Cascade Forests – 12:11 AM

  The silence of the Cascades wasn’t the silence of a living forest; it was the vacuum left behind by a predator that had already passed through. The only sound filling the oppressive humidity was the dry snap of branches under the Heretics' boots and the horrific creaking of wood under the weight of the dead. The bodies of the Hydro-Council, hanging like macabre offerings on oak stakes, seemed to "sing" as the wind moved their charred carcasses. The stench of burning flesh and recent decomposition was an invisible poison invading their lungs.

  Henry stopped in the center of the corridor of the dead. He turned to the group, his face more rigid than marble.

  "Alright, let's split into teams," Henry’s voice came out low, but heavy with an authority that allowed no room for argument. "Gun, you're with Piro. Head to the old mansion."

  Gun, who was finishing adjusting the Magnum on his belt with an irritatingly calm demeanor, let out a short, dry laugh, looking at the flame specialist with evident disdain.

  "Oh, so I’m going with the bartender?" Gun joked dryly.

  "Don't make me burn your skin off, Gun!" Piro growled, his eyes glowing with the instability that made him so dangerous.

  Henry stepped forward, cutting through the tension before it could turn into an actual fire.

  "I’m going into the woods alone to scout other areas," Henry declared, adjusting his gear strap. "Don't worry, I can handle myself."

  He looked at the women in the group, Elena and Tara, whose combined skills in shadow and endurance were their best bet for heavy reconnaissance.

  "Elena and Tara, head toward the HQ in stealth, but don't get too close. We need eyes there, not martyrs. Kol and Kane, head to the abandoned airport; look for resources while you're at it—it’s a large area."

  Finally, he pointed to the remaining trio.

  "Leo, Vane, and Beck, you guys take the gas station."

  The plan was set. Nine Heretics and one armed prisoner, about to spread through the veins of a forest that belonged to their worst nightmares.

  However, the silence of the Cascades was shattered by a hissing sound, almost imperceptible before impact. A black arrow pierced the air with superhuman speed, burying itself deep into Gun’s thigh, who let out a snarl of pain and surprise. Before the first warning cry could be shouted, a second projectile hit Vane’s shoulder, knocking him back a step.

  Immediately after, metal canisters fell silently among the crucifixion stakes. Puff. Puff. Dense, chemical curtains of grey smoke swallowed the group in seconds.

  "Cough, cough!" Henry covered his face with his forearm, feeling the air burn. "They found us! Move it, everyone to your positions! Now!"

  Through the dissipating mist, the nightmare materialized. Ten figures emerged from between the trees, moving with a synchronicity that defied human biology. Black tactical gear, dark hoods, and those iconic metal masks. Skull faces, macabre grins, and hollow expressions reflecting the cold night light. They were the pinnacle of technological terror: pistols, M4 rifles, high-voltage bows, and hand scythes gleaming with a lethal edge.

  In a unison, choreographed movement, as if sharing a single consciousness, all ten Reapers tilted their necks to the left. The collective crack of vertebrae sounded like a trigger—a sign of absolute disdain, the mark of superiority from those who see no enemies, only prey.

  Silas stepped forward. His voice, distorted and low, cut through the smoke:

  "Go. Each to their pair. Kill them all."

  The order was the fuse to the powder keg. The shadows dispersed like smoke in the wind:

  Silvia and Silas dived into the dense brush, tracking Elena and Tara’s faint trail toward the HQ.

  Elijah and Ian locked their gaze on Henry, who was retreating into the deep woods. While Elijah advanced, Ian vanished into the shadows like a ghost, staying hidden for the final strike.

  Fabrizio and Aiden set off with predatory speed toward the old mansion, where Gun and Piro were scrambling for cover.

  Zack and Diego leaped over fallen logs, moving like blurs toward the gas station behind Leo, Vane, and Beck.

  Lil and Andrew began the pursuit toward the abandoned airport, the sound of Andrew’s machete hitting leather and Lil’s unstable laughter echoing through the trees as they hunted Kol and Kane.

  The survival game had begun. And for the Heretics, the rules were simple: run or die.

