Morbius and John spring to their feet at the sound of a thunderous crash coming from Bill's room—a metallic screeching, as if someone were cutting through iron or pounding it with immense force. Morbius, visibly shaken, sprints toward the noise, with John close on his heels.
As they approach the room, the hallway lights begin to flicker frantically. They find the metal door to Bill's quarters torn off its hinges and discarded against the wall, riddled with deep gashes and dents. Morbius follows the sound of heavy footsteps further down the corridor, and John prepares to follow—but first, he steals a glance inside the room. The space, characterized by its soft flooring and metallic walls, is a scene of chaos, covered in slash marks and shredded clothing.
John averts his eyes and runs to catch up with Morbius.
The corridor veers to the right, and as John moves, he notices heavy, thick footprints marring the floor. Judging by the indentations, whatever made them was massive. More gashes line the walls, cutting through a series of framed paintings.
Among them, one catches John's eye. It is a family portrait: a woman sitting with a baby in her lap.
The woman is beautiful, wearing a long red gown. Her auburn hair is pinned up, with bangs brushing her forehead, and her face is brightened by a radiant smile. Her eyes are a stunning emerald green. The infant in her lap, wearing a white shirt and black overalls, has dark hair. That was John, at one year old.
To their right stands a tall, imposing man in a black suit and red tie.
He has blonde hair, piercing red eyes, and a confident smile. His hands rest on the shoulders of a young boy seated in a chair. The boy, about six years old and quite handsome, has coppery-red hair and his mother's green eyes. He wears a suit matching his father's.
Suddenly, a memory jolts through John. A sharp headache blooms, and the voices return.
"Ha ha! This photo turned out wonderful, didn't it, darling?" a delicate, angelic voice asks.
"Exactly! It's perfect!" a firm, deep voice replies.
"Dad, I want to be just like you when I grow up!" says a young, high-pitched male voice.
The sound of a bottle shattering on the floor snaps John back to the present—or so he thinks. He spins around to see a woman on the floor, weeping, her eye bruised purple. In the shadows of the hallway, two children watch the scene, paralyzed by what they see.
"Forget the dishes! We're going to the bedroom to fuck, and that's final, dammit!" the man bellows.
John cannot see him clearly; no one can. They are merely silhouettes, defined by erratic patches of light.
The woman sobs as the man seizes her arm, dragging her toward his destination. As he passes in front of John, John snaps.
"GET OUT OF THE WAY, YOU BASTARD!"
"No way! You worm!" John roars back, his voice commanding and terrifying.
John clenches his fist and prepares to strike as the man approaches. He throws a punch at the man's face, but his fist meets nothing—the figure passes right through him like a ghost.
John turns and sees a window illuminating the scene more clearly. He sees a man with disheveled blonde hair, a white dress shirt, and a red tie. In one hand, he grips the woman; in the other, a jagged, broken beer bottle.
John collapses mentally. His mind is a blur of confusion and pure, unadulterated hatred. This man had to pay for the cruelty inflicted upon that beautiful woman.
He follows them. As he pursues the shadows, the red light reappears, bleeding through the windows.
To his left, an open door reveals a bedroom. It's them. The woman is being violated on the bed, crying out in pain and bitterness.
Livid, John draws his pistol and storms into the room. He stands over the bed, aiming the weapon at the man. His finger rests on the trigger, his hand trembling with rage as the man continues his crimes against his own wife.
Sweating and consumed by fury, John hesitates. He is torn, the pressure mounting until it becomes unbearable. Finally, he breaks. He pulls the trigger three times in rapid succession.
The visions vanish instantly. John clutches his forehead, drops the pistol, and stumbles back until he collapses into a chair near the bed. With his head hung low, he stares at the floor until the red light intensifies. That massive, bleeding eye appears again. It is deep crimson now, and it lets out a low chuckle.
John doesn't want to get up. He stares at the eye, his own soft whimpers transitioning into low chuckles, then into loud, manic laughter. He throws his head back and howls—a sound of pure insanity, a break he hadn't allowed himself in three years.
Through all this time, John had endured the pain, resisted the suffering, and held back the pressure.
Now, he just looks at the ceiling as the red light grows blindingly bright, searing his vision.
Covering one eye with his hand, he stumbles to the door and manages to shut it. He slides down against the wood, sitting on the floor.
In the newfound darkness of the room, a figure appears: the man in the black suit and red tie.
His head is bleeding profusely, his suit stained crimson, his gaze fixed on the floor.
John leaps up, leveling his gun. He blinks, and suddenly the man is inches away, staring him down. His head is nearly touching the barrel of the gun.
His eyes are hollow voids of black with tiny white pupils.
Paralyzed, John's hand shakes so violently that he loses his grip; the gun clatters to the floor.
The man seizes the moment and lunges, his hands locking around John's throat. John feels the crushing pressure on his windpipe as the man grins at him.
Summoning his last bit of strength, John kicks the man in the stomach, forcing him back and breaking the chokehold.
John scrambles to open the door and bolts into the hallway, where the red light pouring through the windows is now more saturated and suffocating than ever before.