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CHAPTER ONE: Born of Sin and LightSkyye was never meant to exist.
Not by divine decree. Not by demonic design. Not by any law that governed the
delicate balance between heaven and hell. Her very conception was an abomination
to the world, a fracture in the rules written long before stars ever blinked awake.
Her mother, Lyra Lovelle—the Heart of Heaven—was light incarnate. She sang the
dead into peace with a breath, her voice capable of stilling storms and quieting
restless souls. Her grace was the kind that made mortals kneel and angels weep.
Untouchable. Perfect.
And then there was Mishi—the Father of Rot.
Where Lyra radiated purity, Mishi oozed corruption. He was chaos wrapped in
charm, the kind of man who could unravel the strongest convictions with a glance.
He looked at Lyra not with reverence, but with hunger—with possession. And in her
weakest moment, she let him.
It wasn’t seduction. It wasn’t trickery. It was something far more dangerous.
Love.
Twisted, trembling, apocalyptic love. The kind that makes heaven hold its breath and
hell sharpen its knives. Love that could only ever end in blood.
From that love came a child. A secret. A sin. A miracle.
Skyye.
Not bitten. Not turned. Not cursed. Born.
The first of her kind. The First Vampire.
A creature stitched together from opposites—divine grace and infernal rot warring
inside a single, fragile vessel. Her blood shimmered unnaturally, as if flecked with
starlight. Her cries cracked stained glass. Her laughter made angels recoil.
She didn’t belong anywhere. So, she was hidden everywhere.
No angel dared approach her. No demon would claim her. Her cradle was encased in
layers of enchantments, wards upon wards, as if the world itself was trying to forget
she existed. Only her parents knew she lived—and even they didn’t fully understand
what she was becoming.
Her earliest memory was not of lullabies or warmth.
It was red.
She was five when her world splintered.
The night began with whispers. Her parents circled the small room, voices sharp and
brittle, pacing like predators locked in prayer. Their argument wasn’t new—but this
time, it was colder. More final. They weren’t merely debating her future.
They were drawing battle lines.
Lyra pleaded for the light within Skyye to be preserved, to be protected. Mishi
countered with quiet conviction, his voice low, too calm, like the stillness before
collapse. He wanted Skyye to embrace the power that pulsed through her veins. To
rule.
From behind the couch, Skyye watched with wide eyes. Her small fingers clutched
the ribbon tied around her wrist, her heart pounding so fast she felt dizzy. She knew
her name was at the center of every word. She could taste it in the air.
Then came the sound.
A crack—like distant thunder splitting the sky.
Mishi’s hand closed around Lyra’s throat. Effortless. He lifted her from the ground as
though she were weightless. Her wings flared and convulsed in panic, and from her
eyes burst twin streams of violet blood—divine essence bleeding like ink down
porcelain cheeks.
Skyye screamed.
Tiny feet scrambled forward. She sank her small fangs into Mishi’s calf, scratched at
his leg with trembling fingers, her claws barely breaking skin. A child’s futile
defiance.
He didn’t flinch.
He dropped Lyra like shattered glass and flung Skyye across the room. Her tiny body
collided with the dresser. A sickening crack echoed as her head struck wood, and for
a moment, the light inside her flickered.
"You’re ruining everything," Mishi rasped, his voice cracking—not with fury, but
heartbreak. "She was ours, Lyra. She was ours."
His voice broke on the last word.
Lyra coughed and crawled through a trail of broken halos and glass. Blood smeared
her fingers as she dragged herself to Skyye’s side, gathering her child into quivering
arms. Her breath came in wet, gasping pulls, wings folding protectively around the
small girl.
Her halo dimmed, flickering like a dying candle.
And then she ran.
Through the dark. Through the bitter cold. Through a silence thick enough to
smother the stars. Snow bit at her bare feet as she fled with Skyye pressed tightly
against her chest, their blood mingling as it soaked into Lyra’s torn gown.
Behind them, Mishi did not give chase.
He stood in the wreckage of their home—silent, broken, watching them vanish into
the night.
The war had begun.

CHAPTER TWO: The Angel Who Wouldn’t DieThey survived. But not well. Not whole. Not quietly.
They hadn’t escaped a monster—they carried him home in memory.
Lyra didn’t shatter all at once. She cracked in places no one could see.
It began with silence. Then the wine.
Not earthly wine. Holy wine. Consecrated and bitter, meant for sacred rites. It burned
her throat as it went down, leaving blisters behind. But she’d smile anyway and
whisper, "Just one glass, little light. Just one glass for the ache."
Skyye watched her mother’s hands tremble as she poured another. And another.
And another.
She wanted to scream but stayed quiet. If she screamed, maybe it would make her
mother see how bad it was. And maybe that would be the final weight that crushed
her.
So, Skyye swallowed her panic and smiled back. "Okay, Mama."
Then came the blades.
Skyye found her in the tub. Water red, not pink. Arms opened like pages of a book no
child should read. Feathers drifted like petals from something once sacred. Her
wings shed faster now, clumps falling like dead promises.
Skyye didn’t cry. She stitched the wounds with trembling hands, wrapping them in
pink ribbons. Like hope. Like forgiveness.
