North Drake
patreon
Book 2: Prologue: Loose Ends
🕑 Added 2025-07-24 18:15:16 +0000 UTCPrologue: Loose Ends
“I’ll prepare you for your death.”
Her words echoed relentlessly through Lennard’s mind, haunting him with every repetition. Since Grace had returned, nothing was the same. She’d stepped back into his life as easily as she'd invaded his apartment—taking ownership of his belongings, his space, his very thoughts—as if it had all belonged to her from the beginning. One week. Seven surreal, intoxicating, and terrifying days she’d spent here, questioning him endlessly, breaking down his barriers until nothing was left but naked truth.
Lennard shivered, drawing his jacket tighter around himself. The chill he felt wasn’t from the air; it radiated from somewhere deeper, a coldness born from a change he didn’t yet fully understand. He rubbed his temples, remembering the moment clearly, the exact instant Grace had touched him. Her two delicate fingers, soft and yet unbearably heavy with power, had rested on his forehead, and instantly his world had shifted into a haze of shimmering pink. It had flooded his vision, penetrated his thoughts, saturated every cell in his body.
She said it was a gift, Lennard reminded himself, desperately. Proof that I'm not insane. Proof that she's real.
The past week had felt more like a fevered dream than reality. Lennard hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept, not even once, since Grace had touched him. He hadn't felt the need. Something about her presence, her touch, had left him altered, sustained by something intangible. Something terrifyingly beyond human.
He sighed deeply, slumping onto the couch in exhaustion. She had left early this morning, mentioning vaguely that she needed to prepare "something." Her instructions to him were simple, if utterly cryptic: he was responsible for dealing with the "loose ends" here.
Loose ends. Right. Lennard scoffed bitterly to himself. Like any of this makes sense.
Yet, despite the absurdity, despite the inherent madness of it all, Lennard felt a strange thrill. The Grace who’d returned to him was no longer the awkward, plain girl he'd once known, the girl he'd quietly adored from behind a screen, whose shy smiles and hesitant whispers had so captivated him. No, this Grace was something else entirely, something divine.
His pulse quickened as he remembered her figure clearly: the graceful curve of her hips, the confident tilt of her chin, her radiant blonde curls cascading down her back. Her eyes, those impossible, luminous pink eyes, burned permanently into his memory. She was a goddess. Powerful, flawless, irresistibly beautiful in a way that made him ache with longing and shame. He'd felt an intense, primal desire when she’d drawn near, despite the unsettling dread she instilled.
How can a mortal not worship at the feet of a goddess?
Lennard snapped back to reality, his heart racing. He’d allowed himself to drift again, consumed by obsessive thoughts. Grace had that effect on him. She'd planted seeds deep in his psyche, seeds that had already begun to take root, twisting his desires into something darker, more desperate.
Standing abruptly, he stumbled towards the bathroom, forcing himself back to a sense of normalcy. He needed clarity, needed to feel human again, if only for a few moments.
He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his weary face before daring to lift his gaze to the mirror. Lennard barely recognized the pale, drawn face staring back at him, dark circles beneath tired eyes, scruffy beard shadowing hollow cheeks. He looked exactly as one would expect after days without rest. And yet, oddly, disturbingly, he didn't feel the exhaustion.
He leaned closer, peering intently into his reflection. For a split second, he saw it again, there, in the depths of his irises, a flicker of pink. Pulsating faintly, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. His breath hitched painfully, panic rising in his chest.
No... no, that can't be.
It was the same pink glow he’d seen in Grace’s eyes. The same glow that had consumed his vision when she'd touched him. Lennard's knuckles whitened as he gripped the edges of the sink, fighting down the scream that bubbled dangerously in his throat.
Am I… changing? Becoming what she promised?
Grace’s whispered assurance echoed in his ears again: "You’ll become something more, something beyond human. You won’t die… even if you must."
Could he trust her? The thought was both terrifying and irresistible. She’d promised him eternity, promised that death would no longer hold meaning. But could he believe her? Could he entrust his life, his soul, to a being whose very nature was now so utterly alien?
He stepped back slowly, breathing heavily, fear and excitement mixing dangerously within him. It was the oldest fear of all: the primal terror of ceasing to exist, the oblivion awaiting every mortal at the end of life. Yet here stood Lennard, trembling with anticipation, desperate to believe Grace’s impossible promise.
He sighed again, pushing away his anxieties for the moment. Whatever came next, he had a role to play. He had responsibilities to Grace, tasks she’d entrusted to him. It didn’t matter if he felt ready or not.
Slowly, deliberately, Lennard stripped off his clothes, letting them fall carelessly to the floor. The warm water of the shower washed over him, soothing his racing thoughts, steadying him for whatever madness lay ahead.
Today was the beginning. Today, he would tie off Grace's "loose ends" in this world. And then he would wait, for her return, for her promise, for the death she claimed she’d prepare him for.
As the steam rose around him, Lennard finally allowed himself a faint, twisted smile. For better or worse, he belonged to Grace now.
