The Hunter's Odyssey-Chapter 78: You Can Try.

The mist had thinned, leaving behind a damp stillness that clung to the streets of Singapore like a second skin.

Jagger walked alone.

Water dripped steadily from rooftops and broken signboards, collecting in shallow puddles that reflected the dim glow of flickering streetlights. The earlier chaos had faded, replaced by an eerie quiet that felt unnatural, as if the city itself were holding its breath. The stench of blood and rot still lingered faintly in the air, though the rain had washed most of it into the drains. Abandoned cars sat crooked along the roadside, doors left ajar, windshields shattered. A plastic bag skittered across the pavement, dragged by a weak gust of wind that echoed hollowly between the buildings.

Each step Jagger took sounded louder than it should have.

His boots scraped softly against wet asphalt. The faint clink of the Bone Rattlers brushing against each other followed his movements. The leather of the vambraces creaked with every shift of his arms. Everything about him felt heavier now. Not just the gear, but the weight of what he had done.

Six people.

The number lingered in his mind like a stain that would not wash away.

He exhaled slowly, forcing the thought down, but it did not disappear.

"What are you?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying just enough to disturb the silence. "Help me understand what your aim is."

Ophilia did not answer immediately.

Her presence lingered at the edge of his thoughts, coiled and watching, as if deciding whether the question was worth acknowledging.

'Why do you care?' her voice finally surfaced, smooth and distant, as unreadable as ever.

Jagger let out a short breath, his gaze drifting over the empty street ahead. "I care," he said, slower this time, choosing his words carefully, "because you're inside my head. I want to know if you, a demonic entity I'm bound to, have the same goals as me."

Silence stretched.

The wind picked up faintly, rattling a loose metal sign somewhere above him. It creaked back and forth in a steady rhythm that felt almost deliberate.

When Ophilia spoke again, there was something beneath her tone. Something faint. Something that might have been amusement.

'My goals are my own. As are yours.' Her voice slipped through his thoughts like cold water. 'But for now, they happen to align. I want to survive. So do you. I want to grow stronger. So do you.'

A pause.

'That is all the understanding you need.'

Jagger scoffed, shaking his head slightly as he stepped over a cracked section of pavement. "That's not an answer."

'It is the only one you'll get.' The response came instantly, sharper this time. 'You have not yet earned the right to know more.'

His jaw tightened.

For a moment, he considered dropping it. Letting it go. Moving forward without digging deeper.

But the memory surfaced again.

That field.

That boy.

That life that had not been his.

Jagger slowed his pace slightly. "Fine," he muttered. "Then let's talk about me. The dream I had earlier… the memory that wasn't mine."

The reaction was immediate.

Ophilia's presence sharpened like a blade drawn across his mind.

'Forget it.'

The words carried weight. Not just refusal. Anger.

Jagger felt it, a cold pressure building behind his eyes.

"The memory of the boy in the field," he pressed, pushing against that pressure. Testing it. "You were a saint before you were a demon, weren't you?"

'I said forget it!'

The fury that followed was not just emotion.

It was force.

It crashed into him without warning, slamming through his thoughts like a spike of ice driven straight into his skull. Jagger staggered, his vision blurring as dizziness hit him all at once. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, one hand shooting out to brace against the cracked frame of a shattered bus stop.

The world tilted.

For a second, he thought he might collapse.

'That memory is MINE! NOT YOURS!'

Her voice roared through him, violent and overwhelming, reverberating through every corner of his mind. It felt invasive. Crushing. Like something ancient lashing out instinctively, not to threaten, but to protect.

Jagger sucked in a sharp breath, his chest tightening as he fought to stay upright.

The Bone Rattlers felt cold against his skin. The vambraces suddenly seemed too tight, constricting his arms as if they were closing in on him. His fingers twitched, unresponsive for a brief moment as the dizziness peaked.

"What the hell was that…" he muttered, his voice strained, uneven.

Spots swam across his vision. His thoughts felt thick, sluggish, as though something had wrapped around them and squeezed.

He blinked hard, forcing clarity back into place.

"Look," he continued, breathing heavier now, irritation cutting through the lingering disorientation. "I'm just trying to get to know you. And if you want to be a bitch about it, then fine. I'll leave it."

Silence answered him.

Not the usual quiet presence.

This was different.

Empty.

For a few seconds, it felt like she had withdrawn completely.

Jagger straightened slowly, pushing himself off the bus stop frame. His balance steadied, though a faint pressure still lingered behind his eyes.

"But know this," he added, his voice firmer now. "Eventually, you're going to tell me what you are. And what your goal is. Because if our goals don't match…"

He paused.

His grip tightened slightly.

"I'll find a way to get you out of my head."

A moment passed.

Then her voice returned.

Flat. Cold. Stripped of everything.

'You can try.'

No anger.

No amusement.

That made it worse.

Jagger ignored it.

He turned his focus back to the road ahead and continued walking.

The silence between them stretched again, tighter now, like a wire pulled to its limit.

He passed a row of shophouses. Their shutters were bent and broken, some torn clean off their hinges. Dark interiors yawned behind shattered glass, hollow and empty. The city looked abandoned, stripped of life and left to rot.

He needed shelter.

Not just a place to sit and catch his breath.

Somewhere enclosed. Defensible. Somewhere, he could think without constantly looking over his shoulder.

His eyes moved across the storefronts as he walked.

Then something caught his attention.

A marking.

Crude. Carved into the surface of a metal shutter.

Two X's side by side.

Beneath them, a long curved line.

A smile.

Jagger slowed.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Safe house," he murmured.

He stepped closer, his gaze shifting to the sign above the entrance.

"AURA Beauty & Wellness."

A beauty salon.

Not ideal.

But intact.

That alone made it valuable.

The glass door remained unbroken, faintly reflecting his battered figure. He approached and tested the handle.

Locked.

"Of course," he muttered.

His eyes dropped to the keypad beside the handle.

A pin pad.

He exhaled slowly, trying to focus.

"I remember them telling me…" he said under his breath. "It was… something simple…"

His thoughts stumbled.

Fatigue dragged at his memory, turning numbers into fragments that refused to align.

"4256…" he tried.

He keyed it in.

Three sharp beeps.

Wrong.

He clicked his tongue softly. "Okay… think…"

He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to concentrate.

"It definitely started with four and two…"

The numbers hovered just out of reach.

Then her voice returned.

Quiet.

Precise.

'4211.'

Jagger opened his eyes.

He stared at the keypad for a second.

Then, without comment, entered the numbers.

A soft click.

The lock disengaged.

He paused, hand still on the handle.

"…Don't be so smug," he muttered under his breath. "I can feel it."

He pushed the door open.