Chapter 31: I can lose an arm… or two.
The first one — the ghost last night — that Mikel had fed to the Blood Chain was not an accident. It was for survival to buy him some time. However, he couldn't believe that he was choosing the easy path.
A path where he should be fine sacrificing these ghosts, who only wanted closure to cross over, just because the Blighted or any classified entities couldn't find him. Sacrifice them just because the damn system told him to and because his cursed relic was hungry.
Unfair? Yes.
But that was never the point.
He hated how easily the thought crept in—just one sacrifice, just one more ghost. A quick fix, a temporary relief. Like a starving man eyeing poison and convincing himself it was food. And wasn't that all this system wanted? To turn desperation into obedience, to whittle him down until he couldn't tell survival from surrender?
Mikel smashed the bottom of his fist against the concrete wall, causing dust from its cracks to fall.
[Morality is a lovely leash, Master.]
"Shut up..." His voice shook, his eyes burning at the screen before him. "They're not worth the cost of my morality or my sanity. Stop putting ideas in my head."
[I am simply offering you scissors to cut it.]
And this was the very reason Mikel couldn't just follow Doom's advice. They were plain diabolical, psychologically tormenting him while his Blood Chain resorted to physical torment.
Mikel's wrist smoked from under his skin as the Blood Chain tightened, the concentrated energy from it searing his skin. It hurt, like he had put his arm over a lit candle and there was no way to put it away. Yet, he didn't back down. He had put his foot down the second he changed his mind, and he refused to take a step back.