She whispered her rhyme, "Mama, don’t go. I’ll be good, I promise…" Her voice
cracked. She bit her lip hard enough to bleed to keep it steady. She had to stay calm.
Because if she broke, who would save her?
Another night—bleach. She missed the vein; her skin blistered and peeled. She
laughed like it was funny. Another night—her throat cut open, wet and red. Skyye
pressed towels to her mother’s neck, whispering "It’s okay, it’s okay," even as nothing
was okay. Blood foamed at Lyra’s mouth like divine champagne.
And then the balcony.
Five stories up. No hesitation. Just a quiet walk into the night, barefoot and gentle.
Skyye heard the thud. And something inside her chest went still.
She screamed loud enough to shatter hallway lightbulbs. She ran barefoot down the
stairs, feet slicing on gravel and glass.
Lyra’s body was twisted. Wings bent wrong. One eye half-open like a cracked
window. Her spine protruded from her back like a second mouth, frozen mid-
scream.
But she was alive. Because angels don’t die easy.
So, Skyye carried her up the stairs. Step by step by step. Her mother’s blood smeared
the walls. Her bones clicked wetly. Skyye slipped twice but never stopped. Never
screamed. Never cried.
She had to be strong. Because if she fell apart, she might pull her mother down with
her.
That night, after scrubbing the blood off the floors with shaking hands, Skyye
stepped into the shower. She turned the water as hot as it would go, curled into the
corner, and cried. Silent, awful sobs that tore from her stomach and left her gasping.
The kind of sobs you swallow because if Mama heard, maybe she’d think Skyye
didn’t believe in her anymore.
So, she buried it. All of it. Inside her chest, behind her ribs, beneath her heartbeat.
She never let Lyra see her cry.
Some nights, Lyra kissed her forehead and whispered, "You’re my little miracle. My
reason to live." And Skyye would nod. Smile. Hold her hand.
Other nights, Lyra hurled holy books at the walls and screamed, "You look just like
him! You’re his! You’re not mine!" And still, Skyye would nod. Smile. Stay.
Because she knew the pain wasn’t really meant for her. And if she could carry it—
maybe her mother wouldn’t have to.
She was six. And already someone's rock.
Lyra made promises. So many promises.
"I’ll stay." "I’ll stop." "I’ll live—for you."
And Skyye believed her. Every. Single. Time.
Until one morning—
The bed was cold. The coffee cup half-drunk. The robe still hanging on the door.
Skyye searched every room. Every closet. Every rooftop. Every alley. Every church.
No note. No goodbye. No blood. No body.
Just air.
She waited at the window. Days. Weeks. Years. Centuries.
She whispered to the clouds. Begged them to bring her mother back.
But the clouds only drifted.
And slowly, Skyye began to rot. From the inside out.
One night, she couldn’t take it anymore. She needed it to end.
She carved into her stomach, pulling out her insides, cradling them in her lap like
ribbons. She laughed. Sobbed. Sawed into her thigh until bone screamed. Shoved a
screwdriver beneath her ribs. Felt her chest crack. Shoved her hand into the garbage
disposal. Flicked the switch. Her scream shattered the ceiling light.
And then—
Darkness.
Then breath.
She woke. Whole. Untouched. Alive.
Over and over again she tried. Every weapon. Every method. But her body healed.
Every time.
Even her pain refused to kill her.
She wasn’t human. She wasn’t anything.
She was a vampire born of grace and rot. Unkillable. Unwanted. Unloved.
And the silence that followed was the loudest thing in the world.

CHAPTER THREE: Hollow Girl, Hungry WorldSkyye stopped keeping track of time. Not because she forgot. But because time
didn’t want her anymore.
She outlived the days. The weeks. The decades. There were years she didn’t speak.
Centuries she didn’t blink.
The world changed. Skyye didn’t.
Her home rotted around her like a carcass too stubborn to bury itself. Walls peeled
like burned skin. Floorboards curled like they were in pain. The air hung heavy with
mildew, old blood, and the soured perfume of something once holy—now rancid.
She lived in it. Not as a person. But as a memory that refused to fade.
She wandered. Barefoot. Draped in torn lace and dried blood. Sometimes people
passed her. Sometimes they didn’t see her at all. Those who looked turned away
quickly, as if her shape made them nauseous. She wasn’t a monster. She wasn’t even
real. She was an echo. A glitch. A myth trying to remember its name.
Hunger came and went. So did cold. She didn’t flinch at either. Her body didn’t beg
anymore. It endured. Like an empty house no one visited.
She found friends, in time. Not people. Objects. Things that didn’t leave her. A broken
umbrella she named Lacey. A cracked mirror in an alley she called Mother. A rusty
nail she kept in her pocket—Needle. It never lied. It never screamed. It just stayed.
She’d speak to them like they breathed.
"I found another ribbon today, Lacey. It matched the blood on my ankle." "Mother, do
you think she meant to stay gone? Or did she just get lost?" "Needle… if I shove you
into my throat, will you promise to go deep enough this time?"
