Everemm

Writing: #Emmscribbles

"It's alright," he whispered. "I'm okay. I'm free."

Grian quieted down after a moment, face slack. With a visible effort he pulled himself up, composing himself enough to pull out his comm. Mumbo watched as he stared at the blank screen, as if thinking, before typing out a message and trudging away from the site. His shoulders sagged, an incomprehensible weight pulling down on him. Skizz came running up a moment later, speaking quickly. The wind snatched their voices away before Mumbo could catch what they were saying. He let it.

Time passed easily, slipping through his fingers like water, and for once, he was content to allow it. He didn't need it anymore.

When Skizz died, Mumbo greeted him with enthusiasm. Skizz was not quite as happy to have ended his go at the game, but he quickly matched Mumbo's energy and they enjoyed their time together. They watched as Grian moved on, weaseling his way into the Family and joking about joining other teams. If it bothered Skizz, he didn't let on. Mumbo was just happy to be free.

When it happened, it was sudden, a searing sensation burning all along Mumbo's body as his consciousness fused to his ruined body. Confused, he made out a forest, figures crowded around them. The second thing he registered was Skizz, alive. His clothes were rubbed threadbare in some places, skin pale and stretched oddly, like it had grown across a wide cut to heal. They greeted each other with an "ayyyyyyyy!", Mumbo still slightly disoriented.

Mumbo's third thought was that he, too, was back alive, tethered to a body and life yet again. It sent a pang of disappointment and something akin to anger through him, though he was careful to not let it show. Life was worth something here, and to decline a gift so precious would be imprudent.

"Wait, you're real?" Impulse exclaimed.

Mumbo shot back a retort as he fidgeted, getting used to the weight of his body and the clunky way it moved.

"Oh, ah, perhaps we should go somewhere private," he suggested to Cleo, and followed her as she led them away from the group.

Together, Mumbo and Skizz informed Cleo of their roles and she nodded, assigning them a task. The vigor of purpose filled Mumbo as he set off with Skizz.

"Do you think he'll be happy to see us?" Skizz pondered.

He was of course Grian, and if he brought them back then he’d better be happy. If he found it necessary to resurrect them, he had to have missed them enough to stoop to such levels. Mumbo knew he should have been grateful, but he had a few choice words to exchange with his friend.

They found him with Martyn, the two staring at the newly-revived men with something akin to incredulity. Skizz started insulting Grian, as per Cleo's instruction, but Mumbo opened his mouth to say something a bit more substantial. 

"Short guy with a big tower!" he accused instead.

In the place of the words he truly wanted to say, lame insults popped out. When they pulled out their swords, Mumbo both despaired and rejoiced. 

Wait! he wanted to cry, Let me speak! But at the same time, at least this terrible false life was over.

His death was swift.

With a thunderous noise and the feeling of electricity warbling over his skin, Mumbo opened his eyes, not in the aether, but back in his body. A heavy understanding settled in his chest. He was back for as long as Cleo demanded they were.

Assignments ensued. Every time it was like a surge of renewed motive, breathing slightly more life into him. Mumbo was not his own and he hated it.

It was worse than being in the games as a normal player. He didn't enjoy having his life limited, a countdown until freedom, at once tantalizing and terrifying. He didn't like being a pawn in the game they were playing, but at least he could make his own choices and was limited by his own factors. Here, under Cleo's command, he would do their tasks, her bidding at a twitch of their fingers. He was a puppet under her influence. 

This was Grian's work, no doubt. Anything to have them back, to alleviate the guilt from their deaths.

Mumbo didn't want this.

Perhaps that was why killing Grian felt good.

He apologized, but it wasn't for killing him. He was sorry for the joy he derived from the murder, for hacking at Grian with more strength than was necessary. He didn't want to kill his friend, but at the same time it was so freeing. He was the orchestrator of the games, the one who brought Mumbo and Skizz back. He was to blame. 

"I'm sorry, Grian!" he shouted as blood eddied around his sinking body. A moment later darkness embraced him.

He didn't expect Grian to hunt them down with such fury. It was satisfying, in a way, to see him driven to such anger, but seeing his features contorted with rage also sent a pang of guilt through him.

. . .

Lighting struck and thunder rumbled, not a single dark cloud in the blue sky. Mumbo opened his eyes, expecting Cleo.

"Grian?"

