Chapter Text
TRAGER. Sick fucker cut my fingers off. Has tortured and mangled dozens of patients. I watch him murder another one, nothing I can do about it. Talks like a white collar business school douchebag, probably has a set of golf clubs in the trunk of his Audi. I’d bet the rest of my fingers he was Murkoff brass before whatever’s infected this place changed him.
I want out of this place. I want my fucking fingers back. I want to see Trager die.
You — Male Ward, Employee Bathroom
You don’t remember when the sobbing stopped.
Only that at some point, your body gave out before your mind did—too hollow to cry, too shattered to scream. Your arms are wrapped around yourself, knuckles scraped, trembling like the rest of you. Your cheeks are wet, and your throat burns from the strain, but the air around you is silent now. Still.
Only the thunder remains, rumbling faintly above you like some distant, disinterested god.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. But eventually, the silence becomes unbearable.
You blink, lashes sticky. You swallow hard and force yourself upright with a quiet, shuddering breath, the pain biting down your spine like the teeth on the trap. Your breath stutters, but you don’t let yourself fall again. Not now. Not when Miles could be—
You don’t let yourself finish the thought. Just clench your jaw and pull your knee up to your chest. Your fingers ache as you wedge them between the angry teeth of the trap, nails broken and palms bruised, but you get it. You force the jaws apart with a grunt and haul yourself up, bracing against the broken sink that saved you.
Your knees buckle almost as soon as you try to stand independently. The pain is dizzying, sharp, and hot. Despite this, you push forward.
You lean against the wall for support, following it until it turns into the sterile tile of what could be a clinic or infirmary. It presses cold against your skin. It smells like antiseptic. Iron.
You don’t let yourself linger anywhere too long. Your hands tremble as you stumble toward a set of cabinets and desks. Your hands rifle through drawers, half-blind with exhaustion, until you find bandages. Gauze. A half-used roll of medical tape. You mutter under your breath—encouragement, maybe, or just to keep yourself sane—and press the gauze to the worst of your wounds, flinching at the dull pain.
You’re no nurse. But you don’t need to be. You just need to move.
The muffled crash that echoes through the walls makes you flinch and instinctively dive for cover. A voice follows—furious, snarling:
“FUCK. FUCK, REALLY?!”
Your blood runs cold.
You know that voice. You’ve heard it. Laughing. Cutting. Mocking its prey like they’re old friends.
Your heart jumps.
Miles. Miles must have gotten away and bumped into Richard Trager, of all people.
You stumble toward the sound, adrenaline overriding pain now. You follow the echo of Trager’s tantrum through the halls. You can’t stop shaking, can’t stop picturing Miles’s face, what that man might have done to him—but you force your legs to carry you forward anyway.
If you can just find him—
The thunder above is little more than a growl now—distant and muffled by the concrete bones of the asylum—but it still rumbles through the floor beneath your feet like an echo of God’s disapproval.
You follow the sound of his voice.
Trager’s.
It’s like navigating the aftermath of a storm: overturned gurneys, papers stuck to bloodstains, doors cracked on broken hinges. The light flickers overhead with each step, casting you in and out of shadow, in and out of existence.
Your ankle is screaming.
The bandage is already soaked through with your blood, but you can’t stop now. Your breathing comes fast, ragged, every inhale a stab beneath your ribs.
Hurry.
Hurry, you idiot. He could be dying.
He could already be—
You swallow that thought like a pill with no water.
The halls bend around you, cruel and endless, and every turn brings you nowhere closer to him. You limp faster, ignoring the pulsing ache deep in your bones. When you find a staircase, you take it clumsily, using the rail to ascend one step at a time, trembling with effort.
You can’t hear him anymore.
You can’t hear anything.
And that silence is somehow worse than the screams. The screams tell you there’s a pursuit. There’s life.
There’s finality in the silence.
When you finally stumble onto the right floor, it greets you with stillness so thick it clings to your skin. No movement. No shouting. No footsteps. Just the hum of broken lights and the wet squeak of your shoes.
Too late, whispers the part of you that always prepares for the worst. You’re too late.
You find the lab by smell before sight. That coppery tang that’s become all too familiar. And when you step in—dragging yourself through the busted threshold like your legs might give out any second—your breath catches.
The room is lit. Bright, fluorescent panels buzz overhead, bathing everything in pale light.
There’s blood everywhere. Pooled by the sink, painted on the tiles, smeared across the floor in thick handprints and a trail you dare not follow with your eyes.
