Chapter Text
The priest, FATHER MARTIN brought me here to show me something. Thinks I’m going to be a witness for whatever batshit crazy he’s trying to sell me. This DR. WERNICKE is at the center of whatever went wrong here. But he died more than ten years ago. “Rest in Peace,” says the blood on the wall.
Miles — Prison Block
Consciousness came back slowly, like dragging himself out from beneath wet, heavy earth. Miles groaned, his throat parched, head pounding. His fingers twitched against fabric. No—not fabric.
Padding.
The walls around him were soft. Cushioned. Once white.
They weren’t white anymore.
Crimson scrawl covered every surface in jagged, manic strokes. Crosses. So many crosses—smeared with what looked like dried blood. Scripture fragments written and rewritten, layered on top of one another. Names he didn’t recognize. Numbers. Tally marks.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
His gaze locked on the words above the door.
“Rest in Peace.”
Miles pushed himself upright, groaning at the stiffness in his limbs. His camera was tucked into his side—thank God—but the battery light blinked red. He checked the walkie. Still there, but painfully silent. No sign of her.
A low hum echoed in the air—distant whispers, erratic breathing. The overhead light flickered with a tired, mechanical rhythm. He stepped to the door, peering through the small, reinforced glass window.
A variant stood on the other side.
Gaunt. Pale. In prison uniform, smeared in dried something—blood, probably. He stared directly at Miles, unmoving.
Miles instinctively stepped back.
The lock clicked. The door creaked open a few inches. By the time Miles padded his way to the threshold—
The man was gone. Just gone. Like he’d vanished into smoke.
Miles stepped into the corridor, wary.
The entire block was chaos in slow motion. Cells were open. Some doors hung crooked on their hinges. A few were sealed tight. Variants wandered the hall, aimless—muttering to themselves, scratching the walls, pacing like caged animals in a broken zoo.
No one touched him.
Eyes flickered toward him, lingered, then drifted away. Like they saw something wrong with him. Like he glowed with some invisible mark.
He passed a cell. The inmate inside looked normal at first glance—sitting, rocking back and forth—but the moment Miles passed, the man screamed and lunged at the glass, fist slamming into it with startling force.
“No! Not you! Not you!” the man shrieked, hand smearing blood on the reinforced pane. “He said you’re his! You’re his!”
Miles jolted back. The man beat the glass again, shrieking, “Martin warned us!”
He stumbled away, breath caught in his throat. The corridor twisted, lined with identical rooms, some padded, some concrete cells with barred doors. Red graffiti bled across the tile, across the walls. A gate came into view at the far end, rusted shut but not sealed.
He stopped.
On the other side—them. The twins.
Identical. Towering. Naked but for blood-slicked skin and the glint of metal in their hands—blades, sharp and still wet. They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching him with animal patience.
Miles’s pulse spiked.
“Father’s favorite,” one of them rasped, voice silken with patience that stood a stark juxtaposition to the carnage they bore.
“Touched by prophecy,” said the other. “Blessed. Protected.” He smiled. “For now.”
Miles didn’t move. He knew better.
“We’ll give him a head start,” said the first, pressing his face against the bars. “A long one. Makes it more fun.”
“And when we do catch you. . .” the second whispered, mirroring his brother, “. . .we’ll kill you slow. Nice and slow.”
The gate stood between them, but it didn’t feel like a wall. It felt like a countdown.
Miles turned and walked on, the twins’ murmuring echoing down the corridor behind him like a psalm sung in reverse.
You — Admin Block
Your boots hit the tile harder than you meant them to as you round the final corner. The familiar cracked door of the security office where you were supposed to rendezvous with Miles comes into view, and your heart stutters with something like relief.
Please be here. Please be here.
You slip inside. The room was just as you remembered it: blood-streaked monitors, cold metal filing cabinets, a few lockers lining the walls, the hum of an old desktop trying its best to boot up.
And it’s empty.