"Hey, guys! I just thought I'd send you off to do whatever you want before the powers fade." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

Martyn—he'd died earlier, Mumbo recalled—staggered away in a daze, muttering something about finding Ren.

"Oh!" Skizz exclaimed. "Then I'm going to find that JERK—" He stomped off in the direction of the Tuff Guys.

Grian turned to leave.

"Mate?" His mouth struggled to shape the term. It felt...not right. "Can we talk?"

Grian paused. "Y-yeah, sure. What about?"

Mumbo joined Grian, walking away from the G's base. "I just…" He faltered. How did he start? I resent you? I hate everything these games are and I hate you for making them? I'm sorry?

 "I don't want this," he said finally.

"Want what, Mumbo?" Grian was watching him with those eyes, head tilted questioningly.

"This." He gestured. "These games. Life. I was happy to die, you know. I was content to watch. I don't want to be this…approximation of life." He looked down at himself, his torn and burned clothes, his pale skin and exposed bones. "I can't have my own thoughts. Not under orders. I can't say anything. Unless you let me." He met Grian's eyes. "I know you blame yourself for me and Skizz, but this isn't right."

Grian swallowed, glancing at the ground. "I'm…" his jaw tensed, seemingly unable to force the words out. "I'll put you to rest," he bit out. "I won't bring you back. Ever." He opened his mouth to say something else, but something appeared to occur to him. "It's over," he said, voice hollow. In a second his bow was in his hand, an arrow knocked and pointed at Mumbo's heart. Reflexively he ducked with a yelp, but it was no use.

 "End of the game for you."

In any other situation the words would have been threatening, but to Mumbo it sounded like a promise, a mercy. 

All day, there in the corner of his vision, Mumbo. The truth lingered in his head like a persistant headache. That was Mumbo. He was here. He looked like Tango. He even sounded like Tango, if Tango had a British accent. It was Mumbo.

He couldn't help but linger around him, take up his place at his side like he'd normally do. Just for a week, his attention went to Mumbo and the Square Hole. They were two very important things.

There was an odd disconnect, a moment of vertigo when he glanced over and found bright, blazing hair in place of combed-back locks. Firey red eyes rather than dark, nearly black pupils. If Grian didn't look, his presence alone was familiar enough to trick his brain into believing they were the same person.

They weren't. Something was wrong with him.

. . .

Something was wrong with Tango. For one, he had a British accent. It was a good one too, almost sounded real. Secondly, he was entirely different. There were some obvious signs, like the way he couldn't stay still and the sudden decrease in skills, but that could be chalked up to many things. Other things couldn't be written off so easily.

Tango saw Jimmy.

Jimmy knew what Tango looked like when he saw Jimmy and he was missing that. There was no weight in the look, only cursory recognition. His face didn't soften with the knowledge of their shared history. His tone didn't lower in that teasing way it often did around him.

It was different. Jimmy didn't like it.

"Let's face the elephant in the room," Jimmy announced, turning to Tango. "You're not Tango."

He blinked, looked alarmed, mouth slightly parted as if to defend himself, but no words would come out.

See? Jimmy wanted to shout. That's not him! He'd laugh and go on the offensive! He'd say, 'now why do you think that that? I'm the same as I've always been. You're not Jimmy!"

"Is it not?" Cleo chuckled, a hint of humor in her tone.

Scar looked over at Tango. "Really?"

"I dunno, let me see." Martyn waded through the water of the hot tub, pausing right in front of Tango and dragging his tongue across his cheek. "Hm, it tastes like Tango."

Tango—it wasn't really Tango—laughed, reaching up to wipe his cheek off. "Yeah, I taste like Tango. What do you think Tango would taste like, do you reckon?"

"Mm, little bit like…

"Hey, why do you know what Tango tastes like?"

It wasn't him. It wasn't him.

. . .

"You know, why don't we…for old time's sake, wanna hit the mines?"

Mumbo caught on quick. "Good times. For old time's sake."

"Show me where it is?"

He giggled, following after Grian. They didn't mind Gem and Pearl, too lost in their own narrative to bother caring about anybody else's. They would no doubt having their own moment.

In the meantime, Grian started mining. Hopefully they did find some diamonds, but this time spent with Mumbo meant more than that. It was never about the diamonds, he thought. It was just…a reliving of something special to them. A moment of gasping hilarity they wanted back. It was a way of communicating their history.

