Cracked

The doorknob slipped in my sweaty grip as I stumbled into my bedroom. My knees hit the floor first, then my palms, the impact sending fresh jolts of pain up my arms. I didn't even have the strength to crawl the last few feet to my bed—just rolled onto my back like a gutted fish, staring at the water-stained ceiling while my lungs heaved.

Every inch of me hurt in ways I didn't know a person could hurt. My ribs screamed where the goose had stomped me. My shoulder burned from its beak tearing through skin. But the worst part? The wounds were already closing. Not healing—closing, like my flesh was being stitched back together by invisible hands. I prodded the jagged tear in my jacket and found nothing but smooth skin underneath, still tacky with half-dried blood.

4:57 AM.

The numbers glowed red on my nightstand, pulsing in time with my headache. I dragged myself upright just long enough to shove the Kusanagi under my bed. The blade shinged against the floorboards, still sharp, still real—not the cheap replica I'd gotten for my fourteenth birthday. Now it was something else. Something that had tasted blood.

I didn't bother changing. Just collapsed face-first into the sheets, still wearing my ruined jeans and the hoodie that reeked of sweat and fear. The blanket smelled like laundry detergent and home. For one stupid second, I wanted to cry.

Next time, I promised the dark, fingernails digging into my palms. Next time I won't freeze. Next time I'll swing faster. Next time I'll—

But first, I had to figure out where "next time" would be.

Sunlight stabbed through my eyelids like a scalpel.

I groaned, rolling over—and immediately regretted it. Every muscle in my body had apparently been replaced with ground glass overnight. The clock said 11:48 AM, which explained why my stomach felt like it was eating itself.

The shower didn't help. I scrubbed until my skin turned raw, but the blood wasn't the problem. It was the memory of it—the way the goose's neck had spurted hot across my face when the blade bit deep. The sound the man made when the first ring sliced through his—

Stop.

I punched the tile hard enough to crack it. Knuckles split. Healed before the water could run cold.

Downstairs, Mom was waiting with that tight-lipped look she got when she wanted to scream but was too tired to try. She'd made pancakes. They sat congealing on my plate as she triple-checked my phone battery, my location sharing, the panic button app the school had made us install after the first murder.

"Home before dark," she said for the third time, fingers digging into my sleeve like she could physically tether me to this kitchen.

I nodded, mouth full of syrup and lies.

The bike ride should've cleared my head. The cold air should've shocked me awake. Instead, every pump of the pedals just hammered the truth deeper:

I was losing.

And then I passed her house.

Belle's bike was still chained to the porch railing, the kickstand sunk into a drift of snow. Her mittens dangled from the handlebars like they were waiting for her. Through the window, I could see the glow of their Christmas tree—the one I'd helped her drag home from the lot last month, back when we were still—

I pedaled harder. The chain screamed in protest.

The treehouse had been our sanctuary since sixth grade.

The wood groaned under my weight as I climbed, the old ladder ruts worn smooth by a thousand afternoons of escape. Up here, the wind carried the scent of pine and the distant hum of plows clearing roads. Safe. Familiar.

I spread the maps across the warped plywood floor, anchoring the corners with chunks of brick we'd stolen from the construction site down the street. Red pins marked the murders. Blue lines connected them.

At first glance, it looked random—a scattering of tragedy across town. But after two hours of cross-referencing police reports with the song's verses, the pattern emerged like a bruise darkening under skin.

North. Then south. Then northeast. Then southwest.

A spiral.

Tightening.

Zeroing in.

My hands shook as I measured the distances. The first kill had been three miles from my house. The second, two and a half. The third—

The pencil snapped in my fist.

They were getting closer. Not just to town. To me. To home.

I was shoving papers into my bag when the voices cut through the silence.

"—swear to God, Luca, if you don't stop—"

"Stop what? Caring that he kissed her?"

My blood turned to ice.

I peered over the platform's edge.

Twenty yards away, Belle and Luca picked their way through the frozen underbrush. Luca was all rigid shoulders and clenched fists, his boots kicking up clots of snow. Belle trailed behind him, arms wrapped around herself like she was holding her ribs together. Even from here, I could see the tear-tracks glinting on her cheeks.

Shit.

Option one: Stay quiet. Let them climb up. Face the inevitable explosion.

Option two: Bail now and look like a coward.

My fingers tightened around the ladder ropes.

I chose option two.

The second my foot hit the ground, their heads snapped up. Twin expressions of shock—then Luca's face hardened into something dangerous. Belle just looked... broken.

I didn't speak. Didn't apologize. Just adjusted my bag and walked straight through the gap between them, close enough to smell Belle's shampoo—apples and cinnamon—and the sharp tang of Luca's anger.

I made it three steps before Belle's hand locked around my wrist.

Her grip was stronger than I remembered.

"Look at me," she whispered.

And God help me, I did.

Belle’s fingers were warm against my cheek. Too warm. Like she was the only real thing left in this frozen hellscape.