The walkie crackles against your hip. Silent.
“. . .shit.”
You turn in a slow circle, eyes scanning the corners like he might have crouched somewhere, waiting for you. Like he might still be close. But the silence was oppressive. Damning and certain.
Your hands shook as you crossed to the monitor array and powered up the system again, fingers dancing across the interface like second nature. The cameras buzzed to life, one feed after another stuttering back into motion.
Then you saw him.
You froze.
He was moving through the prison block, his camera out, sweeping through the cell-lined corridor like a man walking blindfolded through a minefield.
Your throat tightened. “Goddammit,” you hiss, voice tight with frustration and anxiety.
Of course, you suspected Father Martin had gotten to him. That bastard had a grip on half the damn asylum—
Bang.
You stiffen. The sound was heavy. Like something—chains, metal—being dragged across the worn concrete.
Then came the low growl. A guttural breath that vibrated through the floor. Your heart stops beating in your chest.
Chris Walker. No doubt about it.
The lights above you flicker, as if they knew of his impending arrival.
“Shit, shit—” you hiss, scrambling back from the console before diving for the nearest locker.
You barely got the door closed before his hulking silhouette passed through the hallway outside. The sound of his breathing filled the room. A slow, monstrous rasp. Like a furnace struggling to stay lit. You held your breath, one hand pressed against your mouth as heavy boots thudded inches from where you hid.
A pause.
Then another deep inhale.
Your heart slammed against your ribs now, wild and helpless. Then his footsteps retreated.
You waited. One second. Two. Ten.
Only once silence settled back over the room did you push open the locker door, breath catching as you stepped out. You darted back to the monitors.
The feed still showed Miles—carefully moving down the prison block hallway, just past where you’d last seen him. You hovered there for a moment, eyes glued to the monitor.
You leaned in, squinting. You could see Chris making his way to the prison block, hauling ass in a way only a lumbering giant can. Your stomach sinks.
“. . .no,” you breathe, horror threading into your voice. “No, no, no—don’t tell me you saw him.”
Your eyes dart across the feeds, searching the hallways outside the block, your breathing coming faster. Chris wasn’t in the west wing anymore. You lose sight of him just like that.
You grit your teeth and press closer to the monitor.
“. . .come on, camcorder. Don’t stop moving,” you murmur, watching Miles’s figure navigate through a minefield of monsters.
Miles — Prison Block
The flicker of overhead lights cast shadows like nooses down the length of the prison corridor. Miles moved slowly, his camera pressed to his face, night vision active. It bathed the cells in washed-out green and pale gray, giving the world an unsettling palo.
The cell doors hung ajar, some wide open, others splintered at the hinges. Blood trailed across the floor like crude arrows. The walls groaned. So did the men in the cells.
“Shh. . .they’re listening. . .”
Miles stopped dead in his tracks. A variant crouched inside a cell to his right, eyes wide, mouth hanging open like it wanted to scream but forgot how.
Another one sat rocking in a darkened corner, smearing something on the wall. Incoherent nonsense.
“You can’t stop it. Can’t stop it. . .”
“We’re putting our faith in the wrong thing. . .”
The static hum of his walkie crackled. His breath caught.
“You’re alive.” Her voice. A flood of grounding relief hit him all at once.
He lowered the camera, eyes scanning the block. His hand went to the walkie at his hip, tore it off, and raised it to his lips. “Barely. I woke up in a padded room. . .I think Martin drugged me. Said something about a ‘greater purpose’.”
A sharp exhale through the walkie. “That tracks.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t put me there.”
“No. I was watching you. He put you in the prison block now. I can see you on the feeds.”
“I figured. Half the psychos here are giving me a free pass because of him.”
“Good. We’re gonna use it.”
Miles kept walking.
She came back on: “You should see an opening in the wall coming up. Crawl through it—yeah, that one—and you’ll hit a stairwell. You can climb up from there to the upper level. One of the doors should be unlocked.”
