Skyye Commission Terms of Service(Applies to all commissioned works involving the character Skyye and her design)By accepting a commission involving the character Skyye, the following terms apply:Character OwnershipI, the commissioner, retain full intellectual property rights to the character Skyye—including her name, visual design, lore, personality, color palette, outfits, markings, and any associated traits or elements.While the commissioned artwork may visually depict her, the character, likeness, and all identifying features of Skyye remain my sole property.Artist Rights & RestrictionsAs the artist, you retain the rights to your commissioned artwork and may display it in portfolios or on social media with proper credit to me as the character’s creator.However, the following restrictions apply:You may not reuse or repurpose the artwork (in whole or in part) for other projects, characters, adoptables, or merchandise.You may not use Skyye’s likeness or design elements (e.g., outfit, hairstyle, facial markings, motifs) for derivative characters, resale, or personal OCs.These terms are intended to protect the uniqueness of Skyye and avoid confusion about her ownership, especially in cases involving copyright or trademark registration.Commissioner UsageAs the character owner, I may use the commissioned artwork for the following:Personal use (e.g., streaming, social media, branding)Reference for future commissions or collaborationsSubmission to copyright or intellectual property registries (with artist credit)I will not use commissioned artwork for merchandise or commercial resale unless commercial usage rights have been discussed in advance and proper compensation has been arranged.If the artist considers streaming or broadcast use (e.g., on Twitch, YouTube, etc.) as a separate usage category, I am happy to discuss and fairly compensate for those rights as well. I value the work artists put into every piece and want to ensure all uses are properly respected.AttributionI will credit the artist publicly when sharing commissioned work.I kindly request that you credit me as Skyye’s creator when posting art of her online.Merchandising RightsFanart Sales (Allowed):
I allow artists and fans to create and sell unofficial Skyye fanart (e.g., prints, stickers, charms), as long as it is clearly labeled as fan-made and not official merchandise. The character remains my intellectual property.Commissioned Work (Not for Artist Resale):
Commissioned pieces may not be resold, used in merchandise, or included in paid content by the artist. This includes digital files, prints, art books, or platforms that monetize art.My Merch Usage (Licensed & Pre-Approved):
I may use commissioned artwork of Skyye for merchandise only when commercial rights have been agreed upon in advance and the artist has been properly compensated.No ImpersonationSkyye may not be used by others as a VTuber persona, mascot, avatar, or brand identity. This includes roleplay accounts, content creation, or the use of her likeness to represent any entity other than me.AI & Dataset RestrictionSkyye’s design and all related artwork may not be used in any form of AI training, dataset collection, or generative models. This includes uploading to AI art generators, feeding into machine learning datasets, or allowing any platform or tool to derive content using her likeness.⚠️ While I acknowledge that some platforms may store or cache images, this clause explicitly states that I do not consent to Skyye’s design or artwork being used in AI systems under any circumstances.Model & Rigging ClauseSkyye’s Live2D/3D model, facial expressions, toggles, and outfit designs are protected under these same terms. These assets may not be copied, altered, traced, or used to create derivative characters or models.If you have questions about any of the above terms or would like to propose a commercial agreement, please contact me directly. I’m always open to respectful collaboration and clear communication.

Fanart GuidelinesFor fan artists and creatives who wish to draw Skyye—thank you! Here's what you can and cannot do:✅ Fanart Is Allowed!You may:Draw Skyye for fun or practice
Post fanart online (Twitter, Instagram, etc.)
Sell physical fan-made merch (prints, stickers, charms, etc.)
Stream or record speedpaints featuring her
Cosplay her
Draw NSFW content
Draw digital content (wallpapers, emotes, etc.) of SkyyeJust please:Label the work as fan-made / unofficial
Credit me clearly (e.g., “Character belongs to @Skyyexvii”)Not Allowed in Fanart:Claiming Skyye as your OC or original design
Using Skyye’s design in adoptables or character sales
Selling digital content (wallpapers, emotes, etc.) of Skyye
Using Skyye’s likeness in NFTs, AI tools, or generative apps
Impersonating Skyye or creating official-looking brandingNeed Permission?If you're unsure whether something is allowed or would like to collaborate officially, feel free to reach out. I'm happy to chat—especially with artists who love her as much as I do.

🌷 A Note from My Heart: Digital vs. Physical FanartI want to start with this:
If you’ve ever drawn Skyye—thank you.
Whether it’s a sketch, a finished piece, or something handmade, it means more to me than I can put into words. Skyye is someone I built from deeply personal pieces of myself. She’s not just a character, she’s a reflection of who I am, what I’ve survived, and what I still dream of. So when someone takes the time to draw her, it genuinely touches my heart.That said, I’d like to lovingly share a boundary regarding how fanart is shared and sold:✧ Physical Goods — Absolutely AllowedIf you create physical items (like prints, charms, plushies, keychains, etc.), you are welcome to sell them.
I know how much goes into those creations—not just your time and creativity, but also the cost of materials, tools, packaging, shipping, and more. I want you to be able to continue making fanart not just for Skyye, but for all the creators and communities you love.
If selling your physical work helps you keep creating then that makes me truly happy.✧ Digital Goods — Please Don’t Paywall SkyyeWhen it comes to digital-only fan content (like wallpapers, emotes, overlays, downloadable files, etc.), I kindly ask that you do not sell or paywall them.This isn’t about undervaluing digital art—I’m an artist too, and I know the time and heart it takes.
But I see digital fanart as a gift to the community, not a product. Skyye is so personal to me, and it means everything to let others love her freely. I don’t want her to ever feel paywalled from the people who care about her✧ Tipping Is Always WelcomeIf you're sharing Skyye fanart as a free listing or downloadable file, you are more than welcome to include a tip option.
Even when a piece is not paywalled, artists still deserve to be supported and I fully encourage fans to show appreciation for the time, energy, and love you put into your work.
Whether it’s a Ko-fi link, a “pay what you want” button, or a gentle nudge, you deserve it!That said, if you’re someone who already regularly paywalls NSFW content as part of your normal workflow (e.g., on Patreon), that’s okay. I understand that NSFW is often handled differently, and I respect that the content is paywalled and not the characters specifically. This is simply a personal request about standard digital fanworks.If you ever have questions or want to talk something out, please don’t hesitate to reach out. I always welcome open, kind conversations—especially if it helps others connect with Skyye in a way that feels meaningful and fair.Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for caring about her.
And thank you for letting her live a little longer through your art.

