Chapter 131 - Delusion

“Morrigan? Are you going to be alright?” Emma asked as they stepped off the bus.

“Hm? Yeah, why?”

Emma hesitated. “I mean… the next person on your list is going to be murdered.” Her words trailed off. “I know what you have to do as a reaper, but… I don’t know.”

Morrigan cracked her neck. “Yeah, I get it. And you’re right—it’s different from when someone dies naturally or in a freak accident. But this isn’t the first one I’ve done like this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. One time, there was a shootout between two guys. They ended up shooting each other, and I sent one of them to hell.”

Emma nodded, her usual springy step slowing as they walked down the street toward the asylum.

Morrigan sighed. “Look, this job… I try to do it in a way that’s good for my clients. But at the same time, I have to detach myself from it somewhat. Like, I’m not the one causing this. Even in the rare cases where I have to end someone’s life myself, it’s not because of something I’m choosing. I’m just… I don’t know. A tool, I guess.”

She looked away, but she could feel Emma side-eyeing her, concerned.

Morrigan tried to reassure her. “It’s actually a pretty interesting job,” she said, turning back with a slight smile. “I know it sounds morbid, but I meet a lot of interesting people.”

“I guess I get that. But you still have to see it, right? Or at least the aftermath?” Emma sighed. “I guess I was being stupid before. I assumed… well, I guess… I just saw you gently taking the hands of old ladies and whispering a few sweet words before sending them on. All heartwarming stuff, you know?”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Did you really think that’s all it was?”

“No… not really. I just never thought about it much, to be honest.. The way some people die never really crossed my mind,” Emma admitted.

Morrigan nodded. “Yeah. It can get messy. Other times, it’s… different. A lot of times, peoples regrets only surface at the very end, when they know it’s too late to change anything.” She exhaled. “If nothing else, this job has made me a great listener.”

“A great listener?”

A shadow flickered in front of them as Noir emerged from a dark pool on the ground, walking a few paces ahead before glancing over his shoulder. “Hm. You could have fooled me.”

“Well, I admit I struggle when it comes to pretentious demon cats,” Morrigan said.

“I am not a demon, and you are well aware of this fact,” Noir replied.

Emma smirked. “You two really do get along great.”

Noir’s tail flicked. “I think it’s more that we had no choice but to learn to co-exist.”

“So, I’m curious about something,” Emma said. “Noir, you technically… serve Death, right?”

“There is no ‘technically’ about it. Death is my master.”

“Right, and every reaper has their own voidling, right?”

“Indeed. I work with Morrigan for now because she is my master’s apprentice.”

Emma’s face lit up. “Right. So eventually, Morrigan will get her own voidling?”

Morrigan tilted her gaze up to the clouds as she thought about that. “Yeah… I guess I would, huh? I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Yes,” Noir confirmed. “When Master deems you ready, you’ll be assigned a voiding of your own, and you’ll be recognized as a full-fledged reaper in your own right.”

“Doesn’t really feel like I’m much of his apprentice, though,” Morrigan chuckled. “If anything it’s like I’m you’re apprentice.”

“Master is more involved than you may realize. I do report to him daily on your progress, and when he feels there is a need to intervene, he does so.”

“Wait… really?” Morrigan asked.

“Of course. Did you not assume as much?”

“Great, didn’t realize you were his informant,” she said dryly.

“So, what do you think Morrigan’s voidling will be like?” Emma asked, apparently more interested in getting back to this topic. “I hope he’s a little more fun than you.”

Noir bristled. “I’m sorry, but entertainment is not one of my purposes. So it is not my fault if I fail in that regard.”

“Hm, so do I get to pick one myself, or how does that work?” Morrigan asked.

“Generally, no, although there are cases when that can come to pass. Master chose me purposefully.”

“Oh yeah, he mentioned something about that,” Morrigan said. “Called you a troublemaker or something.”

“Yes, well, that was during a time when the lines between order and chaos were not so clearly defined. As a remnant of the Great Old Ones, I was merely following my nature and was not inclined to adhere to the new rules of order that were beginning to take shape in the world.”

