A scream tore through the tranquil halls.

Not the kind you hear in terror films or haunted rides. This one was raw—wet, desperate, filled with layers. As though multiple throats shrieked at once, overlapping in a discordant cry that made even the lanterns above flicker.

Leona froze mid-laugh. “Oh, what now?”

Willow’s ears perked up with delight. “Ooh, a fight!” She dropped to all fours like a wolfhound off leash, scampering down the corridor with a delighted whoop.

Miles peeked his head around a pillar, floating upside-down with wide eyes. “Uh… what’s happening? Do I need to—like, hide in a vase or something?”

Leona sighed and cracked her knuckles. “Probably the Damned again.”

Miles blinked. “The what?”

Leonis answered this time, voice flat. “Souls that couldn’t pass on. They lingered too long between realms—resentful, confused. Eventually, they… twist. Lose themselves. They merge with others, forming grotesque amalgamations. Hungry for emotion. Impossible to reason with.”

“They go feral,” Leona added. “Gnaw at the threads of fate. We usually put them down before they spread.”

“That’s… horrifying,” Miles whispered.

“It is,” Leonis said quietly. “That’s why the Reapers train so hard. Handling the Damned is one of their sacred duties.”

Leona threw an arm around his shoulders with mock cheer. “Come on, newbie. Let’s go watch.”

Outside the Museum

The square was a mix of chaos and apathy. Half the crowd screamed and ran, while the other half leaned against food carts or balconies, casually sipping spirit-infused tea like it was just another Tuesday evening in the Underworld.

The Damned soul stood at the center of it all.

It was grotesque.

A ghost stretched too thin and too wide, its form barely holding shape. Dozens of arms—some clawed, some limp—jutted from a torso that swelled and convulsed like a diseased lung. Its faces twisted constantly, never settling: one moment an old man weeping, the next a screaming child, the next a silent lover mouthing help.

It moved with jerking spasms, tearing at the air, shrieking in languages not meant for this world.

Miles floated higher, stunned into silence. Terror gripped him—but fascination tugged harder.

“Why does it look like that?”

“Every Damned reflects the souls that make it,” Leonis said. Her tone was clinical, but her fists were clenched. “This one… was made of grief.”

Civilians cleared out of the blast zone quickly. Demon enforcers in black and red uniforms formed a loose circle, scythes drawn, waiting. Not charging. Not yet.

From a rooftop above, a sleek reaper in navy armor leapt down, landing with supernatural grace. Her scythe gleamed violet as she strode toward the creature.

Leona nudged Miles. “Watch closely. This is what the end looks like when it’s done right.”

The Damned writhed, howling—a creature made of broken memories and shattered longing. Its limbs flailed in torment, faces flickering like old film across its bloated form. Spectators had long cleared the square. The remaining reapers—five of them—moved in fast, boots slicing through air, scythes raised high.

“Contain it!”

“Burn it if you have to!”

“Standard protocol—go for the core!”

They were treating it like a rabid beast.

But Cinder… Cinder felt everything.

She appeared not with a flash of lightning, but a shiver in the air—a ripple of sorrow. Her robes were pink, soft and travel-worn, fluttering slightly in the grief-thick wind. Her eyes were already glassy with tears. The Damned’s cries hit her like thunder in her skull, but she walked forward anyway.

“Stop!” one of the reapers barked. “What are you doing, rookie?!”

“Fall back! You’ll get torn apart!”

Cinder didn’t answer.

Her breath trembled. The grief pouring off the Damned was unbearable—centuries of loss, of clinging, of forgetting who they once were. A hundred souls stitched into one nightmare, all begging for peace. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she kept going.

Then—

“Miles?” Leona’s voice cracked.

He was moving—floating—drawn like a moth to Cinder’s light. Leona reached for him instinctively, but her hands phased through. “No, stop, don’t go—!”

But he already was.

His soul shimmered faintly, like candlelight in fog. As he neared Cinder, the glow magnified, threads of golden mana weaving around him. She didn’t see him at first—too focused on the creature, too lost in the sorrow. But the moment he touched her—

Light.

Blinding. Warm. Terrifying in its purity.

Miles, fully returned to his human form, wrapped his arms around her from behind. His head pressed into her back, and without a word, his soul fused with hers—twining into a single, luminous pulse.

The Damned froze.

All those faces turned toward them.

It fell to its knees—silently, reverently.

For the first time in an eternity, it felt peace.

Its body unraveled like silk in wind. One by one, the souls separated, soft lights rising skyward like fireflies. They hummed—not in pain, but in thanks—as they vanished beyond the veil.

Cinder turned just in time to feel Miles collapse.

She caught him.

Gasps echoed around the square. The reapers stood frozen. Even Leonis had taken a step forward, brows drawn low in astonishment. No one spoke.

Cinder looked down at Miles in her arms, his face peaceful, his chest rising with shallow breaths. Her hands trembled as she touched his cheek, mana still flickering between them like silver thread.

“…What did you do?” she whispered.

And for once, the veil itself had no answer.

Miles groaned softly, eyelids fluttering open. “Whoa…” His gaze found Cinder, still glowing faintly, her white hair haloed by residual magic. He blinked once, dazed. “Your eyes…”

She leaned in, worried. “Miles?”

“…They’re so pretty,” he murmured, half-dreaming. “Like rubies. Really, really shiny rubies…”

Cinder’s face turned scarlet.

And then—thud.

She’d dropped him.

“Owch,” Miles wheezed, sprawled on the cobblestones. He gave a thumbs-up from the ground. “Totally worth it.”

A few stifled snorts came from nearby.

One of the older reapers stepped forward, his long cloak dusting the cracked pavement behind him. Blackwell—gruff, greying, and about as patient as a stone wall.

“What in the Seven Shades was that, Cinder Grimm?” he barked. “And why is a human soul skipping around like he owns the place?”

Cinder stepped forward quickly, brushing soot from her robes. “He’s soul-bound. With me. I was heading to the Ministry of Magical Materials to request a relic when the Damned manifested. I—well, we—handled it.”

Miles sat up, grinning. “Yeah, she really kicked ass. You should’ve seen her—total angel of death vibes. But, like, soft.”

Cinder tugged at one of her ribbons, blushing harder. “I—I didn’t do it alone…”

Blackwell eyed her. Then him. Then sighed like he’d just been told the moon was made of spongecake. “Just… keep him close. Last thing we need is him turning into one of those.”

Miles stood, puffing his chest out dramatically. “Fear not, good sir! I shall remain perfectly sane, emotionally stable, and definitely not a multi-faced grief monster.”

“Lovely,” Blackwell muttered, walking off. “You’re her problem now.”

Cinder turned to Miles, trying not to laugh. “Come on. The Ministry’s still open. And you need stabilizing.”

She reached for his hand.

Miles froze, eyes widening as their palms touched.

His breath caught. “Wait—wait, I can feel you?”

He looked down at himself. He wasn’t floating. He wasn’t flickering. His hands were solid. His shirt had dirt on it. He had dirt on him again.

“I’m—I’m back!” he shouted. “Oh my Word, I’m back!”

He spun in a circle, then pointed straight at the sky like a victorious anime protagonist. “First thing I’m doing after this? Smelling those greenhouse flowers. I knew they’d smell amazing!”

Cinder laughed, trying to hide the way her heart fluttered. She squeezed his hand—just a little—and started walking.

Behind them, the other reapers watched in silence.

And though Blackwell would never admit it aloud… there was a flicker of something old in his gaze.

Wonder.