Hybrid !

Arya Vandaryn

The mansion loomed before them, a twisted monument to decay. Its once-grand facade was scarred by time, the windows shattered like jagged teeth and the doors hanging loose from rusted hinges. A cold breeze passed through the cracks in the walls, carrying the faint, rancid scent of something long dead. Arya shivered, gripping her coat tightly as she exchanged a glance with Bonnie.

"Are you sure this is it?" Arya's voice was barely above a whisper, but it echoed through the silence around them like a gunshot.

Donna nodded stiffly, her eyes narrowing at the building's entrance. "It's here. I know it."

They stepped inside, the door creaking painfully as if protesting their arrival. The air was heavy, stagnant, and unbearably cold. The first thing Arya noticed was the spiderwebs—thick, grotesque things that draped across the ceiling like curtains, swaying faintly as if something had just passed through them. The walls were scorched black in places, the remnants of a fire from decades ago. The ground crunched underfoot, a mix of ashes, splintered wood, and rat droppings. Water dripped from the ceiling in an eerie, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, the sound echoing in the emptiness.

The mansion felt alive.

Arya scanned the room, her sharp eyes catching movement in the shadows—rats darting between broken furniture, their beady eyes glinting in the faint moonlight. Her breath quickened as the faintest sound reached her ears: a dripping noise. Not water. Something thicker.

Then the smell hit her—metallic, cloying, unmistakable.

"Blood," Arya whispered.

Donna stiffened beside her. "Where's it coming from?"

Arya tilted her head, listening. The dripping was louder now, resonating from the direction of the main hall. Without a word, they followed it, their footsteps unnaturally loud in the silence.

The trail of blood appeared first—a thin, glistening line on the floor, smeared as though something—or someone—had been dragged. Arya's heart pounded, her chest tightening with each step closer to the hall. The line thickened as they moved, pooling at intervals until it formed a crimson path leading directly to the heart of the mansion.

When they reached the hall, Arya stopped abruptly, her breath catching in her throat. Donna froze beside her, clutching her arm. At first, all they could see were shadows—tall, thin figures standing motionless against the far wall. But as the full moon emerged from behind the clouds, its light spilled through the shattered glass of the ceiling, revealing the scene.

Diego.

He was suspended in the center of the room, his body hanging from rusted chains bolted to the ceiling. His arms and legs were spread wide, his wrists and ankles torn and bloody where the iron bit into his flesh. His clothes were soaked through with dark, drying blood, and his head hung limp against his chest. His once-tan skin was pale, marred with streaks of crimson and bruises so deep they looked black. Blood dripped steadily from his fingertips, falling into a dark pool beneath him.

Arya choked back a sob, her fists trembling at her sides. "Diego…"

Donna grabbed her arm, her voice a frantic hiss. "Stay down. Don't move."

Beside Diego, two hulking figures slumped in the shadows, their movements slow and deliberate. At first glance, Arya thought they were dogs—large, rabid beasts chained to the wall by thick collars bolted into the stone. But when one of them lifted its head and turned toward the moonlight, she realized the truth.

Werewolves.

Their massive bodies were bound in chains that rattled as they shifted, their glowing eyes locking onto Arya and Bonnie with predatory hunger. Their necks bore metal restraints pulsing with faint runes—symbols designed to keep them contained, enraged but powerless. One of the creatures let out a guttural snarl, its lips peeling back to reveal rows of jagged teeth slick with saliva.

Arya instinctively ducked behind a fallen beam, dragging Bonnie down with her. Her heart hammered so loudly she swore it would give them away.

"What the hell do we do now?" Donna's voice was shaking, her hands clenched into fists.

Arya peered around the edge of the beam, her eyes locking onto Diego again. He looked dead. He had to be dead. But the faintest twitch—his fingers curling slightly—proved otherwise. He was alive. Barely.

"We get him down," Arya whispered, her voice hoarse.

Donna stared at her like she was insane. "There are two chained werewolves in there, Arya! We can't fight them. We'll be ripped to shreds before we get close."

"We don't fight them," Arya snapped, her mind racing. "They're restrained. They're chained. That gives us time."

Donna hesitated, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. "What if they break out? What if—"

"Then we die," Arya cut her off, her voice trembling but resolute. She forced herself to look at Donna, her hands tightening on her cousin's shoulders. "But I'm not leaving Diego like that. I won't. You with me or not?"

