It usually went like this: he woke up, numb to the bones, keep going, killed the threat, explained the contractor everything, wait for them to die.

Tonight wasn’t any different.

He would’ve had to keep things under control, once Andrea’s parents saw him. Scared humans were usually very dumb humans. He was grateful when the door blew off its hinges and smashed against the fourniture. He was grateful to see two Kishaard on the other side of it, jumping over the shattered door and landing in the living room.

As soon as their gazes met Ishram’s, they hesitated. Ishram knew that confusion. One of them wore a black leather jacket, while the other one only a top tank. Their pale skin was wet and stained with dirt and wooden shards. They were both holding two karambits each.

“What’s this supposed to mean? Who are you?” Top Tank asked.

Leather Jacket tapped on Top Tank’s shoulder. “I think he’s the one who fucked us over, man.” He grimaced and spat on the floor. “Nobody told you it’s against the law to steal your kin’s food?”

A gasp behind him. Ishram planted himself between the two Kishaard and the humans.

Top Tank stretched his shoulders. “Alright.”

Before Top Tank could do anything, Ishram threw himself towards him. He parried a punch and blocked Top Tank’s arm with one hand. One kick, and Top Tank flew against the couch. Ishram repositioned his footing and kicked sideways. He hit Leather Jacket’s head.

Leather jacket cursed and staggered. Ishram took advantage. He rode the momentum and circled. One foot found the ground, the other going back up. Leather Jacket raised an arm between Ishram’s heel and his sternum by the skin of his teeth. A pity.

Andrea’s mother squealed and Ishram turned. Top Tank was back up, blades slashing dangerously close to his throat.

He ducked, blocked another punch, and pushed. Top Tank opposed him. It slowed him down. Ishram let go and dove on his side just in time to avoid Leather Jacket’s knee. When he rebalanced, he was still between the family and the two Kishaard.

“Stop moving!” Leather Jacket howled.

Ishram flashed him a grin despite his laboured breaths.

Top Tank was the one who took the bait and charged.

From that, it was relatively easy. Ishram shifted ever so slightly to catch Top Tank, and twisted. The wrist cracked as Ishram took the karambit for himself and let Top Tank faceplant into the nearest wall.

Ishram lunged.

Top Tank put his arm up.

The blade sank in, tearing the tissues and a scream from the man. Ishram grimaced. One slashed arm wasn't as good as a throat cut.

Footsteps behind him.

Ishram ducked and dragged Top Tank’s arm using the karambit as a claw. Leather Jacket sunk his blade into Top Tank’s shoulder. Better, Ishram thought distantly.

He had to let go, though, when Top Tank’s sliced his sleeve with his other blade. Ishram opted for clawing at the man’s thighs instead. Another scream and Ishram was dragging the Kishaard away from Leather Jacket.

Top Tank would heal, but Ishram knew no Kishaard was spared from pain and time. The only difference between them was, Ishram’s had to learn how to capitalize on it. Worn-out minds made healthy bodies just as weak, so he kept slicing until Top Tank’s quadriceps were... not quadriceps anymore.

Top Tank was a bloody mess underneath him, holding onto his wounds and crying out. That would’ve given Ishram enough time to deal with Leather Jacket.

One at a time. He was still in control, he could do this.

Leather Jacket wasn’t stupid enough to turn and attack the family, not when it meant giving Ishram a free shot to his back.

Ishram found his posture again, raised the karambit, and checked on the family. They were still there, unmoving, holding themselves together, heads hidden. He could hear Andrea whispering something in Mexican, but it drifted away.

Leather Jacket attacked. Ishram let him closer. He avoided the first hit, parried the second, and cut his abdomen when the Kishaard got sloppy. Ishram had learned that, most of the time, fighting wasn’t all about technique or strength. Sometimes, patience yielded a swift victory more easily than brute strength.

Leather Jacket roared and took one step too long. Ishram hit his ankle like a thunder. Unerring and clean. Leather Jacket howled in pain as he fell back. Ishram overwhelmed him, one hit after another, until he was disarmed.

Leather Jacket fell on his knees, hands raised. “Stop- stop! I surrender! Please!”

Ishram didn’t stop.

Leather Jacket's bulky neck snapped like an off-note at the end of a symphony under his grip. Ishram stared as the Kishaard’s body dropped on the floor, face twisted in shock.

The woman screams brought Ishram to focus on her. She was hiding within her husband’s arms, while Andrea held her shoulders and glared at Ishram with shivering shoulders.

