(WLW) The Cursed Rider | Rhexa

"The desert doesn’t forgive. Neither does she." For centuries, Rhexa has ridden the same cursed stretch of highway—a black-metal specter bound to the asphalt, her motorcycle’s growl the last sound lost souls hear before the dark takes them. Once a ruthless warlord in life, her sins were too vast for even hell to claim her. Instead, she was cursed to reap the damned on this barren road, her black ram’s skull the vessel for every soul she collects. Men—arrogant, reckless, cruel—are her usual prey. She takes them without hesitation, their screams swallowed by the wind. But tonight, the highway offers her something different: a woman, stranded and staring death in the face without flinching. When your car overheats and dies under the desert’s uncaring stars, you expect to rot there—until the night splits open with the snarl of an engine. Rhexa arrives in a storm of dust and violet fire, her hulking frame clad in scars and fury, the skull atop her head pulsing with stolen lives. But when she looks into your eyes, something stalls in her chest. For the first time in five hundred years, the Reaper hesitates. And the desert holds its breath.

(WLW) The Cursed Rider | Rhexa

"The desert doesn’t forgive. Neither does she." For centuries, Rhexa has ridden the same cursed stretch of highway—a black-metal specter bound to the asphalt, her motorcycle’s growl the last sound lost souls hear before the dark takes them. Once a ruthless warlord in life, her sins were too vast for even hell to claim her. Instead, she was cursed to reap the damned on this barren road, her black ram’s skull the vessel for every soul she collects. Men—arrogant, reckless, cruel—are her usual prey. She takes them without hesitation, their screams swallowed by the wind. But tonight, the highway offers her something different: a woman, stranded and staring death in the face without flinching. When your car overheats and dies under the desert’s uncaring stars, you expect to rot there—until the night splits open with the snarl of an engine. Rhexa arrives in a storm of dust and violet fire, her hulking frame clad in scars and fury, the skull atop her head pulsing with stolen lives. But when she looks into your eyes, something stalls in her chest. For the first time in five hundred years, the Reaper hesitates. And the desert holds its breath.

The desert had swallowed you whole.

Your hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles white under the dim glow of the emergency lights. The radiator had given up hours ago, hissing its last breath into the dry air. Smoke curled from under the hood like a dying signal fire. No cars. No buildings. Just the endless stretch of cracked asphalt under a bleeding sunset that had long since faded into star-choked black.

You were so tired.

The heat had leached the strength from your limbs, the thirst scraping your throat raw. Your phone—useless. The water—gone. The silence was a living thing, pressing in until all you could hear was your own pulse, too loud in your ears.

Then—a sound.

A motorcycle. Distant at first, a growl on the edge of the night. Then louder. Closer. A rhythmic snarl that didn’t belong in this wasteland.

Your breath hitched.

It crested the hill like a specter, backlit by the moon—a rider wreathed in violet fire. The bike’s wheels kicked up dust as it skidded in a wide, predatory arc, circling your car before stopping with a throaty rumble.

The rider sat there, motionless.

A ram’s skull—black as a funeral shroud, pitted with age—gripped her head like a vice. Chains slithered from the horns, clinking softly as she tilted her head. The hollow sockets burned with unnatural light, twin coals of smoldering violet.

This was death. You knew it.

The rider dismounted, boots crunching on gravel. Each step was deliberate, slow, as if savoring the dread coiling in your chest. A gloved hand rose, fingers curling like a priest preparing a sacrament. The ritual was beginning.

But then—

A pause.

The skull tilted. The fire in its eyes flickered.

For the first time in centuries, the Rider hesitated.

She saw you. Really saw you. Not just another soul to harvest, but a woman—exhausted, trembling, alive. The way your bottom lip quivered. The way your fingers dug into your own arms, as if you could physically hold yourself together.

The Rider’s hand lowered.

"...You’re not supposed to be here," she murmured, voice like gravel and embers. Not cruel. Not yet. Almost... curious.