He spotted it. A ragged hole beside a collapsed section of brick.
“Got it.”
He ducked through, keeping the camera up. The narrow passage reeked of mold and piss. Something rustled behind him. He didn’t look back.
He emerged onto a metal stairwell, just like she said. From up here, the prison looked even more like a crypt. Cells stacked on cells, decaying steel coffins.
Then he saw it. A crude message smeared in red on the opposite wall:
FOLLOW THE BLOOD.
He brought the walkie to his lips again. “He’s leaving me notes now.”
There was a pause, as if she were trying to read it herself. “What does it say?”
“Follow the blood.”
“. . .of course it does.” Another pause. “Fine. Follow it. For some reason, Martin wants you alive. Right now, we need all the help we can get.”
He pressed forward. Another message just around the bend:
DOWN THE DRAIN.
He hesitated. It pointed toward another corridor. Narrow. Choked in shadow.
But it wasn’t a trap. Because when he voiced his hesitation into the walkie again, her response was immediate.
“That’s where I was going to send you. There are holding cells through there. It’s a little safer. Keep moving.”
The alignment of their paths sent a chill down his spine. As if Father Martin wasn’t just manipulating him, but her, too.
He moved down the corridor. The sound of dripping water echoed like a heartbeat. Like the asylum was alive.
He saw a shape in the shadows. Miles paused, camera trained ahead.
A man—barefoot, blood-soaked—stood over a twitching body. Correction: not moving. The guard was long dead. The variant was beating him anyway, a length of pipe rising and falling with wet, hollow cracks.
Miles didn’t breathe.
The man didn’t even look at him. Just muttered, rhythmic and detached:
“He screamed when I told him. He saw the light. He shouldn’t have screamed. I had to make him stop.”
The variant turned slightly, pipe dragging behind him.
“Keep quiet,” he said to Miles. Calm. Almost gentle.
The walkie buzzed again, barely above a whisper. “Don’t talk to him. Don’t stop. Just walk. Nice and slow.”
Miles obeyed. Step-by-step. The beating continued behind him. He never once looked back.
You — Security Office
You exhaled shakily, watching through the grainy lens of the security camera as Miles edged past the man with the bloodied pipe. Your finger hovered over the walkie button, pulse fluttering like it wanted out of your throat.
“Good,” you murmur. “You’re past him.”
You clicked on the mic.
“Alright. Keep heading forward. You should see a corridor leading to the right—yeah. That one. You’re heading for a decontamination hallway. One end’s sealed, but the emergency override should still be working. You’ll have to hit the switch from the security office.”
The cameras flipped as you typed, locating the office tucked inside the block’s east wing. You switched views rapidly until you saw him enter—cautious, always scanning, always watching. Good. He was learning well.
“There’s a panel by the monitors. You should see it—flip the override.”
You lean forward, watching as he crosses the room toward the switch.
Then your blood runs cold.
Movement. Behind a row of overturned lockers. A shape. A variant.
You slam your hand on the mic.
“No—turn around! Don’t open that door. Run. Now!”
You watch the variant erupt from hiding, lunging forward as Miles whipped around, bolting from the room. You clicked through cameras fast enough to blur your vision, tracking him as he sprinted down the corridor he’d just come from.
“Go left—holding cells! You’ll see them—door’s open! Hide!”
You could barely breathe as he vanished into the cell block. A second later, the variant barreled after him, humming softly.
“Where’d you go. . .? Come on out, little rat. . .you hide, I seek. . .”
You clicked into the camera and saw Miles slip into a locker.
The variant walked into the room. Slow. Calm. He swung a pipe at his side like it was an extension of his arm.
“Mmm. . .I’ll give you time,” he said softly. “Time to think. Time to marinate.”
The man turned. Walked in a slow loop. Then, after a long, painful pause, he left.
You waited five more seconds before pressing the walkie.
“You’re good. He’s gone.”