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Some fun Manga styled Panels when I have time!

CHAPTER ONE: Born of Sin and LightSkyye was never meant to exist.
Not by divine decree. Not by demonic design. Not by any law that governed the delicate balance between heaven and hell. Her very conception was an abomination to the world, a fracture in the rules written long before stars ever blinked awake.Her mother, Lyra Lovelle, the Heart of Heaven, was light incarnate. She sang the dead into peace with a breath, her voice capable of stilling storms and quieting restless souls. Her grace was the kind that made mortals kneel and angels weep. Untouchable. Perfect.And then there was Mishi, the Father of Rot.
Where Lyra radiated purity, Mishi oozed corruption. He was chaos wrapped in charm, the kind of man who could unravel the strongest convictions with a glance. He looked at Lyra not with reverence, but with hunger, with possession. And in her weakest moment, she let him in.It wasn’t seduction. It wasn’t trickery. It was something far more dangerous.
Love.Twisted, trembling, apocalyptic love. The kind that makes heaven hold its breath and hell sharpen its knives. Love that could only ever end in blood.From that love came a child. A secret. A sin. A miracle.
Skyye.Not bitten. Not turned. Not cursed. Born.
The first of her kind. The First Vampire.A creature stitched together from opposites, divine grace and infernal rot warring inside a single, fragile vessel. Her blood shimmered unnaturally, as if flecked with starlight. Her cries cracked stained glass. Her laughter made angels recoil.She didn’t belong anywhere. So, she was hidden everywhere.
No angel dared approach her. No demon would claim her. Her cradle was encased in layers of enchantments, wards upon wards, as if the world itself was trying to forget she existed. Only her parents knew she lived, and even they didn’t fully understand what she was becoming.Her earliest memory was not of lullabies or warmth.
It was red.She was five when her world splintered.The night began with whispers. Her parents circled the small room, voices sharp and brittle, pacing like predators locked in prayer. Their argument wasn’t new, but this time it was colder. More final. They weren’t merely debating her future.
They were drawing battle lines.Lyra pleaded for the light within Skyye to be preserved, to be protected. Mishi countered with quiet conviction, his voice low, too calm, like the stillness before collapse. He wanted Skyye to embrace the power that pulsed through her veins. To rule.From behind the couch, Skyye watched with wide eyes. Her small fingers clutched the ribbon tied around her wrist, her heart pounding so fast she felt dizzy. She knew her name was at the center of every word. She could taste it in the air.Then came the sound.
A crack, like distant thunder splitting the sky.Mishi’s hand closed around Lyra’s throat. Effortless. He lifted her from the ground as though she were weightless. Her wings flared and convulsed in panic, and from her eyes burst twin streams of crimson blood, divine essence bleeding like ink down porcelain cheeks.Skyye screamed.Tiny feet scrambled forward. She sank her small fangs into Mishi’s calf, scratched at his leg with trembling fingers, her claws barely breaking skin. A child’s futile defiance.He didn’t flinch.He dropped Lyra like shattered glass and flung Skyye across the room. Her tiny body collided with the dresser. A sickening crack echoed as her head struck wood, and for a moment, the light inside her flickered."You’re ruining everything," Mishi rasped, his voice cracking not with fury, but heartbreak. "She was ours, Lyra. She was ours."
His voice broke on the last word.Lyra coughed and crawled through a trail of broken halos and glass. Blood smeared her fingers as she dragged herself to Skyye’s side, gathering her child into quivering arms. Her breath came in wet, gasping pulls, wings folding protectively around the small girl.Her halo dimmed, flickering like a dying candle.And then she ran.Through the dark. Through the bitter cold. Through a silence thick enough to smother the stars. Snow bit at her bare feet as she fled with Skyye pressed tightly against her chest, their blood mingling as it soaked into Lyra’s torn gown.Behind them, Mishi did not give chase.
He stood in the wreckage of their home, silent, broken, watching them vanish into the night.The war had begun.

