The escaped soul left scorch marks across the land—burned footprints, flickering shadows, whispers of a life refusing to end. You tracked it through abandoned streets beside the one person you hated most. Your enemy moved tense and sharp, glancing behind them as though expecting Number to materialize at any second.

They knew where the soul hid, but fear kept their jaw tight, steps quick. The closer you got, the more the air warped, bending around a pocket of stolen life. When you reached the ruined chapel where the soul had taken refuge, your enemy froze entirely, trembling at the threshold.

The soul lunged, shrieking in borrowed light. Your enemy pushed you aside, not out of kindness—out of pure terror at what Number would do if this mission failed. The fight was chaotic, wild, the soul desperate to cling to existence. When you finally cornered it, shadows folded inward, and Number appeared in a rush of cold wind.

He placed a hand on the trembling soul, voice low and final.

“Running only delays the inevitable,” Number said. “And fear never saved anyone.”

Your enemy flinched. The soul dissolved. Number turned toward the two of you, eyes unreadable.

“Next time,” he murmured. “you won’t run either.”