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Though tension thickened, a lingering mist growing ever present, Spectre made no attempts at moving, the phantasmal creature remaining where he stood. “If you want to fight..,” came a response, labored and forced, before a burglar dressed in Red multiplied. Heavy breathing accompanied the act, arms rising to initiate battle. A path paved through desperation, one wrapped in an eerie embrace of discomfort. 

It was difficult to place the exact nature of what had been found in the woods, a boy neither living, nor dead. Emotion appeared divorced from his being, and yet, a sharp-toothed smile hinted at joy and entertainment. The night certainly hadn’t laid itself out like the brick path of a planned heist. From the moment it started, disaster struck, and from there, a downhill fall. 

Spindly fingers gently clicked against a peculiar weapon as the ghostly tool was woven into existence, head tilted as spectral orbs peered ahead. That smile, that horrific expression belonging to campfire stories slowly faded, Spectre’s digits grasping his sinister armament. [b][color=909090]"One of you possesses a soul,"[/color][/b] he spoke, the lad’s attention fixing itself on one particular individual amongst the gaggle of foes. A single step was taken, a scythe’s edge slowly sliding across leaves below, [b][color=909090]"but none of you live."[/color][/b]

A chill trickled down the burglar’s spine, a tremble soon following its unwelcome presence. This felt wrong. Everything about this confrontation felt unnatural. Whether the wind was louder, or blackened air grew colder, terror had most certainly reared its ugly face. Frozen to the spot, Red was unable to move. Fatigue had set in, and there was no reality where a battle with something so unnaturally horrific beneath the moonlight would end in victory. Breathing accelerated, teeth clenching; Spectre was coming closer. His steps continued along a slow, deliberate path, one foot in front of the other with a weapon clearly too large for someone so small, and yet, so impossibly graceful in its weightless motions. 

The way it was held, the way it was casually extended, the way it was wielded with a single hand, playfully twirled between scrawny fingers; it painted a picture. Closer, closer, Spectre’s advance maintained an almost tauntingly stunted pace, but before long, he reached his mark. A chance to run had been afforded, but with legs unwilling, no attempt had reached the surface. 

A surprise it was, then, when a rapidly beating heart, a jackhammer to the ribs eventually noted how the boy had simply passed by, that monstrous grin returning. [b][color=909090]"I will not fight a half-dead insect. May we find each other when your breathing is slower, and your soulless puppets can move."[/color][/b] Willow’s voice was a ghostly addition to any night, its soft, whispering echo denoting it a product of another world. His scythe vanished as it had appeared, a solid shape fading into spectral mist as the boy walked, eventually swallowed by the darkness of a starlit forest. 

With knees meeting the dirt below, Red clutched their chest, a tremble ceaselessly echoing through them. The Spectre appeared disinterested, presenting the first gift of luck this night had offered. Ironically enough, such would likely not have been the case, if only Red and Yellow were untouched by previous conflicts.