The Reaper's Sentence

The stench of stale sweat and fear clung to me, a second skin I couldn’t shed. Each rasp of my breath felt like a betrayal, a reminder that I still drew air while Melissa lay cold beneath the Martian dust. They’d found her, of course. They always found things they weren’t supposed to. My hands, still stained with the ochre of the grave I’d dug with them, trembled as I imagined their heavy boots trampling the patch of ground I’d so desperately tried to keep sacred.

The guards found me not in the mines, but huddled in the meager shelter of our barrack, the phantom weight of Melissa’s body still an ache in my arms. Ugly Erik, his scarred face a mask of grim satisfaction, didn't bother with pleasantries. His voice, a gravelly rumble, announced my crime with the relish of a predator savoring its prey. "Illegal burial. A capital offense, Reaper."

A capital offense. The words echoed in the hollow space where my heart used to beat with any semblance of hope. My father. Melissa. Now me. The Lykos’ Lambda Clan was a tapestry woven with threads of suffering, and I was about to become another dark, indelible stain.