Chapter 3

Herobrine was growing more and more anxious the longer Steve stared at him. "How do you know my name?" he asked.

This couldn't be possible. How was Herobrine this young!? Wasn't he hundreds of years old!?

What Herobrine actually is was actually highly debated. Some say he's a demigod, the result of an illegal relationship between a mortal and a god. Others say he is a human who killed and cheated his way into obtaining god-like power. Whether or not you believe these theories or something else entirely, one thing was certain: he's very, very powerful and very, very dangerous. The blood of thousands stained his hands. Steve used to not even believe in his existence until about five years ago, when he had no choice to. Steve fiddled with his ring. Now it made sense what Herobrine was doing down there. He had the ability to respawn, or come back to life after he died with no signs that he had ever been harmed in the first place. It made him impossible to kill for good, yet there were several groups of people who were dedicated to ending him. Steve bet an entire paycheck that one of these groups was the reason why Herobrine died, and the mysterious sound Steve and the sentinel heard was Herobrine respawning. However, this didn't explain why Herobrine was now so… small.

Herobrine bundled himself up in Steve's blankets and stared up at him, waiting for Steve to say something. Instead of talking to him, Steve just turned around and sat down at his kitchen table so he could think.

Steve didn't feel a shred of sympathy for Herobrine. That man was a monster, and he deserved whatever (hopefully) painful and brutal death was inflicted on him. He couldn't die enough to pay for what he did. Steve slid off his ring and stared at it as tears formed in his eyes. Memories flooded his head, and he couldn't stop them.

Blood.

Screaming.

Glowing white eyes.

The clashing of iron on diamond.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut and dropped the ring, but this didn't stop the memories.

Steve's son cold and dead in his arms.

His wife's blood splattered on the walls.

His own blood seeping through his fingers.

Steve rubbed the scar on his chest. Tears streamed down his face, and there was no way to stop them. He wept quietly, and Herobrine just stared at him. Steve eventually picked the ring back up and clutched it. That monster killed them for no reason but for the enjoyment of watching them die. He was amused by pulling that sword out of Steve's chest and was just as amused by watching him bleed to death. Steve almost died that night, but the town guards found him just in time and managed to drive off Herobrine. It was far too late for Alex and Carter, though.

And there was no one to blame but Herobrine.

Suddenly, small arms wrapped around Steve, bringing him back to reality. He was horrified to see Herobrine giving him a hug. "Get off me," Steve hissed, shoving Herobrine away. He just stared up at Steve with fear, then dropped his gaze to his feet and worried at his hands.

"I-I'm sorry, you just looked like you needed a hug…" he said quietly.

"I'm fine. Don't touch me," Steve snapped.

"I'm sorry," Herobrine mumbled.

Steve sneered at him, but then he remembered the steaks he had cooking in the furnace. He quickly stood up and pulled the steaks out before they could burn. Thankfully, he seemed to have pulled them out at just the right time. He really didn't want to feed Herobrine, mostly out of spite, but he couldn't let a perfectly good steak go to waste. So, he put the meat on two separate plates and gave one to Herobrine, not making eye contact with those soulless white eyes as he did so. Herobrine looked down at the plate, then looked back up at Steve. Steve tossed him a fork and scowled at him for a solid five minutes while he ate his own dinner.

Steve was so blinded by hatred that he didn't even realize that Herobrine wasn't eating. He stared at the food instead, then glanced up at Steve. Only then did it dawn on Steve that Herobrine wasn't eating because he couldn't. With a sigh, Steve began cutting up Herobrine's food into bite-sized pieces.

"This is ridiculous. I'm cutting up a serial killer's food because he's too frickin' young to do it himself," Steve hissed to himself.

"What's a serial killer?" Herobrine asked curiously.

Also, because Steve was so furious, he hadn't noticed another obvious thing about Herobrine: he didn't seem to remember anything. He wasn't acting like the same deranged psycho that killed Steve's family. He was just a kid with no apparent memories of who he used to be.

Steve ignored Herobrine's question. He finished cutting up the steak and pushed the plate back towards Herobrine, who now happily ate the pieces. Once the two were done with dinner, Steve cleaned up the plates. He found an old blanket and a pillow and used them to make a makeshift bed on the floor for Herobrine to sleep on. "You'll be staying here for now," Steve said. Until I can find one of those people obsessed with killing you, then you'll stop being my problem, he added in his head. Herobrine looked down at the bed, then back up at Steve. He scowled at the child. "What, do you have a problem with sleeping on the floor?"

"…no," Herobrine looked back down at the ground.

"Good."

Steve snuffed the torch that illuminated his house and climbed in bed. In the darkness, he could see two dimly glowing orbs that could only be Herobrine's eyes. Steve rolled over so he wouldn't be facing Herobrine and thought.

How could he let a murderer stay in his house? Especially one that he hated with a burning passion? How could he let the man that caused him so much anguish sleep in his house and eat his food? Steve rubbed his face. As soon as he had realized who that kid was, he should have kicked that monster out onto the street. Maybe the mobs would have gotten him.

Steve rolled back over and saw the white orbs staring back up at the ceiling. How many of his crimes did Herobrine remember? If he did remember, did he even care? Or was homicide just a sport to him?

Somehow, Steve managed to fall into an uneasy sleep.