“So… what was the world like before that?” Emma asked.

“I will say, the world changes greatly over time, but humans and living inhabitants remain more or less stay the same,” Noir said. “The same can be said for demons, gods, and even beings such as myself. The world shifts, but its inhabitants only change to the extent that they must adapt.”

“Is that really true, though?” Emma asked. “I mean, it seems to me that humans change a lot. A hundred years ago, most of us didn’t even have indoor plumbing.”

“That is technology and infrastructure you are thinking of. I am speaking of human nature—the core aspects of humanity that remain largely unchanged.”

“So…” Morrigan pondered for a moment. “From the perspective of a voidling, what exactly is human nature?”

“It is my observation that the nature of humans is to create.”

“Really?”

“Yes, though in times of war, you create ways to kill each other. In times of peace, you create works intended for entertainment. But this drive to create has always been at the heart of human nature.”

“You know, it’s not just about that, though,” Emma said. “We also create things for the sake of expressing ourselves, or to connect with others. Art, music, writing—all of it comes from something deeper than just war or entertainment.”

Noir’s tail flicked. “Perhaps it is the desire to leave something behind, to create something that outlasts you. In that sense, creation can be attributed to survival—another core human instinct. Humans are unique in that they are intelligent yet have such short lifespans. Most other mammals cannot fathom their own mortality the way you can.”

“I wonder if that’s why only humans can be reapers…” Morrigan mused. Then she thought about it for a moment and realized that was only an assumption. “Wait—only humans can become reapers, right?”

“Indeed,” Noir confirmed. “As I said, humans are extraordinarily unique among mortal beings.”

Emma checked her phone, then pointed ahead. “Looks like we’re almost there.”

Morrigan was curious to learn why exactly exclusively humans were made into reapers, but she figured that might be a question better presented to Death. For now, she had a job to do.

The suburban surroundings had gradually given way to sparser architecture and poorly maintained roads. Soon, the asylum came into view.

The building was old, and exactly what one might expect of a mental hospital—plain white, two stories high, devoid of color or warmth, with a fence enclosing it.

“Alright, Emma, I guess you should hang back for a bit. It’ll probably take me a while to get in there and find this guy.”

“Okay, sooo, uh… I guess I’ll just wait down the street?” she asked, pointing back the way they had come.

“Yeah, that sounds good. Come on, Noir.”

Morrigan moved ahead, scanning the fence for a particularly shadowy spot she could use to shadowstep through. Unfortunately, there weren’t any trees nearby, and since it was the middle of a bright summer day, there wasn’t much shade from the building either. That left her with just one option—the main entrance.

A guard shack stood beside a barricade, monitoring the entrance.

“So, what’s the best way to perception-block my way through here?” Morrigan asked. “It looks like only cars are going through, so I can’t just think of myself as someone walking by who belongs here.”

“I’d suggest a simpler approach,” Noir said. “Stick to the fence line and duck beneath the window as you pass. Imagine yourself as a passing shadow from a drifting cloud, and they will take no notice of your movement.”

“Huh. Okay, I guess that could work.”

Following his advice, Morrigan crept along the fence, activating her perception-blocking ability. She slipped past the guard shack without issue. The guard glanced up from his magazine for a split second but immediately looked back down, not registering her presence at all.

Now inside the fence, she crossed the parking lot. She noticed signs directing visitors to the main entrance—probably a decent way in—but then spotted a man in a white orderly uniform standing outside, smoking a cigarette.

She figured the staff area would give her fewer hurdles to overcome since they would be more focused on new people coming in than on people who already looked like they belonged.

As she approached, the orderly stubbed out his cigarette and turned toward the door.

“Pardon me,” Morrigan said casually as she followed behind him. He barely glanced at her but held the door open out of reflex.

“Long day, huh?” she added.

“Mmm, you know it,” he muttered, not giving her a second look before heading down the hall in the opposite direction.

Noir’s shadow flickered on the wall beside her. “You know you didn’t have to attempt small talk for it to work.”

