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Jinx trembled, though the air around her was still. Her hands, pale and shaking, curled instinctively into the fabric of her shirt, blood drying in ragged streaks along her knuckles. She was cold—so cold—but her skin burned, feverish in its rejection of her own existence. It felt wrong, fragmented, as though her body had forgotten what it meant to be whole. Her eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with exhaustion, locked onto the floor beneath her, tracing the sharp reflections of shattered glass. It glittered, cruel and jagged, whispering to her in the voices she knew too well. Mylo, sneering, reminding her of her failures. Claggor, silent but present, his absence louder than his words ever were. Silco... Silco shifted, his memory fractured. Sometimes he was her anchor, steady and unyielding. Other times, he was venom, spewing words she knew were not his—but the line between memory and hallucination blurred too much for her to tell anymore.
But Isha—she was nowhere. No half-formed silhouette, no whisper of her voice in the storm. Gripping her bleeding wrist, Jinx wondered what Isha had done to deserve such an ending—and what she herself hadn't done to take her place instead.
Her body slumped against the rusted metal of the fan blade she used to call home. The once vibrant lights that had lit up her world now dangled in tatters above her, casting her in dim, uneven shadows. Blood seeped from the thin gashes on her wrist, staining the edge of her arm, her fingers trembling as they fumbled uselessly with the broken strands of her hair. Her scalp throbbed, raw and scratched from restless hands that sought control where none could be found.
Jinx blinked, slowly, deliberately, as though willing the world to stop spinning long enough for her to think. Her thoughts dragged her down like chains, heavy and relentless. She had always been the curse, the calamity, the storm that tore everything she loved apart. And now, once again, she was alone, left to reckon with the mess of herself in the quiet, haunting company of ghosts that refused to leave. A jinx, she was, and would always be.
And Vi was right. Of course she was. Jinx could see it as she scanned the ruins of her home, each corner steeped in memories that clung to her like smoke. The sharp thrum of her music blaring while she pieced together the tech that had set this entire, catastrophic chain of events in motion. Silco, poking his head in, sparing her only fleeting moments of his time—moments she had learned to hoard like treasures, no matter how brief. But Isha’s memories hit the hardest. Her laughter, the soft curve of her body curled up on the couch where she used to nap. The crayons scattered near the makeshift fort they’d built together, abandoned drawings gathering dust like relics of another life.
Jinx hadn’t touched a thing since it happened. She couldn’t. The very thought made her breath catch in her throat, as though moving even a single piece would shatter everything, leave her with nothing but empty spaces.
Her vision blurred, tears pooling until they spilled over, streaking her pale, scarred cheeks. She pressed the back of her trembling hand against her face, trying to force them back, but it was useless. She had been crying for a while—mourning, crumpled in the same spot, the weight of her grief pinning her down. Even the sharp sting of her blade against her skin had lost its edge, the pain dull and hollow where it used to burn. That scared her most of all. Her mind was a fractured maze she couldn’t navigate, too afraid to confront the thoughts lurking in the shadows.
She knew what she wanted, deep down, but the idea of doing it alone made her stomach churn. She’d never gone quietly, never without taking someone with her. Ekko. Vi. The thought of disappearing alone felt... wrong. Childish. Would anyone even find her body? Would the war churn on, oblivious to her absence, her final act swallowed by the chaos like it meant nothing at all?
Her gaze fell to her non-cut wrist, pale and streaked with fresh scratches, the skin raw and glistening. She scoffed, shaking her head, a bitter laugh catching in her throat. What would Isha think if she saw her now? The image made her heart twist painfully. Isha, looking up at her with those wide, trusting eyes, seeing her here, crumpled and bleeding, choking on her own tears.
She would think she was weak. She would leave.
Wouldn’t she?
Brows furrowed, Jinx groaned, hooking her trembling hand into her tangled hair, nails scraping at her scalp. The sting barely registered—it grounded her, sharp and immediate, dragging her back from the whirlwind of thoughts clawing at her mind. The whispers circled, Mylo’s mocking voice the loudest among them, stabbing at the cracks in her armor.
“Shut up!” she yelled, her voice breaking as she kicked out her legs in frustration, the motion wild and aimless. Mylo’s taunts only grew louder, persistent, relentless. Her frustration surged, a desperate energy coursing through her veins. For a brief, fleeting moment, she thought of dragging the blade across her thigh—another attempt to carve the pain away—but she dismissed it just as quickly. It wouldn’t help. Not this time.
Impulsiveness had always been her curse. Ideas burst into her mind, quick and fierce, and she followed them without hesitation. This moment was no different. She shot to her feet, the sudden motion unsteady, forcing her to lean back against the wall to catch herself. Her legs trembled beneath her, weak from neglect, her body protesting every movement. Blood seeped from her wrist, ignored, leaving a crimson trail behind her as she stumbled toward her battered desk.
She grabbed at the scattered mess, her fingers closing around her match. Flipping the top open, she struck it, the flame sputtering to life and casting a faint, flickering glow. Slowly, hesitantly, she turned her gaze to the cracked mirror resting on the desk.
She looked like a wreck.
Her face was gaunt, hollowed by what felt like days—weeks? She didn't have a concept of time, now—of sleepless nights and barely-there meals. Dark circles clung beneath her eyes, stark against her pale, almost sickly skin. Her lips were dry, cracked, tinged faintly with blood from her nervous chewing. Her once-vivid blue hair was matted, tangled into knots, braids long forgotten and abandoned, half-undone as they swayed against her back.
Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, stared back at her with a glassy, haunted look. They shimmered faintly, the beginnings of tears pooling but refusing to fall. Smudges of makeup lingered in uneven patches on her cheeks, smeared with sweat and tears into something ghostly.
Blood smeared her hands, caking her nails and staining the fabric of her tattered gloves. She barely recognized the reflection staring back at her, but the desperation in her eyes was unmistakable.
A wreck. That’s all she was.
A mess, that would soon join anyone she wanted. A mess that would see Isha one final time, she hoped. She didn’t know what came after death, but now, it didn’t matter. The questions, the doubts, the fears—they all bled away, carried by the frantic rhythm of her breathing. Jinx shook her head, a futile attempt to drown out the voice whispering something she couldn’t quite make out, something she didn’t want to hear.
Her arm swept across the desk in one sharp motion, sending everything crashing to the floor. She cast a fleeting glance at the mirror, catching the reflection of those baby-blue eyes—once her eyes. Her short blue hair, messy as ever, clung to her face. She looked so painfully familiar and yet like a stranger she couldn’t escape.
She turned sharply, unable to face the image anymore, the fractured glass slicing her reflection into something even more broken. Her gaze dropped to the lighter in her hand. The flame flickered once as she flipped it open, casting a faint glow against her pale fingers.
This was it. This was where the wreck would finally come to rest.
As she took a slow, shaky breath, one thought whispered through her mind, clear and heavy, “Maybe it’s only in the ashes that I’ll be enough.”