  Old Mansion – 12:54 AM

  The darkness of the early morning in the Cascades was absolute—a heavy shroud that seemed to swallow even the light from the flashlights. Gun and Piro stumbled through the roots, Gun’s cold sweat mixing with the blood soaking his pants where the arrow had carved its path. When the decrepit silhouette of the rustic mansion finally emerged among the oaks, it looked more like a tomb than a refuge.

  "Damn it, we’re here..." Gun growled, leaning against the rotting doorframe, his breathing heavy. "We need to hide."

  Piro shot him an impatient look.

  "Wow, thanks, Captain Obvious," Piro snapped back in a harsh whisper. "If you hadn't said anything, I was just gonna stand out here and light a flare for them."

  They broke into the main hall, where the smell of mold and decades of accumulated dust filled their lungs. While Gun tried to stop the bleeding in his leg with a torn piece of cloth, Piro scavenged the shelves for anything useful—alcohol, canned food, or tools. Time seemed to stretch, every second weighing like an hour.

  Minutes later, the silence of the house was murdered.

  Creeaaaak. The sound of the front door groaning on rusted hinges froze their blood. Then came the rhythmic, heavy thud of military boots striking the hardwood floor. Clack. Clack. Clack.

  The beam of tactical flashlights cut through the dark. Fabrizio Turner and Aiden entered the room. Their silhouettes were specters of death, Turner’s skull mask and Aiden’s grinning mask glinting under the moonlight filtering through the broken windows. Their voices, distorted by modifiers, came out metallic and inhuman.

  "Hey, Turner, this house is hideous," Aiden’s voice hissed, loaded with synthetic arrogance. "This place is terrible for my complexion."

  Fabrizio didn't turn around. He held his Silver Ghost pistol with a perfect shooting stance, his cold eyes behind the skeleton mask scanning every corner of the room.

  "Shut up, Aiden," Turner replied, his tone icy and authoritative. "I'll cut that hair of yours myself. Go check the second floor. I'm staying down here."

  The sound of Aiden’s boots began to climb the wooden staircase, each step snapping like a breaking bone, while Turner remained in the center of the room.

  Upstairs, the creaking of the boards under Aiden's boots was accompanied by a constant, vain grumbling that the voice modifier turned into a sinister hiss.

  "Disgusting house..." Aiden felt the peeling walls with disdain. "Good thing I’m wearing a mask and hood. I don’t want sawdust falling in my hair."

  Downstairs, the silence was even more dangerous. Fabrizio Turner didn't move like a man; he moved like a predator that could already smell fear. With absolute calm, he picked up a fallen broom handle, snapped it with a dry crack, and began scraping the tip against the stone wall of the fireplace, creating a sharpened stake in seconds.

  "So... I know you’re in here," Turner’s voice echoed through the room, cold and unhurried. "Gun, it’s a shame you and your army fell to those Oregon bastards. But don’t worry... I’ll stay here to clean up what’s left myself."

  Hidden behind the kitchen counter, Gun felt the pulse in his wounded leg, but his eyes shone with the old cunning of a man who was once king. He leaned into Piro’s ear, whispering almost inaudibly:

  "You, Piro... go upstairs. I’ll distract him."

  Piro’s eyes widened, sweat dripping down his red wooden mask.

  "Are you crazy?" he whispered back, incredulous. Going up meant running straight into one of them.

  "Just go," Gun gripped the handle of his Magnum, his expression Brookling no argument. "I’ll handle this."

  Piro hesitated for a split second but used the shadow of the side stairs to begin his silent ascent. At that exact moment, Gun reached out and hurled an empty glass bottle toward the opposite side of the kitchen.

  The sound of glass shattering against the ceramic floor exploded in the silence of the house. Turner spun instantly, the muffled sound of Piro’s footsteps masked by the echo of the shards.

  Piro advanced cautiously through the dark hallway. Without warning, Aiden emerged from a side shadow and delivered a side kick that slammed Piro against the wall.

