Gatehound: No Gate No Break

Morning came with no kindness.

Violet sat on a rooftop ledge overlooking the city. Her hoodie was torn. Bandages crisscrossed her arms and thigh, half-soaked with blood. She hadn't slept. Every breath reminded her of cracked ribs. Every muscle in her body protested the act of simply being alive.

The silver card sat in her hand, faintly glinting in the morning light.

Q.

She turned it over. Blank on the back. No number. No address. Just the single, sharp letter. The woman from the store—whoever she was—hadn't explained a damn thing. Just handed Violet a breadcrumb and vanished into the dark.

Violet tucked the card into her pocket.

Not yet.

She pushed herself to her feet and limped toward the edge of the roof. The world moved below like nothing had changed. People went to work. Dogs barked. A kid dropped their ice cream and cried about it like it was the end of the world.

If only that was all I had to cry about.

She passed by a grocery store, nearly closed for the night. The wind rustled the plastic bags caught in gutters. Then—a scream.

Violet's head snapped up.

A child had wandered into the street. A little boy, no more than eight, chasing a ball—his mother too far behind, shouting.

A speeding car whipped around the corner.

Violet didn't think. She ran.

Her legs protested. Her vision spun. But she reached him—just barely—scooping him up and rolling them both to the sidewalk. The car honked, tires squealing as it rushed past, missing them by inches.

The boy clung to her at first, stunned.

Then he looked up. Recognition widened his eyes. His mouth trembled.

"You're… you're the girl on TV."

Violet froze.

"My dad said you robbed a bank," he whispered. "That you killed people."

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"You're a monster!" he screamed, shoving away from her. "Murderer!"

He ran. The mother scooped him up, shooting Violet a look of pure horror before backing away and fleeing down the street.

She stood there, shaking.

'I saved him. I saved him.'

But it didn't matter.

To the world, she was already a headline.

She wandered into the industrial district again. The place the city forgot. Burnt-out factories, broken pavement, rusted fences overgrown with weeds.

She didn't realize she was crying until the wind hit her face.

"I'm not a monster," she said to no one. "I didn't ask for any of this."

"You're right," a voice answered from ahead. "You didn't ask. But you were chosen."

Violet spun.

A man stood in the center of the abandoned rail yard.

Tall. Bald. Pale skin that caught the light like porcelain. His eyes were deep-set, unreadable. A black coat trailed behind him like a shadow stitched to his spine. A silver chain glinted at his throat.

She froze.

"Do I… know you?"

"No. But I know you," he said softly.

Her stomach dropped.

"Your voice... You're the one," she whispered. "You're the thing that… that took Rick."

"Not quite." His voice was velvet, but carried something cold beneath it. "Rick let me in. I simply… unlocked what was waiting."

Her fists clenched. "You killed him. You made him—"

He raised a hand. "He chose violence long before I arrived. I simply gave his worst thoughts a voice. And a body. Besides whoever said he was dead"

Violet took a step back. "Who are you?"

The man smiled.

"Salvador."

She blinked. "That's it? No codename? No creepy title?"

"I don't need one," he said. "I am what the Gate reveals. I don't hide from my reflection."

He took a step closer. The wind picked up, swirling dust between them.

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are you here?"

He looked at her, not with hunger or hate—but with pity.

"Because you're about to meet someone very important."

Violet tensed. "Who?"

He raised his hand again.

And from the ground behind him—she stepped out.

Violet stared, horror crawling up her spine.

It was her. But not quite.

This version of Violet was cleaner. Her eyes glowed faint purple. Her hoodie was darker, untouched by blood or dirt. Her smile was cruel. Confident. There was something burning behind her gaze—something wild.

"What… what the hell is that?"

Salvador stepped aside.

"That," he said, "is you. The real you. The one that doesn't hesitate. The one who didn't cry in the alley. The one who didn't run. What I call Mirrorheart"

The reflection tilted her head.

"Hi, me."

Violet backed away, heart pounding.

"This is your ability," she whispered. "You make people… see themselves?"

"I make people face themselves," Salvador said. "Your deepest self. The self you bury. The self you fear."

The reflection giggled.

"All those nights you wished you were stronger," it said. "All those times you thought, If only I didn't care… That's me."

Violet swallowed hard. "You're not real."

"I'm as real as you want to be," it replied. Then it charged.

Violet ducked just in time, but the reflection moved like lightning—faster than her, stronger. It grabbed her by the collar and slammed her into the nearest rail.

Violet cried out, pain exploding through her back.

"Why do you hold back?" the reflection snarled, dragging her along the ground. "Why do you hesitate? You're always scared. You think that's noble?"

"I'm not like you!" Violet shouted, kicking free.

"Exactly," the reflection spat. "That's why you lose."

Violet struck with a wild punch, but it was caught easily.

The reflection slammed her down again.

And again.

Blood filled Violet's mouth. Her vision blurred.

"You're weak," the other Violet whispered. "But I could make you strong. Let me in. Let me take over. I am you."

Violet screamed and broke free. She swung a piece of rebar—but the reflection shattered it with a soundwave, laughing.

In that moment, Violet understood something awful:

This wasn't just a fight. It was a warning.

If she kept going, if she kept using the Gate, kept tapping into that force inside her…

This is who she'd become.

Salvador stood nearby, calm as ever.

"Now you see why I win," he said softly. "The people I touch don't lose because I kill them. They lose because they become the thing they hate."

Violet was on her knees, breathing ragged, blood trickling down her lip. The reflection walked slowly toward her, dragging a glowing guitar, twisted and monstrous, strings made of wire and fire.

"Say goodbye," it purred.

Violet whispered, "No."

And threw the last of her energy into a scream.

The sound hit like a wall, knocking the reflection back a step—but only a step.

Then pain.

The reflection struck her across the face.

Everything went dark for a moment. Then blurry.

Violet was on the ground. Her bones ached. Her ribs screamed.

The reflection leaned over her. Close.

"You can't run from me forever."

Then it turned to Salvador, nodded—and vanished like mist.

Salvador walked forward and crouched beside her.

"You'll heal," he said. "But the wound inside you will keep growing. One day, you'll stop resisting."

She looked up at him, teeth gritted through blood.

"I'll never become her."

His smile was gentle.

"That's what they all say. He will be greatly pleased."

"Who!?'

Then he stood and walked away, vanishing into the ruined city like smoke.

Violet lay there, broken. Beaten.