Donna swallowed hard, her gaze flickering between Arya and Diego. Finally, she nodded. "I'm with you."

They both turned their eyes back to the room, the sounds of Diego's ragged breathing barely audible beneath the chains' faint rattling and the low growls of the werewolves. Arya's hands shook as she tightened her grip on the hilt of the small dagger at her waist.

"We go in quiet," she whispered, more to herself than to Donna. "And we get him out. No matter what."

The faint moonlight danced across the blood-streaked floor, casting long, grotesque shadows of Diego's broken form. Arya's mind screamed with the impossibility of their task, but her heart—her heart refused to leave him behind.

As the werewolves growled softly in the shadows, Arya took a deep breath and prepared to move.

Bottom of Form

Aegon Vandaryn

The back entrance to the organization was hidden behind layers of overgrown ivy and rusting steel. The faint moonlight barely illuminated the old metal door, its hinges thick with grime and time. Aegon knelt, inspecting the padlock. It looked sturdy, but not sturdy enough to stop them.

"Attius, keep watch," Aegon murmured, pulling a set of lockpicks from his jacket pocket.

Attius leaned against the wall, his arms crossed but his eyes scanning the dark alleyway. "You always carry lockpicks, or is this just for tonight?"

Aegon smirked, not looking up. "A little preparation never hurts."

With a soft click, the lock fell away. Aegon pushed the door open slowly, its rusty hinges groaning like a dying beast. The air inside was stale, carrying the scent of mildew and something faintly metallic. Darkness swallowed them as they stepped in, their footsteps muffled by years of dust and debris.

"It's like no one's been down here in decades," Attius said, his voice low.

"They probably haven't," Aegon replied, his tone clipped as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Spiderwebs clung to the corners of the narrow hallway, swaying slightly as they passed. Lizards darted across the floor, their claws scraping faintly against the cold stone.

At the end of the corridor stood an ancient elevator, its iron bars tarnished with rust. The buttons were worn smooth, and a single faded sign above it read DOWN.

Attius let out a low whistle. "That thing looks like it belongs in a horror movie."

Aegon grinned, pulling the bars open with a metallic screech. "More like the 1800s. Get in."

They both stepped inside, the elevator groaning under their weight. Aegon closed the iron gate behind them, the sound echoing in the silence. He pressed the only button, and the elevator jerked to life, descending with a grinding noise that made Attius wince.

"This thing feels like it could fall apart any second," Attius muttered, gripping the railing.

Aegon shrugged. "The organization's been around for centuries. They were operating in the 1800s, maybe earlier. Who knows how long this place has been here?"

Attius raised an eyebrow. "You think Scarlett's family has owned it that long?"

"I don't know," Aegon admitted. "Could've been theirs, or they might've taken it by force. Medieval times weren't exactly about playing fair."

The elevator shuddered to a halt, the gates rattling. Darkness stretched before them, broken only by the faint hum of a vending machine in the distance. A small, flickering light above the machine cast weak shadows across the room.

Aegon moved cautiously toward the light, gesturing for Attius to follow. As they approached, muffled voices reached their ears. Two figures in white lab coats emerged from the shadows, walking briskly toward a metal table in the center of the room. One of them held a clipboard, jotting notes as they moved.

On the table lay a child, no older than ten. His small, frail body was bound to the surface by thick straps. A strange blue apparatus covered his head, wires snaking from it to a machine nearby. The child's left arm was missing, the stump crudely wrapped in stained bandages. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, but his eyes darted around wildly in terror.

One of the professors adjusted the machine, his voice sharp and clinical. "Turn it on."

Electricity crackled as the machine whirred to life. The wires lit up, sending surges of power into the helmet. The child let out a piercing scream, his back arching against the restraints. His lips moved frantically, uttering words in a language Aegon couldn't understand. Purple light began to radiate from the boy's body, swirling like a mist, but his cries only grew louder.

"We have to stop this," Attius hissed, his fists clenching. His voice was trembling with barely contained rage. "Now."

"Not yet," Aegon whispered, grabbing Attius's arm.

"Not yet? Are you kidding me?" Attius snapped, his voice a harsh whisper. "They're killing him!"

"They're not," Aegon said, his voice steady. "Not yet. If we blow our cover now, we'll never make it out of here."