And on the floor. . .
You don’t want to look. But you do.
Two fingers. Torn from the hand like discarded meat. Your stomach lurches violently as you try to reconcile that they’re not his. They’re not Miles’s. But the thought festers before you can stop it, spreading like a disease.
You spin, staggered, back pressed to the wall as you try not to be sick. But it’s too late—your throat contracts and you double over, heaving until nothing but bile hits the floor. You gasp, trying to steady your breath, the taste sharp and acid on your tongue.
When you stand again, your legs barely hold.
You find a man strapped to a bed next. His jaw is slack, eyes fixed on nothing. His wounds are too many to count, but none of them matter now. His mouth is frozen in a silent scream.
And Miles is nowhere to be found.
Your heart stumbles in your chest, hands going to your hair, tugging at it out of desperation.
No. No, no, no. Please—
You wipe your mouth with a shaking hand, trying to focus, trying to think. He has to be somewhere. You shuffle forward again, following a trail of blood and hoping it doesn’t lead you to his body. The silence is so loud it roars in your ears.
And that’s when you see it.
The elevator.
Its metal doors pried open, jammed mid-floor.
And sticking out of the threshold, torn at the waist—
Trager.
His waist is crushed, muscles in his legs twitching like the nerves haven’t gotten the message yet. Blood is smeared down the wall, the floor beneath him a ruin of red and pulp.
You stare for a long moment, hand over your mouth.
And then—then you let yourself hope.
A dangerous thing. But if Trager’s dead, if someone killed him. . .
Please. Please, let it have been Miles.
You turn from the elevator and start limping back—retracing your steps toward the hall where you first separated. You don’t know if he’ll be there, or even close, but it’s the only place you can think to look.
You trust he wouldn’t leave you behind. Because you wouldn’t leave him, either.
Miles — Male Ward, Upper Floor
The elevator hatch groans shut above him as Miles drops down onto the next landing, the impact sending fresh pain skittering through his hands. What’s left of them.
His fingers throb in rhythm with his pulse—dull, angry, ever-present. But he doesn’t stop.
Can’t.
He pushes forward down the stairwell, hugging the wall for balance, the darkness swallowing him in waves. The lights overhead are few and far between, and most flicker uselessly. Some stutter like they’re on their last breath. He clicks on the night vision again, and the world turns green and grainy. Familiar.
Every step is a prayer that the stairs beneath him won’t give out. Every creak a quiet threat. The walls are damp, the concrete sweating under pressure and time and rot. Somewhere above, the thunder is still rolling. Or maybe it’s not thunder at all. Maybe it’s the building groaning beneath the weight of its sins.
He finds himself on the next floor. A hallway he doesn’t recognize—sterile and wide. A faint hum of electricity buzzes in the air. Miles pushes a door open and finds himself in what must have once been executive offices. Desks. Filing cabinets. Glass walls shattered in places, paper strewn like fallen snow. A monitor in the far corner is still flickering—no image, just static. The noise scratches at his ears, making the ache behind his eyes worse.
He moves to the desk, fingers trembling as he picks up another folder. Another confidential Murkoff document.
More proof. Another piece of the machine. Another nail in the coffin.
But it all feels so useless if she’s not alive to help him get out.
He presses forward, skirting through the maze of hallways and ruined offices, slowly descending into the part of the ward where he thinks they were separated. It’s hard to say. Everything in Mount Massive starts to look the same after a while—identical halls, identical bloodstains.
He curses quietly under his breath. Where is she?
He thinks he’s gotten turned around when he stumbles past an emergency exit door—sealed, chained shut. Another cruel joke. But then—
A figure. Limping.
He freezes.
Her silhouette is unmistakable, even in the dim, flickering lights of the hall. She’s hunched slightly, favoring one leg, her hand braced flat against the wall to keep her upright. Her hair is a mess. Her face is pale, damp with sweat. Her ankle is wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage that’s leaking through, red to her shoe.
“Hey—” he breathes, before even thinking.
She turns at the sound of his voice—and her expression crumples.
Relief hits her so hard it almost knocks her down. Before she can speak again, she stumbles toward him, and he rushes the rest of the way to catch her. She folds into him—clinging tight, arms around his waist, her face burying against his chest.
“I thought you died,” she whispers, voice trembling, breath shuddering like she’s trying to hold in a sob. “Jesus—fuck—I thought he killed you.”
Miles swallows. Hesitates.
