The marionette

The cursed tower stood twisted against the bruised sky, its structure an abomination of bones and black iron, wrapped in red strings that hummed like violin chords in the wind. This place pulsed with unnatural rhythm—like a heart that forgot it had once stopped beating.
From three corners of the world, monsters gathered.
Lover from Hell arrived first—flames smoldering from his burnt wing, his blade resting on his shoulder, eyes locked on the tower. He didn’t speak. He didn’t blink. The grave quiet returned to him the moment he sensed her.
Beauty from the East emerged moments later, stepping with elegance through a curtain of shimmering mist. Her gloves were pristine white, untouched by blood or battle—but her presence warped the air, bending it with unseen pressure. Her eyes, one blue and one red, flicked toward the tower.
“I remember her strings…” she whispered. “They don’t pull me anymore.”
The final to arrive—though not the slowest—was Jack of No Trade, strolling along the charred grass like a wandering jester late to his own funeral. He wore his mask as always, that impossible smile and void-black eyes hiding everything. He whistled a tune that didn’t exist.
“Tsk, what a dump,” Jack muttered, spinning his scythe lazily. “I liked it better when she wasn’t playing god.”
And then, the strings twitched.
She emerged.
The Marionette.
Floating, limbs stiff yet graceful, like a doll dancing to a silent song. Her face was emotionless porcelain, her voice soft but hollow.
“You've all come... finally.”
Red threads extended from her fingers, lashing out into the land around her. Trees began to move. Stones wept. Puppets crawled from the dirt, misshapen and incomplete.
But none of the monsters flinched.
Except Jack.
He tilted his head and stared at her longer than usual.
A silence lingered.
Then he shrugged.
“Oh. It’s you.”
He lowered his scythe, sighed, and sat on the ground like a child refusing to play anymore.
“Nope. I’m not doing this. What a pain.”
Beauty from the East raised a brow.
“What? You’re not going to fight her?”
“Too many strings. Too much drama. Ugh.” Jack leaned back with his hands behind his head. “Besides, she knows how I fight. She built half my nightmares.”
The Marionette’s fingers twitched again, but Jack’s voice hardened just a little—an unusual seriousness beneath the play.
“Don’t. Pull. Mine.”
That moment held power.
Enough for even the threads to hesitate.
Then—
Lover from Hell stepped forward.
Not with anger. Not with haste. Just that endless, cold presence like a sword descending in slow motion.
“We end this now.”
“Yes,” said Beauty, sliding her gloves tighter. “Let’s cut the strings.”
Even Jack stood again—not to fight, but to watch.
“Guess I’ll stay for the show. No promises though.”
And far off—closer now than ever—Hell’s Hidden Warrior walked toward them.
The ground cracked under his steps.
No one needed to summon him.
He was already on his way.