The abyss collapsed inward, folding itself into silence.

Leonard stood over the fading ashes of the entity, blade lowered, heart pounding like a war drum with no battlefield left.

It was over.

Or so he thought.

The book in his chest seared white-hot, pages flipping faster than they ever had before—so fast the edges cut into his flesh from the inside, blood seeping from his ribs in thin, sharp streams.

Leonard staggered, biting back a scream. This wasn’t a reward. This was a rewrite.

The ashes before him stirred. They didn’t scatter. They flowed, tendrils of shadow curling into the open book, ink crawling from her remains like living words desperate to be written.

The page filled itself with symbols Leonard couldn’t read. Ancient. Blurred. Wrong.

The section meant to list her name, her form, her purpose—was blacked out, scratched violently by some unseen hand. All it said, in jagged slashes of ink, was:

???

Leonard’s heart skipped a beat.

The book hadn’t erased her. It had claimed her.

He tore open his shirt, staring at the book fused into his chest. One page glowed brighter than the rest—the page that belonged to her.

Every time he tried to read it, the letters shifted, flickering between a language no human should know and the sounds of his own past screaming back at him.

And then it began—the reward.

Visions slammed into his skull, sharp and merciless—memories dredged from the deepest pit of his mind. The village burning. His mother’s voice cracking as she begged. The first time he killed, the way the blood felt too warm, the way the meat smelled when hunger made morality irrelevant.

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He saw the female warlord again, the one who carved her amusement into his skin. He felt her breath on his neck, her nails down his back, her whispers of love and hate interwoven until they became the same word.

He felt his younger self breaking.

Every moment of his past—the ones he wanted to bury beneath battle and blood—the book made him eat them all over again.

It was a feast of memory. His own pain plated and served to him by his own hand.

And at the end of it, when his knees hit the floor and his breath came ragged, the book awarded him his prize:

The ability to rewrite one memory.

Not to erase it. No—to cook it, to season it, to flavor it into something tolerable.

A bittersweet reward.

Leonard stared at the glowing page, hands shaking. The book waited, hungry for his choice.

And then—her voice curled around his ear, soft and smug.

“Careful, my beautiful butcher… memories are just like meat. Cook them too much, and they become something else entirely.”

He turned sharply, but she wasn’t there. Just the book. Just the page marked ???, flickering faintly with the shape of a smile.

And then—her arms wrapped around him from behind.

They weren’t arms of flesh. They were smoke, shadow, cold silk wrapped in malice and desire. Her fingers trailed over his chest, following the edge of the book embedded in his skin.

Leonard didn’t move. He knew resisting would only amuse her more.

Her breath brushed his neck. “I’m part of you now,” she whispered, her voice both promise and threat. “Every page you turn… every monster you carve… every meal you devour…”

Her lips brushed his ear. “I’ll be watching.”

Leonard closed his eyes, jaw tightening.

Her laughter was soft, indulgent. “Don’t look so grim, my beautiful butcher. After all…”

Her arms tightened around him, pulling him back into her shadow.

“We’ve only just begun this delicious little journey.”

The shadows swallowed them both.

And the page turned.