<span style="font-style: italic">Kristoff Adler</span><br/><span style="text-decoration: underline"><span style="font-weight: bold">One week before the gathering at the Church</span></span><br/><br/>Kristoff Adler had only been out of Germany once in his thirty-two years of life.<br/><br/>When he was younger, barely a man, his father had taken him on a hunting trip to the game rich lands of Africa. Despite it being barely over a decade ago, he remembered little of the trip save for bits and pieces, tidbits of memories bleached by a blistering sun in the dry savanna. He could recall the desolate landscape had been harsh and unforgiving, leaving only the hardiest of man and beast to carve out a home in the sun-scorched lands. The bones of the dead were nearly as common as sightings of the living; white spires of rib cages and skulls a stark contrast to the otherwise dull, constant beige around them. He’d been bored for the most part, lost in his thoughts of a girl far away, and paid fleeting attention to the entire endeavor. Perhaps that was why he remembered so little.<br/><br/>That being said, one memory in particular had seized this moment to stand out above the rest. Once, on a routine scouting of the area surrounding their camp, their indigenous guides had stumbled by a group of hunters from  one of the more notably aggressive tribes, wounded and retreating from an unknown assailant. His father’s guides had assured them at this point that they were of little threat to the hunting party and would avoid violence, but should follow in case relocating the camp became an attractive option. As Adler and his father had followed them, they quickly became aware that a third party had become involved, and the sight was something that had kept him awake for nights to follow. Before he’d agreed to come on the hunting trip to Africa, Kristoff had done his fair share of research, curious as to what exactly they would see on their hunt. Lions, as he discovered, were a common predator of the plains and often considered one of the more prevalent natural threats to travelers and native species alike. He’d learned in his reading, albeit to some disappointment, that the males did little of their own hunting and often relied on the females of their prides to bring them food.  He’d often thought of the lion as a noble beast, the symbol of royal sovereignty for his people; to find that they were essentially natures freeloader, content to spend their days lazing about and scavenging had been disparaging.<br/><br/>That day, however, he’d learned that there was far more to learn in the world than what he was able to read in a book.<br/><br/>A lone male, old and grizzled with far too many scars on his muzzle, had been stalking the wounded hunters alongside Adler and their expedition. The great cat had seen his fair share of fights and he distinctly remembered it was missing several chunks out of one ear and the tail was shaved several inches short. While their group had taken to the high ground, their guides keeping to the shadows and darting from cover to cover, the lion had wasted little effort on such subtlety and followed with a confidence bordering on the arrogant. He always kept his pace, padding several yards behind them; the wounded men would attempt to struggle forward, quickening their steps, and the lion in turn would maintain a comfortable and leisurely gait, content merely to keep them in sight. But as the sun rose higher in the sky, beating down in full force, there was a sudden shift in the balance of their movements. The wounds and the heat had proved too much for one of the men to bear. He'd faltered only for a brief second, but in that moment, the lion had struck with a ferocity Adler hadn't seen matched to this day. What had once been a lazy and comfortable jaunt for the predator turned into a beautiful, spectacular show of grace and power; a blur of color against the bland landscape, the flashing of white fangs – and a roar. The roar had been terrifying and exhilarating on several different levels; before the men could even react, the old male had bowled their wounded companion over and out of their hands, knocking them aside with a heft of heavy paws and that thunderous, powerful cry. The fallen hunter never even had time to scream before vice-like jaws clamped down on his throat, ending his life almost instantly. Those who had carried him forward now abandoned the dead man, fleeing as fast as their own wounds would allow them, the great beast content with his prize.<br/><br/>Now Adler was that wounded hunter.<br/><br/>His nightmare had begun the moment he’d woken up for his nightly guard shift, a typically pointless endeavor that many of the men often skipped if they could manage to sneak it. The prisoners here, the Jews, vagrants, gypsies, homosexuals – they’d given up, for the most part. In the beginning, few had tried to escape as they believed as long as they worked; they would be free to return to their homes. As time had passed they became aware that it was a gilded lie, and Doctor Dreschner ensured that the only way they stopped working was at the bottom of a mass grave. The night shifts then had been necessary, families often attempted to escape, some of them even receiving help from the outside world beyond the internment camp.  