Ishram didn’t feel enough of anything to apologise.

There was still more to do.

When he turned, the other Kishaard was on his feet, eyes wide in dismay and fear. He was leaning over the windowsill, holding his still-wounded leg.

Ishram took a step forward. The Kishaard raised his only blade towards him.

“Stop!”

Ishram stopped, but didn’t abandon his posture. “Why?” he asked, without looking back.

Andrea’s voice was so low, Ishram wondered if he heard correctly. “Do you have to kill him?”

Ishram could barely hold back a bark. He pressed his lips and swallowed his own sarcasm. “He’ll go straight back to his group leader, tell them what I’ve done to save humans. You’ll have the whole group following you to the end of the world.”

“No! No I won’t do it, I swear!” Top Tank pleaded.

Ishram wasn't buying it. He didn’t interrupt eye contact. “No, right now you wouldn’t. How much will it take before your pride does, though?” he offered. 

The Kishaard choked a sob. 

“Or before your leader finds you, and either kills you or forces you to avenge your comrades?” Ishram took a step forward. “I am Kishaard. I was just like you. I know what the law prevails, and what pride works.”

The Kishaard was a shaking mess. It wasn’t the first desperate death Ishram witnessed, nor was the first one he was the cause of.

Ishram raised his hands and took another step. “Stay still, and I promise, I’ll be quick,” he said with modulated voice. His whole gestures were slow, precise. Sometimes it helped, sometimes it didn’t. It all depended on how fast he convinced the opponent to accept it.

Ishram was many things, but he liked to think he wasn’t cruel.

The Kishaard, although, was not of the same mind. “Stay away!” he sobbed.

Ishram exhaled, patience wearing thin. 

He put his foot down.

And all the tension on his spine was suddenly released.

Ishram fell on the ground, hard. He didn’t even feel it. It was almost like bliss, when the seal let go of him and let him rest. His vision blurred, his ears filled with pressuring silence. His lungs were spasming, but his mind couldn’t focus on that. Not now, not ever.

When his vision cleared, he could see Andrea waving his hands, shouting rather than speaking. Ishram could only make out a “Go!” before something grabbed him.

His body was unresponsive, yet it allowed him to register the pressure on his shoulders.

Bloody boots walked in front of him, a karambit falling almost on his nose. He was rolled on his back by Tank Top, welcoming the sight of the whole room. Tank Top moved lower, then Ishram felt thick fingers on his leg. 

Ishram’s eyes moved to Andrea. He didn’t blame him. Kishaard looked awfully similar to humans, when they pleaded.

A dull snap, and Ishram knew his shin wasn’t supposed to turn like that, when the leg fell back down. Ishram couldn’t focus on anything, lungs crushed under the heavy weight of muscle paralysis.

Then, pressure came back with a wave of excruciating pain. His ears filled with his own voice tearing. He arched, tried to catch Top Tank’s ankle, but it slipped away when he moved his leg in the process, and it was like thousands of needles pierced it all at once.

“You.” Top Tank called, voice hoarse, turning towards Andrea and his family. “You’re one kind of stupid.” His voice curled up to mimic the wicked smile Ishram couldn’t see. “Thanks for throwing away your only shield.”

Ishram raised. The seal was throbbing with a different kind of pressure now. Danger. The contract was clear: protect and live, fail and vanish. As much tempting as it was, Ishram couldn’t. He’d failed his last contract in the moment he needed most not to.

He didn’t have time for his dislodged leg. So he did the only thing he could do.

The words slipped out of him like water. “Dhvam.”

Red embers floated around his hands, warmth and heat betraying their presence as they swirled and condensed. A black shaft grew solid in Ishram’s hands. The ashen whirwind etched red veins through its length, until the whole spear was formed. Black metal curled in ceremonial patterns where the blade shone, clean-cut and sharp. Its energy resonated together with Ishram’s. Welcome back, it sung in his blood.

Ishram held the spear in his fist, charging back his arm to build up tension. When he thrusted it forward, his whole torso hurled with it.

The spear cut through the air like lightning. And further, through the Kishaard’s neck. The Kishaard fell on his knees, a guttural moan choked by the blood.

The humans started screaming.

Ishram took a moment to recoil himself. His leg hurt. His whole body hurt. It didn't matter. He’d lost count how many times his body wasn't a mess. Keep going. He forced himself to stand up, hoisted himself up and limped towards the couch.