And there's no turning back.
After the shower, Lennard stepped into his dimly lit room, steam still curling from his skin. He sat down heavily before the gentle hum of his computer, his only real companion in this lonely world. As the machine booted up, familiar programs cascaded across multiple screens. The faint glow bathed him softly, comforting in its familiarity.
"Entering the matrix again," he thought dryly, the bitter humor failing to mask the underlying dread.
His fingers moved swiftly, confidently, initiating routines he'd executed countless times before. But this time was different, this time he wasn't protecting someone; he was erasing her existence.
He began methodically. Her social media profiles vanished one by one, digital footprints disappearing into oblivion. Her posts, likes, comments, everything that had marked her presence dissolved under his precise, ruthless actions. Forums she’d frequented were wiped clean, chat logs shredded, leaving only cold, digital silence behind.
Then came the hardest part. His hand hesitated, trembling slightly as he opened DarkGirl112’s streaming account. Grace’s streaming account. A sharp pang shot through his chest, deeper and sharper than he’d anticipated. He stared at the screen, his breathing shallow, memories flooding back. Late nights spent watching her awkwardly laugh, shyly whispering jokes he pretended to find funny just to see her smile.
"This is for your own good," he told himself bitterly. But his finger hovered hesitantly over the delete button, as if frozen in space.
Finally, with a strangled breath, he pressed down. The channel disappeared forever, another piece of Grace’s old life wiped clean from existence.
He sat back, shaking slightly. It was almost done. Almost. Lennard closed his eyes, heart pounding. He still had access, thankfully, to servers holding sensitive data about many of Grace’s followers. He’d gained that access years ago, long before her disappearance, when he'd quietly placed safeguards, “just in case.” Now, he weaponized them. With mechanical precision, he activated his botnet, sending targeted malware ripping through the followers' computers, shredding their stored files, removing every lingering digital fragment of Grace he could find.
Of course, Lennard knew the truth: he couldn’t possibly erase everything. The internet was vast and uncontrollable, infinite in its capacity to remember. But that wasn’t the goal. He just needed to eliminate enough, enough to bury her again, to let her fade quietly into digital legend.
A ghost, he thought distantly. Just like before.
His task complete, Lennard’s cursor hovered, hesitating, and then drifted slowly towards an innocuous folder tucked away in a corner of his desktop. A folder he’d named simply "Darki".
He opened it, heartbeat accelerating uncomfortably. Her face filled the screen—photos he'd collected over years, snapshots of her past self. Her innocent eyes, messy bangs obscuring her gaze, oversized hoodies hanging loosely from her slender frame. His breath caught painfully as he clicked through them, image after image. She was barely thirteen in some, sixteen at most, frozen forever at the moment she'd died on stream.
"I supported you from the start," he whispered hoarsely, gripping the mouse so tightly his knuckles whitened. His mind blurred between present and past, between reality and fantasy.
He paused at a picture he knew too well: Grace smiling faintly, the hesitant curve of her lips, eyes shyly hidden beneath messy black bangs. He’d saved this one specially, opened it countless nights to reassure himself, telling himself she was just a friend, just someone he cared about from afar. Innocent, pure, untouchable.
Yet even then, buried deep beneath denials and guilt, he’d known better. A sickening guilt twisted in his stomach now. She had been too young, back then. He knew that. He knew he should have pulled away, distanced himself. But he couldn't help the twisted thrill he’d felt, the forbidden rush whenever she laughed at his jokes or whispered "thank you, senpai" softly during streams.
But Grace wasn’t that girl anymore. She wasn’t thirteen, or sixteen, or even the shy streamer he’d known. She had grown, transformed into a woman of impossible beauty and power, a goddess reborn.
His pulse quickened; skin flushed hotly. It wasn't wrong now, right? Grace was older now… an adult. He wasn't sick. He wasn’t wrong anymore… was he?
"I loved you," he whispered, finally acknowledging the confession he’d buried so deeply. "I've always loved you."
He shuddered, overwhelmed by a wave of raw, complicated emotion, lust, shame, devotion, fear, all twisted into one inseparable mess. He would do anything for her. Anything. Even if it meant facing death itself.
His hand trembled again as he traced her pixelated cheek, fingertips brushing the screen. The reality of Grace’s transformation struck him once more: she was something more, something beyond human, and now, perhaps, so was he. The thought brought both terror and desperate excitement.
“I don’t know if you’re really still in there somewhere,” he murmured quietly to her smiling image, tears welling behind his exhausted eyes, “but I won’t forget you. I can’t.”
His voice lowered further, cracking with a raw, aching sincerity:
"Senpai…"
He recoiled suddenly, startled by his own whispered confession, nauseated and yet unable to deny the desperate, twisted love still trapped in his chest. Shaking his head, he quickly shut the folder, the screen plunging him back into comforting darkness.
No matter how much she changed, no matter what she asked of him, Lennard knew one thing with certainty: Grace owned him entirely, body and soul. He would follow her wherever she led—no matter how twisted the path, no matter how deep into darkness he must descend.
