If Mikel were to describe the feeling of feeding the Blood Chain, it wasn't just satisfaction—it was relief.
A terrible, all-consuming relief.
As the Chain fed on the ghost, the crushing weight in his chest lifted, but only for a moment. The aftermath hit harder—disbelief, shock, and a numbing horror at what he'd done… and worse, how he was already trying to justify it.
Telling himself the ghost was already dead. He, on the other hand, still had his. His decision was necessary.
But it felt like a punch to the gut all the same.
Because of that, sleep never came. Even after he nearly collapsed back at the cafe, his eyes stayed open, haunted not only by what he had done but also by the terrifying reminder of just how thin the line was between control and submission.
A brutal reminder that neither the Blood Chain nor Doom was merciful. And if he ever gave them the slightest opening… they would take everything.
*
*
*
The visit to the public bath wasn't a daily necessity for him—especially with how much the ongoing renovations drained his energy. Worse, the Blood Chain had been quietly feeding on him, stealing little sips of his strength and doubling his fatigue.
Today, however, it became a priority.
Mikel scrubbed off the ink on his arms, trying to get rid of them. Or at least, make them fade even just a little ahead of time.
[The ghosts aren't as satisfactory, but several of them would be enough to sate the Blood Chain's hunger. Temporarily.]
He paused and glared at the screen, as if Doom had chosen this moment to toy with his fraying sanity.
[I have given you plenty of warnings, Master. You must never ignore them.]
The screen moved in his line of sight, knowing Mikel was giving him the cold shoulder. The screen's sudden shift stopped Mikel, making the latter huff.
"Last night is a lesson I won't forget, Doom," he muttered through clenched teeth. "But I'm not about to feed it just any ghost wandering around."
[Mercy is wasted on the forgotten, Master.]
"But not all of them deserve to be eaten. They're not even—" Mikel bit his tongue, disgusted by the words trying to crawl out of his mouth.
Was I really about to say normal ghosts are like junk food?
Dragging his hands down his face, he let out an exhausted breath. "Just… leave me alone for now. I'll figure it out."
Because if he didn't… the next soul the Blood Chain would devour would be him, and there was no doubt about that.
And deep down, a darker thought whispered at the back of his mind: maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.
When Mikel was about to finish bathing, a few people had already come in for the same purpose. He'd arrived before the bathhouse even opened—first in, but obviously not the first to leave.
"Damn it!" he hissed, glaring at his reddened skin, but the markings stubbornly remained.
[It was useless. The ink they used on you isn't ordinary. It is meant to protect you from the bigger threat for a period of time.]
And Mikel knew that, but how else would he get hunted unless these markings disappear or fade?
Groaning, he pressed his wet hair back and leaned against the cool tiles. He was already halfway to catching a cold; any more scrubbing and he'd just peel his skin off before the ink even budged.
Looking up, another defeated sigh escaped him. He was out of words, out of thoughts, and exhausted but unable to relax even for a second. Not when the greatest threat right now wasn't any Nightbound or Blighted… but the cursed things with him—and the one already inside him.
****
After the long idle in the bathhouse, Mikel relented and went back to his small cubicle in the cafe shop. Eventually, he crashed onto the makeshift bed to regain whatever strength sleep could offer.
By the time he opened his eyes, it was evening again.
When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the wall, just half an arm's reach away. Unlike the usual, where Doom would wake him up with booming music in his head, there was only silence.
Mikel lifted his arm to check the markings, and as expected, they were still there.
"Damn," he breathed out, closing his eyes once more to gather himself.
Once his eyes opened again, he languidly sat up on the makeshift bed out of the gaming chair provided when he rented this cubicle. His gaze fell on the bracelet on his arm, feeling it pulse faintly like a greeting. Yet, the Blood Chain didn't fail to let him know its hunger was still present.
"You don't have to keep reminding me of your damn meal every time; I know," he groaned, reaching out for the Book of the Dead on the desk.
Mikel flipped through the pages, catching more irrelevant writings; notes from the minor affairs he'd been settling for the weaker ghosts. After all, in the ghost world, the types he had hired weren't only weaker in the day, but their physical disturbance weakened the more they used it. Besides, these ghosts lacked the drive—or didn't even realize—that great malevolence was power.
Hence, the reason for the continuous recruitment.
It also explained the entire page of irrelevant stories in this damn ancient book that never failed to express its disbelief at Mikel's "blasphemy" by producing different pungent scents that could twist his gut.
But after what happened last night, complacency was a luxury he could no longer afford. Not when what happened last night happened.
Mikel had a side quest to do, and he wouldn't take any risk anymore. Blood Chain. Book of the Dead. Doom. He needed to regain control—before one of them took it from him.
[Curse Trigger:
Blood calls. Wrath unfed. Awaken the binding thread.]
[Spirit Purification:
By the breath of mercy and the still silence, rest where no chains remain.]
Mikel whispered the chants under his breath, reading them over and over. Vague as they were, experience had taught him how to make out their meaning and their power.
Nodding in understanding, he slapped the book shut and tossed it in the air without care.
"Take slot," he muttered, and the space where the book was tossed opened, swallowing it whole.
At the same time, the translucent screen hovered before him.
[All the best, Master.]
Another shallow sigh escaped Mikel, but his silence was enough response. No word needed to be said.
****
Dusk approached for the seventh night.
When Mikel arrived at the renovation site, the ghosts were already working, led by the ghost engineer, Arthur, and Arthur's daughter.
His steps slowed, glancing at the line forming outside the broken entrance, then at the ghost at work.
Arthur, who was busy assisting some ghosts, turned to Mikel.
"Mikel!" he called out, politely excusing himself from the ghost workers before jogging to Mikel's vantage point. As soon as he stopped, his eyes scanned Mikel from head to toe, worry evident in his eyes.
"Mikel, are you alright?" he asked. "Yesterday, you just left, and I was a bit worried about what happened."
Guilt burned at the back of Mikel's throat, but he forced a smile anyway. "I was exhausted, so I ended up crashing at the cafe."
"..." Arthur furrowed his brows, uncertain whether to believe that or not. He hadn't just imagined the look in Mikel's eyes yesterday. He knew it was something far heavier than simple exhaustion.
"By the way, I'll handle the recruitment," Mikel's voice pulled Arthur out of his thoughts. "I'll do it alone, so you can focus on helping the others with the renovation."
"You're going to handle it alone?"
Mikel nodded. "Don't worry about it," he said, his smile as thin as the reassurance behind it. "I'll be taking a rest from physical work, so… I'll handle it" —with care and discretion.
Arthur studied him before he nodded, confusion still evident on his face.
He smiled faintly, "If you say so, you're the boss. Besides, this is hard labor even for ghosts, let alone the living."
But there was another reason for Mikel's choice—one Arthur would never know. And perhaps… it was better that way.