Attius glared at him. "What's the plan then, genius?"

Aegon's eyes scanned the room quickly, landing on a vent high above the wall near them. He pointed. "There. We'll go through the vents."

Attius stared at him, incredulous. "You're serious? The vents?"

"You got a better idea?" Aegon shot back, already moving.

With a reluctant sigh, Attius crouched, lacing his fingers together to give Aegon a boost. Aegon jumped, gripping the edge of the vent and prying it open with a sharp tug. He hauled himself inside, the metal groaning under his weight, then reached down to pull Attius up.

The vent was narrow and grimy, the air thick with dust. Cobwebs clung to their faces, and the faint smell of rust and rot made Attius gag. "This is disgusting," he muttered. "You know, in movies, vents are always clean. What's this shit?"

"It's not a movie, homie," Aegon quipped. "Nobody cleans—"

The vent gave a loud creak, and before Aegon could finish, the section beneath him gave way. He fell through, landing with a heavy thud directly on one of the professors, who crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

The other professor froze for a split second before bolting toward the desk, his hand outstretched toward a red alarm button. He was inches away when a knife flew through the air, embedding itself in his neck with deadly precision. He dropped instantly, blood pooling around him.

Attius dropped through the vent behind Aegon, landing in a crouch. He stared at the body, then at Aegon. "Was that necessary?"

Aegon shrugged, retrieving his knife. "He was about to blow our cover."

"Where'd you even learn to throw like that?" Attius asked, half-impressed.

"Bad guys, bad choices," Aegon muttered, wiping the blade clean. "Let's move."

A faint, agonized whimper reminded them of the boy. The machine was still running, the wires crackling with energy as the boy writhed in pain. His screams were weaker now, his body trembling violently.

"Turn it off!" Attius yelled, rushing to the machine. He grabbed the wires, yanking them free with a sharp pull. Sparks flew, and the purple light around the boy flickered before fading entirely.

Aegon moved to the computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "I'm trying to shut it down," he muttered, his voice tense.

The boy let out a shaky breath, his body going limp. "Thank you…" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Help me… help the others."

Aegon and Attius exchanged a look.

"There are more?" Attius asked, his voice tight.

The boy nodded weakly, tears streaming down his face. "Please… save them…"

Attius placed a hand on Aegon's shoulder, his expression grim but resolute. "Let's do it."

Aegon nodded, his eyes blazing with determination. "We're not leaving until we know what the hell this is."

Bonnie Vandaryn

Bonnie's eyes fluttered open, her breath shallow as she took in the faint beeping of the heart monitor beside her. Each beep was a reminder—of pain, of weakness, of survival. Her body felt heavy, her stomach searing with a dull, throbbing ache. She turned her head slightly to the right, the motion sending a sharp jolt through her side.

And there he was.

Enzo

He sat in a worn chair by her bedside, one leg draped casually over the other. His face was calm, unreadable, but there was something chilling in the way his dark eyes flickered toward her, as if he'd been waiting for her to wake. In his hands, he held a sword—a medieval warrior's blade that gleamed menacingly in the dim light. The handle was golden, its intricate carvings glinting with every spark as he ran a sharpening stone along the edge. At the center of the hilt, a ruby burned like a captured flame, its fiery glow casting eerie shadows across his face. The blade itself was long, its edges impossibly sharp, and with each stroke of the stone, sparks danced briefly before fading into the darkness.

Bonnie's throat felt dry, her words barely a whisper. "Are you here… to kill me?"

"No."

The word hung in the air, cold and absolute.

Her eyes dropped to his hand, moving rhythmically with the sharpening stone. The faint screech of metal against stone sent a chill down her spine. "Your hand," she said, her voice hoarse. "It was broken, wasn't it? Not even a month ago…"

Enzo glanced at her briefly, his expression unchanged. "Healed. Weeks ago."

The simplicity of his words, the certainty, was unsettling. Bonnie swallowed hard, the ache in her stomach intensifying. "Do you… want to know why I attacked Donna?"

"No."

Bonnie flinched at the abruptness of his reply. Her breath hitched as she tried again. "Do you need the location?"

"Yes."

She nodded weakly, each movement sending waves of pain through her side. "It's… the burned mansion. Over the Rialto Bridge. Take a le—"

Before she could finish, Enzo spoke, his voice like a blade slicing through the silence. "Someone came before me."