  Aiden didn't use firearms; he used his bare hands. He landed a double kick to Piro’s stomach, followed by a knee to the Heretic's face. Piro tried to fight back with his fire gauntlets, but Aiden dodged with humiliating ease, as if he were dancing.

  Aiden mocked: "You're slow, you're filthy, and you're ruining my uniform with that kerosene smell."

  Aiden landed a sequence of rapid punches that broke Piro’s guard. The Reaper grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the frame of a large, broken window, preparing to finish him off.

  Piro, feeling like he was about to black out, realized Aiden was too concerned with his own posture and vanity. The moment Aiden held him for the final blow, Piro didn't try to punch him. Instead, he opened the safety valve on his gauntlet, releasing a jet of slippery lubricating oil directly onto Aiden’s feet and the smooth wooden floor.

  Losing his balance on the oil, Aiden’s feet slipped. Piro seized the momentum, grabbed Aiden by his black coat, and using the Reaper’s own force against him, spun his body and shoved him back with everything he had.

  Aiden, caught off guard by the clever maneuver, had nothing to grab onto and crashed through the glass, falling onto his back in the brush below.

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  Downstairs, the sound of the broken bottle had served its purpose for only a few seconds. Turner entered the kitchen with the precision of a ghost. Gun, knowing he wouldn't get a second chance, didn't hesitate. He drew his Magnum and emptied all six high-caliber rounds directly into the Reaper’s chest. The impact was brutal; Turner’s body was hurled against the wall, knocking down an old painting and hitting the floor with a dull thud.

  Gun panted, smoke rising from the barrel. "Dammit... that was all I had," he muttered, feeling the weight of the empty gun.

  For any human, that would have been the end. But Turner wasn't human. The voice modifier emitted a distorted, metallic laugh as the Reaper slowly stood up, ignoring the holes in his military-grade ballistic vest.

  "You moronic assassin... death cannot die!" Turner’s voice echoed, freezing cold.

  In a swift motion, Turner drew his Silver Ghost and fired, hitting Gun in the thigh. The former King of Highway 97 howled in pain and, in a desperate effort, dragged himself to the main hall, collapsing near the stairs. Turner holstered his pistol and drew his two hand scythes, walking calmly.

  "You were always strong, Gun, but without your army, you... oh, my friend, you are nothing!"

  Turner raised the scythe to deliver the death blow. Thunk! Suddenly, a sharp snap sounded and a steel nail pierced Turner’s hand, pinning it in the air for a second. The Reaper stopped, staring at his own pierced palm. Without letting out a single groan, he simply ripped the nail out with brute force, blood dripping down his black gloves as he scanned the room.

  "Up here!" Piro shouted, positioned at the top of the stairs with an old nail gun he’d found in the debris.

  Turner began to climb the stairs, ignoring the rain of nails Piro was firing. The projectiles hit his chest and shoulders, but he kept walking like an unstoppable machine. When Piro ran out of ammo, the Heretic didn't retreat; he lunged at the Reaper. The two bodies collided and tumbled down the stairs in a tangle of punches and kicks until they hit the floor of the hall.

  Piro lay there, breathless. Turner, demonstrating superhuman agility, did a backflip and landed on his feet, facing the Heretic. He spun his scythe, ready for the final cut, when a shadow loomed in front of him.

  Mickey Trigger—one of Gun’s old and most lethal enforcers, whom everyone thought was dead—appeared holding the very stake Turner had sharpened minutes earlier. With a violent thrust, Mickey impaled Turner’s chest, piercing through the Reaper. He pushed with all his weight, staring into Turner’s skull mask with a tight-lipped grin.

  "I won, asshole," Mickey whispered.

  With one last effort, Mickey pinned Turner’s body to the wooden wall of the mansion, trapping him there like an insect in a display case. The Reaper’s head slumped forward; he was apparently dead.

  Gun, shocked, looked at his former subordinate. "Mickey? Where the hell were you while my empire was falling?"

  Mickey walked over to Gun, extending a hand to help him up. "Hey, boss. I’ve been making scrambled eggs while you and the whole empire went to hell, but I was keeping an eye out."

