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"You’re not supposed to be awake, cripple. Much less standing."
Kaelen’s voice sounded like gravel in a blender. He didn’t move from the chair, but his hand tightened around the hilt of a jagged serrated blade. He was staring at me—really staring—because I wasn’t in the wheelchair. I wasn’t bleeding out on the floor of a slum tenement. I was towering over him, draped in shadows that didn't obey the laws of light, my skin the color of a bruised midnight.
"Who are you?" Kaelen spat, his eyes darting around the void. "Where the hell am I?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. I stepped forward, the floor beneath my feet rippling like black oil. The moment my shadow touched his, a chain of obsidian smoke snapped out of the ground. It didn't just wrap around his ankle; it fused into his skin, dragging him face-first into the dirt with a wet, sickening thud.
"Ah! What is this? Get off me!"
I knelt beside him, my fingers cold as a grave. I grabbed his jaw, squeezing until his teeth groaned. The power humming in my veins felt like a starving wolf. For years, I'd been the one on the floor. For years, I'd felt the weight of boots on my neck. Now, the air smelled of his terror—sour, sharp, and absolutely delicious.
"You know the name of the man who paid you to break my legs," I whispered. My voice didn't sound like mine. It sounded like a thousand dead things speaking in unison.
"I don't... I don't know anything!" Kaelen thrashed, but the more he fought, the tighter the obsidian chains constricted. I heard a soft *pop*—a hairline fracture in his tibia. He shrieked, the sound echoing through the endless black of the Rift.
"Wrong answer," I said. I leaned in closer, my breath a freezing mist against his ear. "In this place, I don't need you to be honest. I just need you to be afraid. And you, Kaelen, are terrified."
I let go of his jaw and stood up, flicking my wrist. Another chain erupted, this one piercing through his shoulder and pinning him to the void like a butterfly in a display case. He gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.
"Please!" he sobbed. "I was just a contractor! The guy in the white cloak—he said you were a dead man walking! He said the Inquisition already scrubbed you!"
"The white cloak," I repeated. The words tasted like ash. The High Inquisitors. The men who had stripped me of my badge, my dignity, and my ability to walk. "Give me a name, or I start pulling the nerves out of your spine one by one. I've got all eternity here. Do you?"
Kaelen's eyes rolled back. He was shaking so hard I could hear his teeth rattling. "Vane! High Inquisitor Vane! He’s the one! He’s operating out of the Iron District, hiding behind the cathedral's shadow! Just let me go, please, I'll give you anything!"
I stared at him. The name *Vane* sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated hatred through me. I could feel the nightmare realm responding, the shadows around us thickening, turning into jagged teeth that began to chew at the edges of Kaelen's consciousness.
"You're not going anywhere," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum. "But you are going to be useful."
I didn't kill him. Death was too easy. Instead, I reached into the void and pulled out a shimmering, translucent brand—a mark of ownership. I pressed it onto his forehead. The brand hissed, searing into his soul, linking his waking mind to my dream domain. He screamed, a long, rattling sound that faded into a whimper as the mark locked into place.
"Now," I whispered, leaning over him, my shadow swallowing him whole. "You're my dog now. When I call, you crawl. If you lie, I'll drag you back here and let the shadows eat your memories until there's nothing left but the feeling of your bones breaking."
He couldn't even nod. He just trembled, a broken man in a broken world.
I felt the pull then—the violent, sudden tug of the waking world. The Rift was closing. The euphoria of power began to bleed away, replaced by the familiar, crushing weight of gravity and the cold reality of a body that didn't work.
*Snap.*
I was back.
My head hit the pillow with a dull thud. The smell of damp wallpaper and old grease rushed back. I tried to move my legs, but there was nothing—just that dead, hollow silence where my spine used to be. I was gasping for air, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking. Not from fear, but from the withdrawal of that god-like strength. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear the room apart. But I was just Lucian Cross again—the cripple in the wheelchair, the disgraced cop with nothing to his name but a grudge and a broken back.
Then, I heard it.
*Click-clack.*
The sound of a shotgun racking. It came from right outside my door.
I froze. My wheelchair was three feet away, and I was sprawled on the floor, completely exposed. The heavy thud of boots echoed in the hallway, slow and deliberate. Someone wasn't just coming for me; they were hunting me.
"Cross!" a voice barked—rough, impatient, and familiar. "We know you're in there. Open the damn door or we'll take it off the hinges."
I scrambled, dragging my useless lower body across the floor with my elbows, the friction burning my skin. I managed to grab the edge of the wheelchair just as the door frame groaned under a massive impact.
*Boom.*
The door shuddered. A sliver of light pierced through the crack as the wood splintered. I looked at the window, then back at the door. I had no weapon, no one to help me, and my legs were dead weight.
"Last chance, Lucian!" the man yelled. "Where's the ledger?"
I gripped the armrest of the chair, pulling myself up with a guttural groan. Just as I locked the wheels, the door exploded inward in a cloud of splinters and dust.
Three men stepped in. The leader had a scar running from his temple to his jaw and a shotgun leveled at my chest. He smiled, but there was no warmth in it—only the hunger of a man who enjoyed the kill.
"Found you," he whispered, stepping over the debris. "Now, let's talk about why you're still breathing."
He raised the barrel, pointing it directly between my eyes, and my finger twitched—not in my leg, but in my mind, reaching for the shadows that weren't there anymore.