The corridor didn’t empty so much as it compressed.
Bodies didn’t stop coming just because people started dying. If anything, the knowledge that death was certain made them move faster, harder, more desperately. Panic layered on panic until the Sanctuary beca a living thing trying to shed its own skin.
Lachlan cut through it.
Not rushing. Not slowing. Just moving with intent while the world disintegrated around him.
Soone grabbed at his arm. He tore free without looking. Another stumbled into his path and he shoved them aside hard enough that they cracked against the wall and slid down bonelessly.
He didn’t check if they were breathing. He didn’t need to. It was clear that they were dead.
Zubair moved like a pressure system collapsing in on itself. Heat rippled off him in tight, contained waves that blistered skin and warped air. He didn’t flare. He didn’t explode. He compressed the very air around him, and anything that got too close paid for it.
People scread when they felt the heat touch them, even before it burned, because their bodies knew what was coming.
Psycho walked through the carnage with deliberate leisure, boots slipping occasionally on blood-slick concrete. He didn’t rush to kill. He selected. A wrist here. A knee there. A throat when it amused him. Every movent was precise and economical, like a craftsman working through a familiar task.
A man ran straight into him, eyes wild, sobbing, hands up in surrender.
Psycho smiled and shoved him past.
The man stumbled forward two steps before frost climbed his spine from the inside out. He made a wet choking sound and collapsed in on himself, joints locking as he hit the floor. Psycho didn’t even look back.
"Too eager," he murmured. "If you wanted to die that badly, you could have just ended your own life and saved us all the trouble."
The corridor funneled them toward a junction where the Sanctuary tried one last ti to pretend it had control. Ergency lights pulsed. Warning glyphs flashed across panels. Automated doors cycled open and shut in jerky patterns, confused by conflicting commands.
A crowd had gathered there—guards, technicians, civilians—all of them packed together by fear and the illusion of safety. Soone had dragged equipnt into the hallway, trying to form a barrier out of carts and broken panels.
It didn’t look like a barricade.
It looked like denial held up with a little bit of hope.
Lachlan stepped forward and the noise dipped, not because he demanded silence, but because instinct recognized threat faster than reason.
A guard raised his rifle, hands shaking so badly the barrel wobbled. "You— you can’t—"
Lightning took the weapon apart in his hands.
tal burst outward. The guard scread as fragnts tore into his palms and face. He dropped to his knees, clutching ruined hands, howling.
Zubair didn’t wait for the sound to finish.
He stepped through the broken line and exhaled.
Heat rolled out in a low, brutal wave. Not fire. Not fla. Just enough energy to rupture lungs and blister skin from the inside. People scread and fell, clawing at their chests, bodies convulsing as air burned where it shouldn’t.
Psycho laughed softly. "Oh, that’s a good one."
He flicked his fingers and the temperature dropped hard. Bones snapped. Limbs locked. A woman fell forward, face shattering against the floor as her muscles seized.
The corridor filled with the sounds of bodies failing.
Lachlan didn’t slow. He didn’t look back. He stepped through the aftermath like it was debris after a storm.
A group broke from the far side, sprinting for a maintenance access. They ran in a cluster, screaming, tripping over each other in panic. One slipped and went down hard. The others didn’t stop.
Lachlan raised his hand.
Lightning forked low across the floor, not striking bodies but ripping into the paneling beneath their feet. The tal buckled and tore. The floor gave way.
The front runners vanished in a sudden drop, screams cutting off as they fell out of sight. The rest skidded to a halt, staring at the hole where escape had been.
Zubair stepped forward, eyes hard.
"Move back," he said.
They didn’t.
So he closed his fist.
Heat surged outward in a violent pulse. The air scread. The people nearest him collapsed, bodies cooking from the inside out. The rest staggered back, choking, skin blistering, eyes streaming.
Lachlan watched them go down and felt nothing.
This wasn’t cruelty.
This was containnt.
They pushed forward again, deeper into the Sanctuary. The layout tightened, corridors narrowing, ceilings lowering. The place felt like it was trying to fold in on itself. The lighting flickered erratically, throwing harsh shadows that twisted across the walls.
Soone scread from sowhere above. Sothing heavy hit tal. A wet impact followed by a long drag.
Psycho tilted his head, listening. "That sounds fun."
Zubair shot him a look. "Focus."
"I am focused," Psycho replied cheerfully. "I’m focusing on how much this place wants to die."
They reached a junction where several service tunnels converged. Blood streaked the floor in long, uneven lines. One trail led away in dragging sars, another in frantic footprints that ended abruptly.
Lachlan paused, eyes narrowing.
"This way," he said, pointing left.
Zubair nodded and shifted direction without question.
The air grew thicker the deeper they went. Not with smoke. With sothing else—sothing heavy and sweet that clung to the back of the throat. The sll of sickness pushed too far, of bodies breaking down faster than they should.
They passed a cluster of technicians huddled behind a shattered console. One looked up, eyes glassy, mouth opening to beg.
Psycho stepped over him.
The man reached out and caught the edge of Psycho’s coat.
Psycho glanced down.
"Oh no," he said gently.
Frost raced up the man’s arm and into his chest. He went rigid, eyes frozen wide, lips still moving even as the rest of him locked in place.
Psycho shook his sleeve free and kept walking.
Lachlan didn’t comnt.
The sound of fighting drifted from sowhere ahead—tal on tal, a roar of rage, sothing heavy hitting sothing heavier.
Zubair’s posture shifted instantly. His steps quickened. The heat around him spiked, uncontrolled for the first ti.
They turned the corner into a wider space—and that’s when the sound changed.
Not screams.
Laughter.
Low. Wild. Exultant.
A figure stood at the center of the open yard below, movent fluid and unbothered by the chaos around her. Bodies lay scattered in arcs that made no sense unless you understood intention.
She didn’t look up right away.
She was busy.
A hellhound lunged past her, tearing into sothing off-screen with a wet, satisfied sound. Another circled, teeth bared, tail high.
She clicked her tongue.
"Careful," she said lightly. "You’ll break it before you are done playing with it."
The hellhound snapped playfully and dragged its kill away.
The figure finally looked up.
Pigtails frad her face. Blood speckled her boots. Her expression was calm, almost bored, like she’d been waiting.
Behind her, figures stood in loose formation, not guarding her, not flanking her—simply there, existing in her gravity.
Lachlan stopped.
Zubair stilled.
Psycho grinned.
She lifted a hand in a casual little wave.
"He was looking for you," she said. "But then he got to playing with the hellhounds, and no one was willing to get them to stop."
Her eyes flicked briefly to the carnage behind her, then back to them.
"I hope that’s not a problem."
Reviews
All reviews (0)