  Piro wiped blood from his face, incredulous. "Mickey? You son of a bitch... I thought all the Enforcers were killed. Most of them, anyway."

  "I’m the 1%, my friend," Mickey replied with a cynical wink. "Now move, let’s get out of here before the other one outside decides to come back."

  Cascade Forests – 12:24 AM

  The infiltration toward the Reaper HQ was a journey through a vertical graveyard. Elena and Tara moved with the precision Henry expected: Elena was liquid shadow, gliding through the foliage, while Tara was the rock, the shield ready for any impact. But in the Cascades, the shadows have eyes.

  Without warning, the temperature seemed to drop. From atop a rocky outcrop, two silhouettes descended like fallen angels: Silas, the leader of the Reapers, and Silvia, the "Beautiful Death."

  "They’re determined, aren't they, Silas?" Silvia’s voice, distorted by the modifier, sounded like a funeral whisper.

  "Determination is merely the prelude to failure," Silas replied, drawing two iron bidents from his hidden gauntlets.

  The combat exploded. Tara roared, raising her vault-door shield and charging at the Reaper leader. The impact was deafening. Tara was strong, but Silas was a force of nature. He sidestepped the shield strike, remaining perfectly still, and delivered a blow with his bident that dented the reinforced steel.

  Tara tried to use the shield's spikes to pierce Silas, but he moved with terrifying calm. He kicked the base of the shield, unbalancing the Heretics' "tank," and in one fluid motion, drove one of the bidents into Tara’s shoulder. She let out a scream of agony, but Silas didn't stop. He lifted her off the ground by the embedded weapon, staring into her eyes through his skull mask. With superhuman strength, Silas swung his other bident and drove it through Tara’s throat, silencing her forever. The South African’s body fell heavily onto the damp ground, the shield that had protected so many Heretics now nothing more than a metal headstone.

  To the side, Elena was living her own nightmare. She tried to trigger her hidden blades, attacking Silvia with a sequence of rapid slashes. Silvia, however, moved with macabre elegance. She wasn't just dodging; she was playing.

  "So slow, little shadow," Silvia mocked.

  In a counterattack that Elena could barely follow, Silvia grabbed the Spaniard’s wrist. With a sharp, precise levering motion, the sound of bone snapping echoed through the forest. Elena screamed, falling to her knees while clutching her useless arm, now bent at an impossible angle. Silvia’s dominance was absolute; she kicked Elena in the face, throwing her against the trunk of a tree.

  Elena, seized by a terror she had never felt before, looked at Tara’s lifeless body and then at the two monsters in front of her. The blood-tears painted on Silvia’s mask seemed to glow under the moonlight. In an act of pure survival instinct, Elena bolted. Holding her broken arm against her chest, she vanished into the brush, running desperately.

  Silvia raised her M4 rifle, aiming in her direction, but Silas placed his hand on the barrel, lowering it.

  "Let her go, Silvia," Silas said, watching the darkness where Elena had disappeared. "One less rat to bother us is already gone. Her fear will feed the legends."

  Gas Station – 1:30 AM

  The abandoned gas station was a carcass of metal and glass, a ghost of the old world smelling of rust and dust. Leo, Vane, and Beck moved cautiously among the empty fuel pumps. Beck was trying to pry open an old control panel while Vane kept watch on the perimeter.

  "Nothing here," Beck muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "They picked this place clean before..."

  A metallic clink cut his sentence short. Atop the convenience store, two silhouettes watched them. Zack and Diego. Zack was sitting on the edge, shuffling a deck of black cards with one hand while the other gripped his M4 rifle.

  "Look at that, Diego... three little mice looking for cheese where there's only poison," Zack’s voice, filtered through his predatory grin mask, was dripping with vibrant sarcasm.

  "Should we put on a show for them, Zack?" Diego leaped to the ground, landing with the grace of an acrobat. He triggered two smoke grenades, but these weren't grey; they were a deep, intense red, creating a chromatic nightmare.