Her heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"I don't know who," he said, his gaze fixed on the sword in his hand. "But I felt it. His presence. Strong. Cold."

Bonnie shivered, her skin prickling. "It's freezing in here. Turn on the heater."

Enzo didn't move. His voice, devoid of warmth, cut through the air. "If want to kill a supernatural we burn it, Beat it to death Or use a sword bathed in blue puya."

Bonnie winced, her hand instinctively covering the bandages over her wounded stomach. The edges of the gauze were already stained crimson. "You have to save Diego," she said, her voice trembling.

Enzo stood abruptly, the chair creaking as he rose. His shadow loomed over her, the sword in his hand glinting ominously. Without warning, he pressed the tip of the blade against her side, where the bandages barely held back the blood. Bonnie let out a gasp as the pressure sent fresh pain radiating through her body.

"Which you sacrificed!" he asked, his voice calm, almost detached.

Her breath caught, her eyes wide with fear and defiance. "If you think that… kill me." She shifted her body, pressing herself against the blade. The bandages tore as the sword pierced the wound, and blood began to drip, a dark red trail staining the pristine sheets.

Enzo's gaze didn't waver. "Why aren't you healing?" he asked. "A spell. You're good at those, right?"

Bonnie shook her head, her voice trembling. "I tried. I can't. Magic… costs too much. It'll kill me."

Enzo said nothing, his expression unreadable. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small vial—a potion, glowing faintly blue. Its shape was ancient, like something plucked from a medieval apothecary. He placed it on the desk beside her bed without a word.

"What's that?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

He walked to the opposite side of the bed, driving his sword into the floor with a swift motion. It stood upright, the ruby on its hilt catching the faint light like a watchful eye. Placing both hands on the pommel, he leaned slightly, his eyes boring into hers.

"It won't heal you," he said simply. "But it'll make you feel strong. Ready to fight. Like you're whole again. But fight, and it'll kill you."

Bonnie stared at him, her breathing ragged. "Why give it to me, then?"

"For Donna," Enzo said, his tone sharp. "Not for you."

His words sliced through her like the sword by her bed. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but the pain and exhaustion pinned her to the mattress.

"There's another one," he continued, his voice quieter, colder. "Heals you. Thirty percent. But you don't deserve it."

Bonnie's gaze flickered to the potion on the desk, the soft blue glow almost hypnotic. She turned back to him, but the chair was empty. Enzo was gone. No footsteps. No sound. Just the faint sway of the sword and the eerie silence that followed him like a shadow.

For a long moment, Bonnie stared at the empty space where he had been, her mind racing. Then, slowly, her eyes drifted back to the potion, its glow a silent promise—and a threat.

Donna Vandaryn

Donna crouched low behind the crumbling banister, the jagged wood pressing uncomfortably into her side. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she stared into the hall below, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. Diego hung in the center of the room, suspended like some grotesque sacrifice. Thick chains bound his wrists and ankles, their edges rusted and biting into his skin. Blood seeped from his body, pooling on the floor below.

But it wasn't just blood.

A faint, eerie light flowed from Diego's body, snaking through the air like a living thing. The glow arced toward the two werewolves prowling beneath him. The creatures twitched and snarled, their hulking forms vibrating with an unnatural energy as the stolen life force healed their wounds. Donna clenched her fists, bile rising in her throat at the sight.

"They're… they're draining him," Donna whispered, her voice trembling. "He's keeping them alive."

Arya's hands gripped the edge of the banister, her knuckles white. Her breathing was heavier, faster. "We have to get him down," Arya hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. "He's my brother, Donna. I can't just stand here and do nothing."

Donna reached out, gripping Arya's wrist before she could bolt forward. "Not yet," Donna whispered sharply, her voice firmer than she felt. "If you rush in without a plan, you'll get yourself killed. And him too."

Arya turned to her, her eyes blazing with fury. "Then what's the plan?" she spat. "Just wait and hope he doesn't die in the next five minutes?"

Donna took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. "We don't know where Evelyn is. She's not stupid, Arya. She's probably waiting for us to fall into her trap."

Arya's eyes darted around the room, her body trembling with barely contained rage. "Then we don't have time to think about her. Diego's dying, Donna! If we wait any longer, there won't be anything left to save."

