Jett found himself by the river once more.

Somewhere along the fisherman's days of fishing, he had pulled Jett above the water and onto the dock.

He taught Jett how to fish.

The two stood side by side, sitting on stools by the dock, their lures drifting in the waters of pleasure.

Life was good. Greater than Jett could imagine. It was simple.

No, it was better than drowning.

But that's beside the point.

The point was, that Jett was at the peak of his life. It continued to climb with each day.

He dressed up as the fisherman, he imitated his skills and his mannerisms.

He dressed just like him. He became him. At least, as best as he could.

But a fish cannot be a fisherman.

Jett was a fish.

There would always be something intrinsically different between the newfound friends.

No matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise.

***

It was the deep of the night when Jett found himself lost.

…

'W-What?'

He looked down to see the chipped, broken man.

It was his first kill.

Jett was in that Shacktown alley again. He was a child again. He felt the fear all over again.

'A dream?'

But with each passing moment, the scene became clearer.

The monochrome image of the alley, the slosh of blood and gore, it began to fade.

It wasn't a dream. He was his present self.

Everything began to set itself back into reality

.....

.....

Yes, he was in an alley.

There was blood. And there was fear, that which he despised.

Yes, there was a corpse.

It wasn't the husk of the sickly, chipped older man.

The opposite.

The dead man at Jett's feet was plump, in a nice grey suit, turned black from blood.

But all Jett could focus on was his eyes.

His emerald eyes.

His emerald eyes were stained grey with lifelessness.

His emerald eyes were so full of fear. The same kind that Jett despised.

Powerlessness.

Confusion bounced around Jett's brain like a storm, sweeping up feelings of despair, panic, anxiety…

Fear. The worst kind of fear. The one he ran from.

'Did… did I do this?"

Frozen in place, he moved his eyes.

In his hand was a single dagger.

He was topless and barefooted, only wearing pants.

No pain erupted from Jett's bandaged shoulder as he moved it. It had healed.

The man's bloody wounds were nearly dried. They were from a dagger.

The dagger he held in his hand.

He did this.

Jett killed this man.

'Why? How did this—'

'Where am I?'

He calmly walked out of the alley.

Numerous high-class stores, beautifully lit. The light illuminated the entire central street.

Worst of all, it partly illuminated the alley.

Jett walked back to the corpse.

That yearning, that urge he felt earlier, it was gone.

He didn't crave anything anymore.

His core desires were satiated, and it was because of this man.

'That isn't me. I didn't do this… I didn't crave anything.'

Jett stared between the bloody dagger and the plump man.

He remembered what Maros had taught him.

'The dagger's primal desire to kill… the lust for murder. To harness it…'

Jett thought that perhaps he had lost the reigns to himself. He lost control.

'No, I'm reading too far into it. I did this, but it wasn't me. There's something wrong with my Soul.'

Self-doubt. Jett thought he was good enough, that he had changed since them.

No, he had changed. He was right. His Soul was blocked from recovering properly, and this was the only way it could right itself.

That had to be it. That was it.

'I need to get back to the mansion.'

Jett took back the reigns of his emotions, swallowing into a tight and dry throat, his breaths erratic.

He was in the center of the Upper City. The bustling main avenue hosted the pinnacle of commercial buildings.

Even in the dead of night, it was certain that there would be active customers of some kind, especially guard patrols. Curfew didn't exist in the Upper City, but they still patrolled the streets all hours of the day.

In Jett's current state, he would be caught, or even his identity memorized by a witness. Even if it was dark, he couldn't take the chance.

If he was caught, Jett would be forever on the run from the authorities. His life as Maros's hand would lost.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The punishment for murder in the Upper City would be tenfold that of the other cities.

How would the others feel about… this? The reality was that Jett killed an innocent man, lucid or not.

Maros was a man of the law. He was the man of the law.

Although his personal dealings were illegal, the tasks Jett was given always revolved around killing the guilty.

Was his relationship with Maros strong enough for him to look past this?

Jett couldn't say.

He had to take his chances. That was what he was good at. Jett had to take this to the grave, alone.

'I can't dispose of the body, but I can cover it up at least.'

Jett rummaged through the dead man's pockets, taking whatever he could find.

This way, the authorities would look at it from the angle of a robbery gone wrong.

The poor would be blamed once more, but Jett would live another day. That was just how the world was.

In the man's pockets was a wallet, along with a lavish pocket watch.

Flipping the pocketwatch open revealed the time to be 5:30 A.M.

…Along with a picture of the man's family.

The letters 'LLA' were engraved on the inside of the pocket watch.

Jett ignored useless thoughts.

With it being Autumn, he would have at most, an hour before dawn.

He had to make the most of it.

Jett stripped the man's dress shirt and blazer, along with his shoes. Putting on the bloodied clothes shielded him from the cold and made him look less apparent and obvious, despite the blood.

Using the dagger, Jett cut pieces off of the man's pants, creating a makeshift bandana mask.

Jett had to make it back to manor before dawn.

***

Jett exited the alley, keeping his head low, his eyes vigilant, and his pace rapid.

He felt hollow. Something was wrong with him. But it wasn't his Soul this time, it was his conscious.

Guilt. Jett had never felt guilt before. Not in any real sense.

Guilt was a feeling reserved for man. For those fortunate enough to fall under man's laws, betraying themselves over the thoughts of others.

But this time he felt the full brunt of it.

However, it soon died down. Jett soothed himself. It wasn't him. He wasn't in control. He himself did not plunge the dagger, he had total restraint.

It was just his instinct to survive.

Jett didn't feel so bad anymore. He still felt bad, fighting just for survival felt like a betrayal of his ideal self.

But he had bigger issues to deal with.

A few early risers stared daggers into him, keeping their distance as Jett hurriedly passed them.

It wasn't long before someone reported his suspicious behavior to the Storm Wardens.

"Stop right there!" three lightly armored patrolmen chased after Jett.

In all honesty, Jett was afraid to use Soul to escape.

It didn't change much in the end.

Despite being young and inexperienced, Jett's most competent attributes involved running and fighting.

Jett couldn't make the murder issue worse by killing the guards. So, all he could do was run.

And run he did. With ease, he managed to outrun the sleep-deprived Storm Wardens.

'I hope the Storm Warden's reputation doesn't stoop too low after these recent humiliations' Jett tried to cheer himself up with humor.

After losing the police, Jett made his way to the Upper City outskirts, where Maros's humble mansion sat.

As dawn was about to approach, Jett hopped the thin metal gate.

With no other options, Jett rounded the back of the house.

Finding a concealed corner of the backyard, he used his bare hands to dig a hole.

Jett placed the clothes, wallet, and pocketwatch in the hole, then he covered it.

It was done. He was in the clear.

Jett had killed before. Many times. None of them weighed on his mind.

He found it funny. It was one he didn't truly commit that hurt him the most.

There was no euphoric surge of power, no sensation of victory.

It was just survival. A motivation of fear and desire.

Jett thought he had left survival in the past. In Shacktown.

"Hah…" Jett threw himself flat on the ground of the backyard.

Jett was a man now. He killed to thrive. To move up in the world.

Maybe he had never gone anywhere. He was still at the bottom of the river, the sediment, Shacktown.

Why would he be any different?

No matter how you dressed it, a fish was a fish.

You couldn't teach a fish to be a fisherman.

Jett would always be an animal who envied man, stuck at the bottom of the river.