Chapter One

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"I am a good man..."

Ryder Tate: 

Ryder Tate wondered if he would ever enjoy ripping into someone else's skin, if he could smile as he listened to the beautiful sound of gurgled screams, and savor the feeling of warm, gushy blood on his palms. It could become a thrilling experience, a voice in his head whispered, if you give in. The victim's eyes dulled, letting out a small breath. Ryder unleashed a crooked grin. His hands sensed the warmth leave the man's limp body, while the voice in his head screamed. Just like that! The man is dead!

He lifted his bloody palms an inch away from his lips, indulging the metallic smell. Taste it! 

What?  Ryder quickly rejected the idea. This wasn't him. I'm a good man, I don't-

A good man doesn't kill, the slithering voice interrupted.

With that simple phrase, Ryder hesitated, and in that moment of hesitation, he saw what he really was: a beast. He had no palms or hands, but enormous claws. You're a part of the Guilt, dear Ryder. You're a soldier. Roaring, his fangs dug into flesh. 

Stop!  Ryder yelled, trying to commend his body to listen. I don't kill the Fallen! I help them!

He threw his head back with a laugh. Really? Then what are you doing now?

And then everything closed in on Ryder. He was consumed by a numb darkness, luring him into the lonely depths of his mind as his other half took over. 

"I am a good man," he told himself,  hugging his knees. After a while, he realized his shirt was soaked in his own blood. His hands lifted the hems of his shirt as he eyed the wound. It was deep, most probably caused by a sword. At this rate, he'd bleed to death. Would his other half die with him? Maybe it was the only solution, or maybe he was restraining it? 

"It's true." He chuckled bitterly. "I have no one, except my dying father." Ryder wasn't even sure he liked his father. All he wanted was his approval, and now, his father, bed-ridden, still refused to give it. Not because of Ryder's other half-only a handful of people knew about that-but because of his inability to be a good soldier. 

Good soldiers followed orders, never thought twice in a fight, and brought Fallen home for execution. And Ryder was a terrible soldier. He disobeyed, tried his best to neutralize the targets instead of harming them, and helped Fallen escape. His conscience let him breathe better by being a bad soldier, but his father never made it easy on him and his other half didn't seem to care. All it wanted was to kill, anything and anyone. It didn't matter who, be it Fallen or Risen. 

Nevertheless, Ryder tried not to care about his father's opinion often. He and his father had very different opinions, and yet, Ryder still wanted to make him proud. Perhaps it was because his father was the last relative he had, or perhaps because he was still his father, but-

Suddenly, he realized he couldn't feel the pain of the wound. This numbness wasn't real. If he forced himself to cross into consciousness, he'd see what he-it-was doing. What was the point of seeing it if he couldn't stop it? Why torture himself? He didn't want to acknowledge that this monster was a part of him.  

Even so, he couldn't give it a victory. No matter what it told him, Ryder would never enjoy killing, It might have the ability to control Ryder's body now, but he wouldn't let him win in his mind. He couldn't let that happen, no matter what. 

Taking a deep breath, he focused and tried to use his senses, all five of them. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he would be able to find something and hold unto it. But, he needed to clear his mind. Minutes passed by, soon turning into hours, twisting into days, and he swore he spend months waiting for any sign, until it finally happened. 

He heard screams. 

"'Vacuate!" Fallen ran around him, while some brave men stood their ground with swords in hand. 

A gurgled cough below him caught his attention, only to find a bleeding child squirming against his grasp. Bile threatened to rise in Ryder's throat, he could almost feel its bitter acid taste as he yelled, "Stop me! Please! Before I kill him! Please!"

But, no one heard him, except-

He's already dead, the voice whispered. Don't you like the sight of it all?  People running to safety, trying to fight you with trembling swords... Don't you love feeling this much power? 

I don't, Ryder thought, staring into the child's eyes. He knew it controlled his movements, and yet the next couple of words that fluttered out of his own mouth-echoed by his own thoughts-surprised him. 

"There is no 'it' here," he whispered with shaking hands. "This is all me."  


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