Donna swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet Arya's gaze. "I know. But we need to be smart about this. If we go in guns blazing, we'll lose him—and ourselves."

Arya hesitated, the tension in her jaw evident. "Fine," she muttered through gritted teeth. "What do we do?"

Donna pointed to the left, where a narrow staircase led to the second floor. "That'll get us closer to the chains holding him. You take the gun and shoot them one by one. I'll be below to catch him when he falls. Then we run."

Arya's brows furrowed. "And if Evelyn shows up?"

Donna's jaw tightened. "We stick to the plan. If she sees us, we shoot her."

Arya nodded, gripping the pistol holstered at her side. Together, they crept down the hallway, every step cautious. The wood beneath their feet groaned under their weight, threatening to give way at any moment. The damp, decayed scent of the mansion clung to the air, making Donna's stomach turn.

They reached the staircase and climbed it quickly, the creaking of the old boards setting Donna's teeth on edge. Reaching the second floor, they peered over the banister again. Arya unholstered the pistol and took aim, her hands trembling slightly.

Donna gave her a nod and descended to the main floor, weaving between the debris of broken furniture and ash-covered beams. She crouched behind a splintered pillar directly beneath Diego, her muscles tense as she prepared to catch him.

The first gunshot echoed through the mansion. The sound made Donna flinch, but she forced herself to remain focused. One of the chains holding Diego's wrist shattered, and his body jerked violently to the side.

"Good shot," Donna muttered under her breath. "Keep going."

Another shot rang out, and the second chain broke. Diego's arm fell limp to his side. Donna adjusted her position, ready to catch him.

Before Arya could fire again, Donna heard the floorboards above groan and splinter. She looked up just in time to see Arya plummet through the rotting wood, her body hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Shards of broken glass rained down around her, slicing into her arms and legs.

The gun clattered onto the second floor, just out of reach.

Donna's heart sank as a cold, cruel voice filled the room. "I was wondering when you'd show up," Evelyn said, stepping into the dim light. Her crimson eyes glowed like embers, and her lips curled into a predatory smile. "I need your magic too."

Arya groaned, struggling to her feet as blood trickled down her arms. She pulled a dagger from her belt, her grip unsteady but determined. "Stay back!" she shouted, her voice shaking.

Evelyn tilted her head, her smile widening. "Oh, Arya. You're exactly what I need. To heal them…" She gestured to the werewolves, who growled hungrily. "I need all of you."

Arya glanced upward, panic flickering in her eyes. "Donna! The gun is still on the second floor!"

Donna's eyes snapped upward. The pistol lay near the edge of the broken floor. Without hesitation, she sprinted back toward the staircase, her boots pounding against the brittle wood. Evelyn's gaze flicked toward her, but Arya hurled her dagger with startling accuracy, the blade sinking into Evelyn's shoulder.

Evelyn hissed in pain, her attention snapping back to Arya. "That was a mistake," she snarled.

Donna didn't waste a second. She reached the second floor and dove for the gun, her fingers curling around the cold metal. Spinning on her heel, she aimed downward at the chain holding Diego's leg and fired. The chain shattered with a loud crack.

She adjusted her aim for the final chain but froze when she saw Evelyn standing over Arya, a dagger gleaming in her hand. Evelyn raised the weapon, ready to strike.

Donna fired, hitting Evelyn in the back. Evelyn let out a guttural growl, stumbling forward. Arya used the moment to leap at her, grappling for the dagger. The two struggled violently, Arya's bloodied hands slipping on the blade's hilt.

Donna aimed at the final chain and fired again. The chain snapped, and Diego's body plummeted to the ground with a deafening thud. The magic draining him ceased instantly, and the werewolves howled in agony, their bodies writhing and convulsing.

Donna leapt over the broken railing, landing hard on the ground. She rushed to Diego's side, her breath catching as his body lay motionless for a moment.

Then, he coughed, blood spilling from his mouth. Relief washed over her. He was alive—but barely.

Above her, Evelyn's voice rang out, cold and venomous. "You think you can stop me with bullets?" Evelyn sneered, turning toward Donna. "My father made sure I wouldn't die to something so pathetic."

Donna raised the gun and fired again, emptying the remaining bullets into Evelyn's chest. They pierced her flesh but did nothing to slow her down. Evelyn's crimson eyes glowed brighter as she advanced.

"You're weaker than Bonnie," Evelyn said mockingly. "You'll never survive this."