  The fight began like a whirlwind. Diego was too fast. He moved between the gas pumps like a blur, using small knives to deliver shallow slashes to Leo, who tried to strike back with his climbing claws. Leo, the most agile of the Heretics, felt for the first time like he was facing someone who made him look static. Diego laughed as he vaulted over Leo’s shoulders, leaving a trail of red smoke behind.

  Vane tried to intervene, lashing out with his steel whip to snag Diego’s neck, but a precision shot hit the whip’s metal pulley, ripping the weapon from his hands.

  "Wrong bet, pal!" Zack shouted from above. He dived off the roof, firing short bursts from his M4.

  Zack charged at Vane. The Bosnian Heretic tried to engage in hand-to-hand combat, but Zack fought with a maniacal joy, using his rifle like a staff before drawing a knife and carving an X into Vane’s chest.

  "Let’s see what the deck says about you," Zack pulled a card from his pocket and tossed it onto Vane’s fallen body. It was the Ace of Spades. "Death. Such bad luck."

  Beck, seeing his comrades being slaughtered, realized that brute force wouldn't work. He ran to the emergency generator he had been trying to fix and, in an act of desperation, overloaded the manual power cells he carried on his back.

  "Leo! Vane! Get out of here!" Beck screamed.

  He slammed his mechanical spear directly into the underground containment tank that still held fuel vapors. The explosion wasn't total, but it created a shockwave of pressure and fire that hurled Diego and Zack backward, covering the Heretics' desperate retreat into the woods.

  Zack stood up, wiping soot from his black mask, laughing as he watched the three disappear into the shadows.

  "They’re good runners, Diego." "How boring..." Diego didn't reply, he just spun his knives.

  Abandoned Airport – 2:04 AM

  The Cascade Regional Airport was a skeleton of concrete and glass, where nature had begun to reclaim the runways through deep cracks. The wind whistled through broken windows, creating a mournful sound. Kol and Kane advanced across the asphalt, their senses on high alert.

  They approached the glass double doors of the main entrance. Kol reached out to force them open when the sharp sound of metal slicing the air echoed. Thunk! A black throwing knife embedded itself into the aluminum frame, inches from Kol’s ear.

  "What the hell..." Kol recoiled sharply, his heart racing as he stared at the blade still vibrating in the wall.

  Kane hissed, pulling Kol away from the main entrance. "Let’s go around. We can’t go in through the front; we’ll be sitting ducks if we try to break that door down."

  They began to skirt the massive grey building, staying low and using the husks of luggage carts and abandoned service vehicles for cover. The silence of the airport was broken only by the sound of their boots on the dry asphalt.

  Kane pointed to a metal structure climbing the side of the building, leading to the roof.

  "Let’s find a way up and get in through the ventilation duct!" Kane suggested.

  They moved quickly toward the back of the hangar, looking for an alternative entrance or a ladder leading to the upper levels.

  The darkness inside the airport terminal was absolute—a dense mass of stagnant air that smelled of old fuel and dust. As soon as they crossed the side entrance, Kol and Kane instinctively split up to cover more ground, moving like shadows among the rows of torn plastic seats and abandoned check-in counters.

  The silence was so deep that Kane could hear his own heartbeat. Feeling the need for at least one visual point of reference in that pitch blackness, he stopped near a support pillar. With hands trembling from adrenaline, he reached into his pocket and struck a match.

  Scritch.

  A small orange flame was born, struggling against the heavy shadows of the lobby. The flickering light illuminated Kane’s sweaty face for a second, creating a tiny circle of visibility. But as the flame grew stronger, it also revealed what the darkness had been hiding.

  Right behind Kane, inches from the nape of his neck, the glow of the match reflected off the cold metal of a mask. The distorted features and the sculpted expression of madness on Lil’s face emerged from nothing, as if the Reaper were part of the concrete column itself.

  Lil didn’t move. He just stood there, breathing silently, waiting for Kane to realize he was there. The contrast between the warm light of the match and the metallic void of Lil’s mask was terrifying.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kane saw the reflection of his greatest nightmare.

  "The light is a mistake, little mouse," Lil’s voice, coming through the modifier, sounded like an unstable, electric whisper. "It only helps me see better where I’m going to cut."