CHAPTER TWO: The Angel Who Wouldn’t DieThey survived. But not well. Not whole. Not quietly.
They hadn’t escaped a monster, they carried him home in memory.Lyra didn’t shatter all at once. She cracked in places no one could see.
It began with silence. Then the wine.Not earthly wine. Holy wine. Consecrated and bitter, meant for sacred rites. It burned her throat as it went down, leaving blisters behind. But she’d smile anyway and whisper, "Just one glass, little light. Just one glass for the ache."Skyye watched her mother’s hands tremble as she poured another. And another. And another.
She wanted to scream but stayed quiet. If she screamed, maybe it would make her mother see how bad it was. And maybe that would be the final weight that crushed her.So, Skyye swallowed her panic and smiled back. "Okay, Mama."Then came the blades.Skyye found her in the tub. Water red, not clear. Arms opened like pages of a book no child should read. Feathers drifted like petals from something once sacred. Her wings shed faster now, clumps falling like dead promises.Skyye didn’t cry. She stitched the wounds with trembling hands, wrapping them in pink ribbons. Like hope. Like forgiveness.
She whispered her rhyme, "Mama, don’t go. I’ll be good, I promise…" Her voice cracked. She bit her lip hard enough to bleed to keep it steady. She had to stay calm. Because if she broke, who would save her?Another night, bleach. She missed the vein; her skin blistered and peeled. She laughed like it was funny. Another night, her throat cut open, wet and red. Skyye pressed towels to her mother’s neck, whispering "It’s okay, it’s okay," even as nothing was okay. Blood foamed at Lyra’s mouth like divine champagne.And then the balcony.Five stories up. No hesitation. Just a quiet walk into the night, barefoot and gentle. Skyye heard the thud. And something inside her chest went still.She screamed loud enough to shatter hallway lightbulbs. She ran barefoot down the stairs, feet slicing on gravel and glass.Lyra’s body was twisted. Wings bent wrong. One eye half-open like a cracked window. Her spine protruded from her back like a second mouth, frozen mid-scream.
But she was alive. Because angels don’t die easy.So, Skyye carried her up the stairs. Step by step by step. Her mother’s blood smeared the walls. Her bones clicked wetly. Skyye slipped twice but never stopped. Never screamed. Never cried.
She had to be strong. Because if she fell apart, she might pull her mother down with her.That night, after scrubbing the blood off the floors with shaking hands, Skyye stepped into the shower. She turned the water as hot as it would go, curled into the corner, and cried. Silent, awful sobs that tore from her stomach and left her gasping. The kind of sobs you swallow because if Mama heard, maybe she’d think Skyye didn’t believe in her anymore.So, she buried it. All of it. Inside her chest, behind her ribs, beneath her heartbeat. She never let Lyra see her cry.Some nights, Lyra kissed her forehead and whispered, "You’re my little miracle. My reason to live." And Skyye would nod. Smile. Hold her hand.
Other nights, Lyra hurled holy books at the walls and screamed, "You look just like him! You’re his! You’re the devils spawn!" And still, Skyye would nod. Smile. Stay.Because she knew the pain wasn’t really meant for her. And if she could carry it, maybe her mother wouldn’t have to.She was six. And already someone's rock.Lyra made promises. So many promises.
"I’ll stay." "I’ll stop." "I’ll live, for you."
And Skyye believed her. Every. Single. Time.Until one morning.
The bed was cold. The coffee cup half-drunk. The robe still hanging on the door.Skyye searched every room. Every closet. Every rooftop. Every alley. Every church.
No note. No goodbye. No blood. No body.
Just air.She waited at the window. Days. Weeks. Years. Centuries.
She whispered to the clouds. Begged them to bring her mother back.
But the clouds only drifted.And slowly, Skyye began to rot. From the inside out.One night, she couldn’t take it anymore. She needed it to end.
She slashed into her stomach, fingers plunging past muscle and fat, ripping out her own entrails and draping them over her legs like wet, writhing ribbons. She laughed as they twitched in her lap, a choked sob tearing through her throat. Frustrated, her claws gouged into her cheeks, carving raw lines that bled a glittery red. A knife slid beneath her ribs, levering them apart with a sickening snap. She pressed her index nail against her throat, dragging it slowly across her carotid until blood spouted in hot arcs, spraying the walls and ceiling. Her scream split the air, shattering the light above into glittering shards of glass.And then.
Darkness.
Then breath.She woke. Whole. Untouched. Alive.Over and over again she tried. Every weapon. Every method. But her body healed. Every time.
Even her pain refused to kill her.She wasn’t human. She wasn’t anything.
She was a vampire born of grace and rot. Unkillable. Unwanted. Unloved.And the silence that followed was the loudest thing in the world.

