Aester was holding her belly, blood slowly dripping from the bullet hole.

  She had faced death before—countless times in war, and many more in the trench-field of her own mind.

  She didn’t fear it. And with good reason, she had no reason left to fear it.

  Everyone who had ever cared for her was either dead or had long forgotten her.

  All she had left were the four voices in her head, advising her as they always had.

  "FIGHT, DAMN YOU!" Pride screamed. "WE’VE BEEN THROUGH WORSE—SO MUCH WORSE! WE CAN MAKE IT!"

  Pride always seemed irrational at first, but in truth, it wanted nothing more than for Aester to take control—through power, be it physical or mental.

  Pride was her motivation.

  "It’s no use," said Love’s soft voice. "Just close your eyes and feel the breeze."

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  Love was easygoing, but always the one with the deepest regrets.

  It wanted affection for Aester—nothing more. From others, or even just herself.

  But the dead can’t feel love.

  "THEY’RE TAKING EVERYTHING!" Greed panicked. "YOU’VE GOT TO STOP THEM!"

  Greed was her obsession with preparedness. A voice born of fear.

  It made her hoard—not just supplies, but knowledge, memories, strategies.

  Greed wasn’t selfish. It was terrified of not having enough when it mattered.

  "No use. The dead have no value for money," Wrath echoed.

  Despite its name, Wrath was not anger. It was cold reason.

  The part of Aester that took action when emotion became a liability.

  Violence wasn’t always the best answer—but it was an answer.

  ---

  “Yo bro, check this out—this b#tch’s loaded,” one of the robbers called out.

  He had found her poorly-hidden stash under the bed.

  There were two of them, faces hidden behind masks that looked like patchwork clothing stitched by a child—or an incompetent adult.

  Sloppy. Desperate. But it didn’t matter.

  Aester had simply opened the door after a knock.

  She was greeted by a gun pointed at her spine.

  That was the price she paid for living in Detroit.

  As the young people liked to say nowadays, “Can’t have sh#t in Detroit.”

  She closed her eyes.

  Awaiting the cold embrace of death.

  She had felt it before. But this time, it was different.

  This time, she wasn’t coming back.

  Pride kept screaming, but screaming wouldn’t reset her spine or stitch her wound.

  She wasn’t special—not in the face of death.

  The only difference between her and everyone else was that she had tasted death before.

  And she had spat it back out.

  But not this time.

  This time, death came.

  And if anything—

  It felt like a cold relief.