Now? There hadn't been an escape attempt in months, their hope all wilting like a flower in midwinter. Still, he’d risen and dressed for duty, prepared to do his increasingly dull part for the Fatherland. When he’d woken up, he’d noticed then that room was somewhat darker, the lights more dim than usual<br/><br/>He’d written it off as nothing and left his bunk to begin his shift – and then something whispered in his ear. The words were a language he didn't understand, something so soft he’d barely been able to discern it. Again, Adler chose to ignore it. The air around him had felt more thick than usual, the shadows more cloying and the halls dark and foreboding. He hadn't been able to place it at the time, but he realized now that the air around him had felt sick. The walls more pallid, the flaws and cracks in the structure around him more blindingly apparent as though every weakness, every imperfection had been magnified ten-fold.<br/><br/>Then the lights had begun to shut off.<br/><br/>One by one, they fizzled and burned out. Some popped and shattered in the distance, others merely faded quietly as though they’d been smothered by an unseen hand. He’d called out for help then, some primal fear creeping up the back of his neck and making the small hairs stand on end, but there had been no answer. He was alone. That fear, that very base fear, of being alone in the dark had been more than enough to send him on a dizzying charge down the halls as the whispers returned to his ear, a sibilant hiss that poured jumbled words and sounds into his mind, confusing and frightening him further. Once he’d reached his lowest, his legs giving way and the warmth of fresh piss trickling down his legs, once he was at his most vulnerable; that was when the shadow came.<br/><br/>The shadow, like the lion, was all around him in plain sight. It lazily ebbed and flowed about him like the coming and going of the tide, undaunted by the concept of a veritable fortress filled with armed German soldiers. Their numbers didn’t matter to it. It knew, on some psychological level, that he was wounded, his morale caving with the pound of every panicked step, the desperate cries that strangled themselves in his throat unable to find the air to call for help. Sweat and urine stained his uniform as he haphazardly threw himself down the halls of the compound, his legs weak and his lungs burning from the exertion. He’d been running for what felt like<span style="font-style: italic">hours</span>but some part of him<span style="font-style: italic">knew</span>that it had only been minutes.  Every door had been locked, each turn towards and exit drowned in a darkness that nipped at his heels like a sheep dog, herding him deeper and deeper into the bowels of the compound. What little sanity he was struggling to hold onto was starting to slip away, his legs crying out to give way beneath him, to surrender to the shadow that lazily crawled behind him like a serpent waiting for poison to overtake its victim before striking.<br/><br/>A door creaked to his left, a faint light licking the ground at his feet and without thinking, he threw himself into the entryway and slammed the door behind him, twisting the lock as he did so. His hands flailed about himself to feel the surrounding walls, his eyes unwilling to leave the dark crack at the bottom of the door. Without thinking he struggled out of the confines of his uniform shirt, diving to the floor and shoving it against the bottom of the metal frame, filling the length of crevice with the damp fabric. Painful seconds turned to agonizing minutes that receded into doubt-filled hours as the world seemed to return to normal, the whispers having faded the moment he entered the well-lit room, the pounding of his heart in his chest reducing to less feverish levels. It wasn’t until he nearly collapsed against the wall with relief that he realized he’d found his way into the bathroom, the grime and filth on the floor a welcome sight compared to the diseased halls he’d ran through. The sigh of panicked relief that slipped past his lips almost turned to a sob, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes unbidden.<br/><br/>Had he gone insane? Was he losing his mind? Kristoff rose, dragging his body up to the basin of the bathroom’s metal sink and turning the nozzle to release a stream of frigid, refreshing water. He paused to look at his reflection in the mirror, taking in the full scope of how tired and haggard he appeared to be. His usual composure had all but faded, a calloused hand smoothing dusty blonde locks of hair backwards into a more professional manner. Dark, heavy circles hung beneath his eyes like bags of sand, the tears having stained his face with streaks of dirt. He was filthy, disheveled, and still very frightened. He drove his hands into the basin, gathering some of the cold water into his hands and splashing it onto his face, the shock of it a welcome and familiar pain.