Specter of Christmas
The snow fell gently across the ruined streets of King’s Row, the faint hum of Christmas carols drifting from the windows of distant homes. Lights twinkled, garlands adorned doorways, and laughter echoed softly. But for Gabriel Reyes—no, for Reaper—this scene of joy was a mockery. He moved through the shadows, unseen, unnoticed, as always.
He stopped in the cold, his breath—if he could call it that—forming a pale mist before dissipating into nothingness. Hands trembling, he reached for the photograph he always carried. It was worn, creased along the edges, but the faces stared back with haunting clarity. A squad of soldiers in Overwatch blue, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, all smiles. Jack Morrison, bright-eyed and beaming, stood at the center. And beside him, Gabriel.
Once, they had been brothers. Once, they had fought side by side.
Gabriel closed his eyes, remembering the early days of the Omnic Crisis. The terror, the destruction, the desperate need for heroes. They were called to be more than men, conscripted into a cause that demanded everything. There was no choice, no freedom. Only orders. Only sacrifice. He had bled for them, killed for them. Yet it was Jack who received the parades, Jack who became the shining beacon of hope. Gabriel had been the shadow that made the light possible, but shadows are easy to forget.
“They don’t sing carols for the ones who die,” he muttered, voice rasping like dry leaves in the wind.
The war had ended, but not for him. When Overwatch fell apart, when its ashes scattered across the earth, Gabriel had thought perhaps he could find peace. But peace was for heroes, not for monsters. He had been remade, his body twisted, his very soul frayed into ribbons. Now, he was a wraith—a creature of vengeance, not belonging to the living or the dead.
And yet, on nights like these, the ache was unbearable.
He wandered through the streets, watching the warmth of families behind glass windows. Parents embracing children, friends exchanging gifts, lovers stealing kisses beneath the mistletoe. Once, he had been part of that world. Now, he was nothing but a phantom.
His mind drifted to Christmases past. There had been laughter, camaraderie—foolishness, even. He remembered teasing Jack about his terrible cooking, remembered Ana insisting on decorating their base with tinsel and lights. Even then, though, the weight of his sacrifices had loomed. He had given so much, more than anyone. And yet, he was overlooked, overshadowed by the golden boy with the perfect smile.
“Jack Morrison,” he spat the name, his voice echoing in the empty alley. A hero who had everything handed to him while Gabriel had been left to rot. The jealousy burned, a wound that never healed.
As the church bells tolled midnight, he found himself standing in the shadow of a small chapel. Inside, candles flickered, and a choir sang softly. He lingered at the door, unseen, unnoticed. The hymn spoke of hope, of redemption, of forgiveness. But there was none of that for him.
He turned away, stepping back into the cold. The snow continued to fall, silent and relentless. Gabriel thought about his life—what it had been, what it had become. And he thought about Christmas, about what it meant. Joy, family, love. All things he could no longer claim.
Standing alone in the darkness, he whispered, “And so, every Christmas, I am reminded that I am nothing. Just a spectator to my own death.”
The snow swallowed his words, leaving only silence.