She once knelt in front of a vending machine and wept. Her forehead pressed to the
glass. There was a stuffed toy inside—a little cloud with button eyes and stitched
cheeks. She whispered to it like it was sacred.
"I’d name you Pillow. You’d never leave. You’d let me scream into you, and you
wouldn’t break."
She sat there for hours. The machine never moved. Never ran out. Never told her she
was cursed. That was enough to fall in love with.
But the silence—the silence got loud.
It rattled in her teeth. Sank into her bones. Turned her skull into a locked room
where her thoughts clawed at the walls and begged to be let out.
And so—she decided to try again.
This time, she didn’t use blades. Didn’t stab. Didn’t beg.
She clawed at her throat. Dug her nails in until they snapped backward. Then tore.
Flesh ripped like fabric. Her voice came out in a wet hiss. She didn’t stop. She
ripped—through skin, through sinew, through the cords that used to sing lullabies to
ghosts.
Her windpipe collapsed. Blood poured down her chest, hot and sudden. The world
tilted. She didn’t fall—she sank.
She lay in the alley, twitching, surrounded by rats and rotting wrappers. Neon signs
buzzed overhead, painting her body in flickers of violet and green. A bottle rolled
against her hip. She whispered to it:
"Don’t cry, Glassy. It’s just blood. You’ve seen worse."
She turned her head toward a puddle. Her face stared back at her—distorted, ruined.
Mouth open in a scream she could no longer make. Eyes dull. Lips shredded. Throat
gone.
She smiled at the reflection. "Is this enough?" She mouthed the words. No voice
came.
The puddle didn’t answer. The sky didn’t answer. The clouds looked away.
And so, she lay there. Bleeding out, bones misaligned, eyes glassy. Not hoping to be
found—just hoping to be finished.
"If someone’s watching…" The thought didn’t have a voice anymore. Just shape. "…kill
me already."
And then—footsteps.
Clean. Sharp. Measured.
They didn’t rush. Rushing was for people who feared running out of time. This man
didn’t fear anything.
He stepped into the alley like he belonged in it. Like it had been waiting for him.
Long black coat. Precise stitching. A silhouette carved from intention.
His eyes were winter. His voice was steel softened just enough to sound smooth. He
didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t even look confused. He looked at her like he already
knew what she was.
He knelt beside her. Unclasped his glove. Ran the back of his knuckles across her
blood-streaked cheek.
"You poor thing," he murmured. "Wasted on this world."
She tried to move. Tried to glare. But she was too tired. Too torn. Too done.
"You’re not broken," he whispered. "Just… incomplete."
She didn’t understand. Didn’t care. But she hated the way his voice didn’t tremble.
The way his hands didn’t shake. The way he looked at her like she was a project—not
a person.
And then—he gave her a name.
XVII.
"Seventeen," he said. "The date. It’s what the night gave you."
Like she was a file. A folder. A number. Not a girl. Not a grave.
She hated it. So, she kept it. Because even hate felt better than nothing.
He lifted her into his arms like she weighed nothing. Like her blood didn’t matter.
Like she’d already been claimed.
"You don’t need to die," he said. "You just need to be remade."
She didn’t believe him. But she let him carry her. Because no one else had ever
stayed. Not even death.

CHAPTER FOUR: The Year He Pretended to Love HerThe first night, she slept in silk sheets. The pillow was plush, scented with lavender.
The lights dimmed low, like dusk had been bottled just for her. And when she woke,
groggy and aching, the air smelled like vanilla and strawberries.
He made her a milkshake. Real cream. Extra whipped topping. Strawberry—her
favorite, though she didn’t remember ever saying that aloud. He slid it toward her
without a word. She stared at it like it might vanish. When she took the first sip, her
hands shook. The sweetness hit too hard. It reminded her of being loved. She nearly
cried.
He didn’t comment—just turned on the television and changed the channel to
something quiet. Soft.
For a little while, Father was... kind.
He cooked for her. Potato fries, thick-cut and hot, with a dish of Ranch on the side.
He didn’t ask if she liked it. He just watched as she ate. When her fingers trembled,
he refilled her glass. He didn’t smile much. But when he did, it felt like a blessing.
He never called her “Skyye.” Only “Seventeen.” But once, when she dropped a fork,
too tired to hold it steady, he said: "Sweet girl." And something in her chest cracked
from the inside out.
He played games with her. Memory cards. Simple puzzles. Once, chess. She never
won. Except the one time he let her. She knew it was on purpose. But still—he
nodded at the end, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth soft, and said: "Good." She felt
weightless for hours.
She was allowed to decorate. To collect things. To build her small world out of
fragments: broken figurines, colored ribbons, torn pages from fairytale books.
She still had Pillow—the little cloud she stole from a vending machine. She gave him
a shelf, a blanket, a bedtime ritual. She whispered to him every night, curling under
covers too soft for someone like her.
"He’s trying," she told Pillow. "He cares."
It didn’t rot all at once. The kindness faded in pieces.
At first, he just spoke less. Then came the corrections.
"Stop slouching." "Wipe your face." "You don’t need to ask that."
He’d sigh when she fumbled a question. He’d raise an eyebrow when she cried.