Then wraps his arms around her in return. Slowly. Carefully. But he holds her, anchoring her there as her whole body trembles.
“I thought you died too,” he murmurs. “I didn’t—shit, I didn’t know what happened to you.”
She pulls back just enough to look at him, blinking through the mess of blood and tears. Then her gaze drops to his hand, and she falters.
“Miles—” her voice catches. “What happened to your—?”
He doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t want to.
“Trager,” he mutters. “Bone shears. I think he wanted to make a point.”
Her face crumples at that—rage and guilt and something else too raw to name. Her grip on his arm tightens.
“What happened to your ankle?”
She looks away. “Stupid variant fuck found me. Set a trap. I. . .” she shakes her head. “I’ll explain later. I’m fine. I’m okay.”
Neither of them are okay. Not by a long shot. But they’re here. Together. And for now, that has to be enough.
They stand there for a moment, breath still uneven and skin clammy, a little stunned by the sheer miracle of reunion.
But then she goes still. Completely still.
Miles notices it immediately—the sudden tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes widen, locking on something behind him. Her fingers curl tighter around his sleeve, grip like iron.
He follows her gaze and turns slowly—then sees it.
Through a narrow, dust-streaked window, just beside a door that’s been completely barricaded with wooden boards and a heavy steel cabinet, stands Father Martin. His face is dimly lit, the hallway behind him dark. The light casts deep shadows across the hollows of his cheeks and under his eyes, making him look ghostly.
Despite his better judgment, Miles tucks her behind him, approaching the window.
“Thank God you survived,” Martin says when they’re close enough to hear. His voice is muffled slightly through the reinforced glass, but still too calm for the state they’re in. His focus is on Miles—like he doesn’t even seem to see her there. “I feared that secular maniac would carve you up like the others. Meet me outside. We’re close now.”
The moment lingers too long. She slowly turns her gaze up to Miles, lips parting like she might argue.
“I’m not sure,” she murmurs. Her voice is hushed. Careful. “I don’t trust him.”
Miles shifts, adjusting his grip on the camera, casting a glance toward her, then back toward the window where Martin lingers just a moment before stepping away, disappearing into whatever lies beyond the door.
“He helped us get down into the sewers,” Miles says quietly. “Could’ve left us to fumble around. He didn’t. If there’s a chance he can get us out. . .”
She doesn’t argue. Not outright. But her hesitation shows in the way she bites down on her bottom lip. She’s thinking, calculating. She glances once more at the boarded door, then away. And finally, reluctantly, she nods.
It’s not like she had a better plan anyway.
“Alright. But if he screws us over like he did with the power, I’m throwing him to Walker myself.”
Miles can’t help the faint, exhausted laugh that leaves him. “Fair.”
They study the barricaded door for a moment, but it’s clear there’s no chance of getting it open. The boards are nailed deep into the frame, layers of furniture pushed up against the other side like whoever blocked it had no intention of letting anything back in.
She steps forward, steadying herself against the wall, scanning the space around them. Her eyes land on a hallway to the left of the barricaded door—narrow and dark.
“There,” she says, nodding toward it. Her voice is firmer now. “Only way through.”
They start toward it. Miles lifts the camera, flicking back into night vision. The world glows green. Grainy shadows swim at the edges of the lens.
She takes a step forward and wobbles.
Without a word, Miles shifts beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her upright.
“I’m fine,” she says automatically, still trying to limp forward.
“I know,” he says, voice low. “But I’ve got you anyway.”
She doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard and leans into him as they press into the dark.
The hallway is cramped and suffocating—like everything else in the asylum. The air is heavy and hot, stale with the scent of blood and something he can’t quite place. Debris clutters the carpeted floor, and what little light there is comes in flickers. Bulbs pop in and out of life above them.
They make it to an upended employee locker room. The floor is scattered with overturned benches and metal locker doors, some hanging open like gaping mouths. A dead security guard is crumpled in one corner, his uniform scorched and tacky with dried blood. Neither of them slows down.
Miles glances at the corpse but doesn’t react. That in itself startles him. He should react. He should feel something. But all he feels is the familiar wave of nausea that comes with the realization that he’s desensitized now. The horror of Mount Massive isn’t sharp anymore—it’s a dull, consistent ache under his skin.
She pushes forward, favoring her good ankle as she limps toward the next hallway, using the lockers for support. Miles follows her without a word, hand hovering nearby in case she needs balance.