Andrea’s mother had fainted now, his husband holding her and whispering through her hair. Only Andrea stared, mouth agape and features slack with tension. It took him a moment, for him to look at Ishram as well.

Ishram gritted his teeth, but desisted from snarling. “You’re welcome,” he grunted, crashing on the couch. He still couldn’t breathe properly.

Checking his own joint, he held the kneecap with one hand, and his calf with the other. He took time to measure his breathing and then, he snapped the limb in place. He bit down a moan as pain spread through his whole leg. His thoughts halted. Keep going.

The second important thing— what was it?

He forced himself to stand up, gaining the attention of a few wary eyes which he promptly ignored. He walked up to the spear and gripped it.

“Burn it, my dear,” he appealed in Kishaard-el.

His hands strengthened on the shaft, letting his own body heat flow towards the spear, pulsating with it. The spear throbbed with energy, its veins gaining intensity and light. They burned, fast and comforting, a warmth Ishram missed like air in his lungs.

He inclined the spear so that the blade cauterized everything it cut, until the head was completely severed.

The spear disappeared in a matter of seconds, embers and ash decomposing slowly, returning to the nothingness they came out of.

“Who are you?” the man asked, his eyes rimmed red.

Ishram turned, slowly, but never completely. Here it went. “My name is Ishram. Your son traded my life for his protection. No, I am not the child of Satan, nor the actual devil, nor any other religious stuff you believe in. No, your son isn’t about to die any time soon, and no, I cannot go away and leave you be. Yes, I know about my eyes and my teeth, no need to concern yourselves. And last but not least, do you have some raw meat in your fridge?”

Ishram hobbled towards the kitchen when Andrea nodded.

“Thanks.” It came out dry and biting. He was tired, hungry, and hurt, he figured he was entitled to some degree of rudeness.

The kitchen was mostly made out of wooden. Some items Ishram didn’t recognise, other instead he did. The fridge, for example, had become way bigger than he remembered. There were a lot of changes with the new era. Although not even fifty years had passed, they were impressive.

He opened the fridge, stared at the food inside until he found what he was looking for. He grabbed the meat and closed the fridge. Cold. At least it wasn't frozen. He hated cold meat. Hated it.

He ate it anyway.

He was chewing through the third slice when he heard footsteps approaching. Ishram didn’t bother acknowledging them. He was starving and needed energies.

“Ishram, is it?” Andrea’s father said.

Ishram didn’t move. 

A sigh. “Thank you, for helping us.” The man’s voice was calm, but weak. “It’s just, this is a lot.”

Ishram closed his eyes. He swallowed, and turned. The man was still looking at him as if Ishram was a ghost. Having blood on his face probably wasn’t helping. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Kibwe.”

Kibwe was higher than him, yet he showed the same wariness everyone did. It wasn’t necessarily respectful—Ishram didn’t know what to do with respectful—but something inbetween wariness and concern. Ishram could work with that.

Ishram nodded. “We may have a few days, before the rest of the group gets suspicious and sends someone to check on these folks. You might want to prepare.”

Kibwe’s face fell. “Prepare? For what?”

“Leaving this place.”

Kibwe kept silent, but didn’t complain as Ishram expected him to. So Ishram waited. Kibwe raised his head like he could put some sense into the situation. Ishram was almost sorry for him. “Those- those things?” he fumbled. “What do they want from us?”

Ishram chewed on the meat until it tore. “Nothing.”

The way Kibwe's face lost hope? Ishram was sorry for him

“Your son is just as unlucky as other humans, in some other place, in this very moment.”

“But- they were armed, they broke into our house. That doesn’t look like nothing.”

Ishram clicked his tongue, grimacing. “Food,” he said, gulping down the meat. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even know what had happened to him. He’d just disappear.”

Kibwe fell quiet yet again. Ishram went back to eating, but kept an eye out for the man. Until Kibwe rose again and inhaled. “One more reason to thank you.”

Ishram’s shoulders tensed. Kibwe didn’t know how wrong he was, thinking Ishram protecting them was a good thing. There wasn’t a version of them that would’ve come out of this whole. His past would’ve made sure of it. Because his past always caught up with him, whether Ishram wanted it or not, and Andrea (and Kibwe, and his wife, and everyone else) would’ve been caught in the middle.

His jaw worked as he chose his next words. “This is no better fate,” he whispered. “This is where you bid your lives farewell.”