My whimper turned into a full sob as I dabbed the iodine into the bloody trench in my shoulder. I gasped, tears rolling down my face, sobbing and biting my lip, barely able to even look at it. My body was still trembling, even though I'd been home for nearly an hour now. I was in the bathroom, surrounded by bloody bandages and tissues, desperately trying to staunch the bleeding from the wound in my shoulder and the gash across my head.

  I had barely made it home without falling unconscious. Adrenaline and fear had robbed my body of its strength, and I'd tumbled limply through my window. It had taken every ounce of grit in my soul to not pass out on the floor again. I forced myself up. I had to take care of this wound before I bled out. White faced and sickly weak, it had taken five minutes of whimpering and muffled screaming to peel off my bloodied jacket and hoodie. It was only then that I realised I'd been shot twice. The second bullet had hit me in the gut, directly on one of the Beetle's carapace plates. The plate had held fast, and the bullet bounced off, leaving me with the horrible feeling that, without it, I could have been gut-shot and left to bleed in that alleyway like the cat had been.

  The near-death experience, combined with the pain and horror at the cat being killed trying to protect me, was almost too much for me, and I felt like I was on the edge of a full-blown panic attack. My breathing was quick and fast, and the edges of my vision were going dark. I just about managed to scramble to the bathroom before I vomited again, and now I was sitting precariously on the edge of the bathtub, tending to my wound and sobbing piteously. I didn't know if I needed stitches, but I definitely knew that turning up to any medical facility with a gunshot wound would raise questions. I could still hear sirens. As bad as the Boroughs were, gunshots at night were still not such a normal occurrence that there wouldn't be an investigation.

  I dabbed the wound, trying my best to clean it, gritting my teeth with tears running down my cheeks. The damn thing was still oozing dark crimson blood. I had run out of bandages after the numerous wounds I had suffered in my time as a vigilante, so I had been reduced to tearing a bed sheet with my teeth and using that. I squirted antiseptic cream into the wound and then cried out as it felt like someone had poured shards of glass into it. Once the pain had passed enough for my brain to kick back in, I squeezed the wound shut and bound it with ragged sheets of bedding. Once I was done, I took a deep breath, trying to find my equilibrium, my knuckles white around the rim of the bloody tub.

  Now I had to deal with the head wound. That was even trickier. The chain had caused a decent sized laceration, but it had also badly bruised all the skin around the wound and on my ear. The whole area was so tender I almost felt like just letting it bleed. I didn’t know if I could handle anymore pain. I lurched up and stared at my reflection in the mirror, clinging tightly to the sink to keep myself upright. I cleaned the wound as best I could, washing blood out of my hair until the sink was stained red. Some more antiseptic cream, more cries of anguish, and a few strips of bedding, and that was all I could stand.

  I looked at my reflection again. I looked deathly pale, and even skinnier somehow. There were deep, dark bags under my eyes, and my cheekbones protruded through my flesh.

  “Huh, walking dead,’ I muttered to my reflection with a grim, blood flecked smile.

  I limped back into my room. I was shaky and unsteady on my feet, and my head was spinning. I collapsed onto my bed, fresh sobs wracking my body, and I curled into a fetal position, tears running down my face as I thought about how close I'd come to dying again. Of course, the Syndicate wasn't just going to let me rob them and disrupt their operations. What kind of fool was I to think I could take on a damn criminal organization with just a slingshot and some cobbled-together spells on my Grandad's bat?

  I'd already been stabbed and almost killed once. Now I’d been shot. How many times could I skate death before my luck ran out? Even a cat only had 9 lives, how many did a teenage vigilante have?

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  I thought back to last night bitterly. I’d already broken the gang and taken their stash, why did I have to go after that bald headed thug? For the money? No, that wasn’t it. It was ego. I couldn’t let a single one escape without facing my justice and that almost got me killed. It should have got me killed. How many more nights could I escape death by the skin of my teeth? How many more times could I go up against these villains and not end up dead? The thought of dying seemed almost too big to comprehend, but now, sitting here with my entire body shaking and bleeding, it was the only thing I could think of. Finally, my exhausted mind drifted into a disturbed sleep… and the whispers began again.

  I was back on the rooftops, running hard, breathless, but never getting closer to the edge. I looked down, and saw I was still in my pyjamas, no Runes, no weapons, no armour. I was just a scared boy running for his life.

  The whispers were maddening. They came from everywhere in a thousand different voices. What were they saying? Where were they? What did they want? The sun rose and fell a dozen times as I ran. Stars shone above me. Clouds flew by like white winged birds. And the whispers grew louder. More frenetic. Angrier. I tried to scream but only a strangled gasp escaped my throat.

  The sky darkened and lightened in a frenzy of colours. The whispers had reached fever pitch. Suddenly the edge of the building came upon me. I couldn’t stop. I opened my mouth to scream and then I plummeted off the edge.

  But I wasn’t falling. I stood in inky darkness. I looked down at my bare feet and saw ripples of water around them. In the distance stood a single dead tree. Its white branches clawed at the black sky, stark and brittle. Sitting under the tree, leaning against its desiccated bark, was that thing. The black silhouette I had seen in the cinema. It turned its eyeless face towards me, its face split into a broad white toothed smile. It had teeth like tombstones that gleamed in the darkness.

  The thing chuckled, low and guttural, like stone grinding against bone. The sound vibrated through the empty space, and I could feel it in my chest, burrowing into my heart.

  “Still chasing, child?” it said, its voice a husky whisper that somehow echoed. It rose to its feet, unfolding like smoke being drawn against the wind, impossibly tall and wrong. “Chasing shadows. Chasing power. Chasing what you think will make you whole.”

  I tried to speak but the words stuck in my throat. Terror froze me in place. It tilted its head in amusement.

  “You think you’re choosing the path,” it said, taking a slow step forward, ripples forming in the water around its feet. “But the path has chosen you and it is not a kind master. You will take and it will take from you in return.” The apparition extended one long, thin hand, its fingers curling like dead vines. “Tell me, seeker: will you take justice at any cost? On this path is the power to do all you wish. When the power has hollowed you out and left you screaming in its dark embrace, will you still call it justice?” Its grin widened impossibly, and its voice softened, becoming almost tender. “You will always come back… for you have been seen.”

  The silhouette grew engorged, its limbs distending, the black void of its being surrounded me. I tried to scream and it poured into my mouth. The last thing I saw was that white toothed smile.

  I awoke screaming, drenched in sweat and blood. I clawed at the sheets in my panic. My chest heaved and my heart hammered so hard in my chest it hurt. Weak sunlight poured into the room and a soft rain tapped on the glass. I swallowed and tasted blood.

  It was just a dream… just a nightmare.

  At some point in the night, I must have been thrashing around and torn off my bandage, my shoulder wound had oozed all over my sheets and my bed. I groaned as the pain spread from my shoulder across my chest and back. Gingerly, I held my arm to my body, the sharp reality of pain brought a welcome relief from my nightmares.

  I buried my face in my hands. What the hell was that? I took a couple of shuddering breaths, still feeling on the edge of panic. I felt the bandages in my hair: they too were wet with blood. I wiped a hand across my face and forced myself out of bed. My WristPod was blinking, and if it wasn't for the red warning light on the display, I probably would have just ignored it. But I recognised that warning; it was a police alert.

  I hastily brushed the sleep out of my eyes with my one good arm and reached for the pod. I tapped the display and saw that an all-Borough alert had been put out by the police. Blearily, I scrolled down and read the headline.

  Bullets fly through baby’s bedroom: 1 Arrested in Shooting on Mulberry Estate.

  Baby’s bedroom?

  What?