7. exterminators must be TENACIOUS!

The inside of the cave was dark, damp, suffocating. Dust clung to the air, thick enough that every breath felt like inhaling grime and decay. The further Ansel stepped, the more the outside world faded behind him, swallowed by the pressing shadows.

He couldn't see much. He couldn't smell anything other than the stench of stagnant air.

His fingers found the straps of his gas mask, hooked onto his overcoat. He slid it on, the filters humming softly as they worked to clear the air.

A delicate moonflower.

As tenacious as a weed.

The words echoed in his head, familiar yet distant.

His karambits hooked around his fingers, his grip tightening and loosening in slow intervals. His footsteps barely made a sound as he walked deeper and deeper into the cave.

That day—the day his mother died—something inside him had broken.

A fear had taken root, one that had refused to loosen its grip. A fear of Myutants. A fear of death. And yet, here he was, walking straight into the jaws of both.

This was the worst possible job for someone like him.

But there was nothing else.

Just like in the Tregs, the rest of the world had treated him like he was contagious—a walking illness that would corrode everything he touched.

And maybe they were right.

Maybe he was an illness.

Maybe he was the reason the Myutant came that night. Maybe he was the reason his mother went to that meeting in the first place.

Maybe—

No.

That was wrong.

A delicate moonflower.

His mother's smile flashed in his mind. Then, Massiah's.

A smile of trust. Belief. Love.

A look that told him to go out there and survive. That he was capable. That he was strong enough.

But was he?

The snarling at the end of the cave grew louder. Low, gnarly clicks. The unmistakable sound of teeth grinding together.

The Myutant was close.

And he needed to kill it.

Ansel took a shaky breath, raising his hands toward his face, steadying himself. He moved closer, each step more deliberate than the last.

Then, he saw it.

Dormant at the end of the cave, the Myutant lay beneath a shaft of pale light, filtering in through a hole in the ceiling. The glow bathed its form, highlighting the thick carapace stretched over its massive frame.

Its translucent wings twitched, the soft pattering of them against its shell echoing through the cave like a faint drumbeat.

The green of its exoskeleton shimmered under the light, shifting into radiant hues of violet and indigo.

Ansel's breath hitched.

His legs buckled.

His karambits slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the cold stone.

This was the same Myutant.

The one that invaded the haven.

The one that killed his mother.

Outside, Gran sat perched on a rock, absently flicking a pebble between his fingers. He exhaled, stretching his shoulders before throwing a glance at the cave entrance.

"He's taking a while, huh?"

His tone was light, almost amused.

"Think he's already been turned to Myutant shit?"

Massiah didn't answer immediately.

He stared into the mouth of the cave—dark, cold, silent. The thought crossed his mind to step inside, to see what was taking so long.

But as quickly as the thought festered, he killed it.

He had to trust Ansel.

He had to believe that his fears wouldn't swallow him whole.

"Hm," Dahlia muttered suddenly, arms crossed as she stared at the cave. "Now that I think about it... Ansel was part of my evaluation group."

Massiah turned to her. "Hm?"

She exhaled, brows furrowing. "I just remembered," she said, as if trying to pull a lost memory into focus. "Actually, I have no idea how I could forget."

Quem glanced over, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

"Your evaluation to become a recruit?" she asked. "I thought the company stopped doing that. Something about it costing them a leg and two arms."

"The commander said she restarted it," Dahlia muttered, arms crossed as she leaned against a boulder. "Something about the newbies becoming statistics faster than expected."

"Or was it the government filing a complaint?"

Quem raised a brow. "So what about Ansel?"

Dahlia turned toward the cave, staring into the darkness. "We all had separate tasks to prove we were capable, but the last one..." She paused, pulling the memory forward. "It was to take down an Exterminator."

She clicked her tongue. "Lovecraft. That was his name."

"Love?" Quem scoffed. "That's a pretty tall order. Isn't he first grade now?"

