Miz sat up on his mattress, the morning light slicing through the blinds like judgment itself. "Damn," he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Vessel? Judgment? Death? What the hell even is my life now?"
Despite everything that had happened the day before, reality didn't wait. He still needed food. He still needed to function.
"Let's just… get breakfast," he mumbled to himself.
He dragged himself to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face. He returned to his kitchen, opening his fridge to find… Nothing. Just frost and forgotten crumbs. "What a hassle…" he sighed, slipping on his shoes and heading out into the sunlit city that had no idea what he had become.
The local grocery store buzzed with mundane life. Miz moved quietly among the aisles, filling his basket, when he noticed it—a shadow that wasn't his. It moved independently, slithering across the floor, reaching for him.
His breath caught in his throat.
What the hell?
Then, his own shadow began to twist, curling unnaturally. A voice whispered from the darkness.
"Worry not, vessel of death. We are the Cult of the Dead. We serve the Judge of Death. Our responsibility is to maintain the balance of the start and end."
Miz froze. "Vessel? You mean me?"
"Yes. But beware, it is not the shadows you should fear. It is the clocks and the lives… the corrupt judges have their cults, too. And they will come."
Silence.
The shadow melted away as if it had never been there.
Shaken, Miz returned home, tossed his groceries on the counter, and tried to eat. But just as he sat down, a glowing text flickered into view across a screen that hadn't been there before:
"Assassins Detected: 1"
He didn't even have time to react.
His door creaked open.
Then a figure in white cloak stepped inside, eyes cold, movements swift. Above his heads glowed a single, damning phrase:
"Judgment Needed."