All eyes were on the dark figure that had just stumbled into the diner, bell hanging above the door announcing his entrance cheerfully. If he hadn't taken it upon himself to choose a seat in the furthest, most deserted corner, the other patrons of the otherwise quaint establishment would have surely taken new seats as far from him as the small dining area allowed.

Shaking hands, hood pulled low over his face, exposing only small scraps of pallid skin--hardly was the newcomer a sight for sore eyes. The lone waitress on the floor had been unfortunate enough to have taken his orders several times over the last few weeks, and while most of her apprehension hadn't ever been proven to be valid, she didn't make her way over to his table eagerly.

Winter was in full force, but the only thing he wore was a thin, tattered jacket that looked to have seen better days--maybe ten years before. The falling snow outside that had stuck to the coat was melting now, dripping down into a small puddle on the table. The chill had brought enough color to his skin that he almost appeared more human than ghost this time around; the waitress asked for his order timidly, though he always ordered the same thing. She scurried away quickly.

As soon as she was gone, Cyrus finally looked up from under his hood.

A flatscreen was mounted on the opposite wall. He had never watched television before his old-fashioned mentor was ripped to shreds by savage beasts; there was only one channel this one was ever turned to, and it rarely held Cyrus's attention. Today, however, the current news segment caught his eye.

It wasn't the first coverage he'd seen, but it shocked Cyrus nevertheless to see it still had the media's attention. A reporter, sporting a too-wide red-lipstick smile, and a familiar face were on the screen.

He couldn't remember the name of the reporter's companion, but Cyrus had seen her often enough--back before everything had gone so wrong. In fact, the last time he'd seen her, he had killed another person standing just several feet away from her.

The memory of the fear he'd projected outward, strong enough to stop the now-dead woman's heart, wrapped around him. He clenched his fists so tight his jagged nails cut little red slices into his palms; this did nothing to still the racing of Cyrus's heart. He attempted to focus better on the news segment, far too aware of the darkness lurking inside him, tensed and ready to make an outward appearance.

"How are you adjusting to your new life, Ilene?" the reporter was asking. Below the image of her was the emboldened caption: SURVIVORS OF DOOMSDAY CULT SPEAK OUT.

The accurateness of that could be debated. As long as the news had been covering the story, beginning a mere day after Cyrus had tipped off police, none of the former Second Advent members had said anything damning about him or anyone else.

He had been right: fear was an excellent motivator. Even free of the compound and the watchful gaze of its founder, these people wouldn't dare snitch.

Shivering, scratching at her arms, Ilene said, "It's been very...strange. I keep forgetting it's just me now, that no one is going to hurt me if I do something they don't approve of." She bit her lip, staring away from the camera. "Sometimes I wonder if he's still out there," she added, and Cyrus was not sure in that moment just which monster the woman was referring to.

The rest of their conversation faded into a dull hum as Cyrus stared at the table, scratching at the lines in the weathered wood. He felt the waitress's presence when she returned with a plate of bacon and eggs, but did not look up. Seeing her was much harder than simply knowing she was there; his focus always seemed to zero in on people's necks, as if he could see the blood pumping through the veins there.

Cyrus didn't risk coming out like this often, but he couldn't survive without these occasional trips.

He wasn't used to quality in his food, especially for the last month or so. As of late, most of the time he scavenged through dumpsters and whatever else he had to in order to gather any scraps. But when Cyrus couldn't manage that any longer, when the pains in his stomach became too much to bear, he wandered up from whatever places he found shelter in to come to the diner.

He kept his order cheap and simple, but the protein that otherwise was missing from his diet kept him going for days. As Cyrus ate, his attention was pulled back to the television.

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Ilene was gone, as well as the caption--it had been replaced by a new one: STRING OF SUSPICIOUS DEATHS--DOES NYC HAVE A SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE?

"It could be speculation," the reporter was saying. "Our city is no stranger to violent crime, but Reverend Joseph is the third Brooklyn priest to have been killed in the last month. Police are looking into several possible leads, and urge the public not to panic."

The fork dropped from Cyrus's fingers, clattering to his plate. Several other patrons jumped, giving him startled looks, but his eyes remained glued to the screen.