"Yeah. None of us could even touch him." Dahlia exhaled. "None of us... except Ansel."

Gran, who had been half-listening, snapped his attention to her. He studied her face carefully—she wasn't lying.

And that was the scary part.

Not even he could touch Lovecraft.

Not even if the man had his eyes closed and his arms tied behind his back.

"That's impossible," Quem muttered, shaking her head. "That kid looks like he'd fall over and break if you touched him too hard."

"Maybe he's only scared of Myutants?" Dahlia said, turning to Massiah.

Massiah said nothing.

His gaze remained fixed on the cave entrance, his expression unreadable. Even if what Dahlia said was true—if Ansel was really on his level in combat—then it didn't matter.

Exterminators didn't fight humans.

That kind of talent was wasted here.

Dahlia exhaled, turning back to the cave. The silence between them stretched.

"Do you think he'll make it?" she asked quietly.

Massiah didn't answer.

He didn't want to cast doubt.

Not on himself. Not on her.

And definitely not on Ansel.

The ground trembled beneath him, a deep, sonorous quake that sent dust spilling from the ceiling. From the depths of the cave, a screech tore through the air, a piercing, raw sound that rattled Ansel's skull and made his breath hitch. The walls shuddered, and loose debris crumbled down, scattering across the damp stone floor.

At the heart of it all, the Myutant rose.

Bathed in the faint glow of light filtering through the hole above, its massive frame unfurled, thick carapace gleaming green with iridescent streaks of violet.

Its translucent wings twitched, pattering softly against its sides, but there wasn't enough room to spread them fully. A blessing. If this thing had the full range of movement, there'd be no point in fighting.

Its elongated horn scraped the ceiling, dragging against the rock with a slow, ear-grating shriek. Small, beady eyes fixed onto him, unreadable and alien, but wholly focused. Watching. Calculating. Hunting.

Ansel couldn't breathe.

A sound rippled through his mind, distant yet deafening—the crash of the orphanage walls, the screams of the people inside, the way his mother had called his name, frantic and desperate, before she was swallowed whole.

His grip slackened. His knees locked.

A delicate moonflower.

As tenacious as a weed.

His mother's words drifted through his head, but they felt thin and faded, like an old, worn-out memory that had lost its warmth. His fingers twitched, reaching for his karambits.

The blades had fallen from his hands, landing in the dust by his feet. He needed to move. He needed to pick them up, raise them, prepare himself, but his body refused to cooperate. His lungs tightened, panic rising in his chest, clouding his thoughts like a thick fog.

The Myutant lurched forward, wings thrashing, its sheer size making the cave walls tremble. It moved with an eerie speed, closing the gap between them far too fast. Its horn cut through the air in a violent arc, aiming to skewer him clean through.

Move. Move, damn it!

At the last second, he threw himself to the side, the spiky surface scraping against his arms as he tumbled.

The horn slammed into the wall, embedding deep into the rock, sending a wave of debris raining down onto the floor. A piercing screech tore through the cave, sharp enough to rattle the stone walls and agitate Ansel's eardrums. The Myutant thrust its snout downward, the sound only dying as its monstrous head emerged into the light.

Ansel hit the ground, his ears ringing, his heart pounding violently against his ribs. He could hear his mother's voice in his head, slightly muffled by the wailing sounds of the myutant.

"You have to breathe, Ansel."

His chest burned. His limbs felt sluggish. He forced himself onto his hands and knees, blinking rapidly, forcing the fear down, down, down. His mother's voice had always been steady, always full of certainty. If she were here, she'd have told him to breathe.

So he did.

A slow inhale. A steadier exhale.

The Myutant turned toward him again, mandibles clicking, horn lowering. It wasn't finished. It wouldn't stop. Not until he was a shredded pile of flesh in the dirt.

His fingers wrapped around the hilts of his karambits. He rose shakily to his feet, shifting into a stance, his weight balanced, his breath calmer.

It was now or never.

No one believed in him.