CHAPTER THREE: Hollow Girl, Hungry WorldSkyye stopped keeping track of time. Not because she forgot. But because time didn’t want her anymore.
She outlived the days. The weeks. The decades. There were years she didn’t speak. Centuries she didn’t blink, lost in her thoughts.
The world changed. Skyye didn’t.Her home rotted around her like a carcass too stubborn to bury itself. Walls peeled like burned skin. Floorboards curled like they were in pain. The air hung heavy with mildew, old blood, and the soured perfume of something once holy, now rancid.
She lived in it. Not as a person, but as a memory that refused to fade.She wandered. Barefoot. Draped in torn lace and dried blood. Sometimes people passed her. Sometimes they didn’t see her at all. Those who looked turned away quickly, as if her shape made them nauseous. She wasn’t a monster. She wasn’t even real. She was an echo. A glitch. A myth trying to remember its name.Hunger came and went. So did cold. She didn’t flinch at either. Her body didn’t beg anymore. It endured, like an empty house no one visited.She found friends, in time. Not people. Objects. Things that didn’t leave her. A broken umbrella she named Puddles. A tiny AAA battery called Sparky. A rusty nail she kept in her pocket, Rusty. It never lied. It never screamed. It just stayed.
She’d speak to them like they breathed."I found another ribbon today, Puddles. It matched the blood on my ankle."
"Sparky, do you think momma meant to leave? Or did she just get lost?"
"Rusty, if I shove you into my throat, will you promise to go deep enough this time?"She once knelt in front of a vending machine and wept. Her forehead pressed to the glass. There was a stuffed toy inside, a little cloud with button eyes and a stitched smile. She whispered to it like it was sacred."I’d name you Pillow. You’d never leave. You’d let me scream into you, and you wouldn’t break."She sat there for hours. The machine never moved. Never ran out. Never told her she was cursed. That was enough to fall in love with.But the silence, the silence got loud.
It rattled in her teeth. Sank into her bones. Turned her skull into a locked room where her thoughts clawed at the walls and begged to be let out.And so she decided to try again.This time she didn’t use blades. Didn’t stab. Didn’t beg.
She clawed at her throat. Dug her nails in until they snapped backward. Then tore, flesh ripped like fabric. Her voice came out in a wet hiss. She didn’t stop. She ripped through skin, through sinew, through the cords that used to sing lullabies to ghosts.Her windpipe collapsed. Blood poured down her chest, hot and sudden. The world tilted. She didn’t fall, she sank.
She lay in the alley, twitching, surrounded by rats and rotting wrappers. Neon signs buzzed overhead, painting her body in flickers of violet and cyan. A bottle rolled against her hip. She whispered to it, "Don’t cry, Glassy. It’s just blood."She turned her head toward a puddle. Her face stared back at her, distorted, ruined. Eyes dull. Lips shredded. Throat gone.
She smiled at the reflection. "Is this enough?" She mouthed the words. No voice came.The puddle didn’t answer. The sky didn’t answer. The clouds looked away.And so she laid there, bleeding out, eyes glassy. Not hoping to be found, just hoping for the world to let her go."If someone’s watching…" The thought didn’t have a voice anymore, just shape. "…kill me already."And then footsteps.Clean. Sharp. Measured.
They didn’t rush. Rushing was for people who feared running out of time. This man didn’t fear anything.He stepped into the alley like he belonged in it, like it had been waiting for him. Long black coat. Precise stitching. A silhouette carved from intention.
His eyes were winter. His voice was steel softened just enough to sound smooth. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t even look confused. He looked at her like he already knew what she was.He knelt beside her. Unclasped his glove. Ran the back of his knuckles across her blood-streaked cheek."You poor thing," he murmured. "Wasted on this world."She tried to move. Tried to glare. But she was too tired. Too torn. Too done."You’re not broken," he whispered. "Just incomplete."She didn’t understand. Didn’t care. But she hated the way his voice didn’t tremble, the way his hands didn’t shake, the way he looked at her like she was a project, not a person.And then he gave her a name.XVII.
"Seventeen," he said. "The date. It’s what the night gave you."Like she was a file, a folder, a number, not a girl, not a grave.
She hated it, so she kept it, because even hate felt better than nothing.He lifted her into his arms like she weighed nothing, like her blood didn’t matter, like she’d already been claimed."You don’t need to die," he said. "You just need to be remade."She didn’t believe him, but she let him carry her, because no one else had ever stayed. Not even death.

CHAPTER FOUR: The Year He Pretended to Love HerThe first night, she slept in silk sheets. The pillow was plush, scented with lavender. The lights dimmed low, like dusk had been bottled just for her. And when she woke, groggy and aching, the air smelled like vanilla and strawberries.He made her a milkshake. Real cream. Extra whipped topping. Chocolate, one of her favorites though she didn’t remember ever saying that aloud. He slid it toward her without a word. She stared at it like it might vanish. When she took the first sip, her hands shook. The sweetness hit too hard. It reminded her of being loved. She nearly cried.He didn’t comment, just turned on the television and changed the channel to something quiet, soft. For a little while, Father was... kind.He cooked for her. Potato fries, thick-cut and hot, with a dish of Ranch on the side. He didn’t ask if she liked it. He just watched as she ate. When her fingers trembled, he refilled her glass. He didn’t smile much. But when he did, it felt like a blessing.He never called her “Skyye.” Only “Seventeen.” But once, when she dropped a fork, too tired to hold it steady, he said, "Sweet girl." And something in her chest cracked from the inside out.He played games with her. Memory cards. Simple puzzles. Once, chess. She never won, except the one time he let her. She knew it was on purpose, but still, he nodded at the end, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth soft, and said, "Good." She felt weightless for hours.She was allowed to decorate, to collect things, to build her small world out of fragments: broken figurines, colored ribbons, torn pages from fairytale books. She had Pillow, the little cloud she stole from a vending machine. She gave him a shelf, a blanket, a bedtime ritual. She whispered to him every night, curling under covers too soft for someone like her."He’s trying," she told Pillow. "He cares."It didn’t rot all at once. The kindness faded in pieces.At first, he just spoke less. Then came the corrections.
"Stop slouching." "Wipe your face." "You don’t need to ask that."
He’d sigh when she fumbled a question. He’d raise an eyebrow when she cried. Milkshakes still came. So did fries. But now they came with comments.
"You don’t need all that whipped cream." "Eat slower. It’s unseemly." "You should be grateful."She laughed less. Spoke quieter. Folded herself smaller to keep the peace. But she still hoped, because the softness never disappeared completely. It just changed shape.Sometimes he’d still brush a crumb from her cheek. Sometimes he’d still pat her head when she completed a task correctly. Sometimes his voice would drop low and say, "You’re doing well."He made her love the way he hurt her, not with bruises but with contradictions. One moment he was screaming, sharp enough to cut, loud enough to rattle her bones. The next, he was warmth and praise, calling her his daughter. It rewired her brain. Broke her in places no one could see.She started taking his kindness like a prescription, clinging to it, craving it as if the cruelty was just a side effect she had to swallow to feel better again.She started crying in the shower again. Face pressed to the tile, water scalding her skin just to feel something different. But never loud enough for him to hear. Never enough to make him worry. Because what if this time she cried too loud and he stopped being nice altogether?She held her pain in her throat like a secret. She smiled when it cracked her teeth. Because if she kept being good, kept being quiet, obedient, lovely, maybe she could earn back that first version of him, the one who played chess, the one who made milkshakes, the one who called her sweet girl.She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of losing the idea of him, the version he dangled in front of her like a key to a locked door. The version he buried under rules and sighs and silence but never quite killed. He was the first person who stayed. The only one who fed her. The only one who said she was doing well.So she stayed. Smiling. Bleeding. Grateful. Trying, day after day, to become the girl he might love again.

