In full view of him, I walked toward the stairs.
I didn’t run.
I didn’t rush.
I walked.
Step by step, calm and deliberate, while he stood there, bleeding and broken, breathing so heavily between his cracked, wet giggles that it sounded like the world was coming apart inside him.
I laughed too.
Louder than before.
Harder than before.
Sharp and reckless, a sound that scraped the walls and shook the blood-soaked floorboards beneath us.
Our gazes met—his one good eye burning with hate, mine with something worse.
Mockery.
But I didn’t stop moving.
I didn’t break eye contact.
I wanted him to see it. I wanted every second of it burned into the meat of his memory.
"Bitch," I said.
Just loud enough to cut through the thick air between us.
Not a shout.
Not a scream.
Just a word. Dripping with venom. Meant to sting.
And it did.
I saw it.
I saw the way his jaw twitched, the way his ruined shoulders heaved a little heavier, the way his blood-slick claws flexed at his sides like he was already tearing me apart in his mind.
But I wasn’t done.
Not yet.
"What’cha lookin’ at, bitch?"
I tilted my head just slightly, gave him the most obnoxious, infuriating smirk I could muster. An insult carved right into my bones, offered to him like a slap across the face.
He understood.
Oh, he understood.
The madness in his eye flared hotter. His breathing turned ragged. He twitched in place like a dog straining against a chain just an inch too short to reach the throat it wanted to tear out.
Good.
Perfect.
The final step creaked under my boot as I reached the top of the stairs.
I turned slightly, just enough so he could see my hand.
My fingers curled toward him in a slow, deliberate gesture.
Come.
Come and get me.
I scrunched my face into a parody of a grin, every inch of it designed to provoke, to bait, to drive the final nail into his rotten pride.
And he took it.
God, did he take it.
The demon roared—half laugh, half scream—and lunged forward.
Blood still poured from his ruined eye, splattering the walls, the stairs, the floor.
But he didn’t care.
Pain didn’t register. Loss didn’t slow him.
He was moving like an animal now.
Wild. Rabid.
His massive hands clawed into the walls, into the steps, as he dragged himself upward with all the grace of a corpse crawling out of its own grave.
The boards cracked beneath his weight. The whole ship seemed to groan around him.
I could feel him.
The way the deck trembled underfoot.
The way the air itself seemed to tighten.
He wasn’t running.
He wasn’t chasing.
He was hunting.
And he was hunting me.
I walked out of the cabin that led to the prisoner’s cell with the same slow, unhurried steps I’d used since this started.
Not looking back.
Not speeding up.
Like I didn’t have a feral, blood-soaked beast tearing through the narrow space behind me.
I stepped out into the open corridor.
The air outside the cabin felt different—cooler, sharper.
Like the ship itself was holding its breath.
I leaned against the far wall, the rough wood biting into my back.
I slung the rifle off my shoulder.
No rush.
No panic.
Just methodical, mechanical motion.
My fingers found the stock, found the trigger.
I cocked it once, the sound sharp and violent in the thick, waiting silence.
And under my breath, just barely a whisper, just enough for the ghosts to hear if no one else, I said:
"If I am unable to save her. I hope you can save her, merman."
No plea. No prayer.
Just a murmur.
Just a hope.
Just a tiny, brittle shard of humanity I hadn’t been able to tear out of myself yet.
Then I waited.
The demon exploded through the cabin door a heartbeat later.
Not walking.
Not stalking.
Charging.
A bull with fire in its gut.
He barreled straight ahead at first, then jerked his massive head side to side, nostrils flaring, scanning for me.
Blood sprayed from his ruined eye with every twitch, spattering the walls and floor like some grotesque trail.
And then he found me.
Our eyes locked again.
This time, there was no confusion.
No mockery.
Only murder.
He roared.
A sound like a mountain splitting down the middle.
And then he rushed me.
Full speed.
No thought.
No hesitation.
No tactics.
Just raw, bleeding, furious hatred.
Good.
Let him come.
I tightened my grip on the rifle.
I braced my feet against the deck.
I smiled.
A real smile this time.
Because this was it.
This was the moment.
Not a duel.
Not a dance.
Not a game.
Just one final collision between two things too stubborn to die properly.
He was faster than he should’ve been.
But so was I.
And as he closed the distance between us, the whole ship seemed to tilt, to lean in, to watch.
Waiting.
Breathless.
Ready for blood.
So was I.
So very fucking ready.