Rated 16+
The hallway outside Room 431 stretched ahead like a frozen breath. No footsteps. No distant chatter. Not even the low, mechanical hum of monitors. Just the cold glare of overhead lights bouncing off the polished floor, reflecting Lydia and Ryan like ghosts trapped in glass.
"431," Lydia whispered, brushing her hair behind her ear. Her voice was fragile, brittle—afraid even to speak the number aloud.
Ryan's eyes scanned the corridor. "Huh… this looks more like a hotel than a hospital," he murmured, trailing a finger over a patch of uneven plaster. "When did it… change?"
Lydia didn't answer. Her gaze was locked on the door, as if it held all the missing pieces of her past. Three years without her mother. Three years of questions with no answers. She hugged the folder to her chest, jaw tight, a tremor running through her frame.
Ryan stepped closer, hands resting lightly on her shoulders. "Lydia… look at me," he said softly, his thumb brushing her cheek. "It's scary, yeah. But it doesn't mean we stop now. Connor's out there. The others are out there. We came for answers… to stop them. Remember?"
Her chin fell. A shaky sigh escaped, and a single tear traced a line down her cheek. She nodded faintly, a flicker of a smile betraying the storm of fear and grief inside.
She lifted her hand and knocked. The moment her knuckles grazed the wood, a violent chaos erupted inside—scraping, crashing, metallic echoes that made her blood run cold.
"What… what is that?" Ryan stammered, eyes wide.
"My mom… she's in there," Lydia whispered, trembling.
The door creaked open slowly, groaning like it resented being disturbed. The room was a war zone. Papers littered the floor, an overturned couch lay in ruin, and broken dishes scattered under the muted light. Curtains blocked the sun, yet a thin gust snuck through a half-open window, whispering across the destruction.
Ryan stepped inside cautiously, scanning the room. "Why… why is it open?"
A shadow shifted behind him—tall, lethal, deliberate.
"RYAN… LOOK OUT!" Lydia screamed, but it was already too late.
A black sword plunged into his stomach, sliding with terrifying ease. His body jerked violently, eyes wide with shock, blood spilling in dark, unforgiving rivulets. He reached for Lydia, voice ragged:
"Lydia… run…"
She lunged forward, hands shaking, but he collapsed to his knees, crimson spreading beneath him. Yet he forced a weak smile, whispering, "See… you… on the other… side…"
Then the second strike came—a brutal slash from shoulder to hip. Ryan crumpled, motionless, a dark stain spreading across the floor like spilled ink.
The shadow advanced, hooded and silent, every step predatory. Winthrop. Her stomach twisted.
"You… sick… MONSTER!" Lydia screamed, fury igniting in her chest. She lunged, fists swinging, a tempest of desperation.
Winthrop's grip locked on her wrists, iron-strong. She gasped, terror and rage fueling her. With a desperate wrench, one hand brushed the knife at his belt. She grabbed it, swinging blindly. Dark blood erupted from the first slash, splattering her hands and face.
"This… is… for Ryan!" she hissed, venom cutting each word.
Winthrop staggered back, knife buried deep in his skull. Black blood oozed, yet he remained eerily alive. A slow, deliberate clap echoed in the room, mocking, cold.
Lydia froze, chest heaving, pulse hammering. Winthrop yanked the knife free with cruel grace, letting the dark liquid drip to the floor like rain. Then, impossibly, he handed it back to her.
The words etched into the blade shimmered in the dim light:
"I will… f-cking kill you."
A shiver ran down Lydia's spine. The room was silent, yet the air itself seemed alive with menace. The fight was far from over.