I tried to look away—had to look away—but she held me there, her thumb brushing the hollow under my eye where the bruise from Luca’s fist had already faded. Her own eyes were glassy, reflecting the gray winter sky and my own shattered face back at me.

And then it hit.

Not a memory. A flood.

Bella’s lips crushing against mine. The sticky-sweet taste of her gloss. The way her nails had dug into my jaw like she wanted to brand me. Belle’s scream from the porch. Luca’s fist connecting with my teeth. The look on Mom’s face when I came home bloody. The dolls. The geese. The man’s arms shearing off like deli meat under those fucking rings—

"I’m sorry."

The words tore out of me like a bullet wound. Ugly. Wet. Unstoppable.

My knees hit the snow before I realized I was falling.

Then I was sobbing—really sobbing—the kind that rips your guts out through your throat. The kind that leaves you hollow. I clutched at Belle’s coat like a drowning man, my face buried in the wool, breathing in the scent of her detergent and the faintest trace of her vanilla chapstick.

She didn’t say a word. Just wrapped her arms around my shaking shoulders and held on.

And then—warmth.

Luca’s hand landed on my back, heavy as a tombstone. No punch. No shove. Just… there.

When I finally choked myself silent, Belle peeled back just enough to cup my face again. Luca crouched beside us, his usual smirk replaced by something grim.

"Start talking," he said.

So I did.

I told them everything.

The ritual. The keychains growing flesh. The way Santa’s laugh sounded when the rings sliced through that man’s limbs. How my sword changed. How the blood vanished afterward.

Belle’s grip tightened with every sentence. Luca’s jaw worked like he was chewing glass.

When I finished, the woods were dead silent.

Then Luca stood, cracking his knuckles. "Bullshit."

Belle shot him a look. "Luca—"

"No. If this is real, prove it." His eyes locked onto mine, steel meeting steel. "Right fucking now."

I wiped my nose on my sleeve and reached for the second harness strapped to my back. The one I’d known I’d need eventually.

The Kusanagi slid free with a whisper.

No one breathed.

I turned toward the nearest pine—old, thick-barked, the kind that would’ve laughed at my old wooden replica—and swung.

The blade sang.

For half a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the branch—thick as my thigh—slid clean off the trunk and hit the snow with a thud. The cut was perfect. Surgical.

When I turned back, Belle’s hands were pressed to her mouth. Luca stood frozen, his usual swagger replaced by something I’d never seen before.

Fear.

Just a flicker. A shadow behind his eyes. But it was there.

And worse?

It should’ve felt good. After all the punches, all the glares, all the I’ll-kill-you-if-you-go-near-her—seeing Luca Morales scared should’ve been a victory.

But it just made me feel sick.

I sheathed the sword. "Now you know."

Belle's breath hitches, and for a second, I think she's going to cry. But she sucks in a sharp breath and locks it down hard. Her hands are shaking when she speaks. "You idiot. Facing this alone was the dumbest fucking move you could've made."

I keep my mouth shut. What's there to say? Sorry, I got your mom killed, Luca? Sorry, I let Bella shove her tongue down my throat, Belle? Some shit you can't apologize your way out of.

Luca doesn't give me the chance anyway. He's in my face before I can blink, close enough that I can see the broken blood vessel in his left eye from where he punched me yesterday. "Always gotta play the lone hero, huh?" His spit hits my cheek. "Big man Wise, carrying the whole fucking world—"

I slap his hand away before it can land on my shoulder. The crack echoes through the trees like a gunshot. "I got your mom killed!" The words taste like battery acid. "You want me to get you two killed too?"

The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.

I swallow hard. My throat feels lined with broken glass. "And let's be real—you'd have just been in my way." I tap the sword at my hip. It feels heavier than it should. "I actually got shit done alone."

When I glance at Belle, her face stops me cold. The tears are still there, but something's changed—her jaw's set like she's ready to bite through steel, and her eyes... Christ, her eyes look like she's staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Something is terrifying in that look, something that makes my stomach flip.

I shove past Luca hard enough to make him stumble. "I don't need you," I toss over my shoulder. The lie burns worse than the truth.

I make it home with sixty seconds to spare. Mom's waiting in the doorway, her worry lines so deep they look carved into her face. I don't let her start. Just yank her into a hug so tight I feel her ribs creak.

"Thanks," I mumble into her sweater. It smells like laundry soap and that lavender shit she loves. "For... you know."

Her arms come up around me, one hand cradling the back of my head like I'm still five years old. We stand like that for a long minute, and for once, the silence doesn't feel like a fucking minefield.

Later, with lasagna sitting like a brick in my gut, I collapse into bed. 2:30 AM on the alarm—gotta move early tonight. As I drift off, the day plays behind my eyelids:

The way Luca's hands shook when he saw the sword.

That terrifying new hardness in Belle's eyes.

I force it all down into the dark where it belongs.

Seven swans a-swimming.

The nursery rhyme loops in my head, twisted and wrong. What fresh hell is that gonna be? Some poor bastard stuffed full of feathers? A frozen pond with seven corpses floating in perfect formation?

Doesn't matter. I'll be ready.