Milkshakes still came. So did fries. But now, they came with comments.
"You don’t need all that whipped cream." "Eat slower. It’s unseemly." "You should be
grateful."
She laughed less. Spoke quieter. Folded herself smaller to keep the peace.
But she still hoped. Because the softness never disappeared completely. It just
changed shape.
Sometimes, he’d still brush a crumb from her cheek. Sometimes, he’d still pat her
head when she completed a task correctly. Sometimes, his voice would drop low and
say: "You’re doing well."
And she’d ache. Because he never yelled. Never hit. Never locked her up or burned
her things. He didn’t need to.
He made her love the way he hurt her.
She started crying in the shower again. Face pressed to the tile, water scalding her
skin just to feel something different. But never loud enough for him to hear. Never
enough to make him worry. Because what if this time she cried too loud—and he
stopped being nice altogether?
She held her pain in her throat like a secret. She smiled when it cracked her teeth.
Because if she kept being good—kept being quiet, obedient, lovely—maybe she
could earn back that first version of him. The one who played chess. The one who
made milkshakes. The one who called her sweet girl.
She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of losing the idea of him. The version he
dangled in front of her like a key to a locked door. The version he buried under rules
and sighs and silence, but never quite killed.
He was the first person who stayed. The only one who fed her. The only one who said
she was doing well.
So she stayed. Smiling. Bleeding. Grateful. Trying, day after day, to become the girl
he might love again.

CHAPTER FIVE: The Girl Who Didn’t Want to KillHe didn’t call it a mission. He called it a lesson.
He told her they were just going for a walk. That there was something he wanted to
show her.
She followed without question. Of course she did. Because maybe—just maybe—this
was a test she could pass. And if she passed it, maybe he’d smile again. Maybe he’d
call her sweet girl. Maybe he’d make fries when they got home.
They walked through back alleys and dead air. He wore his coat, long and stiff,
always tailored sharp enough to cut. She wore soft shoes and a pale hoodie. She
carried nothing.
He didn’t give her a weapon. He gave her a name. Just a name. A man. A problem. A
target. A mistake that needed to disappear.
"He won’t fight back," Father said. "He’s barely anything."
She didn’t ask what the man had done. She didn’t ask why it had to be her. She just
nodded. Because hesitation might look like failure. And she couldn’t afford that.
The man was older. Tired. His eyes were red around the edges. He sat on a crate
behind a warehouse, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers.
He looked at her. But not like others did. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He looked
at her. Really looked. And at that moment, she wanted to run. Not because he scared
her. But because she knew—deep down—he saw her.
Not XVII. Not a weapon. Not Father’s little project.
Just... her. Skin and scars and something broken trying to look whole.
Her hands trembled. The only weapon she had was her body. Her teeth. Her nails.
Her strength—whatever strength Father had carved into her through years of
molding.
"Do it," Father said from behind her. Calm. Precise. Not cruel. Not angry. Just empty.
She stepped forward. The man raised his hands—not to fight, but to show her he
wasn’t going to.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
And that did it.
Because no one had asked her that in a very, very long time.
Her face twisted. Not in anger. In grief.
She lunged.
Claws out. Fangs bare.
She tore into him. Fast. Clean. Efficient. Just like he taught her.
Blood sprayed across the bricks. Onto her face. Her chest. Her hands.
The man choked on her name. Not "XVII." He didn’t know that name.
He choked on Skyye. Because somehow, he’d guessed it.
And then he was still.
She stood over him, shaking. Not from the kill. But from everything else. From the
knowledge that she couldn’t take it back. That she’d done it to earn love. And that it
hadn’t worked.
She turned to Father. He gave her a single nod.
"Efficient," he said. "You’re learning."
No smile. No milkshake. No fries.
Just an order fulfilled. A tool proven sharp.
She walked home in silence. Blood drying in sticky swirls across her skin. Father
didn’t speak. She didn’t ask him to.
She went to her room. Closed the door. Sat on the edge of the bed.
She didn’t cry. Not yet.
She picked up Pillow from the shelf. Pressed him to her chest.
And whispered:
"I think I killed who I used to be."

CHAPTER SIX: The Echo GirlSkyye cried the night she killed for the first time. But she didn’t know why.
She wasn’t sad. She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t even sure she felt regret.
The only thing she felt was too much. Too loud. Too big. Too sharp. It pressed against
her ribs like something that wanted out. But there were no words for it. No shape.
So, she held Pillow close and whispered what Father had said:
"Efficient." She said it like a prayer. Like if she said it enough, it might become a
reason.
She noticed it then. How often people told her what she was feeling.
"You’re angry." "You’re scared." "You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?"
And she would nod. Because maybe they were right. She didn’t know how to check.
She started copying. Quietly.
If someone frowned, she frowned too. If they smiled, she tried to smile back—even if
it made her face feel wrong. Stretched. Artificial.
If someone cried, she would hold their hand and tilt her head like she’d seen in
movies. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes they looked at her like she was made of
glass.
"Your so kind," they’d say.
So, she believed them.
I must be kind. That must be what this is.
Father never told her how she felt. But he told her how she should feel.
