The knock came again.

  Three sharp raps. Then silence.

  Malachai stared at the door. The girl’s voice still lingered in the air like a sour note, half-sung and broken. It was wrong. Just wrong. There was no breath behind it, no human cadence. Like a recording made of wet meat and dying memories.

  “Malachaaaai,” she called again.

  He pressed tighter against the janitor's closet wall, breath ragged. The pipe in his grip felt heavier now, sticky with old blood and rust. He didn't want to open that door. Every cell in his body screamed not to.

  And then he did.

  The door swung open with a creak, revealing a slender silhouette in the flickering tunnel light.

  She stood crookedly, as if bones inside her had been assembled in the wrong order. Her limbs twitched, like a puppet trying to mimic grace. Skin that once belonged to a girl was stretched too thin across her skull, lips pulled back in a smile that didn’t move. Her eyes blinked independently, pupils too large, the whites jaundiced and swimming with red veins.

  Her mouth opened wider than it should have. The jaw cracked audibly.

  “You left me, Malachai,” she whispered.

  He didn't reply. He just swung.

  The pipe connected with her shoulder, and the sound it made was like hitting raw steak dropped on stone. She stumbled, letting out a shriek that distorted mid-way into a growl, and lunged.

  They tumbled backward into the hallway.

  She slashed with hands tipped in black claws, raking down his chest, but Malachai twisted, jamming the pipe under her chin and shoving upward. Her body spasmed, head jerking back. She screamed again, and it was his voice this time.

  "Get off me! Please! Help!"

  It wasn’t her anymore.

  It was him. It was everyone.

  He drove the pipe through her eye.

  There was a wet pop. She twitched once, then slumped, her stolen skin unraveling like wet cloth, falling to the floor in folds. Underneath, the real creature revealed itself—tall, lanky, starved. A Skinwalker. Its face a mask of stretched cartilage, its mouth sewn into a permanent sneer. It convulsed one final time before going still.

  Blood pooled beneath it. Dark, syrup-thick, stinking of rot and sulfur.

  > Trait Fragment Accumulated: Skinwalker (2)

  Voice Mimicry (Minor) Strengthened. Duration Increased.

  Malachai staggered back, chest heaving.

  Then the screen opened.

  It was like a pulse behind his eyes, a second set of thoughts projected into reality. Translucent. Pale gray letters etched in bone-white font.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Name: Malachai

  Class: Reaper (Unique)

  Level: 3

  HP: 72/110

  MP: 40/40

  Strength: 12 (+2 Wendigo)

  Agility: 14

  Vitality: 11 (+1 Wendigo)

  Intelligence: 9

  Willpower: 13

  Traits:

  Death-Touched (Unique)

  Wendigo Fragment (2)

  Skinwalker Fragment (2)

  Abilities:

  Consume Essence

  Voice Mimicry (Minor) [Enhanced]

  Feast of Flesh (Locked)

  Class Evolution Path: Reaper Ascendant - Progress: 10%

  He touched the name of the ability.

  > Feast of Flesh (Locked): A manifestation of death and hunger. Grants the Reaper regenerative consumption when feeding on a fresh kill. Unlocks at 3 Wendigo Fragments.

  > Voice Mimicry (Minor) [Enhanced]: Mimic the last voice heard upon a kill. Duration: 10 minutes > 15 minutes. Slight improvements to vocal accuracy.

  > Class Evolution Path: Your class is not static. It is alive. Every kill, every essence absorbed, progresses a hidden evolution tree unique to you. More fragments, more abilities, more death—you ascend.

  He closed the screen.

  And the world screamed again.

  A new shriek ripped through the service tunnel—deeper, louder. He heard stone cracking. Pipes bursting. Something massive was coming.

  He ran.

  Up the stairs. Through the shattered supermarket entrance. Past the ribbons of viscera and bone. His boots slipped in blood, knees buckling, but he didn’t stop. A Wendigo dropped from a light fixture behind him, claws grazing his shoulder.

  He rolled into a shelf and grabbed the first thing he could: a crowbar.

  The Wendigo snarled. Its maw opened to its ribs.

  Malachai swung. Again. And again. Steel met bone. Teeth clattered to the floor. But it wasn’t enough. The Wendigo lunged—and was met with a voice.

  His voice.

  “Back off!” he screamed.

  The mimicry worked. The creature froze.

  Just long enough for Malachai to jab the crowbar through its throat. It thrashed, clawing at its own neck, blood gurgling down its chest like hot tar.

  Another kill.

  > Trait Fragment Accumulated: Wendigo (3)

  Feast of Flesh: Unlocked

  He dropped to his knees beside it, panting.

  A new hunger bloomed in him. Not for food. Not even for survival. But for power.

  > Activate Feast of Flesh? Y/N

  He stared.

  Then tapped yes.

  Black veins spread from his hands as he pressed them to the Wendigo’s chest. Its essence was not a color or light, but a writhing, screaming thing that poured into him like smoke into lungs. His wounds knitted. His mind sharpened. His muscles trembled with new strength.

  And the sky outside howled in response.

  More creatures were coming.

  The city was overrun. And Malachai could feel it—more gates opening across Australia, bleeding monsters into the earth like pus from a wound.

  But here, in this ruin, a boy with blood on his hands and death in his eyes rose to his feet.

  The Reaper had fed.

  And he was just getting started.