Donna frantically tried to reload the gun, but Evelyn moved too fast. Her hand closed around Donna's neck, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. Donna clawed at Evelyn's hand, gasping for air as her vision blurred.

"Arya!" Donna managed to choke out.

Arya staggered to her feet, grabbing another dagger from her belt. She hurled it with the last of her strength, the blade embedding itself in Evelyn's back. Evelyn screamed, dropping Donna and turning her fury on Arya.

"You're both fools," Evelyn snarled. She flung Arya across the room with inhuman strength, her body crashing into a pile of debris.

Donna struggled to her knees, coughing and clutching her throat. Evelyn's towering form loomed over her, the faint glow of her crimson energy crackling around her hands.

Attius Vandaryn

The faint echoes of screams filtered through the corridor, reverberating against the stark white walls as Attius and Aegon moved forward, their stolen white coats blending into the oppressive sterility of the organization's labyrinthine halls. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, flickering intermittently and casting long shadows across the smooth, polished floor. The ceiling panels, lined with intricate vent systems, seemed to exhale cold, clinical air that did little to mask the faint stench of blood and chemicals that lingered everywhere.

The boy they had just rescued clung weakly to Attius's side, his small frame trembling with every hesitant step. His wide, hollow eyes darted nervously at every sound, his fingers clutching Attius's arm as if letting go would plunge him back into the nightmare he had barely escaped. Attius tightened his grip on the child's shoulder, his own nerves fraying as they passed a series of blurred observation windows. Each window was obscured, shrouded in a hazy film that distorted any attempt to see inside. Yet the muffled cries from beyond the glass and the occasional sharp clang of metal spoke volumes, painting an image far worse than any they could see.

The corridor stretched endlessly, punctuated by metal doors spaced at uneven intervals, each one marked by cryptic codes and symbols. Some were ajar, revealing glimpses of stark rooms filled with steel tables, surgical instruments, and blinking monitors. Others remained sealed, their grim secrets hidden from view. The harsh white light overhead reflected off the spotless tiles, creating an artificial brightness that only intensified the suffocating atmosphere.

Attius swallowed the bile rising in his throat, his eyes darting to Aegon, who remained calm and focused despite the hellish surroundings. For a moment, the faint hum of machinery and the distant, haunting wails seemed to grow louder, pressing in from all sides, threatening to overwhelm him.

"We can't leave him behind," Attius murmured, glancing at Aegon.

Aegon's sharp eyes darted to one of the rooms. He grabbed Attius's arm, pulling him closer. "You have to figure out where they're keeping the kids," he said, his voice low but firm. "I know how to get them all in one place."

Attius frowned, his gut twisting. "And what if you don't come back?"

Aegon smirked faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "Then you save this one," he said, nodding toward the boy. Without waiting for a reply, Aegon disappeared into the shadows

Attius exhaled shakily, his chest tightening with the weight of the situation as he led the boy down a quieter corridor, away from the muffled screams and chaotic sounds that reverberated through the sterile halls. They came to a small, shadowy nook between a set of abandoned supply crates. Attius crouched down slowly, leveling his gaze with the boy's, his voice soft but firm. "Do you know where they keep the others? Kids like you?"

The boy's gaze fell immediately, his trembling lips pressing together as if even the thought of speaking was too much. He shook with silent sobs, clutching his knees tightly to his chest. Attius's heart twisted at the sight, the guilt hitting him like a wave. This child had already suffered so much—and here he was, asking for more answers.

"It's okay," Attius said, his voice tender as he pulled the white coat off his shoulders. "This?" he held it up carefully, shaking it slightly. "It's just a coat. It's not what you think it is anymore. You don't have to wear it, but it's gone from them now. It's ours."

The boy flinched at the sight of the coat, his hollow eyes filling with fear. He shook his head rapidly and recoiled, burying his face deeper into his knees. Attius froze, realizing how deeply the child had been scarred. To him, the coat wasn't just fabric—it was a symbol of pain, a uniform of the tormentors who had taken everything from him.

"Okay, okay," Attius whispered, setting the coat gently on the ground. He shifted closer, his movements deliberate and unthreatening, and reached into his pocket. Slowly, he pulled out a small lighter and flicked it open. A tiny flame danced between them, warm and bright against the coldness of the hallway.

