Chapter 4: A Soul's Dying Rage

Chapter 4: A Soul's Dying Rage

The sterile peace of the hospital room was ripped away without ceremony. One moment Morrigan was reeling from the influx of Eleanor’s gentle soul energy; the next, she was standing in the cold, driving rain of a city alleyway. The transition was a nauseating lurch, a cosmic whiplash that left her staggering.

This place was the antithesis of Room 307. The air was thick with the stench of wet garbage, gunpowder, and blood. The distant wail of sirens grew closer, their sound a mournful prophecy. Red and blue lights flashed against the slick brick walls, painting the scene in frantic, repeating strokes of violence.

The psychic noise here wasn't the dull, sorrowful hum of the hospital. It was a cacophony of sharp, jagged shards of emotion: the panic of the shooter who’d just fled, the morbid curiosity of a resident peering from a high window, and a single, dominant broadcast of pure, unadulterated rage that felt like a drill boring into her skull.

"Filter it," Thanatos's voice echoed in her mind, a calm instruction from a world away. "You let the last one overwhelm you with sentiment. Do not let this one overwhelm you with chaos."

Gritting her teeth, Morrigan forced the memory of Eleanor's warm, soothing energy to the front of her mind. She used it like a shield, a buffer against the storm. The external noise receded to a manageable, angry buzz, allowing her to focus on the source.

Sprawled beside a dented dumpster was a large man in a ridiculously expensive, now blood-soaked, suit. Marco ‘The Vulture’ Santoro. He was gasping, clutching a hand to his chest where multiple dark stains were blooming across the fine Italian fabric. A high-end pistol lay on the grimy asphalt just beyond his outstretched fingers. His life-thread was nothing like Eleanor’s delicate silver strand. It was a thick, grimy rope of a thing, pulsing with a furious, blood-red light, already frayed and snapping in the rain.

"Bastards…" Marco gurgled, blood flecking his lips. "I'll kill them… I'll drag them all to Hell with me…"

Morrigan watched, the obsidian scythe materializing in her grip. This was different. This wasn't a peaceful passing; it was a violent, ugly end to a violent, ugly life. There was no sense of a story completed, only one cut short in the middle of a hateful sentence. The Soul Ledger in her vision ticked down the final seconds with cold, digital finality.

00:03… 00:02…

A final, defiant curse rattled in the man's throat.

00:01…

His body convulsed, then went still.

00:00.

The sirens screamed as a police cruiser skidded to a halt at the mouth of the alley. But for Morrigan, the real event was happening on a plane no mortal could see.

Marco Santoro’s spirit did not rise. It tore itself free from his corpse with a silent, spectral roar. It was a maelstrom of raw fury, a twisted caricature of the man, its form crackling with rage and confusion. Its eyes were burning coals of hate, and they locked directly onto Morrigan.

"Who the hell are you?" the phantom snarled, his voice a gravelly echo. "Get out of my way! I'm not done!"

He lunged, not at Morrigan, but at his own corpse, trying to force his way back into the ruined vessel. He was refusing to let go.

Remembering her task, Morrigan stepped forward, raising her scythe for a clean cut, just as she’d done with Eleanor. "Your time is up, Marco. It's over."

She swung the blade at the thick, red cord.

But this soul fought back. The spirit of Marco spun around, its spectral hand lashing out with impossible speed. It didn't strike the scythe, but the energy behind it was a physical force, a wave of pure spite that slammed into Morrigan and sent her stumbling backward. The scythe felt heavy and clumsy in her hands.

"Over?" the spirit bellowed, its form swelling with rage. "It's over when I say it's over!"

He charged her, his hands formed into phantom claws. Morrigan reacted on pure instinct, throwing herself sideways. She intended to dodge, but her panic triggered her new abilities. Instead of moving, she phased, her body dissolving into intangible static for a split second. Marco’s attack passed right through her, the chill of his hateful energy leaving a greasy residue on her essence.

She solidified a few feet away, her heart—or the memory of one—pounding. This wasn't a reaping. This was a fight.

"You're making this difficult," she grunted, tightening her grip on her scythe. The polite, ceremonial tool was useless here. Thanatos’s words surfaced again: It responds to intent. Her intent was no longer to be a gentle guide. It was to subdue. To win. To survive.

As Marco’s enraged spirit lunged again, she didn't aim for the thread. She swung the scythe like a quarterstaff, the obsidian haft connecting with the phantom’s side. The impact produced a discordant shriek, like metal grinding on stone, and the spirit recoiled, its form flickering.

He was surprised. He hadn't expected the spooky girl in the corner to hit back. That surprise gave her an opening.

"You want a fight?" Morrigan yelled, the adrenaline of combat a familiar, fiery burn. "You have no idea who you're messing with!"

She pushed forward, no longer a hesitant apprentice but a cornered animal. The scythe felt different now, an extension of her own desperate will. She spun, the curved blade arcing in the rain-slicked air. Marco’s spirit was clumsy but powerful, his attacks were wild swings fueled by decades of brutality. She was faster, more fluid. She ducked under a phantom punch that would have splattered her essence across the brickwork and brought the butt of the scythe up hard under his spiritual chin.

He staggered back, roaring in frustration. He lashed out, not with a fist, but with a wave of raw emotional energy—the memory of a brutal beating he’d delivered, the terror of one of his victims. The psychic blow struck her, and for a second, she was drowning in someone else's pain and fear. The distraction was almost enough. He lunged for her, claws extended.

Reacting without thinking, Morrigan thrust her scythe forward. The weapon responded to her desperate intent to stop him. The obsidian blade elongated, thinning into a wicked, spear-like point that pierced straight through the center of the spirit’s chest.

Marco’s phantom froze, its burning eyes wide with shock. The attack didn't destroy him, but it pinned him, his chaotic energy momentarily disrupted.

That was her chance.

With the spirit impaled and struggling, she wrenched the scythe free and, in the same fluid motion, spun and swung the blade in a final, vicious arc. This time, her aim was true. The obsidian edge met the thick, red life-thread.

There was no clean, bell-like tone. There was a sickening, wet snap, like a rotten rope breaking under immense strain.

Marco Santoro’s spirit let out one last, silent scream of rage before it was violently ripped away, pulled into the cosmic current like a man swept out to sea.

Silence descended on the alley, broken only by the rain and the approaching sirens.

Morrigan stood panting, leaning heavily on her scythe. Her victory was short-lived. The residual energy from the severed thread, a thick, greasy stream of angry crimson light, shot out and slammed into her chest.

It was nothing like Eleanor’s gift. This was not warm, liquid silver. This was swallowing acid and broken glass. A jolt of raw, jagged power flooded her, laced with the poison of Marco’s violent life. Paranoia, aggression, a callous disregard for life—it all poured into her, a toxic sludge contaminating her own essence. It was power, undeniably. She felt a surge of strength that dwarfed what she had received before, but it was a dirty, corrosive power that made her skin crawl.

She doubled over, gasping, feeling violated. She was stronger, but she was also tainted.

Thanatos appeared beside her, his tailored suit miraculously dry despite the downpour. He surveyed the scene—the cooling corpse, the fading spectral residue, his apprentice shaking from the aftermath of her first real battle.

"Sloppy," he commented, his voice as crisp and cold as the night air. "Chaotic. But ultimately effective." He paused, his obsidian eyes fixing on her. "You are beginning to understand. Not all souls go quietly. And not all power is clean. Welcome to the job, Morrigan."