"Hey, Grian, come look." Tango's voice, hushed and excited, drew Grian out of his head. Tango was staring down at him in the hole he'd dug, beckoning before dissapearing behind the stone.

Grian clambered up, curiosity rising as Mumbo led him to an empty wall.

"Look, I left my diamonds…right here!" His pickaxe sent stone clattering to the ground, shiny gems reflecting light behind the wall he'd set up.

"Aww, c'mon."

"What?! I thought you'd like it…" He sounded so dejected.

"I appreciate the effort, but…it's just not the same." He really did appreciate it. It warmed his heart that Mumbo would be willing to surrender his diamonds to Grian for a moment of connection. It just. It wasn't the same.

"I was hoping it could be a moment, you know? Our eyes would meet," he stepped closer, drawing Grian's gaze. "We could cuddle a bit, or something." Closer. Gently, his hand took Grian's. Warm.

It wasn't his.

Grian wanted to surrender, to melt into the man in front of him, but it wasn't his. His eyes were wrong, his height was wrong, even his skin was wrong. It wasn't as soft as Mumbo's. It wasn't the right shade.

His voice. It wasn't his.

"It's not you; it's not YOU." Grian turned around, pulling his hand from Tango's grasp. Instead, he dug deeper into his previous dig down, continuing his job.

"Oh—well—" Tango chased after him, descending the staircase. It still felt like him.

They continued in silence, Grian's mind churning as his body automated the swing of the pickaxe, the draw back and the yank.

"Light the way with your hair, Tango," Grian joked, and he was very careful to separate the two in his head.

"Oh yeah, I forget I can do that."

Grian didn't respond. He couldn't, you can. It's not you. Grian swung, Tango's hand was in the way. Clumsy, like Mumbo. The second time his arm was in the way. "Watch out," he cautioned. The third, the pickaxe cracked into bone. His body pulled the pickaxe back, half stuck in the motions of mining as his brain caught up.

"OUUUU, I TOLD YOU. I told you!" He laughed, but it wasn't funny. Because he saw Tango die, bleed out, and he imagined he could see Mumbo's presence withering away. A different light in his eye, a stronger presence taking over.

It didn’t last long. Sure, he may have never “killed” an entity and he came up with complicated machines to get around it, but soon he gave up the idea of not killing. He could kill…as long as it didn’t affect his statistics. This was a very roundabout way of thinking, he knew, and a way for him to skirt the rules, but if he didn’t do this, he was going to go insane. So he found ender crystals, and boy was he pleased with his new toys. He started with other players, had a bit of fun with that, then he realized he could do it with animals, and he had some more fun with that. Little sprees, rounding the edges off his hunger. A little prize, kept between him and whoever Watched him from the sky.

Last Life was greatly beneficial to his need. Sure, he couldn’t kill for a while, but the very chance of being selected boogeyman kept him sane. He set up traps without worrying about the damage or needing to resupply somebody’s tools and armor. When he was selected as boogeyman, it was thrilling. His blood sang for another’s in a way that was so freeing it was almost intoxicating. He’d never allowed himself to get to this point. His euphoria from his kill was short lived, having been killed almost immediately afterwards, but then he was red and he felt content again. The sacrifice was his friends, which was an unfortunate cost, but now he had new, red friends who were just as crazy and just as bloodthirsty.

He tried to kill. He might not have managed to do it. Chunks of hearts lost to his crystals, but nothing life-shattering. Nothing to knock down the other players. In the end he was slain by Grian, a shot through his heart in a moment of adrenaline-fueled confusion.

Returning to Hermitcraft was sudden. He was no longer in that restricted world where his every move was Watched and his slowly declining sanity was encouraged. Now, he was in a peaceful land where people lived and paid money for items rather than stealing them. People built with beauty in mind rather than practicality. It was jarring, but a change Mumbo made.

The hunger followed him back. He continued doing what he always did, small kills, small sprees. He gave in and ate a porkchop. That ended horrendously and didn’t give him any satisfaction whatsoever. He consumed Grian’s soul, and that was quite potent, much more than plain murder. It held him over for a while.

Enter the dreaded moon.

“Mumbo, is the moon big?”

“I’ll be honest, I’ve lost all frame of reference. I think it’s big?”