CHAPTER FIVE: The Girl Who Didn’t Want to Kill
He didn’t call it a mission. He called it a lesson.
He told her they were just going for a walk, that there was something he wanted to show her.She followed without question. Of course she did. Because maybe, just maybe, this was a test she could pass. And if she passed it, maybe he’d smile again. Maybe he’d call her sweet girl. Maybe he’d make fries when they got home.They walked through back alleys and dead air. He wore his coat, long and stiff, always tailored sharp enough to cut. She wore soft shoes and a pale hoodie. She carried nothing.He didn’t give her a weapon. He gave her a name. Just a name. A man. A problem. A target. A mistake that needed to disappear."He won’t fight back," Father said. "He’s barely anything."She didn’t ask what the man had done. She didn’t ask why it had to be her. She just nodded, because hesitation might look like failure, and she couldn’t afford that.The man was older, tired. His eyes were red around the edges. He sat on a crate behind a warehouse, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers.He looked at her, not like others did. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He looked at her. Really looked. And in that moment, she wanted to run. Not because he scared her, but because she knew, deep down, he saw her.Not XVII. Not a weapon. Not Father’s little project. Just her, skin and scars and something broken trying to look whole.Her hands trembled. The only weapon she had was her body, her teeth, her nails, the strength Father had carved into her through years of molding."Do it," Father said from behind her. Calm. Precise. Not cruel. Not angry. Just empty.She stepped forward. The man raised his hands, not to fight, but to show her he wasn’t going to."Are you okay?" he asked.And that did it. Because no one had asked her that in a very, very long time.Her face twisted, not in anger but in grief. She lunged, claws out, fangs bare. She tore into him, fast, clean, efficient, just like he taught her. Blood sprayed across the bricks, onto her face, her chest, her hands.The man choked on her name, not "XVII." He didn’t know that name. He choked on Skyye, because somehow he’d guessed it.And then he was still.She stood over him, shaking, not from the kill but from everything else, from the knowledge that she couldn’t take it back, that she’d done it to earn love, and that it hadn’t worked.She turned to Father. He gave her a single nod. "Efficient," he said. "You’re learning."No smile. No milkshake. No fries. Just an order fulfilled, a tool proven sharp.She walked home in silence, blood drying in sticky swirls across her skin. Father didn’t speak. She didn’t ask him to.She went to her room, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed. She didn’t cry, not yet. She picked up Pillow from the shelf and pressed him to her chest.And whispered, "I think I killed who I used to be."

CHAPTER SIX: The Echo GirlSkyye cried the night she killed for the first time. But she didn’t know why.
She wasn’t sad. She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t even sure she felt regret.
The only thing she felt was too much. Too loud. Too big. Too sharp. It pressed against her ribs like something that wanted out. But there were no words for it, no shape.
So she held Pillow close and whispered what Father had said: "Efficient." She said it like a prayer, like if she said it enough it might become a reason.She noticed it then, how often people told her what she was feeling.
"You’re angry." "You’re scared." "You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?"
And she would nod, because maybe they were right. She didn’t know how to check.
She started copying, quietly.If someone frowned, she frowned too. If they smiled, she tried to smile back even if it made her face feel wrong, stretched, artificial.
If someone cried, she would hold their hand and tilt her head like she’d seen in movies. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes they looked at her like she was made of glass.
"You're so kind," they’d say.
So she believed them. I must be kind. That must be what this is.Father never told her how she felt, but he told her how she should feel.
"You’re disappointed in yourself." "You’re not satisfied." "You’re angry with your hesitation."
She absorbed every word like a sponge so desperate not to be wrung out.
If he said she was angry, then she must be. If he said she was broken, she believed she had shattered. If he said she was learning, then even the bloodstains on her hands looked like progress.The problem was sometimes she felt things before he said them. A tightness in her chest. A twisting in her stomach. A need to scream that had no voice.
And when those feelings didn’t match what he named for her, she began to panic.
She thought, I must be defective. I must be wrong.So she smiled harder, mimicked better, learned faster.
She studied others like mirrors. She practiced how to laugh at the right moments, how to widen her eyes when someone looked surprised, how to tilt her head when she was supposed to be curious.
She learned to say "I’m fine" when her hands shook. Learned to say "I understand" when she didn’t.She didn’t understand why her chest ached when she sat alone. But when someone asked, "Are you lonely?" she said, "Yes. That must be it."
She didn’t know what grief felt like, but she knew how to perform it: a bowed head, a trembling hand, the right amount of silence between breaths.
She became an expert in rehearsed pain.But inside? Inside, everything was soup. Emotion with no label. Feeling with no anchor.
She wasn’t numb. She was drowning in sensations she couldn’t name, like a child holding alphabet blocks with no idea how to read.Once, she sat in the hallway for hours, hugging her knees. Pillow rested beside her. She placed his little stitched smile beside her own and asked, "Do I look happy yet?"