"You’re disappointed in yourself." "You’re not satisfied." "You’re angry with your
hesitation."
She absorbed every word like a sponge so desperate not to be wrung out.
If he said she was angry, then she must be. If he said she was broken, she believed
she had shattered. If he said she was learning—then even the bloodstains on her
hands looked like progress.
The problem was, sometimes… she felt things before he said them. A tightness in her
chest. A twisting in her stomach. A need to scream that had no voice.
And when those feelings didn’t match what he named for her, she began to panic.
She thought:
I must be defective. I must be wrong.
So, she smiled harder. Mimicked better. Learned faster.
She studied others like mirrors. She practiced how to laugh at the right moments.
How to widen her eyes when someone looked surprised. How to tilt her head when
she was "supposed" to be curious.
She learned to say "I’m fine" when her hands shook. Learned to say "I understand"
when she didn’t.
She didn’t understand why her chest ached when she sat alone. But when someone
asked, "Are you lonely?" she said:
"Yes. That must be it."
She didn’t know what grief felt like. But she knew how to perform it. A bowed head.
A trembling hand. The right amount of silence between breaths.
She became an expert in rehearsed pain.
But inside?
Inside, everything was soup. Emotion with no label. Feeling with no anchor.
She wasn’t numb. She was drowning in sensations she couldn’t name. Like a child
holding alphabet blocks with no idea how to read.
Once, she sat in the hallway for hours, hugging her knees. Pillow rested beside her.
She placed his little stitched smile beside her own and asked:
"Do I look happy yet?"

CHAPTER SEVEN: The Echo Girl Meets the FireIt started with a name.
Not hers. Someone else’s.
“Nyx,” Father said, tapping his cigar against a cracked glass tray. Smoke hung like
fog in the air, refusing to rise. “He’ll assist you from now on. You’ll listen to him. Learn
from him. Don’t waste my time.”
Skyye stood in the center of the room, soft lace socks brushing the cold tile. Her arms
were folded behind her back—polite, pristine. But her heels rocked. Back and forth.
Back and forth. A gentle rhythm that didn’t ask for permission.
Like the tick of a clock with no numbers. Like she was rocking on the edge of a
windowsill between two worlds—one real, one softer. She hadn’t decided which to
fall into yet.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Her gaze flicked to the corner of the ceiling where the
vent was whispering again.
Don’t answer it, she reminded herself. It lies.
Some days, she was the girl who survived. Other days, she was the monster they
built. Most days, she wasn’t sure if the walls were breathing or if she just wanted
them to. She liked it better when they moved. At least then they felt alive.
She talked to furniture. Praised the light switch for being brave. Kissed her plushies
goodnight twice each to make sure neither got jealous. She had long conversations
with a broken outlet behind her dresser. Sometimes, she told it secrets. It sparked
once. She took it as a promise.
Father’s voice buzzed in her ears even when he wasn’t in the room. She didn’t know
if it was memory or magic or madness.
She mimicked emotions. The way others moved their mouths. The timing of their
laughs. If they smiled, she’d smile. If they cried, she’d pet their arm and murmur
something soft—even if she didn’t know what she meant. Sometimes she felt things
first. But if they didn’t match what people expected, she shoved them back down.
Feelings without names weren’t allowed.
So, she borrowed labels like outfits. Wore them until they didn’t fit.
And then the door hissed open.
Nyx swaggered in like he owned every molecule of air in the room.
Brown hair tousled in deliberate chaos. Square-cut orange eyes too bright to be
natural, too knowing to be safe. A scar through his left brow. Another, deeper, at the
edge of his mouth. Snakebite piercings glinting with every wordless grin. Tattoos
curling down his neck.
He looked like someone who’d bitten God once and dared him to bleed.
“You’re the girl he never shuts up about,” he said, arms folded, stance loose. “Cute.”
Skyye blinked—slowly. She rocked once, then twice. A tiny, eerie smile curved her
lips. Not because she liked the compliment. But because the tile beneath her had
just whispered, He’s different.
Father didn’t chastise him.
“He’ll be your shadow,” he said. “Use him well.”
And just like that, Nyx was everywhere.
He was in the room during drills, lounging against the wall like boredom had a body.
In the hallway, humming songs she didn’t recognize but somehow remembered. At
her side during practice, chewing gum like a distraction and watching her fight like
it was theater.
He didn’t correct her. Didn’t command. Didn’t flinch. He just watched. With wild
patience. Like he was waiting for something brilliant to catch fire.
“You claw like a dancer,” he said once, twirling a dagger between his fingers. “Kinda
hot. Kinda terrifying.”
Skyye giggled. Too slow. Too sharp. It wasn’t laughter. It was a sound escaping her
mouth because silence would’ve felt too vulnerable. Her smile came a full second
too late. Eyes too wide. A spark flickered behind them that didn’t match the mood.
He didn’t mention it.
One night, Nyx found her on the rooftop. Skyye sat with her legs swinging off the
edge, stuffed Bunny in her lap, a tiny paper crown on its head.
“Talking to your army?” he asked.
“No,” she said flatly. “He’s asleep.” She tilted Bunny slightly. “Don’t wake him. He
hates strangers.”