It was indeed big, and getting bigger. There was no denying it now. The next logical step was starting a cult. If he worshiped the moon, maybe it would stop? He wasn’t entirely sure either. He did it anyway. Thus the Mooners were born.

If he was being honest, it was half founded as a way to hide his symptoms. He frequently found himself unable to fall asleep, driven awake time and time again by the urge to kill. The few days he did sleep well, he woke up from dreams where he slaughtered his friends, feeling happy and content. That, more than anything, scared him.

So…no sleeping. He had more time on his hands than ever before. More time left alone with his thoughts. The longer he didn’t sleep, the worse it got. The voices snapped at his mind, set his senses into overdrive and caused him to be skittish even as the lack of sleep slowed him down. The phantoms laughed and laughed, taunting him. It could all be fixed, and yet you continue this way, they said. They cackled at his stubbornness and his stupidity. They giggled at his internal war. They loved his pain, They did.

Things progressed to where he couldn’t stay awake, to the point he’d rather face his dreams and fantasies than listen to the phantoms. He slept, later finding out Grian did too, also unable to stay awake. The season ended with everybody either facing the moon or running from it. Boatem retreated into the void, and as one last prank, Grian made Mumbo accidentally kill him.

Season nine. Mumbo was not okay. He decided he wouldn’t continue his “Peace, Love, and Plants.” He was sick of it. He looked tired, but only if you studied him. From afar he looked normal. His laugh sounded more manic, more desperate, and his ideas were all over the place. Being the richest? A goal to keep him from snapping. Days dragged by like wading through honey. He was only half present, most of him stuck inside his own mind, fighting an uphill battle. He finally took leave when he started literally salivating at the idea of murder. It was rather undignified, and certainly a sign for him to go.

Scott glanced at the trap he was setting up in BDub’s base. “Right, and you’ve been doing that for how long? Most of us sleep at night, Mumbo.”

“I sleep!” He protested. “Er, I mean, I don’t sleep because I am too busy setting up traps and making plans and—and—one day I’m going to kill somebody!”

He snorted. “Right. Do you realize how much noise you make? The rails, TNT minecarts, it’s all incredibly loud. You ruin my beauty sleep every time you rig our front door.”

“Ah…that’s…”

“Yeah.”

“Well—would you mind walking through your door tomorrow morning?”

Scott laughed, a bright sound, and it coaxed Mumbo into chuckling as well. He turned back to his trap and knelt, working on setting up the triggering system. Behind him Scott watched, a mildly concerned look on his face. Mumbo had been working this one for nearly half an hour to no avail, trying to use a sculk sensor as the trigger. The only problem was the range. If somebody walked by, it would detonate without dealing any damage, so he had some wool and if—

His thoughts were interrupted by Scott’s hand on his shoulder. “Seriously, Mumbo. Take a break. Even reds sleep. You can finish this, but then rest, okay? Promise me.”

Mumbo felt his lips tug into a frown, confusion creasing his face. Why did Scott care? Was this a tactic of some sort?

“I…will,” he responded evenly.

“Good. I’ll be watching.” And with that, he was gone, bounding off back to his team and leaving Mumbo more puzzled than before.

. . .

The trap was set and the sun had long since dipped below the horizon. A cool breeze was blowing through the air, carrying with it the noises of the nighttime forest. For a moment Mumbo let himself wander. It seemed to be all he was doing, now that he was red. Wandering and hoping somebody died to one of his traps.

Absently he fidgeted with his blade, slipping it in and out of its sheath. He was tired, but sleeping seemed awfully dangerous, not to mention unproductive. The constant blood lust in the back of his head teased him constantly, driving him further and telling him to keep going. Did the others feel this antsy? Joel seemed like it sometimes…

His thoughts continued in this meandering path, only interrupted when an arrow pierced the ground by his feet. Flinching, his gaze followed the angle of the shaft, landing on teal and white perching on a tree branch.

“Did you forget?” He jumped down with the grace of a cat, landing neatly on his feet and moving to stand in front of Mumbo.“I said I’d check in.”

“Yes. You did say that.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “And…? You don’t look like you’re resting.”

“Ah…” Mumbo leaned back, eyes flickering across the details of his face. In the low light he was beautiful, teal hair standing out against the dark. The faint orange glow left from the sun backlit him, contrasting with the blue of his outfit. His eyes, a brilliant yellow, stared into Mumbo’s with intent. He laughed nervously. “Why are you on me about this? We’re not the same color, we’re not even on allied teams. Awfully suspicious of you, Scott.”

