[Check Out My P4treon For +30 Extra Chapters On All My Fanfics!! And get chapters before publishing them here for free on my p4treon][https://p4treon.com/talkfictome]
===
Leon's silhouette had long since vanished into the shadows of the East Wing.
Noah and Claire were back in the administrative heart of the station. Their mission was clear: find the blonde girl before the layout of this Gothic labyrinth—or the Tyrant—claimed her.
"Start here," Noah whispered, his voice barely audible. He used the tip of his rebar to point toward a Records Room on the left.
Claire nodded, shifting the weight of the grenade launcher. She took the rear, her eyes scanning the ceiling and the dark corners as Noah led the way. Their rhythm was silent and lethal; Noah handled the breaches and the close-quarters work, while Claire provided the heavy fire suppression.
They pushed through door after door.
In the waiting room, dark smears of old blood stained the upturned leather sofas. In the interrogation room, the one-way glass lay in jagged shards on the floor, the walls scored with deep, desperate claw marks. Every room was a freeze-frame of the exact moment civilization had ended.
But after searching every restroom stall and supply closet, they found nothing.
"Could she have left the wing?" Claire whispered, her breath hitching with anxiety.
"No." Noah pulled the floor plan from his pack. "We've swept the first and second floors. There's only one place left." He tapped a room marked Antique Display Room. "And it happens to be right near where Leon saw her crawl in."
"An antique room?" Claire frowned. "Why here?"
"Irons' personal hobby, probably," Noah said, stowing the map. "The problem is the direct route is blocked."
They moved down the hall until they hit the obstruction: the wreckage of the police helicopter. It had punched through the wall like a giant's fist, its twisted fuselage still glowing with embers. Thick, oily smoke filled the corridor, making the air taste like burnt plastic.
The station's sprinkler system was still fighting a losing battle, spraying a fine mist that kept the building from burning down but did nothing to clear the path.
"Dead end," Claire sighed.
Noah didn't answer. He looked past the smoking wreck toward a door leading to an external balcony. "Let's look at the roof."
They stepped out into the cool night air. From the balcony, they could see the full scale of the crash—and the massive, rusted cylindrical water tower sitting on the adjacent roof.
Noah's eyes narrowed. He pulled the Beretta from his waist, flipping the safety with a practiced snick.
"Are you planning to...?" Claire started, her eyes widening as she saw him take a shooting stance.
Noah didn't waste his breath. He aimed for the center of the tower.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The shots were crisp, echoing off the surrounding brick. He adjusted his aim, pouring the rest of the magazine into the same concentrated spot, his hands steady despite the recoil.
Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!
Finally, the integrity of the aged metal gave way.
Greeeeeak—!
The tower's side wall tore open under the immense pressure of the water inside. A thick, white torrent roared out, tracing a perfect arc through the air before slamming into the burning helicopter wreck.
SSSSSSSS—!!!
Clouds of white steam erupted, engulfing the corridor in a blinding mist. Within seconds, the orange glow of the fire died out, replaced by the hiss of cooling metal.
Noah holstered his pistol and offered Claire a small, tired smile. She just gave him a stunned, appreciative thumbs-up.
The fire was out, but the iron door leading to the display room was buckled and fused to its frame from the heat and the impact. Claire pushed against it, but it was like pushing a mountain.
"Deformed," she muttered. "Great."
"Then let's finish the job," Noah said, stepping up with his rebar.
He jammed the sharp end into the gap between the door and the frame. He braced his legs, lowered his center of gravity, and let the power surge from his core through his arms.
Greeeeak—AAAH—!
The metal wailed in protest. One by one, the hinges were torn from the masonry. Noah gave the bar one final, violent pry.
BOOM.
The heavy iron door was ripped completely off its track, slamming into the floor and kicking up a cloud of soot.
"Used my head," Noah joked, shaking out his sore arm.
Claire laughed, the sound breaking the tension. "Uh-huh. Sure you did."
They stepped into the Antique Display Room. It was a surreal sanctuary of dark red Persian carpets and glass cases. Stone statues from Greek myths stood like silent sentinels among suits of armor and stuffed animals.
Then, they heard it: a faint, suppressed sob.
They moved toward the sound, finding a small figure huddled under a massive mahogany desk in the corner. The girl was curled into a ball, her head buried in her arms.
Hearing their footsteps, she looked up, her blue eyes wide with a terror that broke Claire's heart.
"Ah—!"
She scrambled out, trying to bolt, but Claire was faster. She reached out and caught the girl's arm, her touch firm but incredibly gentle.
"Wait, don't be afraid!" Claire's voice was like honey, soothing and soft. "We aren't those monsters. We're here to help."
The girl struggled for a moment, but as she looked into Claire's eyes and felt the human warmth of her hand, the panic began to melt. She saw the angel in the red jacket.
Slowly, the girl released her lip. Like a fledgling returning to its nest, she threw herself into Claire's arms and began to wail—a release of all the fear she'd been holding since the world ended.
Noah stood back, giving them space. He pulled out the radio. "Leon, we've found her. Where are you? Over."
A burst of static followed. "That's great... static... I'm still tracking the keys... take cover and stay safe. Over."
Noah clicked the radio off. It was just them for now.
Claire led the girl to the carpet, sitting her down. Noah pulled out two lemonades and a couple of chocolate bars from his pack, handing them over.
"Eat," Claire said softly. "I'm Claire. This is Noah. What's your name, honey?"
The girl took a long, desperate drink of the lemonade, the sugar and citrus reviving her. She looked at Claire with a timid, nasal voice.
"My name is... Sherry..."
===
Note: So far this story is published up to chapter 25 on my patreon, go check it out
exclusive 18+ character images, and early chapters, please visit my Patreon. Thanks for your support!
p4treon.com/talkfictome
if you want more updates == supports with power stones
Every 10 Power Stones == Bonus Chapter
every three 5-star reviews == Bonus Chapter