Nyx nodded, serious. “I get that.” He sat beside her. Let the quiet spill between them.
The moon flickered—too fast. Once. Then again. Skyye glanced up, then down. Not
real. Not yet.
Then Nyx reached into his coat and pulled out two small vials. Diamond-shaped.
Filled with black and violet magic—swirling slow like poison dreaming of starlight.
“For you,” he said. “Most people don’t get gifts from me. Most people aren’t you.”
Skyye stared. “Why?” she whispered.
“You like pretty things. Lonely things. Soft things. So I made you a storm in a bottle.”
He tapped one vial lightly. The liquid inside stirred faster—like it heard him. Like it
was alive.
“Keep them close. If anyone tries to take them, kill them.”
Skyye reached out and took them with both hands. She didn’t say thank you. She
pressed them to her chest like she’d had them forever.
Later, she made them into something wearable. Sewed the vials into the decorative
wings on her socks. They dangled when she walked. Glinted when she spun. Swung
like silent friends who had nowhere else to be.
Nyx never questioned her rules. He never asked why she talked to clouds or kissed
her plushies goodnight or refused to step on the same tile twice in a row.
When she crowned her pancake plushie with a broken bottlecap and whispered,
“You rule the clouds now,” Nyx only nodded. Picked up the second Squishy. Gently
crowned it with a bent bottlecap of his own.
“This one’s mine,” he said. “He looks like trouble.”
He held it like it was alive.
Skyye didn’t speak. But something inside her flickered—warm and small. Like
maybe—not everything inside her was broken. Not yet.
The days stretched like bruises beneath her skin. The nights grew heavier, colder,
dragging like wet fabric across her ribs. Father’s voice, once sharp enough to carve
her into obedience, faded into a wary hush. He spoke less. Watched more. Not with
the eyes of a sculptor admiring his work, but like a man unsure whether the statue
he chiseled would crumble... or turn on him.
And Skyye—
She no longer flinched when corrected. No longer smiled to please. Her silence had
shifted. It was no longer survival. It was something blooming.
A soft hum followed her through hallways—off-key, childlike. She whispered to her
Squishies with blood still drying on her hands. She patted their heads gently with
claw-tipped fingers, trailing crimson like a bedtime lullaby. Her grin lingered when
she was alone. Especially when she was alone.
Nyx was the first to see it.
“You’re humming more,” he said, watching her sketch little clouds into the wall with
her nail.
She didn’t pause. “It keeps the voices company.”
She swayed on her heels in slow, metronome-like motion—no longer to calm herself,
but to keep the unraveling in time. The rhythm held her together. Or at least, it kept
her from spilling out.
She didn’t name her emotions anymore. She didn’t need to. Whatever they were,
they came in flashes—sharp, sweet, sick. She let them bleed through her fingers like
ink, staining everything she touched.
Father called her his masterpiece. But he had begun locking his door.
One night, after a mission that left six dead and one begging, she returned and
dropped a blood-soaked cloth on his desk—a single tooth pressed into its center.
“He begged pretty,” she said. Her eyes were wide. Her voice was light.
Father didn’t praise her. Didn’t scold her. He looked at her like he’d just remembered
she had claws.
“Don’t enjoy it too much.”
She tilted her head. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He didn’t answer.
And the next day, he vanished.

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Day the World CrackedSkyye waited. For two days. Then she stood. Tucked her Squishies beneath her arms.
Brushed Qloud Puff dust off her socks. And walked.
The headquarters door creaked open. Not broken. Inviting.
The smell met her like an old friend: copper and decay and the sour rot of something
once sacred. The walls were streaked with blood—smeared into symbols that made
her eyes twitch. Art, not chaos.
“Not a murder,” Nyx muttered. “A ritual.”
Skyye didn’t respond. She kept walking. Down the hall. Past her old room. Her socks
made sticky little squeaks in the blood.
She pushed open the door to Father’s office.
And her world cracked in two.
Father sat slumped in his leather chair, arms hanging at odd angles, neck torn wide
open like an overripe fruit. His ribs had been pried apart by force, snapped bone
sticking out like jagged teeth. The top of his skull had been crushed inward,
fragments of bone buried deep in the pulped brain—like glass shattered into jelly.
His tongue had been severed at the root, left dangling grotesquely from his gaping
mouth—long, limp, a ribbon of meat.
His severed fingers had been nailed to his scalp in a jagged crown, each one pinned
using his own teeth—ripped from his jaw and hammered through bone like mock
gemstones. They jutted up, cracked and bloodied, obscene in their mockery.
Flesh hung in ribbons from his arms, skin flayed into curls that dripped to the floor.
His intestines wrapped around his limbs like fleshy restraints—swollen, twitching,
still-warm. His heart sat in the center of his hollowed chest cavity like a centerpiece,
exposed and slow beating, like it hadn’t realized he was dead yet. Hanging from it—
tied together by the optic nerves—were his eyes. They swung with each heartbeat
like ornaments. Staring down into the ruin.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She waited—like she always did—for him to speak.
To bark. To belittle. To say anything that would anchor her to the version of herself
she knew.
