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Killer could still recall most of the serious conversations he’d ever had with Nightmare, which wasn’t saying much, given how rare they'd been. For the longest time, those kinds of talks had been reserved for moments when trust had sharpened into something more private, more dangerous, the sort of quiet where both of them understood that neither could afford to lie. It had been years now, but one particular memory stood out like a splinter he’d never quite dug free.
He hadn’t taken it seriously at the time, not really. Nightmare had dragged him into the office, the one room that never quite lost the chill no matter how many lanterns he lit. Killer had slouched into the nearest chair, expecting some tedious tactical debrief or a new list of enemies to stalk. Instead, Nightmare had leaned against the desk, arms crossed, his voice lower than usual. He'd said, flatly and without ceremony, “If I die -and don’t assume I won’t- I want you to take over.”
Killer had laughed at first. Actually laughed. He thought Nightmare was joking, or worse, testing him. Guardian of negativity?
But Nightmare hadn’t cracked a smile.
He'd just stared at Killer with those dark, unreadable eyes of his, waiting, maybe, to see whether Killer would scoff again or finally shut up and listen. That moment stuck with him now, buried under all the years, but stubbornly intact.
Because Nightmare had meant it.
And Killer, back then, had no idea what the hell to do with that kind of trust.
What had come next out of Nightmare’s mouth had thrown Killer harder than the initial proposal.
“The only way you’d be able to take my place,” Nightmare had said, voice like gravel dragged over ice, “is if you bite into my soul.”
Killer blinked. “...Come again?”
Nightmare didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t have to. He just summoned his soul.
It was shaped like an apple. Or at least it tried to be. The surface pulsed with a dim, oily gleam, like ink trying to masquerade as something alive. The color twisted if you stared at it too long, the way some dreams did right before they curdled into nightmares. Even the light in the room seemed to bend slightly around it.
Killer stared. “You’re not serious.”
Nightmare held his gaze, silent. The soul sat in his gloved palm like a dare.
“You want me to bite that?” Killer gestured vaguely at the thing. “Like some twisted horror show version of Snow White?”
“If it comes to that,” Nightmare said coolly, “yes.”
Which was, in Killer’s opinion, one of the freakiest things he’d ever heard. And considering the kind of company he kept, that was saying something.
He’d made a face, somewhere between disgust and nervous laughter, and waved it off at the time. Told Nightmare he was being dramatic. Told him he wasn’t planning on dying anytime soon, and even if he did, Killer was probably the worst possible candidate for the job.
But here he was. Now, in the present.
The battlefield still smoldered with the aftershock of the fight. The ground was torn up in ugly wounds, black ash curling at the edges of every blast mark. Nightmare was down, sprawled against a jagged stone, his form flickering, his body pierced with glowing arrows that hissed with residual magic. Dust curled from the wounds in slow, steady streams, too much for even someone like him to contain for long.
The Star Sanses had retreated, not by choice, but by force. Cross and Horror were still somewhere in the haze, chasing them back into whatever corner they’d crawled out from. But Killer had stayed behind.
He hadn’t moved. Couldn’t.
He just stood there, staring at the shattered form of the guardian of negativity, the weight of the moment pressing down like gravity had been turned up to eleven. Nightmare’s one remaining eye flickered open, weak, dim, and with a trembling hand, he summoned it.
That same soul, the warped, apple-shaped thing that seemed too solid and too alive all at once, hovered above his palm. It pulsed faintly, like it knew what was coming. Like it wanted to be taken.
Killer’s breath hitched.
He remembered the conversation now with stunning clarity. Nightmare hadn’t wanted someone to inherit the title by accident, hadn’t wanted it to be forced on some poor bastard the way it had been forced on him. No more manipulation. No more possession. No more suffering disguised as fate.
He wanted someone to choose it.
And now Killer understood why. Because looking at that soul, seeing what it cost, what it meant, it wasn’t a role. It was a burden you had to willingly carry.
Somewhere in the distance, he could hear Dust shouting — distant, distorted by the smoke and the still-humming static of the battlefield. Probably calling after Horror or Cross. Maybe checking to see if Killer had stayed behind like an idiot, or if he needed backup clearing out the rest of the Star crew.
Too late.
They wouldn’t make it in time.
They wouldn’t get to say goodbye.
Killer glanced once over his shoulder, toward the blurred shapes vanishing into the fog. Then back down at Nightmare.
The old bastard wasn’t moving anymore. The arrows still crackled, buried deep, a sick kind of light spilling through the fractures in his bones. His hand, the one that had summoned the soul, trembled, then dropped like dead weight to the ground, hitting the dirt with a dull thud.
Killer swallowed, jaw tight.
He lowered himself into a crouch and reached out.
The soul hovered for a moment, as if resisting him, or maybe just testing him one last time. It buzzed faintly against his fingertips when he made contact, a pulse like static, like resentment itself had been crystallized into a heartbeat.
And then, carefully, he closed his hands around it.
It was warm. Too warm. Not like a living thing, not quite, more like holding rage that had been simmering for centuries and never found a place to go. His fingers sank slightly into the surface, the shape too perfect and too unnatural all at once. The slick weight of it made his stomach churn.