“I know,” Morrigan said with a small grin. “I just get a kick out of how this perception-blocking stuff works. Feels kinda cool.”

“Just stay focused on the task. Your client’s death is near. John Larson is currently in session in one of the private consultation rooms. The incident will occur in approximately five minutes.”

Morrigan frowned. “Where exactly?”

“There’s a hallway to the right that leads to the therapy wing. The room in question is the third door on the left.”

Morrigan followed Noir’s directions until she reached the right room. An orderly stood outside the door, next to a keycard reader.

She pulled out her skeleton key, nodding at the orderly as she approached. He barely acknowledged her. As the key shifted into the shape of a card, she slid it through the reader. The device beeped, the lock clicked open, and she slipped inside.

She heard the soft murmuring and spotted two people sittingsat at a table—a doctor and a patient, the latter with his back turned to her.

“Noir,” she whispered, “the list said he’s going to be stabbed. Does that mean the patient is about to stab him?”

“Most likely, as I see no one else here.”

Morrigan nodded and moved to the corner of the room, pressing her back against the wall as she waited.

She hated that she was going to have to stand here and witness a murder. But, as she had told Emma earlier, she had to detach herself.

If she weren’t the reaper assigned to this case, someone else would be. Fate would play out as it would, and intervening would only cause trouble for herself.

“I’m not making this up,” the patient suddenly hissed, his voice sharp with frustration, causing Morrigan to pay closer attention.

The doctor remained calm, his expression placid. “The night staff tells me you haven’t been taking your medication. You’ve managed to spit it back out and hide it.”

The patient groaned, pressing his forehead to the table. Morrigan noticed his back heaving, as if he were suppressing a sob.

“Just listen to me,” he pleaded. “It’s magic—it’s a curse. I can’t fix it if I’m stuck here!”

Morrigan tilted her head.

Magic? A curse?

Granted, the guy could just be delusional, but… at the same time, it wasn’t impossible he was telling the truth. After all, she knew better than anyone that magic and curses were indeed real.

“The medicine won’t work if you don’t take it regularly,” the doctor continued. “It doesn’t fix things overnight, but over time—”

“Just shut up about the fucking medication!” the patient growled, his frustration breaking through as he softly hit his head against the table.

The doctor was silent for a moment. Then, in a voice laced with gentle disappointment, he said, “Oh, Frank, I do hate to see you like this. I wish you’d embrace the treatment.”

Morrigan’s breath hitched.

Frank?

No.

It couldn’t be…

That would be way too huge of a coincidence.

But now that she was looking closer, the patient had that same black hair, that same long, lanky body, and the voice… was it the same? She couldn’t tell.

She swallowed, her heartbeat suddenly hammering in her chest.

The Changeling stirred, becoming agitated.

No. It’s just a coincidence. Frank’s a common enough name—so…

“Frank, what will it take to make you understand your story isn’t possible."

“The only way…” His voice was thin, trembling with barely restrained desperation. “The only way is to get that witch to lift the curse.”

Witch!?

Morrigan’s breath caught.

Dr. Larson exhaled, adjusting his glasses as he studied Frank, his tone bored as if he heard this a thousand times. “Ah yes… this witch you’ve told us about. The one you say cursed you,” Dr. Larson continued, tapping his notepad with idle fingers. “It was for revenge because she was upset with you for involving her brother in this… incident you keep insisting happened.”

Frank’s breathing hitched. His hands trembled against the table, his nails scraping the worn surface. “It did happen.”

Dr. Larson’s expression remained placid, impassive. “You mean the girl. The one you claim you and Donny killed. Morrigan Livingston.”

Morrigan’s stomach dropped; she suddenly felt cold, with a tingle of anxiety crawling over every inch of her skin. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Could barely breathe.

Her name. He had said her name—it was him.

The Changeling thrashed inside her.

The boy who had stabbed her was sitting right there.

The boy who had killed her.

It was Frank.

READ NEXT CHAPTER NOW!
Chapter 132 - Killer Session