But the silence was louder than any scream.
And in it, Skyye shattered.
She fell to her knees, claws dragging deep trenches into marble as her breath
hitched—soft and sharp, like sobs that had been sharpened into knives.
Her lips quivered. Not from grief. From confusion.
Because she had loved him. Because she still did. Even now, even like this. That was
the part that broke her most.
A giggle slipped out. Then another. Short, sharp, stuttering. Wrong.
She turned to Nyx, her voice light and singsong.
“I need two more vials. Diamond-shaped. Like the others.”
Without a word, he handed them over.
Skyye dipped her claws into the blood, slow and reverent. She filled each vial as
though bottling something sacred. Then clipped them to the wings on her socks.
“Only a vampire can love you,” she whispered. “Forever.”
She turned to the Squishies. Gently patted one on the head.
“He’s resting. Don’t wake him.”
And for the first time since her world ended, her voice broke from something tender.
Not fear. Joy.
Then—
Footsteps.
Not Nyx’s. Not unfamiliar.
A figure stepped into the doorway. Shadowed. Tall. Drenched in blood, but
unbothered by it.
Mishi.
He stood like a monument to old sins, watching her with eyes that looked like hers.
His voice was calm. Almost amused.
“I thought he’d last longer,” he said, eyeing the ruin. “But I suppose even gods bleed
eventually.”
Skyye didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise. Her smile stayed stitched across her face like a scar.
“You’re mine,” he murmured. Not like a father. Like a predator reclaiming a stray.
He hadn’t come to help her. He’d come to unmake what wasn’t his. To lean into the
ruin and whisper:
You were never free. Just borrowed. And I’ve come to collect.

CHAPTER NINE: The Throne of CloudsMishi stood for a long time, eyes tracing every ruined detail of Father's body like an
artist admiring a finished painting. The blood still glistened. The ribs still twitched.
The swinging eyes stared back at nothing.
Skyye watched him.
Waiting.
But he said nothing more.
No commands. No instructions. No lectures.
Just that sickening, calm amusement.
“You did well,” he finally murmured. “You always had my blood in you. It was only a
matter of time.”
She swayed on her heels, clutching her Squishies close. The vials of Father’s blood
clinked softly against her socks.
“I can stay, if you need me,” Mishi said. His voice was light, almost mocking. “Or—”
He gestured lazily to the gore around them.
“—perhaps you’re ready to lead without a leash.”
The words dangled in the air like a test.
Skyye’s lips twitched.
Something inside her cracked open like a rotten fruit, but no rot spilled out this time.
Just something bright. Something raw.
She smiled.
Wide. Wrong. Radiant.
“I don’t need anyone,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”
The words didn’t shake.
They felt good.
Like knives tucked neatly into place.
Mishi chuckled, pleased. He stepped closer—not menacing, not affectionate. Simply
curious.
“You’re stronger than your mother,” he said. “She begged.”
Skyye tilted her head.
“My mother isn’t dead,” she sang softly. “She just forgot how to come home.”
For the first time, Mishi blinked. Not surprise. Not fear. But something… unreadable.
Like she’d said something he hadn’t planned for.
“Maybe one day,” he said, recovering. “Maybe not.”
He glanced around once more, taking in the palace of carnage she now ruled.
Then he turned toward the door.
“No more lessons, little storm. The rest is yours.”
And like a ghost grown bored, he walked away. His footsteps were slow. Unbothered.
He never looked back.
She didn’t follow.
Didn’t beg.
Didn’t cry.
The air shifted when he was gone.
Heavy. But hers.
The old name — Midnite Mafia — sat stale on her tongue.
She stood in the pool of Father’s blood and whispered to the clouds:
“Qloud.”
The word purred through her lips like an offering.
The Qloud Mafia.
Light and rot. Soft and brutal. A kingdom built on something too broken to die.
She smiled wider.
And in that moment, she wasn’t Father’s masterpiece.
She wasn’t Mishi’s borrowed child.
She was Skyye.
Queen of clouds.
And everyone would learn to kneel.

CHAPTER TEN: The Softest Knife Cuts DeepestThe Qloud Mafia was born beneath blood-soaked marble.
Skyye didn’t host a ceremony.
She didn’t summon the higher ranks. She didn’t declare herself with fanfare.
She simply opened the door.
And let them come.
The first days were a strange parade.
Veterans entered the room where Father’s remains still rotted, their eyes darting to
the obscene crown of severed fingers nailed to his skull. No one dared remove it. No
one dared ask her to.
They bowed.
Or they knelt.
Or they stared too long—and found their eyes slowly torn from their sockets by her
claws.
Nyx lounged nearby for most of it, gum snapping between his teeth, watching as the
old Midnite Mafia began to fracture under her silent rule.
“It’s amazing what fear does,” he mused one night, leaning against her oversized
plush throne. “They used to worship him. Now they tiptoe around you like a dream
they’re scared to wake up from.”
Skyye rocked on her heels, humming softly.
“They shouldn’t wake up,” she whispered. “The dream is softer than what comes
after.”
She spoke differently now. Like nursery rhymes wrapped in knives.
