Imma Thrill Ya

The last Light Worker was a man named **Dion**.

He stood in the gutted remains of what used to be the city’s skyline, the permanent eclipse burning like a black wound behind him. Rain hissed against the floating debris as purple lightning cracked across the sky. His grey hooded jacket was soaked and torn, streaked with ash and old blood. In his right hand, he held the final piece of light left in the world—a searing orb of pure energy that pushed back the living darkness around him.

The Dusk Wardens watched from the edges of the ruins, their forms shifting like smoke. They didn’t rush him. They didn’t need to. The night itself belonged to them now.

But Dion didn’t look afraid.

He looked *defiant*.

The orb in his palm pulsed brighter, casting his face in fierce orange light. Scars and exhaustion lined his features, but his eyes burned with the same fire as the light he carried. He had once been a guardian of balance. Now he was the last one. The only thing standing between total surrender and whatever small chance remained.

As the darkness pressed closer, Dion raised the orb higher. His voice cut through the storm, low and steady:

“Imma thrill ya.”