Amara sliced open the motionless body, baring a lone shiny jewel.

This world was a rather strange place. A world where one is born with a meaning. Born with a purpose, fate they're unable to change. A person's name is given based on the meaning of their existence.

Michael carried an impressive name. Name rare as the existence of the universe. 

Tristan never cared much about the meaning of his name. After all, his name held a flat meaning - sad, melancholy - one he would rather ignore.

"How pure," Amara sighed in ave while holding up the sparkling jewel, blood slowly dripping from her fingertips.

However, with a rise in the birth of miserable people, unorthodox cults formed. With a belief in changing one's fate, they soon gained supporters among the unfortunate. And Amara was one of them.

Tristan stared blankly at the mutilated man strapped to the table. A tall figure formed in the corner of his eye. 

"Was it worth it? Killing me." Michael whispered, slipping flawlessly into Tristan's field of vision. "No matter how many people she murders, she won't be able to change her fate, and you know it." 

Tristan listened to him wordlessly, as he always does. He could never understand why Amara's victims came back to him. 

"Dear, you should grind the jewel before it loses its shine," Tristan turned to Amara with a forced sweetness in his voice.

"You're right. Take care of the body for me," Amara giggles before hopping away.

Tristan started stuffing the body into a large black trash bag, folding it almost like laundry. Blood clots alongside the little runny essence of life tainted his hands, way up to his elbows. 

A set of shadows circled Tristan as he closed up the bag. 

"Is this how you disposed of me as well?" One of the shadows spoke up. "Nobody cares about you. I was her first." Other interrupted. "Dream about it. You were second." Michael scoffed. "How long are you planning to play along?" Michael spoke in a deep rumble, silencing other spirits.

Tristan turned to Michael, expression twisted with sadness. "I have no choice. You know it." 

Michael's shadow darkened, reddish, bloody aura enveloping him. The other spirits popped, disappearing, leaving Tristan alone with Michael.

"You had a chance to escape," Michael's voice dripped with disdain.

The pitch-black night hid the horrors happening in this twisted world. A chilly breeze ruffled Tristan's grown-out hair as his shovel dug into the hard soil. His body was on autopilot, leading his hands as he shoveled the soil. He gave up on escaping a long time ago. He looked around, savoring the calm, chilly night. One mouthful from his flask kept him numb. He leaned on the shovel, his body weaker than he remembered.

A woman dressed neatly in black appeared, resting in the deep, freshly dug grave.

"You should move on." The woman hummed calmly, without any signs of her gruesome appearance, body unharmed.

"Can't you give me a warning before appearing?" Tristan smiled, sitting at the edge of the freshly dug hole. "What if you gave me a heart attack?"

"Co on, don't play with me," the woman exclaimed bubbly before both erupted in laughter.

Tristan found no enjoyment in their sessions - that was a lie. The fleeting moments he shared with his therapist gave him hope.

"You should run away tonight," her tone shifted to a serious one.

"I can't leave you here. We promised-" Tristan choked on his words, tears prickling his eyes. The woman floated upwards, her hand resting near his cheek. A light breeze caresses Tristan's cheek, her touch - something he won't be able to feel again. 

"You can't remember my name anymore, right?" The woman smiled sadly.

Tristan opened his mouth, ready to defend himself. 

"Hush, I don't blame you." The woman hugged him.

Tristan silenced his sobs as his own hands hugged his torso.