The shock almost made him forget about the creeping, crawling sensation scraping along his insides.

The segment ended, and, clearing his throat, Cyrus forced himself to finish his meal. His stomach was churning now, threatening to render his efforts futile, but he didn't know when his next decent meal would come.

Especially with how bad he was getting. The tremors started up again in his hands; aggressively tapping his foot did nothing to relieve the anxious energy coursing through him. When he closed his eyes, blood seemed to drip down his eyelids.

Cyrus thought again to that latest news segment, trying to distract himself from the hundreds of voices in his head whispering bitter somethings at him, begging for his attention. The priest thing had to be a coincidence; Cyrus had no part in it.

It was a bad time to be a man of faith in New York City, it seemed.

He briefly amused the thought that perhaps there really was a serial killer in the city, but quickly shut that notion down. New York may be massive, but there wasn't room for another murderer. That identity was branded to the depths of Cyrus's soul--or, rather, whatever was in place of a soul. The odds of another twisted soul wreaking havoc on the Big Apple were slim to none.

When finished, Cyrus withdrew a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket and set them down on the table. For some reason he couldn't fathom, he'd kept James Crocker's wallet; the photo was long since gone, but he'd replaced it with whatever cash he could find around his former home before saying goodbye to it.

Cyrus didn't have much to his name, and soon his funds would run out. This thought only sent yet another wave of nausea over him, and he stumbled out of the diner on shaky legs. As he walked, head down, to the subway, Cyrus was pulled back in time.

The memory was jumbled; he hadn't been in a proper headspace the day he'd rushed back to Nassau County to gather what little possessions he had before the police could raid the place. Well, he wasn't in much of a better one now, but Cyrus couldn't help but think of it.

The house had been silent--a waiting, anticipatory kind of silence that made him sure Acheron was not actually dead, and would materialize any moment to drag him to hell. This did not happen. Even as Cyrus nudged open the door to Acheron's room, the demon did not come back.

Though he had been in a hurry, the sight of the room made Cyrus pause. He had no clue what he had been expecting, but the lack of a bed still shocked him. The room was as bare as the rest of the house, but at the same time had the most furniture. There was a towering bookcase taking up one wall; a desk piled high with paperwork, manilla folders and composition notebooks; and a safe collecting dust in one corner. When the shock gave way and Cyrus regained the ability to move, it took almost to no effort for him to break the lock on the safe without ever physically touching it.

He half-believed some ancient secrets would be hidden within its depths, but of course this wasn't the case. If Acheron had anything like that lying around, it would not be so easy to find. Cyrus gathered the money from the safe, not really caring where the demon had gotten it from, and took off again just as the sound of sirens in the distance shattered the quiet.

The harsh squeal of the oncoming train's breaks and tires protesting against the track pulled Cyrus out of his reverie. He boarded it, once again sitting as far from possible from the other passengers, and stared out the window. They were still underground, and all he saw was the flashing various shades of darkness blurring together as the thing picked up speed.

Somehow, that darkness pulled him under and lulled him to an uneasy slumber. As was becoming more common than not, Cyrus dreamt.

It was the same dream as all the others that had plagued him since Tuesday had dragged him out of the water, saving him from the callous Manhattan Beach waves. It was even similar to the one he'd had before everything went to hell: it centered around Tuesday, but in this twisted continuation, the blood staining her clothes wasn't the focus.

Her black eyes were. Their normal greyness had yielded to shadow; eyes as cold and dark as that--Cyrus had only seen them in one other creature.

When Cyrus jolted upright and out of the dream, the car was empty. He enjoyed his solitude for the mere ten minutes he had it; when new passengers boarded, he slipped past them. Cyrus grazed shoulders with another man and the voices in his head rose above their typical hum, howling at Cyrus to attack. He tamped them down as best he could, fingers flexing in his pockets.

He didn't know where he was headed. He never did these days. There was nowhere for him to go, not really, and until he scraped together some sort of plan he would not go anywhere near the girl from his nightmares. Cyrus was in debt to her, he knew.

But coming so far only to succumb to his urges and kill her--well, that wouldn't exactly be paying her back.

As had been the case for longer than Cyrus could even remember, he found somewhere cold and dark and damp--and settled down for the night, the dream once again taking him over.