Even if it meant losing himself completely.
After hours of work—if one could call digital deletion warfare—Lennard leaned back, exhausted. His apartment lay silent, bathed only in the cold blue glow of three humming monitors. The last purge routines churned in the background. Grace’s digital self was gone. Again. And this time, the silence felt heavier.
He checked his phone. Still no messages. The second device he’d given her; freshly wiped, encrypted, secure, it remained untouched. Not a single word.
She said she’d message me, he thought bitterly. She always says something before she disappears.
He hated waiting like this. Hated that part of him was still just a lonely man clinging to whispers in the dark. But more than anything, he hated how empty the world felt without her.
That’s when he noticed it; a strange sensation.
His stomach… growled?
He blinked. His body ached in places it hadn’t for days. A sluggish weight settled into his limbs. Hunger. Fatigue. Human weakness.
The clarity he’d had while Grace lingered, that razor-sharp stillness wrapping him like armor, was gone. Her presence had kept his body suspended, untethered from need. Now, the fog had lifted, leaving only Lennard.
With a sigh, he rolled his neck until it popped and stood stiffly.
Time to eat.
He tugged on a hoodie, pocketed his keys, and stepped into the hallway. The apartment building reeked of wet carpet and incense from the guy two floors down. He pushed through the front door into the chilled evening air.
A Trader Joey’s was just around the corner.
The store was quiet at sunset, dimly lit, with only a few stragglers in the aisles. Lennard nodded at the cashier out of habit and beelined for his go-to instant meal. Ramen shelf, bottom left.
“Gatcha,” he muttered, grabbing his favorite flavor like a prize. As he turned the package over, a thought drifted through his mind: Grace would roll her eyes. “Still eating like a raccoon in a dumpster,” she’d say.
He chuckled, then frowned. It was strange how she lingered, in the cadence of her voice, the way she moved. Even now, her imprint clung to his thoughts like fingerprints.
Was this love or something like obsession? He didn’t know. The only thing he knew was, that he missed her. He missed every version of her, even the terrifying one.
He stared at the ramen.
She’s not the girl I knew online… and yet I still feel like she’s mine. Or I’m hers. Probably both.
Then… silence. Lennard glanced around. Where is everyone?
The customers, the cashier, all gone. No music. No movement. Just empty air.
“What the—”
The door chimed as two figures entered.
Lennard froze, as he watched them entering the store.
They looked like they’d stepped out of a low-budget medieval flick, except every detail felt real. The man was gaunt, draped in a black coat stitched with strange symbols. The woman beside him had hair like fire, braided with silver pins, and eyes that gleamed green. A sword hung at her back, massive enough that most couldn’t lift it.
They spoke in a guttural tongue, words sharp and… ancient?
Beneath their voices, another whisper:
“Run.” His spine locked. Grace.
“RUN.”
His body moved before his brain could. He dropped just as something whined past his skull. A projectile buried itself in the shelf behind him, exploding ramen cups into a storm of plastic and broth.
“Shit!”
Adrenaline spiked. He scrambled up and bolted for the back of the store.
The man sighed, annoyed, like he’d been handed overtime.
The red-haired woman drew her sword. The blade gleamed, too elegant for something meant to kill.
Lennard ran.
This isn’t real this isn’t real—
But it was. Every footfall, every ragged breath. Real. He skidded down the frozen aisle, toppling a tuna display. Then…
“Window. Now.”
Grace’s voice, clear as glass.
He pivoted, sprinted for the storefront, and leaped.
Time slowed.
The glass shattered. Shards rained around him as he hit the sidewalk, rolling, gasping. Pain flared along his arm, but he was alive. He staggered up, blood trickling, and looked back.
The woman didn’t move.
She just stood there behind the shattered window, watching him. Her sword hung at her side, glinting in the store’s dying lights.
Lennard stared back for half a heartbeat, chest heaving.
Why isn’t she chasing me…?
He didn’t wait to find out, he just ran, fast and hard, into alleys where his breath echoed like footsteps that weren’t there, and no one followed.
But then he heard Grace again. “You’re not done yet,” Grace’s voice whispered in his mind.
“There’s more coming.”
He stumbled to a stop near an alley corner, chest burning, legs shaking. A flickering streetlamp buzzed overhead, casting shadows that twitched like they were watching.
His hand pressed against the wall for support.
“…This was my fault.”
Wait. What?
“I didn’t think they’d find you this quickly,” she said, annoyance sharp in her mental voice. “I thought I had more time.”
He closed his eyes, tried to focus. His mind was spinning..
“I’m finished now,” she whispered. “Everything’s in place.”
Lennard’s pulse skipped.
“You need to come to me.”
He forced his head up, still panting.
“Where?” he muttered aloud, throat dry.
“I’ll lead you.”
The silence that followed was too loud, like the whole city had stopped to listen. Lennard wiped the blood from his arm, jaw tight. He didn’t know what was happening, who the attackers were, or if he was even still sane, but one thing was certain: she was waiting.