<br/><br/>It was only when he drug his hands down his face in welcome relief that he saw a small cut near the corner of his eye, something dark lodged near the surface. Leaning forward he prodded it with a cautious fingernail, searching for any lump or indentation; when nothing surfaced, he picked at it lightly, pulling gently at the skin. A small trickle of fluid, something akin to watered down ink began to seep from the cut, and quickly he dabbed at it with a towel resting on the edge of the sink. Once it ceased, he returned the wound, his pulse rising rapidly. Something moved just beneath the surface, and in a panic, he pulled at the tattered flesh. To his horror, like the flaking paint of a dilapidated house, his flesh peeled back and fell away to release a fountain of black gore that ran down his face like rain on glass. His dull, pathetic whimper turned to a horrid cry as he attempted to pull back from the sink; only to watch with mounting horror as his reflection remained in place, the inky liquid pouring from his eyes in full force. The mouth of his reflection tried to scream with him, but only yawned wider and vomited forth the liquid shadow, spilling it endlessly into the basin before him.<br/><br/>“No!” Adler screamed, pleading, begging as tears streamed down his face. He clawed at his face and chest like an animal, the fear overrunning every instinct, every rational thought in his broken mind. “No! No!<span style="font-style: italic">No!</span>” He backed away, cowering, his body beginning to bow into the fetal position. “This isn’t happening;<span style="font-style: italic">THIS ISN’T REAL!</span>” He shrieked, a cornered rat lashing out at his predator. With a balled fist he swung, striking the mirror as hard as he could; the world exploding into pain and the sound of shattering glass –<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>* 		 *		   *<br/><br/><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Esther Bachstetter</span><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="text-decoration: underline">12 Hours earlier, the same day.</span></span><br/><br/><br/><br/>"You're late."<br/><br/>The words drew ice in her veins. It was little more than a stated fact, one that held no edge or bite, but a simple note of the time - and the lack of her punctuality. The accent that colored those words, however, caused panicked hazel eyes to flit nervously between the faces that filled the diner around them.<br/><br/>"English?" She whispered in her own native tongue, the words sharp but hushed in an effort to avoid drawing attention to their budding conversation. "You don't speak German?" There was a moment of silence between them, the brief tension palpable and thick. Finally, he smiled, and the sight drew shivers down her spine. It was the kind of grin that she imagined a shark gave before tearing into unsuspecting prey, the waters boiling over with blood. The flash of white teeth unnerved her, only serving to exacerbate the sudden sinking panic that clawed at her stomach.<br/><br/>"Relax," He replied, his voice smooth and clear. Although his words were level, they cut easily through the chatter that surrounded them, drowning out the hustle and bustle of family breakfasts. He wasn't loud, so much as his voice was...vast, a gravel touched whisper that held all the presence of the booming roll of summer thunder. He extended a well-manicured hand towards the seat across from him, gesturing for her to sit where a warm cup of coffee already waited for her. "They hear what I want them to hear. I can assure you, my dear, that I wouldn't have requested you meet me in such a venue if I didn't have the situation under control."<br/><br/>She didn't doubt him, but he had done little to reassure her. Once more she felt her skin crawl unbidden, but she forced down the gnawing doubt, the primal fear that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end in protest. Instead she nodded, nervously glancing about once more before sliding into the booth opposite of her host. There was something surreal about it, being in the diner, being in public. Seeing the busy faces, the clatter of dishes and the cheerful, boisterous laughter that danced through the air around them. It was as though nothing had changed, as though Germany was still the same country she'd always known and loved. The life, the love, the laughter here. It was a stark contrast to the muted, bloody reality that she lived with every day. Here, in this diner, her people weren't being exterminated like vermin. Here, in this diner, she hadn't lost a husband and her son. Here, in this diner, they lived happily.<br/><br/>She<span style="font-style: italic">hated</span>them for it.<br/><br/>"I trust you have it?"<br/><br/>She glanced over him once before quickly averting her gaze and nodding, removing a small spotted handkerchief from the pocket of her coat and sliding it across the table towards him. He would've been attractive, perhaps, if she hadn't known what he truly was. He appeared to be an adult male in his late thirties, possibly early forties. He was tall, she could tell that much even while he was sitting down, the long reach of his arms easily closing the distance between them and gingerly removing the folded cloth from beneath her own worn, thin fingers. He filled out his height well, but lean features and sharp cheekbones gave him a wolfish appearance, gray-brown stubble peppering a strong jawline. Well-groomed copper toned hair just beginning to show traces of silver was parted in a professional manner, cropped short on the sides and maintained in a meticulous fashion. Here, in one of the poorest districts of town, he wore a suit and tie with a matching watch that likely had a price tag valued at more than the entire diner. He'd removed the charcoal grey coat, placing it over the back of the booth he sat in, exposing the matching vest and strikingly white shirt beneath, striped tie pulled tightly about his throat like a noose. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, then his had long since frosted over in an endless winter, his chilled blue gaze lingering on the cloth she'd forfeited to him. Aesthetically he was pleasing, but there was no warmth to this man, no life. The air in the booth was frigid by comparison to the warm spring day that peeked through the busy diner windows; even the room around them seemed to suffer from his presence, as through the already weak lighting struggled against his shadow.<br/><br/>From the handkerchief, the cloth faded and worn, he removed a coin. He held it with more reverence than she would have thought him capable of, almost loving in his approach. It was a gentle act for something so old and battered, hardly anything that even gave the appearance of being worth such adoration. Whatever value it had once held had long been shorn off with time, the silver tarnished and blackened, dents and scores marking the surface in such abundance that is was impossible to discern the origin. One side of the coin had been broken off, now a jagged edge that resembled the teeth of a serrated blade. On that edge, blood had been drawn.<br/><br/>Her blood.<br/><br/>She absently drew a calloused thumb across the ugly scab on her wrist before pulling down the length of her sleeve to hide it. "Do you have any idea how valuable this is?" He asked, rolling the coin between his fingers. She didn't respond, but her silence didn't seem to bother him. "They're priceless," He continued. "Several of your civilizations rose and fell before I was able to find them all, the collection centuries in the making. Now they're worn down, of course, scarred and bloodied - but just one of the thirty could bring your economy to its knees." Centuries, he'd said. She fought back another chill. "Naturally, they serve a different purpose now; as much a part of me, as I am them." With a subtle flick of his wrist he spun the coin to the ground, allowing it to roll across the littered floor, through dirt and debris until it was lost out of sight. The confusion on her face must've been obvious because he smiled again, tilting his head forward in a short nod of acknowledgement. "One by one, they all find their way back; as you well know."<br/><br/>She did know. In times of strife and fear, rumors were quick to fly. Whispers dismissed as insanity fed on desperation, a parasite that gorged itself on doubt and suffering, preying on those with nowhere else to turn. She'd heard hundreds of similar stories before finding the coin, artifacts and relics that offered protection if used correctly. When the German forces had descended upon the Jews, she'd turned to prayer and faith, believing that God would once again protect his chosen as he had in times before. For a time, it seemed to work, but as the...the extermination escalated, their lives changed. They didn't leave the house unless absolutely necessary, the fear of discovery a looming and impending threat that colored every conversation, haunted each of her dreams.<br/><br/>Still, faith and prayer prevailed. They were able to avoid not just the first and second purges, but a third - each time the searches becoming more invasive, the probing more violent and aggressive. It wasn't until the fourth that she lost her husband and son. It'd had been their son’s birthday, a tradition they often celebrated by coming to this very diner - a tradition that had put them in the public eye and lead to their arrest. Word had reached her quickly, and in desperation, she'd fled their home. For months, she'd lived as either a vagrant or refugee, constantly shifting between safe homes and the sewers. That was until, of course, she'd found the coin. The families that often housed Jews had little to offer, and she'd thought to use the silver to pay for food, perhaps some blankets. The whispers had urged her in another direction. The coin, they said, had the power to save not just her - but her family. There was a price, however, and it was steep. More than that, this contract was not one that could be written with pad and ink. This was one that could only be signed in blood.<br/><br/>"Now then," The man motioned a hand towards her, taking his coffee in the other and sipping at the cup. "I believe you and I have business to attend to, do we not?”<br/><br/>Her mouth was suddenly dry, tongue ineffectively attempting to wet chapped lips.<br/><br/>"Take a drink, dear. We have plenty of time, I assure you."<br/><br/>She did as he suggested, taking her own cup of coffee and drinking deep of the warm liquid. It burned, but in a soothing fashion. Faith and prayer had failed her; this was all that was left. "I...I want my family back." She whispered. He inclined his head in a curious fashion, as though he'd failed to hear her correctly. "I want my family back." She repeated, this time with more confidence. "I want them back, and I want them safe. I want...I want all of us to be safe."