted spine of his practically dared me to fire.
So I did.
The shot cracked through the cell like a thunderclap.
A burst of fire and smoke—gunpowder screaming as it left the chamber.
But the shot missed.
Or maybe it didn't matter.
Because I didn't get the chance to see where it landed.
Before I could even blink—before I could process the recoil—something slammed into me.
Hard.
I was airborne before I even knew I was hit.
My body smashed against the wall like a ragdoll, ribs folding like cheap wood under pressure.
Then I dropped.
Straight into the pile of body parts behind me.