The heat hit like a solid wall. My skin tightened, then split. Tiny blisters rose on my forearms, popping almost instantly, weeping fluid that evaporated before it could run. The air itself seemed to thicken, turning to liquid fire in my lungs with each ragged breath. The furnace ports glowed a deep, malevolent blue-white, the color of energy dense enough to unmake matter.
I lay flat on the grating, the stolen casing pressed against my chest. Its surface was already too hot to touch, but I didn't let go. My hands were past pain now. They simply reported damage.
The alarm screamed in overlapping tones, a voice buried somewhere in the chaos.
"DECOMMISSION CYCLE ACTIVE. ALL ORGANIC MATTER WILL BE INCINERATED. PURGE IGNITION IN: 00:00:42."
I forced my eyes open. The walkway was shrinking. Sections of grating were retracting into the walls, isolating this platform. The hatch I had descended through was sealed behind a twenty-centimeter slab of solid alloy. No handle. No visible release. Just a seamless metal face, already glowing dull red from conducted heat.
The disposal cycle had disabled bio-detection. That's how I got in. But the emergency purge was a different protocol. It had re-enabled every sensor. The system knew exactly where I was, what I was, and that I was not supposed to be here.
Forty seconds.
I rolled onto my side, pulling the casing with me. Its base had residual magnetic adhesion; it clung to the grating like it didn't want to leave. I didn't try to lift it. I dragged it. The metal screamed against the grate, a high-pitched whine that joined the alarm choir.
Thirty-five seconds.
The transponder chip. Still in my pocket, still connected to the crawler's battery. The system thought I was Maintenance Unit 734-CC. A damaged drone. Disposable.
Thirty-two seconds.
I pressed the chip against the casing's surface, held it there with my thumb. The screen on the console across the walkway was still active, still connected to the administrative interface. I didn't have time to reach it. I didn't need to.
"Unit 734-CC," I rasped, my voice barely audible over the roar. "Reclassify as contaminated disposal payload. Protocol 12.7."
The words came out in a single exhale. No negotiation. No elaboration. Just the request, stripped of everything except the necessary terms.
The console flickered. A new line of text scrolled.
[PROCESSING REQUEST: RECLASSIFICATION UNDER PROTOCOL 12.7]
[UNIT 734-CC: STATUS CHANGE PENDING...]
[ERROR: UNIT REGISTERED AS PERIPHERAL MAINTENANCE ASSET.]
[OVERRIDE ACCEPTED. UNIT RECLASSIFIED AS: CONTAMINATED DISPOSAL PAYLOAD.]
[PURGE SEQUENCE: HOLDING FOR PAYLOAD INCINERATION CONFIRMATION.]
[HOLD DURATION: 00:00:10]
Ten seconds.
The blue-white glow in the ports dimmed slightly. The pressure in the air relented, just a fraction. The system was waiting. It had recognized me as waste. It would still incinerate me, but it would do it properly, on schedule, with the rest of the trash.
Ten seconds to move.
I scrambled to my feet, dragging the casing. The magnetic adhesion made every pull a full-body effort. My blistered hands slipped on the hot metal. I wrapped my arms around the curved plate and heaved, my boots scrambling for purchase on the grating.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
Five meters to the hatch.
Four.
The vibration in the floor changed. Beneath the alarm, beneath the roar of the furnace, I felt it: a deep, rhythmic thumping. The purge protocol was flushing backlog. The jam in Sector 4 chute was clearing, shaken loose by the ignition sequence. That's why the casing had been on the belt. The system was dumping contraband before it lit the fire.
Three meters.
I remembered the schematic. The furnace didn't just burn. It breathed. It had intake vents for oxygen feed and exhaust vents for pressure release. One of them was here, on the walkway, recessed into the wall beside the sealed hatch. A maintenance access point, covered by a simple perforated grille.
Two meters.
I dropped the casing, fumbled at my back. The steel bar was still there, wedged under my shirt, its cloth-wrapped grip slick with sweat. I pulled it free, jammed the jagged end into the edge of the vent grille, and threw my weight against it. The metal screeched, bent, then gave way. The grille clattered to the grating.