“I care about those around me. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Well—no, but—”

“Good.” Scott grabbed his wrist, tugging Mumbo along. His hands were warm and he emanated a heat Mumbo couldn’t help but want more of. He’d been so cold recently, not being allowed back in his bunker, not having another place to stay during the nights, not sleeping or allowing himself to rest, it all took a toll. For a moment he resisted, but really, what was the harm?

The walk back was silent, broken only by a murmured thanks, so quiet the breeze nearly whisked it away.

It was lovely.

Until Grian heard it. The wanting.

His pupils dilated, breathing becoming uneven.

Mumbo noticed the change, his concern falling on deaf ears. His eyes flickered to Grian's neck, to where he could see his erratic heartbeat.

Grian soaked up his worry, the thread of fear that entered his face when Grian didn't respond. Void, he was hungry.

Mumbo frowned, feeling a deep stirring low in his stomach. This was unlike Grian. He was stiff, muscles tense as if preparing to pounce. His eyes, wide and dark, pierced through Mumbo. His heart beat fast, loud enough that Mumbo could hear it. His eyes fixated on the small twitch of his pulse on his neck. A new fear emerged.

Grian's rational brain told him it wasn't a good idea, but his base instincts overwhelmed that part of him. Grian struggled to keep himself still. More than anything he wanted to grab Mumbo and feast.

They lunged at the same time.

There was nothing clean about it, nothing noble. They scratched and clawed and bit. They snarled and growled, the sheets tangling around them and getting ripped in the sheer vehemence they fought each other with.

They tumbled in the bed, struggling to gain the upper ground. Wounds tore open, staining the blanket with blood. Mumbo snapped at Grian, each drop of blood incentivizing him to fight harder. Grian leaned in close, each cut making him want more. His feathers slowly darkened, fading into purple.

A swipe from Mumbo sent him to the ground, head banging painfully against the floor. A moment later Mumbo was on him, face contorted into a snarl. He bit down on Grian's neck, teeth tearing at the soft skin. At the same time Grian pulled his sword from his inventory, thrusting it through Mumbo's ribs.

But it was, influenced by hands unseen. In many ways he regretted it, but in many ways he did not. Each betrayal, each death, each pair of blood-soaked hands fed the things above, fed Grian. It kept them at bay, sated at the low cost of a two months' worth of anguish.

There were consequences, he knew. Dangers to suppressing memories and acting as if nothing had taken place. There were dangers to throwing them back into the games, over and over again, triggering past memories to surface and letting grievances rot and fester.

It was fine, even if this wasn't what Grian had planned. Even if he had to watch those he loved get hurt. Even if it ruined him time and time again.

It was fine, he told himself. It was okay when he saw his friends back home, horror lurking just under their thoughts and in the depths of their eyes. It was okay when he noticed them constantly checking their backs for a threat unknown. It was okay—he had to keep reminding himself—when they woke up screaming and nobody could figure out why.

It was fine. It was all good when he dreamt of scorching air and ceaseless loneliness. It was all good when his hands shook in the dark of nights alone. It was all good when he found himself wanting more, to do it again.

He promised himself in the wake of the games. He would never do it again.

He would always do it again.

And again.

As the stranger walked on the paths, hands in his pockets and looking around the quiet village, he wondered where he was. He ought not to be too bothered, he figured. Turning his gaze back to the path, he noticed several patches of little gray flowers. They lined the path in a sporadic pattern, almost as if somebody had tossed seeds and left them to handle themselves.

"HELLO! You're new here!"

He yelped, whirling around to come face-to-face with a woman, long orange hair tied up in a messy bun and owl-ish eyes peering at him behind two round lenses.

"Oh! You're not a hermit! It's getting dark soon. Do you have a place to stay yet?" She took his startled silence as an answer. "No? Come, come." Within a moment he was being pulled back along the path, boots scuffing the dirt. "My name is Gem, so nice to meet you! What's your name?" He didn't get a chance to answer before she brought him to one of the houses along the river, gesturing for him to go inside.