Still… he brought it to his mouth.
He paused only once, not to think, not to hesitate, but to remember Nightmare. All of him. The cruelty. The strategy. The fury. The impossible patience it had taken to build a kingdom out of hate and keep it from collapsing in on itself.
Then Killer bared his teeth, and bit into the soul.
The surface cracked with a sound like thunder under water. Bitter magic exploded across his tongue, black and burning and impossibly cold, like swallowing down a scream that hadn’t been meant for him. The taste was acid and void and grief, and it cut through every nerve in his body at once.
His hands slipped. His vision blurred. Something inside him shifted.
The world tilted sideways.
For one harrowing second, Killer thought he was falling, not down, but inward, like the soul had cracked open something inside him and was now dragging him into it. Darkness poured through his skull like thick ink, not the absence of light, but the presence of something older and hungrier.
His knees hit the ground. Hard.
He didn’t feel it.
Everything inside him was burning. Not fire, but pressure, a million voices not shouting, not screaming, just existing. Resentment. Envy. Rage. Hurt. Pain with no exit. The kinds of feelings people choked down for lifetimes and never spoke aloud. They were crawling up his spine now, one by one, like cold fingers stitching themselves into his bones.
And beside him, something shifted.
A dry rattle, like breath struggling through dust.
Killer turned his head just enough to see Nightmare.
The old guardian’s body was shaking, not with effort, but with release. The soul was no longer his. The power was gone, and with it, the thread that had barely kept him tethered. His frame sagged inward, ribs buckling as if gravity had doubled just for him.
Then came the sound.
Soft, papery, the sound of a hand crumbling.
Nightmare’s fingertips broke apart first, flaking into the wind.
Killer watched, helpless, still frozen by the soul tunneling through his very being, as Nightmare slowly began to dust.
Not violently. Not quickly.
But in small, surrendering pieces.
His hand, once outstretched toward Killer, fell limp as the arm began to decay. Dust spiraled upward in lazy arcs, carried by air that didn’t seem to move.
Nightmare's head tilted just slightly toward him, not enough for eye contact, not anymore, but enough to be aware.
A faint breath rasped from his throat. No words. Just the hollow rattle of a frame giving out.
The shadows that had once been wrapped around him like armor bled away without protest. They didn’t scatter, they simply drifted, like they’d already found their next home.
Killer’s teeth were still sunk into the soul. His body trembled. His own magic recoiled and shifted, rearranging itself to accommodate what was being forced inside.
And through it all, Nightmare disintegrated at his side, in silence.
There would be no final monologue. No hand clutched to chest. No last command.
He was simply… gone.
The dust blew backward, fading into the air, lost in the thick haze of ash and blood that still clung to the battlefield.
Killer didn't rise.
He stayed there, grounded by the weight of a soul not his own, surrounded by a silence that no longer had a source.
The crunch of boots on shattered stone came first.
Slow. Hesitant.
Then a voice, gruff, breathless, and coming closer fast.
“Killer?!”
Dust.
Killer didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His jaw still ached from the bite, the taste of Nightmare’s soul still clawing at the back of his throat. He didn’t dare look up yet, not until he understood what had just been carved into him.
More footsteps followed, heavier, dragging. Horror.
Then Cross, quieter, more controlled, but his voice betrayed nothing. Just a low, deliberate breath.
They stopped a few paces behind him.
“Killer…” Dust again. Softer this time. “...what the hell did you do?”
He heard the hitch in Dust’s voice before he saw it, that split-second realization that something was wrong. Off. Not just the emptiness where Nightmare used to be, not just the dust still floating in the air, but something about Killer himself.
They could feel it. The magic around him had changed. The air hummed with it, thick and heavy and unclean. Like something rotten had been crowned.
Killer slowly lifted his head.
His eye light was still his… mostly. But around the edges, where it met the shadows curling behind his skull, there was something else. Something colder. His expression wasn’t blank, but it was unreadable, like he was still trying to remember how to feel human.
The remains of the soul were gone. Absorbed. And the space around him seemed... quieter. More obedient.
Horror let out a low breath, stepping closer. “Is he- ?”
“Gone,” Killer said hoarsely. “He dusted.”
No one spoke.
Even Cross, ever the first to demand answers, stayed still, eyes fixed on the ground where Nightmare had fallen. There was no trace left. No bones, just his clothes.
And dust.
Dust knelt slowly beside Killer, looking him over like he wasn’t sure whether to check for wounds or symptoms. “And… you bit it? His soul?”
Killer gave the smallest nod.
Dust sat back on his heels, hands dropping to his lap. “Holy hell.”
Horror muttered something under his breath, Killer didn’t catch it, but from the tone, it wasn’t polite.
Cross finally looked up. “Did he ask you to?”
Killer didn’t answer right away.
But his hand curled slightly, as if remembering the weight of the soul. “He told me… not to let someone else be made into this. He wanted someone to choose it.”
“And you chose?” Cross pressed.
“I didn’t have time to say no.”
That was the truth. And it was also a lie. He’d had a second. One second. And in that breathless, burning moment, he hadn’t flinched.
He didn’t regret it.
But he wasn’t sure how long that feeling would last.