Mine Alone: A Yandere's Devotion

The Gate that opened on Wednesday morning was rated C.

Dillan stood in front of the assessment board and looked at the classification with the specific expression of a man who knew he was about to make a decision that any reasonable person would call stupid.

[GATE CLASS: C]

[RECOMMENDED HUNTER RANK: C or above]

[ESTIMATED MONSTER DENSITY: HIGH]

[FATALITY RATE — SOLO ENTRY: 34%]

Thirty-four percent.

He did the math. Roughly one in three solo entrants didn’t come back.

He looked at his panel.

[HUNTER RANK: F—]

He looked at the board again.

Yesterday I cleared a D solo, he thought. With no gear, no training, and an ability the system refuses to name. Thirty-four percent seems optimistic for someone like me.

He got in line for the liability waiver.

The checkpoint officer today was a young man — early twenties, sharp eyes, the kind of alert exhaustion that came from a double shift on the second day of the apocalypse. He processed Dillan’s credentials with practiced efficiency until he hit the rank display and stopped.

”F-minus.”

”Good memory,” Dillan said. ”That’s me.”

”Sir, this is a C-class Gate.”

”I can read.”

”The fatality rate for solo—”

”Thirty-four percent. I saw the board.”

The officer looked at him. Then at his panel. Then back at him with the expression of someone performing a rapid internal calculation about personal liability versus the fundamental human right to make catastrophically bad decisions.

”You cleared the D yesterday,” the officer said slowly. It wasn’t a question. Word traveled fast in checkpoint circles apparently. ”Solo. Forty minutes.”

”Correct.”

”How.”

”Carefully.”

A long pause. The officer printed the waiver. ”Sign here, here, and here. Initial where it says I understand I will probably die.”

”It doesn’t say that.”

”It says significant risk of mortality. Same thing.”

Dillan signed. He initialed. He handed it back.

”Any next of kin today?”

”Still no.”

The officer stapled the form with slightly more force than necessary. The barrier slid open.

Dillan walked through.

The C-class interior hit differently than the D.

Same wrong sky — amber shot through with black — but darker here, the amber deeper, closer to the color of old blood. The stone ground was the same but the cracks were wider, the phosphorescent moss thicker, pulsing in patterns that almost looked intentional. Like something was breathing underneath it.

The structures in the distance were taller. More intact. Which was worse, somehow — a ruin suggested something that had ended, but these looked occupied. Like whatever lived in them had simply stepped out.

And the monsters were bigger.

He counted four within visual range before he’d taken twenty steps inside. None of them had noticed him yet — they moved in slow, patrol-like patterns between the structures, heads swinging, that flat amber gaze sweeping the landscape with the mechanical attention of things that hunted by presence rather than sight.

Dillan stood very still.

The hunger in his chest woke up immediately. Not subtle this time — yesterday it had been a simmer, a pull, a curiosity. Today it recognized what was in front of it and it wanted. A deep, structural wanting that he felt in his back teeth and the base of his spine and somewhere behind his eyes.

Easy, he told it, the way you’d tell a large dog to heel.

It did not ease.

He moved anyway — low, slow, using the collapsed geometry of the nearest structure as cover, keeping his breathing deliberate, placing his feet with the careful attention of a man who had never trained for this but was applying the general principle of don’t make noise with religious commitment.

He got within ten meters of the nearest monster before it turned.

The C-class monsters were faster.

That was the first thing he learned, in the immediate and practical way you learn things when the alternative is dying. The D-class had lunged — big, heavy, a lot of momentum but a predictable arc. This one flickered. One moment it was ten meters away and the next it was close enough that he could smell it — ozone and rot and something metallic — and the claw that came for his face moved with a speed that his body processed before his brain did.

He threw himself sideways. Hit the ground. Rolled.

The claw caught his shoulder — not the full strike, a glancing rake that tore fabric and skin and lit his entire left side up with immediate, clarifying pain.

Okay, he thought, from the ground, left arm not working quite right, monster already reorienting above him. Okay. Faster. Got it. Filing that away.

It raised its arm for the follow strike.

Dillan grabbed its leg.

[DEVOUR — PASSIVE ACTIVATED]

The pull started immediately — but slower than yesterday. The C-class monster had more. More essence, more density, more of whatever the D-class had been carrying multiplied by something he couldn’t quantify yet. It fought the draw, actually — he felt resistance, like pulling a thread that didn’t want to come, the monster’s body flickering and shuddering above him as it tried to pull back from something it didn’t understand was happening to it.

He held on.

His shoulder screamed. His vision grayed at the edges. The hunger roared so loud he couldn’t hear anything else — no ambient sound, no Gate noise, just the pull and the resistance and the slow, grinding transfer of something from the monster into him.

The monster screamed.

It was the first sound he’d heard one of them make. High and wrong and desperate, nothing like the flat mechanical aggression of moments ago — this was panic, this was a creature experiencing something it had no framework for.

Good, the hunger said, through him, with his voice, in a tone he didn’t entirely recognize.

The monster dissolved.

