The group was close to the exit now. They could feel it—the air was fresher, the walls no longer groaned with mechanical menace, and faint daylight filtered through the cracks ahead. Chef Hatchet led the way, his massive frame tense, eyes scanning every shadow. Behind him came Izzy, Harold, Leshawna, Heather, Lindsay, Eva, and Noah. Everyone was battered, bleeding from somewhere, breathing hard—but they were still moving. Still alive.
The corridor opened into a wider platform area, with a half-exposed metal staircase leading up to a hidden ledge above. That was where Brady waited, concealed in the upper recess, pistol already in hand, finger resting on the trigger.
Leshawna stepped forward first, shoulders squared, ready for anything.
Brady aimed. Straight for her head.
The gunshot shattered the silence like a thunderclap.
But Harold—the skinny, glasses-wearing Harold—moved faster than anyone expected. He lunged forward and shoved Leshawna aside with all his strength. The bullet missed her skull.
It struck him in the heart.
Harold's body jerked violently. Blood bloomed across his chest in an instant dark stain. His eyes widened in shock and pain, but he didn't scream. A low, choked gasp escaped his lips as he staggered back and collapsed to the floor.
Brady let out a low, amused chuckle.
"One down."
The next shot was aimed at Eva's head—clean, precise, merciless.
Noah reacted without thinking. He threw himself forward and shoved Eva sideways. The bullet found Noah instead. It punched through his temple in a spray of blood and bone. Noah's body crumpled backward, eyes already vacant before he hit the ground. Dead on impact.
Eva roared in rage and grief.
Izzy and Chef were already climbing the stairs—Izzy with a manic grin, Chef with murder in his eyes.
Brady waited until they reached the ledge.
Then he dropped the pistol to the side and met them bare-handed.
The fight was savage.
Izzy struck first, launching a high kick toward his head. Brady caught her ankle mid-air, twisted, and slammed her into the wall. Her skull cracked against metal; she slid down, unconscious, blood trickling from her scalp.
Chef charged with a bellow, swinging a massive fist. Brady ducked, drove a knee into Chef's ribs, then an elbow into his solar plexus. Chef dropped to one knee, gasping for air. Brady finished it with a brutal strike to the back of the neck. Chef collapsed face-first, motionless.
Eva reached the ledge last, eyes blazing with fury.
"You bastard!"
She charged straight at him.
Brady sidestepped at the last second—perfect timing.
Eva couldn't stop. She crashed directly into the old, rusted industrial boiler perched on the edge of the platform—its door wide open, interior glowing with orange flames. The heat hit her like a wall. She screamed as the fire engulfed her arms, her hair, her face. Her body slid deeper inside, skin blistering and charring instantly. The scream turned into a gurgling rasp, then silence. Only the crackle of flames remained, consuming what was left of her.
Leshawna hauled herself up onto the ledge, drenched in sweat, shaking with horror as she watched Eva burn alive. The smell—burning flesh and hair—filled the air.
Brady chuckled darkly.
"Another one."
He raised the pistol again and fired point-blank into Leshawna's forehead. The bullet exited the back of her skull in a wet spray of blood and brain matter. Her body toppled backward, eyes frozen open, staring at nothing.
Down below, Heather and Lindsay huddled behind a rusted panel, trembling, clinging to each other.
"Did you see that?" Lindsay whispered through tears. "He… he killed them all…"
Heather didn't answer. She just stared upward, face pale, fists clenched.
Then—something moved.
Harold—the one everyone had assumed was dead—slowly pushed himself up to his knees. Blood soaked his shirt, but he was breathing. His heart was on the opposite side—an old surgical reversal from childhood that no one had known about. The bullet had torn through his lung, missed the vital organ entirely. It hurt like hell. He was bleeding badly. But he was alive.
And he had seen everything.
He had seen Brady shoot Leshawna—his love—in the head.
Harold's eyes darkened with pure, burning rage.
He grabbed his nunchaku from his bag—the one he'd carried since the beginning—and began climbing the stairs, blood dripping with every step, pain screaming through his body. But nothing could stop him now.
When he reached the ledge, Brady was turning to check the others, pistol raised.
Harold didn't shout. He just struck.
The first swing of the nunchaku caught Brady's wrist perfectly. The pistol flew from his hand and clattered over the edge, disappearing into the darkness below.
The second strike slammed into Brady's left forearm. Bone snapped audibly—crack—like dry wood. Brady howled in pain.
Harold didn't stop. Third strike to the shoulder. Fourth to the ribs. Brutal, relentless, fueled by grief and fury. Brady dropped to his knees, left arm hanging uselessly, shattered bones protruding through torn skin.
Harold stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from his own wound, nunchaku still gripped tight.
"You… killed her…" he rasped, voice raw.
At the same time, far away in the exit chamber, Courtney and Gwen were still screaming at each other over the giant check.
"This is mine! I earned it!" Courtney shouted.
"You earned it? You just barked orders while the rest of us almost died!" Gwen fired back.
Ezekiel sighed, stepped away from the argument, and glanced toward the exit corridor. It was dark, but the sounds carried clearly now—sharp, unmistakable cracks echoing from deeper inside.
Gunshots.
Real gunshots.
Ezekiel's face drained of color.
"Guys…" he said quietly, voice trembling. "Those aren't traps. Someone's shooting in there. With a real gun."
Courtney and Gwen fell silent. The check suddenly felt very small, very unimportant.
The gunshots echoed again.
And they were getting closer.