Page 137 of The Beautiful Dead

It moved on.

Erased you.

Swallowed you whole until nothing remained.

Life was a mirage, a beautifully cruel illusion meant to trick you into believing it hadpurpose.But it didn’t. It never did.

Humans weren’t special. We were parasites, feeding off the world around us, pretending our livesmatteredwhen we were no different from the insects we crushed underfoot. No different from the animals we slaughtered to fill our stomachs. We wrapped our existence in laws, in governments, in the pursuit of power, but for what?

Todieall the same?

To be buried under six feet of dirt, just another nameless body in a graveyard filled with the forgotten?

From the moment we took our first breath, our internal clock started counting down, but instead of living,trulyliving, we let ourselves suffer under the weight of meaningless expectations.

We forced ourselves to endure.

For nothing.

My legs gave out beneath me, knees sinking into drenched, freshly turned earth. It was wet and cold—clinging to my fingers like it was trying to pull me under, like the earth itself was hungry for another body. Maybe it was. Maybe I was.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the grave I was kneeling in.

There was no headstone yet—just a simple wooden cross standing vigil over the body below. Most people would have been horrified to find themselves here, but I felt nothing.

No grief. No guilt. No fear.

Justnothing.

The night pressed in around me, thick and suffocating. Rain ran down my face, mixing with the dirt on my skin, but I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t care.

And then, he was there.

I felt the shift before I saw him, the static charge in the air as his presence wrapped around me like smoke and steel. Even with my eyes closed, my mind half-comatose, I knew who was stalking me from the shadows.

Domino.

I’d know him anywhere. Any lifetime. Any nightmare.

His presence was a razor’s edge—twisted, dark, and consuming. It pulsed out in waves, hunting me with the precision of a sniper, locking onto me with deadly intent.

Black biker boots filled my vision when I blinked raindrops from my lashes. He crouched in front of me, but I couldn’t lift my head.

Couldn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

His fingers brushed over my lips, slow, deliberate. The barest touch, but it felt like a lightning strike to my nerves.

“What do you need,piccolo agnello?” His voice was raw, gravel grating over steel, stripping me to my bones.

The world around us held its breath, as if it was waiting—waiting to see if this would be the night I begged him to end me.

To make me his next victim.

I swallowed, throat tight, my body betraying me with the way it tilted toward him. Seeking. Needing.

“I don’t feel anything,” I admitted hoarsely.

---