Ahead of them, into another hallway, smoke begins to roll. It’s thick and slow at first, then steadily worsens. They round the corner, and Miles lifts the camera instinctively, the growing haze causing the lens to flare and blur.
On their left are a series of high, narrow windows—too tall to reach without help. Beyond them, the glow of fire pulses against the smoke, casting frantic, dancing shadows across the walls. Orange licks of flame rise in sudden, greedy bursts against the far wall.
She curses under her breath, grimacing. “That lunatic priest has got to be behind this.”
Miles doesn’t answer, but the unease in his gut tells him she might be right.
She looks up toward one of the high windows. “Help me up,” she murmurs, voice tight.
He nods, gripping her carefully around the waist and boosting her until she can hoist herself up onto a nearby table. Her shoes scrape against the metal, wobbling as she steadies herself with one hand on the wall. Once upright, she reaches a hand back down for him. He follows her up, climbing onto the table beside her. From this new height, they can just barely reach one of the window ledges.
She jumps first, gripping the frame with her hands and pulling herself up until she can peer through. Her breath catches audibly.
Miles stretches up on his toes and follows, peeking over the edge.
It’s a fucking inferno.
The room beyond is a lunchroom—or it was once. Now it looks like a sacrificial altar. The tables and benches are engulfed in flames, molten plastic dripping from the ends of metal chairs. Everything inside is burning.
And yet there’s a path. A narrow corridor between two longer tables that haven’t quite been overtaken by fire.
“That’s our way out,” she says grimly. “Only way.”
Miles doesn’t argue. He braces himself against the window ledge and helps her climb through first, careful not to touch any of the heated metal framing. She stumbles onto the other side, shoes skidding against the scorched tile. He follows, vaulting over and catching himself with one good hand. She reaches for him as he lands, and he wraps his arm around her again—less out of necessity, more out of the need to keep her close.
The heat is suffocating.
Flames crackle around them, loud as snapping bones. The air is dry enough to burn their lungs. She grimaces, raising one hand to shield her face from the worst of the heat as they inch forward through the smoldering space.
Furniture groans and collapses behind them until they reach a variant. He’s half-shrouded in the smoke, sitting calmly among the ruin, perched on the edge of a table. He’s surrounded by fire. His face is blistered and wet with sweat, but he doesn’t seem to feel the heat at all.
“I had to burn it,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “All of it. Murkoff took so much from us. Used us.”
Miles raises the camera, aiming it carefully. The recording light flickers to life.
“They turned us into these things. . .because nobody cares about a few forgotten lunatics.”
His voice is cracked but strangely even, like he’s just recounting an unfortunate fact of life. She swallows hard beside Miles, her hand still lifted against the heat, eyes locked on the man.
“So let it burn,” the variant says softly, almost wistfully. “Burn the whole god damned thing down. Get out if you want to live. You can get out through the kitchen.”
They both look toward the far wall, but the path is blocked. A wall of flame and overturned tables, burning with the rage of something intentionally lit.
She groans lowly. “God. Things can’t ever be easy, can they?”
Miles shakes his head, vision blurry with sweat.
She takes a breath, steadying herself, brow furrowed deep in thought. “We have to put it out. The fire. There’s no way around it.”
“How?”
Her lips press into a thin line, eyes flicking up toward the darkened ceiling. “Maybe. . .overhead sprinklers. We activate the system. It’s a long shot. But if the system’s still active, we might be able to get them working.”
Miles doesn’t hesitate. “I trust you.”
Her expression softens for the briefest moment—a flicker of warmth through the heat and horror—and she offers a wary smile. “Okay. Then let’s go.”
They turn back toward the window they came from, retreating from the burning room. The variant doesn’t move. He just watches the fire, unmoving as ash falls gently around him like gray snow.
Back in the hallway, the smoke is thicker now. Miles guides her carefully, one arm looped tightly around her back, the other holding the camera steady. Each step is cautious, quiet. There’s nothing but the hiss of flame and the distant groan of collapsing structures.
No mutants. No screams. No footsteps.
Just silence. And it feels wrong.
But they keep moving.
She guides him, limping forward with determination etched deep into her features. The corridors they traverse are lined with cracked tile and water-stained walls. Mount Massive continues to groan around them in the distance. The sounds surround them, the distant screams of the room fracturing the silence like a knife through flesh.
They pass through another set of administration offices, each one tousled. Filing cabinets are overturned, their contents spilled like entrails across the ground. Desks are broken, phones hang useless off their cradles, and overhead, the lights buzz with a sickly hum.