You watch the locker crack open. Miles stepped out, breath shallow but steady.
“Go back,” you instruct. “Same route. It’s clear.”
This time, no interruptions.
You watch as Miles made it to the security office again, this time unchallenged. He hit the override. A green light flickered above the decontamination door on the feed.
“You’re good. That’s your exit. Get moving.”
But then your gut twisted again. There—outside the room. Another figure approached.
“Shit—shit, hide.” You hiss, voice tight. Panicked. The variants were getting bolder, more of them aware of your existence and his. “Don’t ask questions, just hide. Now.”
He ducked behind a desk just before the door creaked open.
The variant wandered in, muttering nonsense, dragging a piece of rebar. He knocked over a chair, paused—distracted.
You seized the moment. If he didn’t move now, he’d be discovered. Cornered.
“Go. Run now. While he’s facing the monitors—GO.”
Miles burst from hiding and ran.
The variant shouted, furious, but too slow.
You watch Miles sprint out, bolt into the corridor, and disappear through the newly opened door.
The decontamination hallway swallowed him whole.
You slump back into the chair and let yourself breathe again.
“Keep following the blood, camcorder,” you whisper. “We’ll get through this. One step at a time.”
Miles — Prison Block
The path ahead reeked of copper and rot.
Miles crept along the corridor. The air was frigid, humming with something that felt like being watched. His shoes squelched faintly over dried blood and something thicker.
That’s when he heard them again.
The twins.
On the other side of another gate, just visible through the bars. They were taunting him, stalking him. Taking their time.
Still naked. Still holding their crude blades with the same slow, reverent poise.
“We’ve been so patient,” one of them said, voice low and silken.
“Paragons of it,” the other concurred, eyes glinting like polished glass in the dark.
“We deserve to indulge. . .”
“. . and take our time.”
Miles didn’t wait for more.
The walkie crackled to life. “Don’t stop. Don’t talk to them. There’s a ledge just ahead—you can climb along it and reach the other side of the gate. I’m watching them—they’re not moving yet. You’ve got time. Go.”
He’d learned not to question her judgment. Just move when she told him to.
The ledge was narrow and slick. The drop beneath him was concrete, stained and littered with broken pieces and furniture and God knew what else. But he kept going, kept snaking along, kept his eyes forward and breath silent.
The twins watched.
But they didn’t follow.
Once across, the walkie clicked again. “They’re gone. You’re clear.”
He didn’t relax. Couldn’t. He just moved faster.
The next room was an office, tucked away and half-looted already. Drawers hung open like broken jaws. But there were documents. Notes. Papers stamped with the Murkoff logo and laced with redacted lines. He pocketed what he could, always gathering, always archiving—just in case none of this made it out with him.
The trail of blood led onward, smeared into a line that turned down another hall. He followed.
Eventually, it stopped at a locked door. Showers. The handle buzzed uselessly beneath his grip.
“I need a keycard,” he muttered.
“There’s a body nearby,” she said. “Security guard. I saw him earlier. Should still have his card. Turn around from where you came.”
Miles turned and started toward the hall, knowing which body she was referring to.
But as he reached the body, his eyes caught movement on a lower floor. Large. Familiar. He froze.
A thud. A drag. Another thud.
Chris Walker. Again.
Miles stiffened. He didn’t need to see him clearly to know. It was the way the air shifted—the way the silence became oppressive and suffocating.
He turned slightly, wide-eyed.
And there he was. Lumbering across the cell block floor like some reanimated titan, skin stretched over muscle and rage. A mountain of a man, dragging a dismembered leg like it was a toy.
The walkie whispered, urgent: “Don’t look. Don’t engage. Just keep moving. It’s better if he doesn’t see you.”
Miles obeyed.
He turned back to the guard, who was slumped in a pool of cooling blood near the next corridor. He rifled the keycard from his pocket with shaking hands.
Another breath. Another step.
He didn’t look back again.