Altan's eyes glisten in the low light as he pauses in the hallway, letting the heavy air settle around him. The corridor feels suffocating, broken only by a faint amber glow from recessed lights above.
They cast long, eerie shadows across the floor, making the walls seem to close in. Polished wood panels line the walls, etched with faint designs—like a forgotten language or an old kol-nic script.
The ground beneath his feet is cold and mirror-like, made of polished black stone. His armored boots leave faint imprints in the thin moisture clinging to the surface, vanishing almost instantly.
Further ahead, doors loom large. Their metallic frames catch the light in sterile reflections, contrasting the corridor's worn elegance. They emit a faint hum—likely from the advanced security Altan is completely ignoring.
His tail swishes behind him, its metallic edge gleaming under the lights. Each step is deliberate, fluid, like he's navigating an invisible battlefield.
As Altan nears the right door, the air thickens. Ceramic pots flank the entrance, their plants too perfect, almost artificial.
Their deep green leaves contrast sharply with the blood-soaked figure standing before them. He pauses, brushing a leaf. It feels cold and waxy beneath his fingers. A faint smile flickers across his face—so much effort for something so insignificant.
"If his mom was here, and the son too… then the dad must be close by," Altan mutters. He pauses mid-step. "A central place. Somewhere they can meet." He nods to himself. Somewhere they can meet... he sniffs the air Ah. Sweat and cheap cologne.
Back in the lift
"Boy."
Hector speaks slowly, stepping forward one deliberate footfall at a time. His boots thud softly on the metal floor as he approaches Mirakos, lying motionless except for the occasional twitch.
The child's face is contorted in pain. His limbs spasm intermittently. Hector kneels beside him, his coat brushing the floor. The leather is worn, frayed at the edges, with a high collar and gleaming brass buttons. His gloves are smeared with blood—none of it his.
He gently lifts the boy's head, turning it slightly. Mirakos's face is tear-streaked, his nostrils flared, mucus mixing with tears. His eyes are swollen and bloodshot. The crying hasn't stopped, but his voice is faint.
"Is Mom alright?" Mirakos whispers. "It's like those shows… where the bad guy comes and kills everyone. But they don't really die, right? They don't…"
His eyelids droop, exhaustion winning.
Hector stares at him a long moment, then sighs, gently lowering the boy's head to the floor.
"You're right," he murmurs. "They don't die yet… not a second time."
His voice fades as he looks to the lift walls, watching the blur of floors flash past.
Altan had killed far too many in far too little time.
Even three times the number of people wouldn't have made a difference. Hector shudders, remembering the man's words.
"Lift, take us to floor 135. The lift is currently out of commission," Hector says, tension weighing on each word.
"Out of commission. Floor 135," the robotic voice replies, flat and unfeeling.
Hector exhales, he clutches his heart, it aches.
Altan will kill the boy's father too. Just like he killed the mother.
But why? What was he thinking? What was driving him?
Meanwhile, with Altan
Altan looks directly at a surveillance camera, then glances down at the pronged tip flicking behind him. His tone is light, even playful—yet there's a dark undercurrent beneath it.
He adjusts the tail, flicks it again. The metal gleams in the dim light, slick with blood.
Second Rank Guards of Stem Affairs
Inside the security room, a technician stares at the screen in stunned silence. The room is cold and sterile. Monitors line the walls, each showing a different section of the facility.
Workers move through the background, arms full of paperwork. Their uniforms—dark blue tunics with pressed fabric—are immaculate.
Light red trim lines their sleeves and collars. Small camera symbols are embroidered on the left breast of their tunics, unlike the guards outside who wear sword insignias.
"Uh… Boss?" the technician says, voice trembling.
"What is it, Arming?"
The boss steps beside him. His tunic is more ornate—embroidered cuffs and collar, a larger, finely detailed camera and spear insignia on his chest.
"Isn't that… one of the Five Dragons?" Arming stammers, pointing to the screen. His hand shakes. Altan is still there, blood-soaked, toying with his tail.
"Don't be silly—"
The boss leans in, beard brushing against Arming's head. His eyes widen.
"Wait—what?! There's surveillance in the lift, right?"
"Yes, I think so," Arming says, tapping keys. A monitor previously showing a restroom flickers and switches to the lift's feed.
As the image sharpens, Arming turns pale. He retches, vomiting onto the keyboard. The stench fills the room.
"By the Five Sages…" the boss breathes, transfixed by the screen.
Hector is there, standing in the aftermath of Altan's rampage. The polsium wall is rubble. Mirakos lies curled in the corner, trying to sleep off the horror.
The boss steps back. "So much for indestructible…" he mutters.
"Arming," he says, more firmly now. "Rewind. Let's see how this ordeal started."
Arming's fingers dance across the console. The footage blurs, then sharpens again.
But something else catches his eye. One particular camera feed.
Altan.
He's staring directly into the lens—his white, pupilless eyes swallowing the frame. A chill runs down Arming's spine. The gaze feels inhuman, terrifying in its stillness.
"Can he see us?" Arming asks, his voice barely a whisper.
The question lingers, heavy with dread.
The boss turns slowly. His face remains neutral, but something flickers behind his eyes—doubt, maybe fear.
He shakes his head slowly. "No."
But the word lacks conviction.
On the screen, Altan's chilling smirk spreads.
"Do you all want to see a demon?" he asks calmly, almost amused. He tilts his head—like he's speaking directly to them.
"That dragon definitely knows the cameras are there," the boss whispers, his voice grim.
It had taken Altan seventeen seconds to slaughter nearly everyone in the lift.