Not Gran. Not Quem. Not even Dahlia, despite her easy smiles and playful jabs.

No one except—

Massiah.

He remembered the way Massiah had looked at him. There was no doubt in his eyes, no hesitation. Only something steady, unwavering.

Hope. Real hope.

A wild, reckless grin split across Ansel's face. He was done being afraid.

"I'm fucking Ansel Coulter!" His voice tore through the cavern, echoing against the walls. "I'm a fucking moonflower!"

He launched forward, legs pumping, tearing toward the cave's exit.

The Myutant shrieked, its thunderous footsteps shaking the walls behind him. Stone cracked beneath its feet, dust spilling from the ceiling as it closed the distance.

But Ansel didn't stop.

The cave's mouth was in sight now.

Light poured in, blinding compared to the suffocating dark behind him.

He could see all of them standing there—Gran, Quem, Dahlia, Massiah.

They were watching him, waiting for him to fail.

He could see it on their faces.

They didn't think he could do it.

It didn't matter.

Because he was going to do it anyway.

The Myutant was almost on him.

With a snap of his wrist, Ansel threw his karambit, the blade spinning through the air before embedding itself into the rock wall near the cave's opening. As the monster's breath seared the back of his neck, he jumped, landing on the hilt of the weapon, using it as a foothold—

And then he launched himself upward, snatching the karambit mid-air just as he springboarded off it, propelling himself onto the Myutant's back.

The creature burst through the cave entrance, its wings unfolding as it soared into the sky, dragging Ansel with it.

The wind roared in his ears. Gravity fought to pull him down. His only lifeline was the karambit still wedged into the creature's hide, the leather grip digging into his palm.

The Myutant climbed higher. Too high.

At this rate, he'd pass out from the thin air before he even got the chance to die properly. He had to kill it fast.

Teeth clenched, he pulled himself up, using his other karambit as a climbing pick, stabbing into the creature's flesh with every motion. It screeched, writhing in the air, trying to shake him off—but he held on, his white hair whipping in the wind like a banner.

Closer.

Closer.

With a final upward thrust, he reached the creature's head—and drove his blade straight into one of its glossy black eyes.

It froze.

And then—

It plummeted.

From the ground, Gran shielded his eyes against the sun, watching the free-falling bodies.

"Well. He's dead."

Massiah tilted his head, a wide smile stretching across his lips. "Ten thousand credits says you're wrong."

Gran glanced at him, slightly surprised before slapping his hand. "Easy money."

High above, Ansel screamed.

The wind ripped past him, his legs flailing wildly as he barely clung to the embedded blade. He needed to wake the Myutant up—or kill it before they hit the ground, but a direct strike to the temple wasn't possible from this angle and neither did he believe he had the strength to drive his karambit that far deep.

Think.

During his evaluation, they had been taught how to classify Myutants based on their exhibited features—from their size to the number of extra appendages they'd developed. It had been drilled into them, survival dependent on how quickly they could recognize the threat in front of them.

Ansel's eyes darted over the creature's massive form, the wind whipping against his face as he plummeted.

T-Level Three.

A small, breathless laugh slipped past his lips. "It's been a hundred fucking years, mind you," he muttered, doing his best impression of Massiah.

A threat level three meant highly advanced regeneration. The more it healed, the harder it would be to kill. In a few seconds, its eye would regenerate, and he'd lose his one chance to strike through again.

He needed to kill it. Now.

A swift severing of its head was the only way to end it quickly. But his karambits weren't long enough, weren't strong enough.

Think.

The wind roared in his ears as the fall continued, his body whipping through the air. His karambit, still lodged deep in the Myutant's hide, was slowly pulling free under the strain. If it slipped out, he'd lose his hold.

And if he lost his hold, he'd fail.

Massiah would probably pat him on the back, tell him he did well, maybe even say he was proud.

But he wouldn't be.

If he didn't kill this thing here and now, then what was the point?

"Think, Ansel!"