<br/><br/>"I see," He mused, steeping long fingers together. "By your family, I assume you mean your child and your husband. While you do have something I want, you'll find me hard pressed to save the entire Bachstetter bloodline."<br/><br/>She felt tears well up in her eyes and she had to set the coffee down once her hands began shaking. She didn't bother asking how he knew, as she'd long since accepted the position that she was in. "A-re they alive? Can you tell me that much?"<br/><br/>His eyes remained on her, devoid of emotion, as though considering his options. "They are," He conceded. "But I cannot say how long that will remain true."<br/><br/>Truth.<br/><br/>"How do I know you're not lying?"<br/><br/>"Because I have no reason to lie to you, my dear, and quite frankly - you're not worth the effort;" He responded with a light roll of his shoulders, unwounded by her pointed question. He leaned forward, and for the first time in their meeting, some real emotion crossed his features. Sympathy of one form or another, an understanding that somehow lessened the sting of his words. "The life of your family, in the grand scheme of things, is in your hands. I could lie to you; tell you that your sacrifice will ultimately be rewarded, and that your good intentions will outweigh the consequence of your decisions."<br/><br/>"The truth, however, is that your intentions aren’t worth the grime beneath this table. Your kind, and honestly many of my brethren, share this flawed belief. When it comes time, you'll weave your tragedy and write your sob story, painting the portrait of the victim you wish that you were in the desperate hope that someone, anyone, will mistake you for just that -a victim. Sadly, in the end, my dear, we all have freedom of choice; but freedom of choice, and freedom from consequence are two entirely different things. Unfortunately for you," He lifted the cup of coffee from the table and took another sip from it. "Your kind has been choosing to butcher and kill one another since you invented God to forgive you for doing it."<br/><br/>"You claim God doesn’t exist?"<br/><br/>"Hardly, love; that would be blasphemy. He exists, just not the one you pray to," He continued without further preamble, as though he'd had this conversation hundreds of times before. "God once washed the world clean because he didn't like how you were acting. He destroyed two cities and turned a man’s wife to salt simply because she disobeyed. He's turned rivers to blood, starved civilizations, and slaughtered the first born of entire nation. My father was this universes first mass murderer, and he created you in his image - honestly, how could you expect to be any different?"<br/><br/>She was stunned into silence, unable to respond.<br/><br/>"Sympathy for the Devil," He finished. "Is beneath me. I am that I am. You asked for an Angel," He offered. "And ye have received."<br/>The lump in her throat was difficult to remove, the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears like the vicious beat of a tribal drum. "What are the terms?" She managed to breathe out, her voice hoarse.<br/><br/>"Ten years. You get ten years of guaranteed life, protected from the forces of time, entropy and death. This, of course, extends to your mate and spawn, free of charge to their own person," He paused, allowing the weight of his offer to sink in. "During this time, your family also won't be recognized as Jews. You still will be, of course, I'm not going to change your physical appearance or that hovel you live in - people simply won't realize it. You get ten, long, healthy years - and at the end of that lovely decade, I'll come to collect your soul."<br/><br/>Her soul. This was no secret, the price well known to her. That being said, knowing and hearing were different, and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe. This was her eternal soul, the very core of her being, and she was offering it in a deal that would drag it straight into the depths of Hell. Her family was her heart though, and what good was a soul without that? What use was the core of her being if it was hollow and rotted by the pain of loss, the poison of doubt? She'd already lost her faith; did she really need to lose her child and love, too?<br/><br/>No.<br/><br/>She needed more, though.<br/><br/>"I...I have conditions, though."<br/><br/>"Conditions? I'm not some second rate demon you can bully, darling, you didn't pick up my card off the ground and find Lucky Lucifer's Auto sales," The room dimmed further as he spoke, as if shrinking from away from his words. "I am the<span style="font-style: italic">King</span>of the Crossroads, and the rules are set. You may accept or decline, but the terms are non-negotiable. I'm already extending my protection to cover you and your loved ones, so I wouldn't recommend pushing your end of the arrangement, my dear.”<br/><br/>"Five years."<br/><br/>He hesitated, but even she could tell the sudden interest on his face. Any initial offense he may have taken seemed to vanish, instantly replaced by curiosity.<br/><br/>"Five years, instead of ten, and you can collect my...you can collect."<br/><br/>"In exchange for?"