Chapter 2: A Sister's Warning
"Ken! Ken! Open the damn door!"
He blinked.
Ken Moretti sat upright on the dusty couch of their worn-down flat, his breath shaky. German was still silent. Resting. Observing.
"Ken! It's me, Seraphina!"
The door flew open. A woman with sharp black eyeliner and a matte gray bomber jacket stormed in. She had wild silver-streaked hair tied back and carried a jagged black suitcase, half burnt.
"Seraphina Moretti," German whispered inside their shared mind. "Your bloodline."
Ken muttered, "Sis, what are you doing here?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she slammed the suitcase down. It unzipped with a metallic hiss. Inside: a soul-weapon — a mechanical dagger fused to a rib-like handle.
"No time. They're coming. They know you have Carnival."
Ken tensed. "Who—"
"The Soul Collectors, Ken. The ones who come to erase people like us. Debt-defaulted. Weapon-tainted. They don't knock, Ken. They rip."
German whispered. "She's not lying. I recognize that name. From the void between."
Ken leaned forward. "When?"
Seraphina's voice cracked.
"Now."
Then the wall exploded.
A wave of blistering heat tore the room apart in a flash. Fire licked the wallpaper. Screws twisted out from the wood. The shockwave hit Ken sideways and threw him into the kitchen counter.
Seraphina stood for only half a second before her eyes widened—
BOOM.
A silent, precise blast vaporized her from the chest outward. She disintegrated mid-breath. Her soul-weapon let out one final shriek and clattered against the ground, still hot.
Ken screamed. But only for a second.
Then… laughter.
Three men stepped through the smoking breach.
All wore steel masks.
All had weapons that hummed like living monsters.
"Hello, Ken," one said with a sick grin, voice metallic. "Time to collect."
Ken froze. Trembled. His mind spiraled.
"Ken," German said calmly.
"Shut up—"
"Ken. Let me take over."
"NO—"
"If you want to live… step aside."
Silence.
Ken's eyes flickered.
Then, something shifted.
His back straightened.
His fingers clenched into fists.
His eyes, once wild, narrowed to slits of judgment.
Even his posture was new — tall, unbending, predatory.
German Sparrow had arrived.
One of the Collectors took a step forward. "He's broken. Let's—"
German's voice echoed in two tones, layered like steel and thunder.
"Carnival. Seer form."
The clown snapped into his palm. Its eye glowed.
"Predict. Counter. Advance."
The first Collector lunged—
But German sidestepped. Effortless. Smooth.
His hand reached toward the fog. It bled from the floor like oil.
"Black Great Fog," he whispered.
It spread. Cold. Endless.
The room darkened.
One Collector screamed. "He's—he's drowning it in—"
German raised one hand. Pointed.
"DIE, SCOUNDRELS."
The fog surged.
It seeped into their mouths. Their eyes. Their lungs.
They gasped for air, clawing at their throats. The weapons in their hands vibrated and fell silent.
Inside the Black Great Fog, their minds were split open. Every regret, every memory, every horror—they saw it. They lived it. Again and again.
Their bodies dropped. Motionless.
Then turned to ash.
German stood alone. The fog vanished slowly.
Carnival fell still.
Ken's voice echoed in the soulspace. Weak. Shaking.
"Seraphina… she's…"
German turned.
"We'll grieve later."
He looked down at the ashes of the Soul Collectors.
"First, we build a kingdom of smoke and vengeance."