Isaac killed three Sols that week.
Not in training.
In containment failures.
The first alarm went off at 02:17.
Sector C—civilian spillover zone.
By the time GRIMM squads arrived, the Sol had already torn through a shelter, bodies hanging from broken beams like wet laundry. Children. Adults. Torn open. Half-eaten.
Isaac arrived last.
He didn't wait for orders.
The Sol was mid-feed when Isaac grabbed it from behind and ripped its arms off. Bone snapped loud enough to echo through the street. The creature screamed, a sound like metal dragged across concrete.
Isaac slammed its head into the pavement.
Once.
Twice.
On the third impact, the skull collapsed inward and sprayed black matter across his face.
The Sol twitched for six seconds before going still.
Silence followed.
GRIMM soldiers stared.
Lisa arrived moments later.
She took one look at Isaac—kneeling in blood, chest heaving, eyes glowing faintly—and felt something twist in her gut.
"Isaac," she said carefully.
He didn't answer.
She stepped closer.
"Isaac."
He finally looked up.
"What took you so long?"
No accusation. No anger.
Just fact.
GRIMM INTERNAL REPORT – CLASSIFIED
SUBJECT: ISAAC DEMONIO
OBSERVATION: TERMINATION SPEED INCREASED 412%
PSYCHOLOGICAL DEVIATION: ESCALATING
NOTE: SUBJECT DOES NOT HESITATE. DOES NOT WITHDRAW.
RECOMMENDATION: MONITOR OR REMOVE
Vance read the report in silence.
Then burned it.
TRAINING ARENA – NIGHT
Vance didn't ask permission.
He dropped into the arena while Isaac was mid-session, surrounded by shattered Sol corpses and steaming black blood.
"Again," Vance said.
Isaac wiped his blade on a corpse. "They're already dead."
"Then use me."
Isaac froze.
Vance cracked his neck. "Come on, little brother. Hit me."
"You'll die."
Vance smiled.
"That's the point."
Isaac moved.
Not restrained. Not measured.
He went straight for the throat.
Vance barely blocked—steel screeching against steel as the impact shattered the arena floor. The shockwave flung debris into the walls.
Isaac followed with a knee to the ribs.
Vance felt something crack.
Good.
He countered with a spinning cleave aimed to kill.
Isaac ducked and drove his elbow into Vance's spine.
The sound was wet.
Vance staggered.
Isaac didn't stop.
Punch. Slash. Kick. Elbow.
Every strike was lethal.
Every movement screamed intent.
Vance finally grabbed Isaac by the face and slammed him into the ground, carving a crater into reinforced stone.
They stared at each other inches apart.
Isaac was smiling.
That scared Vance more than the blows.
"Where did you learn to fight like this?" Vance asked.
Isaac whispered, "I don't know."
And that was the truth.
THE WATCHER RETURNS
That night, Isaac stood on the GRIMM rooftop, city lights flickering beneath a blood-red sky warped by distant rifts.
"You're accelerating."
Hugo stood beside him like he'd always been there.
Isaac didn't draw his weapon this time.
"You again."
Hugo nodded approvingly. "Progress."
"Get out of my world."
Hugo chuckled. "This world already belongs to me. I'm just waiting for its people to admit it."
Isaac clenched his fists. "I'm not like you."
"No," Hugo agreed. "You're worse."
That made Isaac turn.
Hugo stepped closer, eyes glinting.
"You kill without ideology. Without pleasure. Without hesitation. You kill because it feels right."
Isaac lunged.
His blade passed through empty air.
Hugo's hand was suddenly gripping his chest—not crushing, not piercing.
Just resting.
"You feel that?" Hugo whispered.
Isaac did.
Something inside him responded.
Something old.
Something that recognized Hugo.
Hugo leaned in close.
"One day," he said softly, "you'll kill someone you love."
The pressure vanished.
Hugo was gone.
Isaac dropped to his knees, vomiting black-tinged bile onto the concrete.
Above him—
Vance watched from the shadows.
And for the first time in his long, bloody life,
Death felt afraid of what followed behind him.