CHAPTER SEVEN: The Echo Girl Meets the FireIt started with a name.
Not hers. Someone else’s.“Nyx,” Father said, tapping his cigar against a cracked glass tray. Smoke hung like fog in the air, refusing to rise. “He’ll assist you from now on. You’ll listen to him. Learn from him. Don’t waste my time.”Skyye stood in the center of the room, soft lace socks brushing the cold tile. Her arms were folded behind her back, polite and pristine. But her heels rocked back and forth, a gentle rhythm that didn’t ask for permission.Like the tick of a clock with no numbers. Like she was rocking on the edge of a windowsill between two worlds, one real, one softer. She hadn’t decided which to fall into yet.She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Her gaze flicked to the corner of the ceiling where the vent was whispering again.
Don’t answer it, she reminded herself. It lies.Some days, she was the girl who survived. Other days, she was the monster they built. Most days, she wasn’t sure if the walls were breathing or if she just wanted them to. She liked it better when they moved. At least then they felt alive.She talked to furniture. Praised the light switch for being brave. Kissed her plushies goodnight twice each to make sure neither got jealous. She had long conversations with a broken outlet behind her dresser. Sometimes she told it secrets. It sparked once. She took it as a promise.Father’s voice buzzed in her ears even when he wasn’t in the room. She didn’t know if it was memory or magic or madness.She mimicked emotions, the way others moved their mouths, the timing of their laughs. If they smiled, she’d smile. If they cried, she’d pet their arm and murmur something soft, even if she didn’t know what she meant. Sometimes she felt things first. But if they didn’t match what people expected, she shoved them back down.
Feelings without names weren’t allowed.So she borrowed labels like outfits. Wore them until they didn’t fit.Then the door hissed open.Nyx swaggered in like he owned every molecule of air in the room.Brown hair tousled in deliberate chaos. Square-cut orange eyes too bright to be natural, too knowing to be safe. A scar through his left brow. Another, deeper, at the edge of his mouth. Snakebite piercings glinting with every wordless grin. Tattoos curling down his neck.He looked like someone who’d bitten God once and dared him to bleed.“You’re the girl he never shuts up about,” he said, arms folded, stance loose. “Cute.”Skyye blinked slowly. She rocked once, then twice. A tiny, eerie smile curved her lips, not because she liked the compliment, but because the tile beneath her had just whispered, He’s different.Father didn’t chastise him.
“He’ll be your shadow,” he said. “Use him well.”And just like that, Nyx was everywhere.He was in the room during drills, lounging against the wall like boredom had a body. In the hallway, humming songs she didn’t recognize but somehow remembered. At her side during practice, chewing gum like a distraction and watching her fight like it was theater.He didn’t correct her. Didn’t command. Didn’t flinch. He just watched with wild patience, like he was waiting for something brilliant to catch fire.“You claw like a dancer,” he said once, twirling a dagger between his fingers. “Kinda hot. Kinda terrifying.”Skyye giggled too slow, too sharp. It wasn’t laughter. It was a sound escaping her mouth because silence would’ve felt too vulnerable. Her smile came a full second too late. Eyes too wide. A spark flickered behind them that didn’t match the mood.He didn’t mention it.One night, Nyx found her on the rooftop. Skyye sat with her legs swinging off the edge, stuffed Bunny in her lap, a tiny paper crown on its head.“Talking to your army?” he asked.
“No,” she said flatly. “He’s asleep.” She tilted Bunny slightly. “Don’t wake him. He hates strangers.”Nyx nodded, serious. “I get that.” He sat beside her. Let the quiet spill between them.The moon flickered too fast. Once. Then again. Skyye glanced up, then down. Not real. Not yet.Then Nyx reached into his coat and pulled out two small vials, diamond-shaped, filled with black and violet magic swirling slow like poison dreaming of starlight.“For you,” he said. “Most people don’t get gifts from me. Most people aren’t you.”Skyye stared. “Why?” she whispered.“You like pretty things. Lonely things. Soft things. So I made you a storm in a bottle.”He tapped one vial lightly. The liquid inside stirred faster, like it heard him, like it was alive.“Keep them close. If anyone tries to take them, kill them.”Skyye reached out and took them with both hands. She didn’t say thank you. She pressed them to her chest like she’d had them forever.Later, she made them into something wearable. Sewed the vials into the decorative wings on her socks. They dangled when she walked, glinted when she spun, swung like silent friends who had nowhere else to be.Nyx never questioned her rules. He never asked why she talked to clouds, kissed her plushies goodnight, or refused to step on the same tile twice in a row.When she crowned her pancake plushie with a broken bottlecap and whispered, “You rule the clouds now,” Nyx only nodded. Picked up the second Squishy. Gently crowned it with a bent bottlecap of his own.“This one’s mine,” he said. “He looks like trouble.”He held it like it was alive.Skyye didn’t speak. But something inside her flickered, warm and small. Like maybe not everything inside her was broken. Not yet.The days stretched like bruises beneath her skin. The nights grew heavier, colder, dragging like wet fabric across her ribs. Father’s voice, once sharp enough to carve her into obedience, faded into a wary hush. He spoke less, watched more. Not with the eyes of a sculptor admiring his work, but like a man unsure whether the statue he chiseled would crumble or turn on him.Skyye no longer flinched when corrected. No longer smiled to please. Her silence had shifted. It was no longer survival. It was something blooming.A soft hum followed her through hallways, off-key and childlike. She whispered to her Squishies with blood still drying on her hands. She patted their heads gently with claw-tipped fingers, trailing crimson like a bedtime lullaby. Her grin lingered when she was alone. Especially when she was alone.Nyx was the first to see it.
“You’re humming more,” he said, watching her sketch little clouds into the wall with her nail.
She didn’t pause. “It keeps the voices company.”She swayed on her heels in slow, metronome-like motion, no longer to calm herself, but to keep the unraveling in time. The rhythm held her together. Or at least it kept her from spilling out.She didn’t name her emotions anymore. She didn’t need to. Whatever they were, they came in flashes, sharp, sweet, sick. She let them bleed through her fingers like ink, staining everything she touched.Father called her his masterpiece. But he had begun locking his door.One night, after a mission that left six dead and one begging, she returned and dropped a blood-soaked cloth on his desk, a single tooth pressed into its center.“He begged pretty,” she said. Her eyes were wide. Her voice was light.Father didn’t praise her. Didn’t scold her. He looked at her like he’d just remembered she had claws.“Don’t enjoy it too much.”
She tilted her head. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”He didn’t answer.The next day, he vanished.