Her first order was simple:
The name Midnite Mafia was to be erased. Every file, every mark, every tattoo burned
away.
“Qloud,” she sang. “We float. We devour. We rain when we’re angry. We smother
when we’re gentle.”
And so, the Qloud Mafia grew from the corpse of its predecessor.
She created new ranks.
The soldiers became “Qloud Puffs.” Her enforcers were renamed “Puff Police.” Spies
became “Cotton Drops” Her personal guard? “Bubble Wraps.” The Mafia’s Cleaners:
“Lint Rollers”.
It sounded absurd.
Until they saw what she did to the first man who disobeyed.
He questioned the new titles with a soft laugh.
So, she sliced his stomach open, pulling the skin apart like peeling an orange,
humming to her Squishies while he screamed.
“He’s a leaky cloud now,” she giggled, blood spraying across her pastel socks.
No one laughed after that.
The streets whispered.
They called her “The Cloud Princess.”
Her rule was unpredictable.
Some days she handed out plushies to her soldiers and insisted they name them.
Other days she made her captains march for hours barefoot in broken glass,
whispering little songs about “how soft they’d feel inside-out.”
She flooded the old safehouses with pale blue neon and pastel graffiti, transforming
dark dens into candy-colored fortresses of controlled madness.
Children’s music mixed with gunfire.
Sweets were served beside execution orders.
She rewarded loyalty with softness—milkshakes, stuffed animals, silk pajamas.
Disloyalty was met with unspeakable violence dressed in pretty ribbons.
Nyx never flinched.
He watched her hum and spin through her empire like a ballerina drunk on gasoline.
He handed her the blades. Lit the fires. Carried the bodies.
He never called her broken.
He only called her Princess.
And then came the first real test.
The Hollow Suns—a rival syndicate from the southern docks.
They saw Father’s death as an opening. They called the Qloud Mafia soft. A joke. Led
by a little girl wrapped in bloodstained lace.
They sent a message.
A box.
Inside: a severed head of one of Skyye’s ‘’Cotton Drops’’, mouth stuffed with cotton
candy, eyes stitched shut with pink thread.
Skyye stared at the box for a long time, gently petting her Squishy tucked beneath
one arm.
Nyx watched her carefully.
“Do you want me to handle it?” he asked softly.
Her voice was syrup when it finally came.
“No,” she whispered.
She smiled wider.
“I want them to see what happens when you try to smother a cloud.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Cotton Candy MassacreThe docks smelled like salt, gasoline, and cheap promises.
The Hollow Suns didn’t hide. They thought she was bluffing.
They gathered in the open: leaning against rusted shipping containers, laughing
beneath dying neon signs. Music blared from old radios. Girls danced on crates. Men
tossed knives between their fingers like bored gods.
They were waiting for her.
They thought it was brave.
It was foolish.
Skyye arrived barefoot.
Not to make a statement — but because shoes felt too heavy for the kind of softness
she was about to deliver.
Her pastel socks soaked the puddles as she walked, humming gently under her
breath. Nyx trailed a few steps behind, carrying a plush basket wrapped in baby blue
ribbons.
The Hollow Suns watched with wide grins.
“There she is!” one called, raising a bottle mockingly. “The Cloud Princess herself. Did
you bring your stuffed animals to negotiate?”
Skyye smiled sweetly.
“No,” she whispered. “I brought gifts.”
She gestured to Nyx, who approached and set the basket down in the center of the
open dockyard.
Inside were dozens of tiny plush clouds, hand-stitched and smiling.
Each one stuffed full of explosives.
The first Hollow Sun picked one up and laughed.
The laughter didn’t last long.
The moment his fingers squeezed the plush belly — it popped.
Not a grand explosion.
No. Not yet.
Just a tiny needle shot from the center, piercing his throat. A thin mist of pale blue
gas burst out, filling his mouth and nose.
He collapsed.
Eyes wide. Twitching. Foaming at the corners.
The others barely had time to react before the rest of the Puffs started hissing open
like deadly flowers.
Skyye twirled on her toes, humming louder as panic broke loose.
Some tried to run.
Some tried to fight.
Some dropped instantly as the chemical fog wrapped around them, choking their
screams into wet gurgles.
The Hollow Suns fell like children in a rigged carnival game.
And Skyye danced through the middle of it.
Her blood-stained socks left soft prints as she spun, humming her off-key lullaby
beneath the dying lights.
Nyx followed silently, drawing his blade only when a few survivors crawled toward
them, gasping.
One man managed to grab Skyye’s ankle, eyes wide with terror.
“Please—” he croaked.
She tilted her head, blinking with mock curiosity.
“But you sent me candy,” she whispered.
Her foot came down on his throat, crushing it in a wet pop.
She giggled.
As the last bodies twitched, Nyx stepped beside her.
“All done,” he said softly.
She nodded.
“Clouds always smother out the Sun on a cloudy day,” she sang.
They left the docks behind, the bodies still steaming in the chemical haze. The waves
lapped against the blood-streaked shore like an eager applause.
By morning, every faction would know:
The Qloud Mafia was no joke.
And The Cloud Princess didn’t negotiate.

To Be Continued...

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