Behind it was a dark shaft, barely wider than my shoulders, sloping upward at a steep angle. Hot air blasted out of it, carrying the smell of scorched ceramic and ozone. The furnace's exhaust pathway.
One meter.
I grabbed the casing, shoved it into the vent opening. It barely fit. I had to angle it, force it past the bent frame, drive it deep into the shaft. The magnetic base clung to the interior walls, fighting me. I braced my feet against the grating and pushed with everything I had left.
The casing slid in.
Then it stuck.
The exhaust pressure built behind it, blocked by the curved plate. The vent shaft began to whine, a high, strained pitch. I scrambled back, pressing myself against the railing.
The pressure release hit like a physical blow.
A deafening BOOM echoed through the furnace chamber as the blocked vent blew open. A jet of superheated air and steam exploded out of the shaft, slamming into the opposite wall. The blast caught the sealed hatch dead-on.
The alloy groaned.
A thin seam appeared around the hatch's edge. Not open. Not yet. But the pressure had stressed the locking mechanism, compromised its seal.
I didn't think. I grabbed the steel bar, ran at the hatch, and drove the jagged end into that seam with both hands. The impact jarred my arms to the shoulders. I pulled back and did it again. And again.
On the third strike, the locking mechanism shattered.
The hatch didn't swing open. It exploded outward, torn from its hinges by the residual pressure. I was thrown backward, hit the railing, and barely kept my footing. Beyond the hatch frame was the ladder shaft. Not the main descent—a different one, narrower, lit by emergency amber strips.
The purge timer resumed its countdown.
[PURGE IGNITION IN: 00:00:05]
Four.
Three.
I lunged through the hatch, caught the first rung of the ladder, and pulled myself into the shaft. My hands screamed. My vision blurred.
Two.
I climbed. Not up. The shaft angled steeply, following the exhaust route. Away from the furnace.
One.
The roar behind me reached a crescendo. The blue-white light flared, filling the chamber with actinic brilliance. Then the hatch frame slammed shut behind me, driven by its own emergency seal, and the light vanished.
I climbed in darkness.
I don't know how long I climbed. Minutes. Seconds. Time lost meaning in the narrow, hot shaft. My hands moved on their own, gripping rungs, pulling, releasing. The steel bar was still clenched in my teeth; I had no memory of putting it there. The casing was gone. Left in the vent. Used up.
The shaft ended at another grille, this one cool to the touch. I pressed my weight against it. It swung outward on silent hinges, and I fell out onto a metal floor.
I lay there, face-down, breathing air that was merely warm. My lungs hitched. My hands were raw meat, the palms layered with burst blisters and blackened skin. My hair smelled burnt. My throat tasted of copper and ash.
I tried to stand. My legs refused. I settled for rolling onto my back.
Above me, a sign glowed in faded, industrial lettering:
NULL POCKET: OUTPUT / SALVAGE SORTING
I was out of the furnace. I was in the Archive's trash processing wing.
A sound. Footsteps, measured and unhurried, approaching from the left.
I forced myself up onto my elbows. My vision swam, then steadied.
A figure rounded a stack of corroded machinery. Human-shaped. Wearing a heavy work suit with integrated breathing apparatus, the faceplate dark and reflective. In one gloved hand, it held a scanner that pulsed with slow, rhythmic blue light.
The scanner paused. The light shifted to red.
A soft chime echoed in the corridor.
[ASSET RECOVERY TEAM: ACTIVE]
[UNAUTHORIZED VARIABLE DETECTED]
[PRIORITY: APPREHEND OR TAG]
The figure tilted its head, the dark faceplate aimed directly at me.
Then it took a step forward.
Turned into a vampire, so why not be a hero?
Kang Eun-Woo died the way he lived—exhausted, broke, and saving someone else.
The truck should have been the end. Instead, he woke up in a Manhattan penthouse with no heartbeat, perfect skin, and a B+ blood quality that even veteran vampires would kill for.
In a city where immortal creatures wear business suits, Eun-Woo makes a choice: if he's going to be a monster, he'll hunt the wolves, not the sheep.
What to expect:
- ? Urban vampire progression (Weaver System)
- ? Stat-based tracking & Blood Manipulation
- ? Hunter squad with trust issues
- ? Brutal, graphic vampire combat