He lay on the ground for thirty seconds, staring at the amber sky, breathing.

His panel populated.

[DEVOUR — PASSIVE]

[ESSENCE ABSORBED: 2]

[NEW ABSORPTION: C-CLASS ESSENCE — PROCESSING]

[STAT INCREASE DETECTED: SPEED +4 / REFLEX +6]

[ABILITY STATUS: UNCLASSIFIED]

[SYSTEM NOTE: ANOMALOUS GROWTH PATTERN. FLAGGING FOR REVIEW.]

He sat up slowly.

It gives me their stats, he realized. Not just essence. Their actual capabilities.

He flexed his right hand. Something felt different — not dramatically, not superhero-movie different, but subtly, the way a machine feels after a tune-up. Marginally more responsive. Marginally more precise.

He stood up.

Three more monsters in visual range.

The hunger said: yes.

He said: fine.

He was on the fourth monster — bigger than the others, something that might have been a Gate sub-boss based on the size and the way the smaller ones deferred to it — when things went genuinely wrong.

The sub-boss was smart.

That was the variable he hadn’t accounted for. The others had been instinct and aggression — predictable in their unpredictability. This one watched him dissolve the third monster from thirty meters away and it learned something from what it saw. He watched it happen in real time — the flat amber eyes sharpening, the head tilting, the posture shifting from predator to something more considered.

It didn’t charge.

It circled.

And while it circled it did something with the ground — a slow, deliberate press of one massive foot that sent a pulse through the phosphorescent moss in a widening ring — and where the pulse went, the cracks in the stone split wider, and from the cracks came smaller things, dozens of them, fast and skittering and coming from every direction at once.

Summons, Dillan thought, already moving. It has summons. That’s new. That’s very new. I’d like to file a formal complaint.

He grabbed the nearest small one — dissolved it — grabbed another — dissolved it — but they were fast, so many of them, and the sub-boss was using the chaos as cover, circling, looking for the angle, and his shoulder was still damaged from the first hit and his vision was doing something concerning at the periphery and—

A barrier materialized in front of him.

Translucent blue-white, curved, solid — it caught the wave of small monsters like a wall catching water, and they broke against it and scattered, and for exactly three seconds Dillan had breathing room.

He used it to turn around.

She was standing fifteen meters behind him.

Medium height. Dark hair pulled back. A healer’s insignia on her jacket — the same one he’d half-noticed near the checkpoint outside, he realized, the brain making a connection it had filed away without telling him. Her hands were raised, the barrier emanating from her palms, and her expression was the focused calm of someone doing something they were very good at.

She met his eyes.

”You’re welcome,” she said.

He dissolved the sub-boss forty seconds later — with the barrier buying him the angle he needed, the contact uncontested, the pull deep and long and enormously satisfying in a way he was going to think about later when he had time to be unsettled by it.

The Gate cleared notification appeared.

He walked back to her.

She lowered her hands. The barrier faded. Up close she was — he noticed, because he was human and it had been a very long day — genuinely striking in a way that had nothing to do with trying. The kind of face that was arranged with quiet precision, everything in the right place, expression composed into something warm and open that his instincts nonetheless filed under careful.

”You followed me in,” he said.

”I was already inside,” she said. ”You just didn’t notice me.”

”For how long?”

A small pause. ”A while.”

He looked at her. She looked back at him with the steady warmth of someone entirely comfortable being looked at.

”You’re A-rank,” he said. The insignia made it clear. ”Why are you in a C-class Gate?”

”Assessments,” she said simply. ”Getting a feel for interior environments before I commit to a guild contract. Standard practice for new registrants.” She tilted her head. ”Why are you in a C-class Gate?”

”Assessments,” he said.

Her mouth curved. It was a good smile. Precise. Like everything else about her.

”Sera Voss,” she said, and extended her hand.

He shook it. Her grip was firm and her hand was warm and she held the contact exactly one second longer than a standard handshake.

”Dillan Ruren,” he said.

”I know,” she said.

He looked at her.

”The forums,” she said smoothly. ”Your clip from yesterday. You’re fairly recognizable.”

Right, he thought. The streamer. The two million views he didn’t know about yet.

”Thanks for the barrier,” he said.

”Anytime.” She said it like a promise rather than a pleasantry. Like she was already filing it under standing offer rather than one-time courtesy.

He turned toward the Gate exit. She fell into step beside him with the natural ease of someone who had already decided this was where she was going to be.

He noticed.

He didn’t say anything about it.

Outside, at the checkpoint, the officer processed their joint exit with a relief that suggested he’d expected to process only one of them.

He didn’t notice the way Sera Voss glanced at the officer’s clipboard when he wasn’t looking — specifically at the section listing Dillan’s registered address.

She already had it from the forums.

She just liked to verify.

Thoroughness, she told herself, falling into step beside Dillan as they walked out into the city.*

Just thoroughness.

She tucked her hands into her jacket pockets and smiled at nothing in particular, and the afternoon light caught the healer’s insignia on her chest, and she thought about barriers, and how the best ones were the ones the person inside never saw.