  Kane felt the cold breath of the metal against his neck. In a desperate reflex, he dropped the match and spun around, drawing his combat knife. Lil was faster; the Reaper’s giant scythe cut through the air in a horizontal arc, forcing Kane to throw himself to the floor. The metal blade struck the concrete pillar, spraying stone chips where the Heretic’s head had been seconds before.

  "Kol!" Kane screamed, trying to find his bearings in the dark.

  On the other side of the lobby, Kol was crouched behind a convenience counter. He had just stuffed a few cans of food and a medical kit into his backpack when he heard the scream. Before he could run, a burst from a submachine gun shattered the shelves above him. Andrew appeared, leaping over the counter, his machete gleaming in the moonlight filtering through the skylights.

  "Found some treasures, big guy?" Andrew laughed, delivering a machete strike that Kol blocked with the handle of his axe. "Let me help you carry that... to the other side!"

  The fight between Kol and Andrew was brutal. Kol used his strength to shove the Reaper, trying to use the weight of the axe to keep Andrew at bay. Andrew, however, was an agile sadist; he took Kol’s kicks and shoulder-tosses just to land quick slashes on the Heretic’s arms.

  Meanwhile, Kane faced the terror of Lil. The fight was only even because Kane used the airport’s layout—luggage carts and counters—to hinder the movement of Lil’s immense scythe. Kane managed to kick a metal counter into Lil’s shins and, in a moment of boldness, landed a strike that scratched the Reaper’s vest. Lil let out an electronic shriek of fury and charged with a sequence of lunges that nearly pierced Kane’s chest.

  Kol realized they were being surrounded. He headbutted Andrew’s mask and snatched a flashbang from the Reaper’s vest, gaining a second of distance, and hurled it into the center of the lobby.

  "Kane, now!" Kol roared.

  The white flash blinded Andrew and Lil for a few brief seconds. It was the window of opportunity they needed. Wounded and panting, the two Heretics ran toward the emergency exit in the back.

  "Let’s go!" Kane yelled, stumbling as they reached the cold asphalt of the runway.

  They vanished into the darkness of the woods, taking the small bag of supplies Kol had managed to save. Behind them, Andrew wiped his eyes, laughing out loud as he heard the sound of the Heretics fleeing. They had what they wanted: the seeds of fear had been sown.

  Cascade Forests – 12:20 AM

  As he walked among the ancient trees, the silence was broken only by the sound of Henry’s own breathing. He felt the weight of Ian’s gaze, watching him from some invisible spot high in the canopy, but the true danger stood right in front of him.

  Henry stopped in an open clearing bathed in pale moonlight. From the shadows, a figure emerged. Elijah’s blank-expression mask seemed to reflect the Reaper’s total lack of a soul.

  "Round two, Henry," Elijah’s voice came through the modifier, cold and devoid of any rush. "In our last encounter, you did well. But speed saves no one from the inevitable."

  Henry clenched his fists, the muscles in his forearms bulging. "Last time, I was in a hurry, Elijah. Today, I’ve got all the time in the world to finish what I started."

  Without another word, Elijah lunged. He didn't run; he glided. Henry fired a straight punch, but Elijah dodged with a millimeter-precise neck movement, countering with a thrust from his wrist blade that tore through Henry’s jacket.

  The combat was a dance of technical death. Henry relied on his street-fighting experience, throwing heavy blows that would shatter bones if they landed. Elijah, on the other hand, fought as if he were performing surgery. He blocked Henry’s strikes with reinforced forearms and returned precise cuts to the Heretic’s joints.

  Henry managed to grab Elijah’s coat and delivered a violent headbutt against the metal mask. The impact sent Elijah reeling, and for a brief moment, the Reaper’s cold composure wavered. Henry seized the opening and landed a left hook that slammed Elijah against the trunk of a sequoia.

  "You’re getting slow!" Henry roared, charging in for the final blow.