The boy hesitated, peeking out from behind his knees. His tear-streaked face glistened faintly in the glow of the fire. Attius leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice soft. "Here. Let's make it better."

With a careful hand, Attius brought the flame to the coat. The fabric caught fire quickly, curling at the edges and turning black as the flames consumed it. The faint, acrid smell of burning polyester rose into the air. "See?" Attius said, glancing back at the boy. "Gone. No more coats. No more them."

The boy's lips parted slightly as he watched the coat burn, his breathing slowing and steadying for the first time. Attius let the charred remains fall to the floor, stamping out the embers with a deliberate finality. He crouched again, meeting the boy's gaze. "It's just us now," he said. "Not all people are like them. Some of us… we're here to help."

A faint flicker of trust appeared in the boy's eyes, and his small, trembling voice broke the silence. "The operation storage unit," he said, his words shaking but clear. He pointed weakly down the hall. "Take a left from here. Then a right. Straight ahead."

Attius nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Thank you," he said, his voice thick with gratitude. He reached out, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. For the first time, the boy didn't pull away.

But the fleeting moment of warmth and reassurance was abruptly shattered by the jarring sound of heavy boots thudding against the cold, polished floor, echoing ominously through the sterile corridor like a prelude to despair.

A security guard rounded the corner, his eyes narrowing as he spotted them. "What are you doing here? And with Subject 034?"

Attius froze, his heart pounding. He glanced at the boy's hand, where the number 034 was crudely tattooed. The guard's gaze followed his, and he stepped closer, suspicion clouding his face.

Before Attius could react, the gleam of cold steel caught his eye, but the moment felt painfully slow, like time itself had fractured. The sword plunged into the boy's chest with a horrific crunch that echoed through the corridor, shattering the fragile silence. The boy's small body arched violently as his frail chest convulsed around the blade. Blood erupted from his mouth in a sickening gush, and a choking gasp escaped his lips, more a wheeze than a scream, as his wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto Attius.

"No! No, no, no!" Attius roared, his voice raw, breaking with anguish as he surged forward and caught the boy before he crumpled to the floor. The guard wrenched the blade free with a cruel twist, and the boy's blood poured into Attius's trembling hands, staining them deep red. The child's trembling lips moved as though to speak, but only weak, ragged breaths emerged. His gaze—so full of agony, confusion, and betrayal—pierced through Attius like a dagger.

"Protocol," the guard said coldly, wiping the blade on his uniform. "Can't risk a breach. You should've known better."

guard's neck with terrifying precision. The guard's eyes bulged, his mouth opening in a silent gasp as a torrent of blood sprayed across the pristine corridor walls. The warm crimson splatter painted a grotesque picture against the sterile white backdrop as the man staggered, clutching at the wound in a futile attempt to stop the flow.

The guard collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud, his lifeless eyes still wide with disbelief, and Attius barely noticed. His chest heaved with adrenaline as he stood over the fallen body, his knuckles white around the hilt of the blade. The world blurred, every sound drowned beneath the deafening rush of blood in his ears. Only when he saw the boy, lying still, his small chest barely rising, did the fog clear. Attius dropped to his knees beside him, trembling as he whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," over and over, his voice breaking under the weight of his guilt and grief.

The boy's small hand gripped Attius's weakly, trembling with the last vestiges of life that remained. His lips moved, forming silent words that never reached the air, his wide, tear-filled eyes staring directly into Attius's own, pleading and full of unspoken pain. In that moment, time seemed to fracture. The world around them faded into a surreal stillness where nothing else existed but the small, fragile life slipping through Attius's trembling hands. The boy's body stiffened slightly before going completely limp, the light in his eyes extinguished in an instant as though snuffed out by the cold and uncaring forces that ruled this place.

Attius clutched the lifeless body tighter against his chest, his entire frame trembling violently with a grief so raw it tore through him like shards of glass. Tears streaked his face unchecked, falling onto the boy's bloodstained clothes. Each sob that broke from his lips seemed to echo against the sterile white walls, amplifying the agony in his chest. He pressed his forehead to the boy's, whispering through broken breaths, "I'm so sorry... I couldn't protect you... I couldn't save you." His voice cracked under the weight of his guilt, each word heavier than the last as his knuckles turned white from gripping the boy's motionless frame.

