It shouldn’t impact them as much as it did. The number of the people who died by their hand—or knife—was counted in hundreds, yet still, it haunted them. Every single time. Seeing light extinguish in the eyes of another person tore apart at their soul, clawing at it like a wild animal caught in a trap. Ripping it apart, taking away bits of it every single time.
They didn’t know if they had a soul anymore. They supposed they had to, since guilt gnawed at their conscience whenever their thoughts were not busy.
If they had no soul, would they be able to be haunted by the ghosts of their victims? Would they feel so hollow, so cold inside?
They just felt so… “Zero.” Empty. “Zero, where is your mind right now?” Will my hands ever be clean, will they always be stained by blood? “Zero, I am going to touch your hands now.” Who would dare to touch a person—no, a monster—that took so many lives, and destroyed even more?
Cold fingers traced shapes onto their skin. “What am I drawing, Zero?”
“A circle,” they croaked out. It sounded so strained, so pained. Tears stabbed at their eyes. The fingers moved again. “A triangle.” Nothing but ghostly touches, as delicate as a butterfly’s wing. “A square.” They could slowly breathe again. Arctic blue eyes stared back at them, piercing and cold.
“What color is my sweater?” Moving their gaze away from those eyes took more effort than snapping the neck of a mercenary.
“Brown, like the coffee with milk.” Three’s lips twitched in a shadow of a smile. “I’m fine, Three.” They hated how exhausted and defeated they sounded.
“It would be better for all of us if you were a better liar,” Three’s comment made them drop their gaze to the ground. “Four blue things around us?”
“The sky, the car, your eyes.”
“That’s three.”
“You have two eyes.”
“Okay, smartass.”