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Day the World CrackedSkyye waited. For two days. Then she stood. Tucked her Squishies beneath her arms. Brushed Qloud Puff dust off her socks. And walked.The headquarters door creaked open. Not broken. Inviting.The smell met her like an old friend: copper and decay and the sour rot of something once sacred. The walls were streaked with blood, smeared into symbols that made her eyes twitch. Art, not chaos.“Not a murder,” Nyx muttered. “A ritual.”Skyye didn’t respond. She kept walking down the hall, past her old room. Her socks made sticky little squeaks in the blood.She pushed open the door to Father’s office.Her world cracked in two.Father sat slumped in his leather chair, arms hanging at odd angles, neck torn wide open like an overripe fruit. His ribs had been pried apart by force, snapped bone sticking out like jagged teeth. The top of his skull had been crushed inward, fragments of bone buried deep in the pulped brain, like glass shattered into jelly.His tongue had been severed at the root, left dangling grotesquely from his gaping mouth, long and limp, a ribbon of meat.His severed fingers had been nailed to his scalp in a jagged crown, each one pinned using his own teeth, ripped from his jaw and hammered through bone like mock gemstones. They jutted up, cracked and bloodied, obscene in their mockery.Flesh hung in ribbons from his arms, skin flayed into curls that dripped to the floor.His intestines wrapped around his limbs like fleshy restraints, swollen, twitching, still-warm. His heart sat in the center of his hollowed chest cavity like a centerpiece, exposed and slow beating, like it hadn’t realized he was dead yet. Tied together by the optic nerves were his eyes. They swung with each heartbeat like ornaments, staring down into the ruin.She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She waited, like she always did, for him to speak. To bark. To belittle. To say anything that would anchor her to the version of herself she knew.The silence was louder than any scream.In it, Skyye shattered.She fell to her knees, claws dragging deep trenches into marble as her breath hitched, soft and sharp, like sobs that had been sharpened into knives.Her lips quivered. Not from grief. From confusion.Because she had loved him. Because she still did. Even now, even like this. That was the part that broke her most.A giggle slipped out. Then another. Short, sharp, stuttering. Wrong.She turned to Nyx, her voice light and singsong.
“I need two more vials. Diamond-shaped. Like the others.”Without a word, he handed them over.Skyye dipped her claws into the blood, slow and reverent. She filled each vial as though bottling something sacred. Then clipped them to the wings on her socks.
“Only a vampire can love you,” she whispered. “Forever.”She turned to the Squishies. Gently patted one on the head.
“He’s resting. Don’t wake him.”For the first time since her world ended, her voice broke from something tender. Not fear. Joy.Footsteps.Not Nyx’s. Not unfamiliar.A figure stepped into the doorway. Shadowed. Tall. Drenched in blood, but unbothered by it.Mishi.He stood like a monument to old sins, watching her with eyes that looked like hers.His voice was calm. Almost amused.
“I thought he’d last longer,” he said, eyeing the ruin. “But I suppose even gods bleed eventually.”Skyye didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise. Her smile stayed stitched across her face like a scar.
“You’re mine,” he murmured. Not like a father. Like a predator reclaiming a stray.He hadn’t come to help her. He had come to unmake what wasn’t his. To lean into the ruin and whisper:
You were never free. Just borrowed. And I’ve come to collect.

CHAPTER NINE: The Throne of CloudsMishi stood for a long time, eyes tracing every ruined detail of Father's body like an artist admiring a finished painting. The blood still glistened. The ribs still twitched. The swinging eyes stared back at nothing.Skyye watched him. Waiting.But he said nothing more. No commands. No instructions. No lectures. Just that sickening, calm amusement.“You did well,” he finally murmured. “You always had my blood in you. It was only a matter of time.”She swayed on her heels, clutching her Squishies close. The vials of Father’s blood clinked softly against her socks.“I can stay, if you need me,” Mishi said. His voice was light, almost mocking. “Or perhaps you’re ready to lead without a leash.”The words dangled in the air like a test.Skyye’s lips twitched. Something inside her cracked open like a rotten fruit, but no rot spilled out this time. Just something bright. Something raw.She smiled. Wide. Wrong. Radiant.“I don’t need anyone,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”The words didn’t shake. They felt good. Like knives tucked neatly into place.Mishi chuckled, pleased. He stepped closer, not menacing, not affectionate. Simply curious.“You’re stronger than your mother,” he said. “She begged.”Skyye tilted her head.
“My mother isn’t dead,” she sang softly. “She just forgot how to come home.”For the first time, Mishi blinked. Not surprise. Not fear. But something unreadable. Like she’d said something he hadn’t planned for.“Maybe one day,” he said, recovering. “Maybe not.”He glanced around once more, taking in the palace of carnage she now ruled. Then he turned toward the door.“No more lessons, little storm. The rest is yours.”And like a ghost grown bored, he walked away. His footsteps were slow. Unbothered.He never looked back. She didn’t follow. Didn’t beg. Didn’t cry.The air shifted when he was gone. Heavy. But hers.The old name, Midnite Mafia, sat stale on her tongue.She stood in the pool of Father’s blood and whispered to the clouds:
“Qloud.”The word purred through her lips like an offering.The Qloud Mafia. Light and rot. Soft and brutal. A kingdom built on something too broken to die.She smiled wider.In that moment, she wasn’t Father’s masterpiece. She wasn’t Mishi’s borrowed child.She was Skyye. Queen of Qlouds.And everyone would learn to kneel.