The cold red light of the alarm flashed across the walls, painting the scene in a haunting, rhythmic glow. The shrill wail of the sirens seemed to mock his failure, a cruel soundtrack to the nightmare unfolding around him. With great care, Attius laid the boy down on the cold, unfeeling floor, brushing a hand over his lifeless face to close his unseeing eyes. He hesitated for a moment, staring at the small, motionless figure before him, his chest heaving with the effort of holding himself together.

The shrill sound of an alarm tore through the corridor, red lights bathing the walls in a hellish glow. Attius gently set the boy's body down and stood, his hands clenched into fists. His gaze flicked to the sword the guard had dropped. He picked it up, its weight unfamiliar but grounding.

The blurred windows lining the hall began to clear as the alarm activated, revealing the horrors within. Scientists scrambled to evacuate their experiments, dragging terrified children from bloodied rooms. Attius's stomach churned as he stepped forward, the world around him dissolving into chaos.

One room still had its restraints in use. A teenager lay on a blood-soaked table, screaming as a scientist wielded a bone saw over his leg. The ligaments snapped audibly as the saw tore through, and the boy's cries grew weaker, his head lolling to one side. Two guards grabbed the boy's arms to drag him away, but his mangled limb tore off completely, sending a spray of blood across the walls. The boy's choked sobs were drowned out by the alarms.

Attius staggered, his breath catching in his throat. Another room revealed a girl strapped to a chair, her chest split open as tubes drained her blood into glowing vials. Her eyes were wide with terror, her lips mouthing a silent plea as a scientist worked mechanically at the console. Other rooms were filled with mutilated bodies, organs scattered on blood-slicked floors, knives and scalpels gleaming under flickering lights.

The corridor was chaos. Papers fluttered to the ground, stained with crimson smears. Scientists shouted commands, guards barked orders, and children cried out in terror. Attius stood in the center of it all, his chest heaving. His tears mixed with the blood on his face as his vision blurred.

And then it happened.

A raw, burning sensation erupted deep within Attius's chest, a tidal wave of power surging through his veins like molten fire. It was rage, grief, and something ancient intertwined, a force so visceral it felt like his very essence was being reshaped by the agony surrounding him. His muscles coiled tightly, veins bulging visibly beneath his skin as if trying to contain the unrelenting energy threatening to spill over. Each breath came heavier, the rhythm syncing with the pounding of his heart, which roared in his ears like a war drum.

His vision sharpened unnaturally, the dim corridor and grotesque details of every blood-streaked wall, every mangled body, and every fleeing scientist becoming uncomfortably vivid. The flickering red light from the alarm reflected on the polished tiles, painting the corridor in pulsating hues of crimson, but to Attius, it only heightened the surreal horror before him. His grip on the sword tightened instinctively, the metal groaning under the force of his newfound strength. Sparks flickered where his hand met the hilt, as though even the weapon could feel the transformation coursing through him.

For a moment, his mind drowned in the chaos of his awakening, but the rage rising within him carved a singular path of focus. It was as if the sorrow and fury had fused, forging a sharp blade of determination within his soul. He took a step forward, his movements deliberate, each stride exuding an ominous weight that made the air around him feel heavier. The heat inside him was unbearable, yet exhilarating, as though his body was a forge, tempering the raw power into something unstoppable. As he moved, tears streaked down his face, mingling with the blood smeared on his cheeks. It wasn't just his muscles that felt stronger; his spirit ignited, fierce and unyielding, preparing to unleash the storm he had held back for too long.

He was awakening.

Attius stepped forward, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. Scientists brushed past him in their frantic escape, some bumping into his shoulders but recoiling at the sheer force they felt. His gaze was locked ahead, his tears replaced by a cold determination.

He reached the intersection the boy had described. Left, then right, then straight ahead. The sounds of chaos faded into the background as he followed the path, his mind singularly focused. The sword dragged along the floor behind him, the metallic scrape echoing through the corridor like a harbinger of doom.

Ahead, the operation storage unit loomed. The double doors were wide open, revealing dozens of children huddled together as scientists shouted orders. Attius stepped into the light, his shadow stretching across the floor. The scientists turned, their faces pale with fear as they saw the bloodied man approaching, sword in hand.

And then, silence.

The only sound was the faint, haunting scrape of the sword against the floor as Attius stopped before them, his piercing gaze locking onto the terrified scientists.