"I don't have a lot of space, but I'm barely here during the day, so you can totally stay here if you were thinking of staying, of course. I'd never force you to stay, imagine! No, this is only if you want to, my house is quite cozy and I doubt you'll meet many other landlords here who will host you. Not that they're unfriendly, quite the opposite, it's just that they don't take kindly to strangers…"

As she continued he took a step inside. It was a neat little place and almost immediately to his right there was a kitchen and a—

Was that a head?

That was indeed a head.

There were more heads. In jars. People's heads.

He felt lightheaded.

"And—oh, yeah, those are my friends. I was researching them earlier, but I'm pretty much done with them. The heads are mostly momentos. I won't bore you with the details, but there's a surprising amount to learn from—"

"Alright. I—I get it," he interrupted. If he was being honest, he did not want to hear about whatever she'd done with the bodies.

"You do? Oh, I'm so glad you've got an open mind. Most of the town thinks I'm weird and steers clear, but I'm glad you at least understand—you'll be staying here, won't you? I'd be so happy to have a like-minded individual join me here."

The switch felt like whiplash, the speed at which she switched from her assumed profession to his accommodations briefly stunning him into silence. "Ah—I…" He glanced at the jars, at the orange sky and setting sun outside. "I'll stay…" he relented. If she noticed his miserable tone, she didn't comment, instead clapping and giving him the grand tour.

"So that's the kitchen," she waved at the area with the heads. "and here's the bedroom." She led him into a modest room with a desk and bed. A lantern sat on the table and he could imagine her sitting there at night, flickering light illuminating her quill as it scratched across blank paper. "And that's about it!" She smiled broadly.

There was a head in this room too, a man with abnormally large, glassy eyes. He suppressed a shiver.

"I'll leave you to it. If you need anything I'm sure the others will be willing to help. I'll be off studying. Feel free to explore in the meantime!" She waved, disappearing as quickly as she'd appeared and leaving him alone in her home. Glancing once more at the head, he frowned and moved to the balcony.

There was nothing wrong with the town, he surmised. He was just…shaken from the fact that he was a stranger in a brand new place. A place with a person who collected heads. But what was a town without that one person?

Distantly he caught movement and watched as the scientist—she said her name was Gem?—walked down the dirt path with a jaunty gait. She soon moved out of sight and he turned his attention to the view.

Gem's house had a beautiful sight over the river, the village spilling out along the water on the other side. Sunlight reflected on the green water, exacerbating a pungent fish smell. Everything was still, not even a light breeze to stir the silence. The other residences were built in a similar style, bamboo roofs and wooden frames. Plants grew in little patches along the muddy riverbank.

Glancing at the sky, he figured there was a little time before the sun set entirely. He didn't want to stay in the house for longer than necessary so the stranger left, exploring again. He had no plan.

While he'd been wandering he found what might have been a fishmonger. It certainly smelled like it, the stink of dead seafood emanating heavily from the shop. He approached from the side, at first confused about the shape of the dock, then horrified when he realized what it was.

The jaws of what must have been a massive fish was connected to the building, dry, old skin hanging from the frame. A massive hole denoted where the eyes used to be and the teeth were sharp and serrated. The esca hung out over the front, large and bulbous. Vaguely he wondered if it still emitted light in the dark. Probably not.

Making his way to the front of the building, he spotted a man. Perhaps the first resident other than Gem that he had met; he waved. The man, dark skin and a large beard, frowned and turned away, revealing the dripping knife in his hand.

Hint taken, goodbye. He left.

The sun was beginning to set now, painting the sky in a beautiful orange sunset. Reluctantly, he began his trip back to Gem's house. The heads greeted him again, listlessly staring in his general direction. He ignored them and went into the bedroom, climbing onto the bed and facing his back to the desk. Sleep came easily.

. . .

Thump.

Scrape.

Scuff.

He opened his eyes. He could feel and hear somebody moving things around next to him. Perhaps the scientist had forgotten something? He wasn't convinced. As if she'd known, Gem's silhouette appeared above him, a single lock of hair hanging down from her bun. Brilliant green eyes stared down at him.

"Oh. You're awake."

He observed her mutely, unsure of what he was supposed to do in this situation.

"I'm…so sorry to tell you this, but…" She bit her lip and cast a glance over her shoulder as if this were awkward for her. "I have to kill you now."

Before he could make a noise, try to run, do anything, she pulled out a blade, gleaming in the light from the window, and rested it on his throat.