Their free fall continued, the ground rushing up to meet them at a terrifying speed. Wind howled past his ears, his vision blurring at the edges.

Then—a memory surfaced, within the cave, when the myutant's horn had gotten caught in the stone ceiling. The screech it emitted, as if in horrible pain. Was it that important?

If so, then he'd break it.

Gritting his teeth, he etched his karambit deeper, dragging himself down against the force of the wind. Air resistance fought him, but he pulled harder, his knees pressing against the Myutant's back.

Digging his heels against the Myutant's twitching form, he hacked his way toward its face, stabbing and dragging himself forward. When he reached its head, he hesitated.

Not yet.

It needed to wake up closer to the ground, or it would just fly back up.

However, if it didn't wake up. Well—

Forty feet.

Twenty.

Ten.

With a tight grip, he swung his karambit, the blade whistling through the air before carving deep into the Myutant's snout.

The reaction was instant.

The Myutant jerked awake with a ear piercing call, its mandibles snapping, its wings flaring out in reflex. It beat the air, struggling against the drop.

And in that moment—

Ansel let go.

Falling side by side with the beast, he ripped his karambit from its hide and struck again—this time, slashing deep into its throat.

Gravity did the rest.

The blade tore through muscle and sinew, slicing clean through half the monster's neck.

He hit the ground hard, rolling, coughing against the dust.

His head snapped upward.

The Myutant was still flying.

The wound would regenerate and it would escape.

He had failed.

Like he thought he would.

Like everyone thought he would.

"You did more than enough, Ansel." Massiah's voice cut through the haze, steady and certain.

Ansel turned—just in time to see a silver blur slicing through the air.

Massiah's scythe spun in a perfect arc, the edge catching the open wound at the creature's throat.

A single, effortless strike.

The Myutant's head separated cleanly from its body, tumbling lifelessly toward the ground.

By the time Ansel processed what had happened, Massiah was already standing over him, hand outstretched. "You've proved yourself to everyone,"

He pulled Ansel to his feet.

"But more than that—"

His scythe hit the pavement with a final, heavy thud.

"You've proved it to yourself."

Ansel exhaled, shaking from adrenaline, but his grip on Massiah's hand was firm.

"I hate this job," he muttered.

Massiah patted him on the back. "You're not alone on that."

A short distance away, Dahlia's voice rang out, somewhere between outraged and impressed.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME YOU WERE BATSHIT CRAZY?! DID YOU SEE HOW HE JUMPED OFF HIS KARAMBIT LIKE A SPRINGBOARD?!"

Massiah shrugged, amused. "Might have to add that to my playbook."

Gran and Quem stood at the cave entrance, still watching.

"Would you look at that," Quem murmured, watching the scene unfold. "Do you think we could've done that two years ago?"

Gran exhaled, a quiet, resigned sigh. "They're capable," he admitted. "More capable than we were—"

"Gran..."

"I know." He pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust from his coat. "That's not why he didn't advance with us. He had his demons. He couldn't..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Still, you know."

Quem didn't answer. Instead, she simply glanced toward the group—toward them.

They were laughing. Smiling.

Something tightened in Gran's chest.

"I wanted to prove it to him," he muttered. "Or maybe to myself. That I was good enough, you know? That I could've been the one by his side when he fought those demons."

He sighed, rolling his shoulders before making his way toward the group.

The air shifted.

All of them turned to look at him, the weight of his presence settling over them.

Tension thickened.

"You did good, kid," Gran said finally, his voice even, measured. "Your quick thinking and skill… they're better than mine were at your level."

Ansel blinked, thrown off by the sudden praise. His eyes flickered toward Massiah before hesitantly replying. "Thanks..."

"I don't know the whole story," Dahlia cut in, crossing her arms, "but you said some pretty damn horrible things."

Gran barely had a chance to respond before Quem stepped up beside him, nodding. "That's true. He should apologize for that."

Dahlia's eyes narrowed. "You're not off the hook either, kind woman!" She jabbed a finger at Quem.