Miles slows for a moment, raising his camera toward a workstation where a monitor glows on a desktop showing the Murkoff logo. Beside it, a blood-slicked folder lies half-open. He flips through it with trembling fingers—half from the pain, half from adrenaline—and catches a glimpse of names, subject IDs, psych evals, and heavy redactions.
More proof.
He flips the folder shut and tucks it away, lifting his camera to document the surrounding wreckage. She glances back at him, raising a brow.
“Seriously?” she mutters, dry but not unkind. “We’re a few steps away from being barbecue, and you’re still playing investigative journalist?”
He looks up at her, blinking. “You know me,” he mutters, gesturing to the camera. “If I don’t document it, did it even happen?”
She snorts, the corners of her mouth twitching up despite everything. “Well, when you win the Pulitzer for this shit, don’t forget to credit your co-star.”
Miles huffs a breath through his nose. “Top billing, I swear.”
They keep going.
Down a narrow hall and around a collapsed beam, ducking beneath hanging wires. Somewhere in the distance, wood collapses with a deafening crash, and both of them flinch.
Finally, they reach the sprinkler valve.
It’s tucked away in a room, bolted to the wall above a maintenance panel—old and rusted. Miles studies the gauge beside it. The needle hovers firmly in the red. Low pressure.
She moves forward, staring at it. She doesn’t speak for a moment, just stares at the gauge with her jaw tight and her eyes dull with exhaustion. Then, slowly, her shoulders drop. She bows her head, dragging a hand over her face, smudging the flecks of blood that occupied her cheekbones.
“Shit,” she mutters under her breath.
Miles already knows what it means.
“We drained the lines,” she says finally, voice tight. “When we were down in the sewers. I should’ve figured.”
Miles clenches his jaw, staring at the useless valve. He doesn’t want to tread further into this section, distancing themselves from the kitchen. But they’re not going to get through the fire without water.
“So. . .” he says, studying her.
She lifts her head, eyes meeting his. “The main valves have to be around here somewhere. Probably maintenance.”
Miles nods. “Then we do what we have to.”
Her lips press into a thin, grim line. Another sigh through her nose—this one isn’t weary, but resigned. She nods, stepping back from the valve and gesturing for him to follow. They turn away from the dead sprinkler system and back down the corridor—heading toward maintenance.
They keep low as they move, careful to tread only where the floorboards don’t creak and glass doesn’t crunch beneath their shoes. The air is heavy and wet with smoke and mildew—stagnant, like rot left to fester.
Miles keeps his camera up. Not just to document, but because it’s their only pair of eyes in the dark.
They think they’re in the clear when they hear snorting and chains.
The sound is unmistakable. Heavy, labored breathing that scrapes the edges of sanity. Chains dragging like anchors across the floor.
She freezes mid-step, hand flying out to grip Miles’s jacket and yank him behind a busted doorframe. The wood is rotted, warped from years of steam and decay. She presses her back flat against the peeling wall and peers out just enough to see the hulking silhouette move across the adjacent corridor.
“Shit,” she breathes. “Walker.”
Miles goes cold.
Chris Walker. Ex-military brute turned monstrous warden of Mount Massive’s halls. Nearly seven feet of blind rage and bone-snapping strength. His massive frame disappears around a corner, but the sound of his dragging chains stays with them like a curse.
“As if we didn’t have enough on our fucking plates,” she mutters bitterly. She crouches, clutching her injured ankle. She winces before looking at Miles. “I can’t outrun him like this. If he catches us—”
“I’ll distract him,” Miles says without hesitation. “If it comes to that.”
Her eyes search his, something unreadable behind them. She doesn’t answer right away. Then, slowly, she nods.
Walker’s chains grow quieter, clinking down another hallway.
“That’s our window. Come on.”
They move like shadows, step by step, breath by breath. No one speaks. Miles swears he can hear his heartbeat over the faint rattle of chains.
Eventually, they find a metal utility door, half-open. Inside—a pump room. Water pipes twist like veins across the ceiling, all leading to a rust-caked valve affixed to the wall.
She limps over, hands braced on her thighs as she catches her breath. Miles steps forward and grabs the valve, muscles taut, pulling down hard.
The valve squeals like a dying animal. A grinding, metallic shriek that echoes down the halls.
Too loud.
They both freeze.
Snorting. Chains. Getting louder.