CHAPTER TEN: The Softest Knife Cuts DeepestThe Qloud Mafia was born beneath blood-soaked marble.
Skyye didn’t host a ceremony.
She didn’t summon the higher ranks. She didn’t declare herself with fanfare.
She simply opened the door.
And let them come.The first days were a strange parade.
Veterans entered the room where Father’s remains still rotted, their eyes darting to the obscene crown of severed fingers nailed to his skull. No one dared remove it. No one dared ask her to.
They bowed.
Or they knelt.
Or they stared too long and found their eyes slowly torn from their sockets by her claws.Nyx lounged nearby for most of it, gum snapping between his teeth, watching as the old Midnite Mafia began to fracture under her silent rule.
“It’s amazing what fear does,” he mused one night, leaning against her oversized plush throne. “They used to worship him. Now they tiptoe around you like a dream they’re scared to wake up from.”Skyye rocked on her heels, humming softly.
“They shouldn’t wake up,” she whispered. “The dream is softer than what comes after.”She spoke differently now. Like nursery rhymes wrapped in knives.Her first order was simple:
The name Midnite Mafia was to be erased. Every file, every mark, every tattoo burned away.
“Qloud,” she sang. “We float. We devour. We rain when we’re angry. We smother when we’re gentle.”And so, the Qloud Mafia grew from the corpse of its predecessor.
She created new ranks.
The soldiers became “Qloud Puffs.” Her enforcers were renamed “Puff Police.” Spies became “Cotton Drops.” Her personal guard? “Bubble Wraps.” The Mafia’s Cleaners: “Lint Rollers.”It sounded absurd.
Until they saw what she did to the first man who disobeyed.
He questioned the new titles with a soft laugh.
So, she sliced his stomach open, pulling the skin apart like peeling an orange, humming to her Squishies while he screamed.
“He’s a leaky cloud now,” she giggled, blood spraying across her pastel socks.No one laughed after that.The streets whispered.
They called her “The Qloud Princess.”Her rule was unpredictable.
Some days she handed out plushies to her soldiers and insisted they name them.
Other days she made her captains march for hours barefoot in broken glass, whispering little songs about “how soft they’d feel inside-out.”
She flooded the old safehouses with pale blue neon and pastel graffiti, transforming dark dens into candy-colored fortresses of controlled madness.
Children’s music mixed with gunfire.
Sweets were served beside execution orders.
She rewarded loyalty with softness, milkshakes, stuffed animals, silk pajamas.
Disloyalty was met with unspeakable violence dressed in pretty ribbons.Nyx never flinched.
He watched her hum and spin through her empire like a ballerina drunk on gasoline.
He handed her the blades. Lit the fires. Carried the bodies.
He never called her broken.
He only called her Princess.And then came the first real test.
The Hollow Suns, a rival syndicate from the southern docks.
They saw Father’s death as an opening. They called the Qloud Mafia soft. A joke. Led by a little girl wrapped in bloodstained lace.They sent a message.
A box.
Inside: a severed head of one of Skyye’s Cotton Drops, mouth stuffed with cotton candy, eyes stitched shut with pink thread.Skyye stared at the box for a long time, gently petting her Squishy tucked beneath one arm.Nyx watched her carefully.
“Do you want me to handle it?” he asked softly.Her voice was syrup when it finally came.
“No,” she whispered.
She smiled wider.
“I want them to see what happens when you try to smother a cloud.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Cotton Candy MassacreThe docks smelled like salt, gasoline, and cheap promises.
The Hollow Suns didn’t hide. They thought she was bluffing.
They gathered in the open, leaning against rusted shipping containers, laughing beneath dying neon signs. Music blared from old radios. Girls danced on crates. Men tossed knives between their fingers like bored gods.
They were waiting for her.
They thought it was brave.
It was foolish.Skyye arrived barefoot.
Not to make a statement but because shoes felt too heavy for the kind of softness she was about to deliver.Her pastel socks soaked the puddles as she walked, humming gently under her breath. Nyx trailed a few steps behind, carrying a plush basket wrapped in baby blue ribbons.The Hollow Suns watched with wide grins.
“There she is!” one called, raising a bottle mockingly. “The Qloud Princess herself. Did you bring your stuffed animals to negotiate?”Skyye smiled sweetly.
“No,” she whispered. “But I did bring Gifts.”She gestured to Nyx, who approached and set the basket down in the center of the open dockyard.Inside were dozens of tiny plush clouds, hand-stitched and smiling.
Each one stuffed full of explosives.The first Hollow Sun picked one up and laughed.
The laughter didn’t last long.The moment his fingers squeezed the plush belly, it popped.
Not a grand explosion.
No. Not yet.
Just a tiny needle shot from the center, piercing his throat. A thin mist of pale blue gas burst out, filling his mouth and nose.He collapsed.
Eyes wide. Twitching. Foaming at the corners.The others barely had time to react before the rest of the Puffs started hissing open like deadly flowers.Skyye twirled on her toes, humming louder as panic broke loose.
Some tried to run.
Some tried to fight.
Some dropped instantly as the chemical fog wrapped around them, choking their screams into wet gurgles.The Hollow Suns fell like children in a rigged carnival game.
And Skyye danced through the middle of it.
Her blood-stained socks left soft prints as she spun, humming her off-key lullaby beneath the dying lights.Nyx followed silently, drawing his blade only when a few survivors crawled toward them, gasping.One man managed to grab Skyye’s ankle, eyes wide with terror.
“Please,” he croaked.She tilted her head, blinking with mock curiosity.
“But you sent me candy,” she whispered.Her foot came down on his throat, crushing it in a wet pop.
She giggled.As the last bodies twitched, Nyx stepped beside her.
“All done,” he said softly.She nodded.
“Clouds always smother out the Sun on a cloudy day,” she sang.They left the docks behind, the bodies still steaming in the chemical haze. The waves lapped against the blood-streaked shore like an eager applause.By morning, every faction would know:
The Qloud Mafia was no joke.
And The Qloud Princess didn’t negotiate.

To Be Continued...

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