Quem let out a soft laugh, covering her mouth as she leaned into Gran, pushing him forward.

Gran didn't hesitate. "I'm sorry." His tone was blank, but unafraid. Quem followed suit.

Dahlia gave them both a long, considering look. "Good," she muttered. "However, doing so on your knees would be better—" as the sentence escaped her mouth, she could feel a piercing gaze burning through her, Massiah's.

And in the next moment.

"I'm sorry," Dahlia blurted, dropping to her knees.

A beat of silence passed.

Massiah, still watching, turned toward him.

"Look, Gran, I—" Massiah started, but Gran waved him off with a lazy gesture, a small, tired smile on his lips.

"It's okay, we understand," Gran muttered, his voice gruff. "However... what's more important is my ten thousand credits."

"You mean my ten thousand credits," Massiah responded, "Ansel smoked that thing."

Gran scoffed. "No, you did. You dealt the killing blow—which means I won the bet."

Massiah turned lazily toward the Myutant's corpse, his face blank.

"Let's go see the body."

Gran's face twisted.

"You weaseling bastard!" he barked, already breaking into a sprint after Massiah—who had bolted ahead.

Quem's laughter echoed behind them, bright and melodic.

During their time with Massiah, he had barely spoken. When he did, it was only about Myutants—statistics, weak points, threat levels. Conversations were transactional. Detached.

But now...

"Transfer the credits!" Gran called out, his voice carried by the wind. "Sabrina didn't pay me for my last job!"

"This green is impeccable," Massiah muttered, crouching to inspect the Myutant's shimmering hide.

"Indeed it is." Quem's smile lingered as she walked over to them.

The noise swirled around Ansel, wrapping him in warmth he hadn't felt in years.

But then—

The silence crept in.

It started small—just a breath of quiet beneath the laughter. Then it grew, swallowing everything whole.

The cave seemed to darken around him, the voices fading to whispers until all that remained was the faint rustle of book pages turning.

Ansel's breath caught.

Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder.

She was there.

His mother—sitting in her chair, her hands resting on a familiar leather-bound book. Her head dipped low as she read, eyes flicking over the words like she always had.

He couldn't move.

He couldn't speak.

Her presence wrapped around him, soft and fragile—something pulled from the farthest edges of his memory.

With gentle care, she set the book down. Her fingers drifting into the air, pointing without a word.

His gaze followed.

At the top of the cavern's entrance, nestled among cracked stone, a lone flower bloomed—its pale petals unfurling in the evening light.

A delicate moonflower.

The moonflower stood tall in the jagged rocks, its petals soft yet unyielding—as tenacious as a weed cutting through concrete.

Ansel smiled, his chest tight, his breath unsteady.

His mother turned to him, her expression as warm as he remembered.

"I killed it, Mom," he whispered.

"Of course you did," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

His eyes twitched, his throat clenched. A sharp breath escaped him, his nose stinging as tears broke free, slipping down his cheeks.

"I wish I didn't have to," he choked, falling to his knees. "I wish you were still here."

"Don't say that." She glanced past him, toward the others. "You have new friends now, don't you? They don't look at your hair the way the others did. To them, it's the most natural thing in the universe."

She smiled. "And the coolest."

"Mom..." His voice cracked.

"Run along now," she murmured, her voice already growing distant. "They're calling for you."

"Mom!" His head snapped up—

But she was gone.

Only the whisper of the wind remained.

"Ansel?" Dahlia's voice rang out behind him. "You alright?"

Slowly, he stood.

They were all watching him—waiting.

His gaze drifted back once more—to where his mother had sat, where the moonflower still stood, glowing in the dim light.

"I've never been better," he said, turning away and running toward them.

"You gotta teach me that kickflip move," Dahlia huffed, "That was crazy."

Ansel let out a breathless laugh. "How would you even attempt that? With your hammer?"

"I'll cross that bridge when I get to it."