Harold had never known rage like this in his entire life.
The burning pain in his chest was nothing compared to the inferno raging in his heart. Leshawna—his Leshawna—lay dead on the ledge, her blood pooling around her head like a dark halo. The sight had seared itself into his retinas, fueling every swing of the nunchaku.
He didn't shout. He didn't scream. He just attacked.
The first blow landed on Brady's already broken left arm—another crack of bone, another howl from the killer. Harold struck again and again, relentless, mechanical, each hit landing with wet thuds on ribs, shoulders, collarbone. Brady staggered back, trying to block, but Harold was beyond reason. Blood sprayed from Brady's split lip, from the gash across his forehead. The nunchaku whistled through the air like a living thing.
In the chaos, Brady's flailing hand slammed against the control panel behind him. A hidden red button—never meant to be touched—depressed with a soft click.
Far below, in the secret observation room, the reinforced cage exploded.
The blast was deafening even up here. A fireball erupted from the depths, followed by the sickening crunch of collapsing metal and concrete. Beth—bound, gagged, helpless—had no time to scream. The detonation vaporized the cage and everything inside it in a single, blinding instant.
Brady froze for half a second, eyes widening in horror.
"No… Beth…"
That momentary distraction cost him everything.
Harold lunged forward, nunchaku raised for the killing blow.
But Brady was faster now—driven by his own grief and madness. With his shattered left hand, he grabbed the chain of the nunchaku mid-swing and yanked hard. Harold stumbled forward. Brady twisted, using Harold's momentum against him, trying to wrench the weapon free.
They grappled—two broken men locked in a desperate struggle. Harold's wounded chest screamed with every movement, but he held on. Brady's broken fingers slipped on the blood-slick chain, but he refused to let go.
Chef Hatchet stirred on the ground behind them. His eyes fluttered open. Pain exploded through his skull, but he saw the pistol lying a few feet away—Brady's pistol.
He crawled. Reached. Fingers closed around the grip.
He raised it with shaking hands.
"Brady!"
The shot rang out.
Brady jerked Harold in front of him at the last instant.
The bullet tore through Harold's shoulder instead—hot, searing pain that made him gasp. Blood poured down his arm, soaking the nunchaku chain.
Brady laughed—low, vicious—and drove a brutal knee into Harold's groin. Harold doubled over, air exploding from his lungs. Before he could recover, Brady's hands were around his neck. A sharp, practiced twist.
Crack.
Harold's body went limp. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling as life left them.
Chef fired again.
The bullet grazed Brady's shoulder—blood sprayed, but not enough. Brady snarled, released Harold's corpse, and dove for cover behind the boiler.
Chef staggered to his feet, pistol raised, scanning the ledge.
Izzy groaned and pushed herself up, head spinning, blood matting her hair. She blinked through the haze—and saw Chef standing alone.
No. Not alone.
Brady emerged from behind the boiler, Harold's nunchaku now in his right hand—the unbroken one. In his left, a combat knife glinted, pulled from a hidden sheath.
Chef raised the pistol.
Brady moved like lightning.
He swung the nunchaku in a wide arc, cracking it across Chef's wrist. The gun flew from Chef's hand. Before Chef could react, Brady drove the knife forward—once, twice, three times—into Chef's abdomen. Blood gushed. Chef grunted, clutched the wounds, and sank to his knees.
Brady didn't stop. He brought the nunchaku down again and again—skull, shoulders, ribs—until Chef collapsed face-down in a spreading pool of red, lifeless.
Izzy stared, pale as death.
So much blood.
Brady turned slowly toward her, knife dripping, nunchaku slick with gore. His smile was slow, sadistic.
"Your turn, psycho girl."
He advanced—step by deliberate step.
Izzy backed away, legs shaking, no weapon, no plan.
At the same time, in the exit chamber, Courtney and Gwen were still arguing over the giant check.
Ezekiel quietly approached Heather and Lindsay, who were still huddled behind the rusted panel, trembling and clinging to each other.
"Come with me," he whispered, voice low but firm. "We can't stay here."
Heather nodded once, grabbed Lindsay's hand. The three of them moved silently toward the exit doorway, where Courtney and Gwen sat waiting, the oversized check lying forgotten between them.
Ezekiel glanced back toward the dark corridor where the gunshots and screams had echoed.
He turned and slipped away again.
He found an old maintenance hatch. Climbed silently from behind.
In his hand: a rusted katana he'd pulled from a forgotten display case deeper in the maze.
He didn't open his eyes.
He couldn't bear to see what he was about to do.
With a single, trembling motion, he swung.
The blade sliced clean through Brady's neck.
The head toppled forward, eyes still wide in surprise. The body stood for a heartbeat—blood fountaining from the stump—then collapsed in a heap.
Izzy stared at the severed head rolling toward her feet.
Ezekiel dropped the katana. It clanged against the metal floor.
He opened his eyes.
And vomited.
The ledge was silent now—only the crackle of dying flames from the boiler, the drip of blood, and Izzy's quiet, broken sobs.
In the exit chamber, Heather and Lindsay stumbled through the doorway, breathless, faces streaked with tears and grime.
Courtney and Gwen looked up.
"What… what happened in there?" Lindsay whispered, voice cracking.
Ezekiel appeared in the doorway, covered in blood—not his own—face ashen, eyes hollow.
He didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
The nightmare wasn't over.
But for now… it had paused.