  Before Henry could reach him, Elijah regained his balance and snapped a roundhouse kick into Henry’s chest, knocking him back. Elijah drew a combat knife and spun it between his fingers with hypnotic skill.

  "Pain is merely information, Henry. And the information I’m receiving now... is that you are tired."

  Ian, perched on a high branch thirty yards away, simply watched with his rifle at rest. He had clear orders: Elijah wanted this reckoning for himself. For now, the elite hunter just observed the duel, waiting for the moment Henry’s fate would be sealed.

  The air was thick with the smell of ozone and sweat. Henry and Elijah stared each other down, both panting, clothes torn and bodies marked by bruises and cuts. Henry felt a bitter satisfaction; he had proven he could go toe-to-toe with the Reapers’ "surgeon." In his mind, that stalemate was a moral victory.

  "Is that the best you’ve got, Elijah?" Henry taunted. "Looks like we’ll be here all night."

  Elijah straightened his posture, his mask unreadable under the moonlight. "You’ve always had a very limited view of the battlefield, Henry. You fight as if the world were a boxing ring."

  Henry felt a chill run down his spine. Before he could react, the snap of a dry twig behind him sounded like a gunshot. He tried to spin around, but felt the cold barrel of a gun press against the base of his skull. Ian had descended from the tree with the silence of a specter, closing the trap.

  "It’s over, Henry," Elijah’s voice rang out louder, now loaded with cold victory. "You can’t fight two."

  Henry froze. His eyes scanned the woods, searching for an exit, a shadow, anything. But with Ian at his back and Elijah in front, the survival math didn't add up. He felt the weight of defeat crush his shoulders. Slowly, he interlaced his fingers behind his head and dropped to his knees on the damp soil.

  Elijah walked up to him and, without hesitation, delivered a violent kick to Henry’s back, slamming the Heretic leader’s face into the dirt.

  "I could very well kill you right now," Elijah hissed, drawing his Five-seveN pistol and pointing it directly at Henry’s chest as he composed himself. "But Jester said you might be useful. He has plans for what’s left of your will."

  Elijah used the barrel of the gun to force Henry up, shoving him brutally to get him moving.

  "Move it, Blueboy..." Elijah mocked, referring to the color Henry wore in his glory days. "We’re going 'home.' The HQ has a cell with your name on it."

  Ian holstered his rifle and followed close behind, keeping his guard up. The leader of the Heretics had been captured, and the fate of the group now hung by a thread.

  Old Mansion – 7:10 AM

  The seven o'clock sun shone with a pale, indifferent light, but its warmth didn't reach the forest floor. The silence that followed the night of massacres was absolute, broken only by the distant chirping of birds that ignored the human violence.

  Outside the rustic mansion, among the dry leaves and shattered glass beneath the second-story window, Aiden’s body lay still. The fall would have killed an ordinary man, but the silence was broken by an organic snap. A spasm rippled through his shoulders and, slowly, his gloved fingers began to move, clawing at the dirt. The grinning mask turned toward the sky as the Reaper began the slow process of rising again.

  Inside the mansion, the scene was a sanctuary of death. The room was bathed in a cold twilight. Leaning against the wooden wall, Fabrizio Turner remained exactly where Mickey Trigger had left him: impaled. The improvised broom-handle stake still pierced his torso, driven deep near his heart, pinning him there like a macabre display piece.

  The focus shifts to the detail of his skull mask, submerged in the shadow of his black hood. For several long seconds, there is no life. Then, a heavy, metallic breath echoes through the voice modulator.

  Turner’s head lifts slowly, scanning the empty hall, the dried bloodstains on the floor, and the absence of his attackers. There is no cry of pain, only a mechanical determination.

  Turner brings his trembling hands to the wooden stake protruding from his chest. His fingers close around the rough wood. With a wet, harrowing sound of tearing flesh, he pulls the stake out, inch by inch, until the object breaks free from both the wall and his body.

  He stands with difficulty, yet with a posture that exudes recovered authority. He looks at the bloody piece of wood in his hand for a moment and tosses it to the floor with disdain, a reminder that the Reapers are not like ordinary mortals.

  End of Chapter