<br/><br/>"I know where my husband and child are; I also know two other men are in the same camp, but not as prisoners. One of the guards, Kristoff Adler, was a family friend of ours. I feared that he would turn us in, but my husband insisted that they were like brothers, that he would never...that he could never do that to us," She struggled to contain her anger, but it colored every word, biting between each breath. "When my husband and son left for this diner, he was the one who fingered them out to the authorities; I know this because I saw him leading the very same men to our house as I fled."<br/><br/>He remained impassive, silent as she spoke, but nodded for her to continue.<br/><br/>"The second is 'Doctor' Sebastian Dreschner, his very name strikes fear into the hearts of my people," She paused to swallow down her hatred, clasping her hands together to stop them from shaking. "There are many who are credited with the suffering of my people, but he was one of the first who began separating us into groups, males and females, age groups, and the like. He wished to see the effect such separation would cause to our numbers, to study the ‘pain of our loss’ as we were pulled apart emotionally before he ordered it to be done physically. He is...a monster. They both are. I want them dead."<br/><br/>"Sensible," He conceded. "Agreeable; perhaps. I suppose you have a time in mind for their deaths?”<br/><br/>"Handle Adler as soon as you can get to him, but I want the Doctor to die in the same night you retrieve my family; and I want proof of his death."<br/><br/>“I accept your terms,” He mused, slowly extending his hand towards her. “Now do you accept mine?”<br/><br/>She began to reach for his hand, beads of cold sweat beginning to form on her skin. There was no coming back from this. There would be no happy ending, no divine intervention to protect her from the consequence of her choices. The room darkened further still, the looming shadow a nearly tangible smog that seemingly smothered her, making it increasingly difficult to breathe. Her fingers had nearly reached his when he spoke once more, his tone a cautionary whisper. “I won’t lie to you; this isn’t going to be pleasant.  Do try not to scream.” She gripped his hand tightly and instantly she regretted it. Fire erupted in her bones, a searing agony that left her wordlessly in pain. Tears streamed down her face, her lungs gasping for air that simply wouldn’t come.<br/><br/>“The contract is burned into your bones,” He coolly explained as her body continued to labor for survival. “And I promise you, there is no power on Heaven or Earth that can amend that. I strongly recommend you compose yourself, as once I leave, any illusion that you and I are simply chatting about the weather,  love, life, and any other such dull topics is going to fade. Your family will be returned to you shortly, and the men you requested will die soon enough – the good Doctor tonight, as per our agreement.” Already he was rising, gathering his coat and placing coins that far exceeded his bill onto the table. Her vision blurred beneath the tears, the knuckles of one hand white from gripping the table while the other was still extended to grip his hand, trembling. She pulled her arm back, attempting to bury the searing pain that still burned her to the core.<br/><br/>He moved to walk by her, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently.<br/><br/>“Oh, and Esther?”<br/><br/>She looked up at him, his face indistinct through the haze in her eyes and the room dimmed further as a tight lipped smile split what little of his features she could make out.<br/><br/>“See you in five years, darling.”<br/><br/><br/><br/>*		*		*<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Kristoff Adler</span><br/><br/><br/>Sharp pain ripped through the sensitive flesh of Adler’s hand, the glass of scotch having shattered in his grip, tearing through the skin with ease. He bolted upright from his slumped position, eyes wide and panicked. The bathroom. The mirror. Had it all been a nightmare? He sobbed quietly, dropping the glass with trembling hands, pushing his body back farther into the safety of his cot. He’d been asleep – but had he been drunk? His memory before…before the darkness was hazy at best, but he wasn’t an alcoholic. Excessive drinking before duty was not something he condoned, perhaps a single drink to keep the blood warm on a colder night…but to drink one’s self into a stupid? No, the very thought was absurd. If not drunk though, how had he fallen asleep so quickly? The time. With fevered motions, Adler crawled towards the edge of his bed, head craning out from under the bunk above him and scanning the wall for the clock.<br/><br/>Five minutes before his shift.<br/><br/>He pressed a thumb to his palm to stem the bleeding, suddenly aware of the dark red stains that were staining his bed and uniform. He was in uniform. The memories came back, slowly at first, but he had woken up for his shift, dressed appropriately, and prepared to make his nightly rounds. Another quick scan of the small room settled his gaze on a newly open container of liquor, just enough poured from the top to fill the small glass that had opened his hand. It had been a nightmare, nothing more. Fear crept up his spine, a gnawing sensation of doubt that cared little for rationalization. Nightmare or not, he was still terrified. Gingerly he removed his hand from the still pulsing wound and touched the skin of his face, half-expecting the peeling flesh to droop into his open palm and gush forth black liquid. When no such horrors presented themselves, his thoughts immediately turned to self-preservation. He needed to attend to his wounded hand, bind it at the very least, and visit Dreschner. A man of both medicine and science, he would likely be able to tend to his injury and explain the horrific nightmare that had indirectly caused it.