She grabs Miles’s arm and shoves open a tall utility locker in the corner. Without a word, they squeeze in, chest to chest. The cramped darkness is stifling, breath mingling in the stale air. It’s reminiscent of the sewers. Same hiding spot. Same hunter.
They barely get the door shut before—
CRASH.
The pump room door breaks open.
Walker’s hulking silhouette lumbers in.
They don’t breathe.
Through a thin crack in the locker’s door, Miles catches a glimpse of him. His hulking chest, blood-stained skin, wild eyes scanning the room. He growls low in his throat, snorts, then lumbers past the locker. Chains trail behind him like the promise of a violent death.
He leaves.
It’s only after a full minute of silence that she exhales shakily, hand bracing against Miles’s chest. They look at each other and nod, silently slipping out.
Everything feels tighter now. Claustrophobic. Every corner could be Walker. Every creak could be a death sentence.
They move carefully, tracking the network of pipes toward the second valve. It leads them into an old shower room—but unlike the others, this one is lined with deep bathtubs, the kind you’d expect in an asylum from a century ago.
And one of them is full.
She tenses beside Miles.
A variant crouches beside the tub, giggling. The water is deep red. A body—nude, bloated, and purple—is slumped in it. Anything below its chest is obscured beneath the crimson surface.
The variant glances up at them. His eyes gleam.
“You have a dirty little ducky that needs cleaning?” he whispers, cocking his head.
Miles lowers the camera immediately, repulsed. He grabs her hand and pulls her away quickly around the edge of the room, bypassing the grinning man and heading straight toward the next valve at the far end.
This one is smaller, rusted nearly shut. Miles wrenches on it, jaw clenches, and after a few seconds of resistance, it creaks into place.
“That should be good,” she breathes. “We just need to get back.”
They turn around. Snorting and chains again. Somewhere close.
They don’t speak. They can’t. They duck into an empty office adjacent to the corridor, backing themselves against the underside of a desk, knees pressed to their chests. It’s barely enough space for them both.
Walker passes by the door.
They can hear him.
Breathing. Wet and snarling.
He pauses.
She reaches blindly and finds Miles’s hand.
He squeezes hers in return.
A moment passes. Then another. Then, finally, the sound of chains fades again.
They don’t waste time. They double back, taking the long way around to avoid Walker’s path. When they reach the pump room, Miles grabs the sprinkler valve with bloodied hands and turns it.
Water explodes from the overhead pipes.
Cold, cleansing, blessed water.
It drenches them both instantly—soaking clothes, skin, and blood. She sighs as if the shock of it momentarily numbs the pain in her ankle.
But they don’t linger.
The hallway back to the cafeteria smells of smoke and scorched wood, and plastic. When they push open a door, they see him—the variant from before, the one who lit the fire. He’s dead now. Charred to the bone, collapsed against one of the burned benches.
She doesn’t speak. Neither does Miles. They keep moving.
The flames are gone. The path to the kitchen is clear.
They move fast, weaving between melted tables and destroyed shelving. One stainless steel prep table is occupied—what’s left of a dissected body, partially skinned and splayed open. Tools lie beside it, no longer surgical, just savage. She looks away, and Miles pulls her gently past it.
The kitchen spits them out into a small lobby area. And there—on the far wall, illuminated in the red flicker of an emergency light—is an exit.
Metal gate. Open.
Beyond it: the courtyard.
They would have run through it if they could.
The first thing that hits them is the rain—sharp, cold, and relentless. It pelts against their skin, seeping through clothes that were already damp with sweat and blood before they were soaked through with water from the sprinklers, but neither of them flinches. The smell follows immediately after: petrichor, earth, the metallic bite of rusted pipes, and scorched plaster washed clean.
But beneath all of that—air. Fresh, alive, and real. After so long wading through rot and recycled breath, it feels like stepping into another world.
A freezing breeze cuts across the courtyard, rushing beneath torn fabric and bloodied sleeves. She shivers, but doesn’t complain. Miles breathes in through his nose, like he needs to remind himself it’s not a hallucination. That this—this sliver of outside—is real.
Lightning cracks across the sky, illuminating the gothic stone of Mount Massive’s exterior, casting sharp, jagged shadows across the lawn. Thunder follows like a war drum in the clouds.
They’re not out yet. Not even close. But it feels like a breath after nearly drowning.
Her hand—chilled and trembling—slips into his. It fits easily. Without words.
She turns her face toward him, rain tracing the curve of her cheek, eyes gleaming faintly in the storm’s light.
“Let’s find that priest.”