Somewhere else inside the Dome, at the same time, Adam's mouth was covered in blood. Both his and Joseph's. Joseph's, in particular, flowed from his lips. But soon, he spat out the chunk of flesh and looked at Joseph and said,
"Your flesh is very hard," he wiped down the blood from his face, "I… don't know if veterans have more blood than normal, but you're probably going into shock in a few seconds with the way you're bleeding."
A small groan whispered from his lips, "I didn't want this. I'm sorry."
Joseph stared in disbelief as he listened to Adam's words. He pressed hard on his neck—but the chunk that Adam ripped off was too big, and his blood practically showered everywhere.
Joseph was confused, very confused.
Wasn't this guy in front of him supposed to be dead? He saw him, his spine snapped in half right in front of him, and he looked like he had been run down by a truck.
What… was happening?
"I'm sorry. But you deserve this."
Adam kept on apologizing to him, and yet right now, as Joseph stared at him completely covered in blood, he could only see Adam's green eyes that were looking back at him. And it was deep, so deep that Joseph could feel everything else turn dark.
The strange thing was, Joseph could tell that Adam was being genuine.
And that terrified him even more.
He wanted to speak, to say something, but no words came. His vision blurred, darkening at the edges, and his head grew heavier and heavier, as if the weight of his own body was dragging him down into the floor and beneath it.
"I'm sorry…" Adam repeated, taking a slow step forward. "Please, just close your eyes and surrender to—Gukh!?"
Before Adam could finish his words, he felt a sharp pain stab through his back. He looked down, only to see that he was truly and literally stabbed by a dagger, pierced through his back and out his chest.
When Adam looked back, Donald was staring at him, terror frozen in his eyes.
Adam barely had time to react before he was sent flying again—Donald had kicked him, swinging his sword in a brutal upward arc at the same time.
The blade tore through him, splitting his chest and right shoulder clean in half.
Adam hit the ground hard, rolling several times before finally crashing into a counter again, his body slamming against it with a dull, sickening thud.
"Shit… shit!"
Donald's breaths came heavy and uneven as he stared at Adam.
And when he saw that he wasn't moving, a sense of relief crawled through his skin. The relief barely had time to settle, however, before Donald turned his attention back to Joseph—only to find his face planted against the floor.
Still breathing.
But barely.
Blood pooled beneath him, too much of it, his body already limp. At this point, even if Donald tried to help, it wouldn't matter—Joseph was drowning in his own blood. He's dead.
So instead, Donald turned back to Adam…
But Adam was no longer where he should have been.
He was right in front of him.
"What the—!?" And those were the only words Donald was able to utter before he felt a searing pain at the nape of his neck as Adam slid a knife through it. And before he could react, a little thud snapped in his ear—and then, he dropped to the ground, completely limp.
The snap he heard was the sound of Adam hitting the hilt of the knife with a tenderizing mallet. Veteran creeps were much stronger than normal humans, but they were still human and not yet as abnormal as the Heroes. They're flesh, as Adam discovered when he bit through Joseph, could still be damaged by normal people, it just required a lot of force.
And in this instance, Adam practically paralyzed Donald instantly. But he wasn't done.
With an almost eerie gentleness, he turned Donald onto his back and met his still-open eyes, staring into them.
Adam ran his hands over Donald's armor, patting and checking for any openings. After a few seconds, his fingers found the clasps on the shoulders. It took a few seconds, but he unbuckled them and removed the chest plate.
Donald tried to move his tongue, to make a sound, a grunt, anything—but nothing came. His body refused to listen. His arms—he wanted to lift them, but nothing.
He was trapped in his body, and he could only watch as Adam placed the tip of the knife right on his unarmored chest.
"You're still alive," Adam sighed. There was no rage in his eyes, only exhaustion. "We don't really die instantly, our motor functions just stop working, and then we die a little later. At least, that's what I think. But I've never really died, not really. Right now, you're paralyzed, and you will die soon. But don't worry, okay?"
Adam smiled faintly as he set the tenderizer against the handle of the knife. It wasn't a happy smile, but one of relief… for Donald.
Donald's eyes twitched again. If one looked closely, they would see his head trembling, the only movement he could still make.
"I think I cut most of your nerves, but you will still feel this." Adam's voice was quiet, almost soothing. "You will feel this, and it will hurt. I made sure of that because you deserve it. It will hurt so much—but the thing that would hurt the most is the fear. The fear of knowing you can't do anything even though you're in so much pain. But I'm not a bad person like you, okay? I'm going to end your suffering. I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry."
He apologized again.
And again.
His voice breaking, repeating like a broken record.
And then, he repeated the very same words he told Samantha,
"Imagine your favorite food, your favorite person, your favorite animal, your favorite place. Picture yourself there, sharing a meal with them. Please, remember when you were a good person before all of this."
And then, with another whisper, he brought the hammer down. The sound of metal splitting flesh and muscle echoed through the kitchen.
But it wasn't deep enough.
So he struck again.
This time, the knife plunged all the way through.
"I'm sorry!"
He quickly yanked the blade free, and a fresh surge of blood spilled from Donald's chest. It poured without restraint, pooling above and beneath him. His lungs, no doubt, were filling with it too.
But Donald couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't express a single ounce of the fear gripping him.
And yet—he could still think. And much like Joseph before him, he was terrified.
Not just of dying.
But of Adam. Of the way he kept apologizing as he killed them.
Why? Why did that make it so much worse?
But before he could find an answer—he was gone.
As for Adam, he knelt beside the corpse, his hands limp at his sides, fingers too weak to hold the knife and hammer any longer.
He just sat there.
Silent. Empty.
But soon, once again, he whispered,
"You're the one who wanted this. I'm not like you, I don't like causing pain. I'm a good person. I'm a good person. I don't like—"
And before Adam could finish his ramblings, a voice suddenly whispered in his ear.
[Blood. Sweat. Survival. You have endured, and the Administrator, Mikhal, acknowledges your resolve. Your actions have directly impacted your team's performance. Keep pushing forward!]
[1 Status Point has been granted.]