<br/><br/>Tears still threatened to spring from his eyes and the urge to vomit was nearly overpowering, but he swallowed both down as he tore the edge of his blanket, wrapping it in a makeshift bandage around his hand. Dark crimson quickly welled up beneath the fabric as he pulled it tight, wincing has he did so. As minutes of silence passed he could feel his body relaxing, words of comfort whispered over and over again in his mind in an attempt to soothe frayed nerves.<br/><br/>Those same nerves nearly shattered like the glass in his hand when a knock sounded on the door to his bunkroom, the sound echoing painfully in the confined space.<br/><br/>“Just Berghaus coming back from patrol,” He whispered to himself, a soft whimper coloring his words with a pathetic note. “Just…just Berghaus.” Adler steeled himself, bracing against the door as his entire body tensed. He turned the lock in a painfully slow fashion, the resounding click of the metal somehow final and frightening. The door creaked open, the lights from the hallway filtering into his dim room, and in the doorway…<br/><br/>Nothing. Empty space.<br/><br/>Adler was suddenly painfully aware of the silence both inside and out of his room. There was no hum of machinery and the clock failed to make a ticking sound, the air itself stagnant and dead in its own deathly calm. The light beyond his door flickered weakly, and Adler gasped out a strangled cry of fear, slamming the door closed and fumbling the lock back into place with trembling fingers. “This isn’t happening,” He whimpered. “It was a nightmare; it was just a fucking nightmare!”<br/><br/>“I’m glad you’re awake.” The words must have cut the strings of his heart, because he could feel it stop. In that dead, heavy silence there was no sound of a beat, no semblance of a pulse.<br/><br/>Adler wanted to scream, but a hand covered his mouth, roughly turning him around and slamming his head back into the metal of his own door before dropping him to the floor, his head spinning. The room was no longer his own, now drowned in the same cloying darkness that had haunted him before. The metal twisted and groaned, the fabric of his cot rapidly decaying and rotting as though years of neglect and abuse had allowed sickly mold to grow over it. As quickly as he’d been dropped, gravity shifted and he was roughly lifted from the floor and placed against the metal frame of the door, the hand positioned over his mouth once more. In sharp contrast to the necrosis that consumed the light and world around them, the man that held him in place was a cool, unfeeling picture of perfection. A thin expressionless smile pulled at his lips, cold eyes watching as Adler struggled to breathe beneath his grip. Death, in a tailored suit, lifted his other hand and reached for the soldier’s throat, Kristoff’s feverish pleas muffled and indiscernible. He realized, with mounting horror, that the shadow wasn’t consuming the man before him because he was the one<span style="font-style: italic">casting</span>it. The vaguely human shape of his shade moved in awkward time to its physical counterpart, a second too slow, creating a disjointed and wholly frightening sight in its own right. Tendrils of darkness crept from the floor, up the suit legs and encompassed the hand that reached for his neck, circling the lithe fingers until they were tipped into wicked, gruesome looking talons.<br/><br/>He was able to register the horrible, agonizing pain before actually<span style="font-style: italic">feeling</span>it as the shadow-born spikes pushed through the soft flesh of his throat as easily as a blade through wet paper; the muscle tearing as his esophagus was pushed to the back of his spine. “I’m going to keep you alive for this,” The man whispered, and he could feel the shadow wrap around the vertebrae in his neck, the fingers working deeper and deeper. “I’m sorry to say that an arrangement has been made, one that ends in your untimely death,” He continued. Adler was barely able to register the words, the pain overwhelming; eyes rolling into the back of his head as his body began to spasm. He was going to die here, like this.<span style="font-style: italic">End it,</span>He wanted to beg,<span style="font-style: italic">Kill me</span>.  “Now I am a man of my word, but fortunately for you…” The fingers ceased their work and the pain receded from raw, incomprehensible agony to a slightly more tolerable throb. “Another man here needs to die tonight, and I believe you may be able to lead me to him.”<br/><br/>Adler gargled something incoherent, blood bubbling up from his mouth and staining his teeth. The man smiled at the attempt, leaning in until their faces were a scarce few inches away. “Also fortunately for you, there was no time table given for you death, Mr. Adler – so tell me, and do try to speak up; how does<span style="font-style: italic">ten years</span>sound?”