"Mom," the man called, crossing the street with quick, eager steps. He was only a few feet away now, just within earshot. "I'm telling you the truth, it's not much, but it's enough. We could finally have our own place. Warm blankets. Food..."
"Carmen," she said, her voice trembling, lips quivering. "I don't want you overexerting yourself. Not for me."
He reached out, gently placing his hand against her cheek, locking eyes with her.
He remembered it all—so vividly. The long nights she spent scrubbing floors, folding laundry, cleaning homes that weren't theirs, just so he could eat.
And now, he could finally return the favor.
A job at one of the community hospitals—his dream. And he'd gotten it. His hands trembled at his sides, a smile breaking across his face. He wanted to work. He wanted to show his mom the life she never had.
The warmth they never knew.
The places they could never go.
"Mom, I'll buy you a—"
Splat.
Red paint splattered against a canvas, putting the canvas in a state of shock, confusion, and terror that hadn't yet set in. Carmen looked down, at his hand that once rested on his mother's cheek. It had been severed at the wrist by a large rock crashing down.
And his mother—
He looked down. Blood pooled beneath the wreckage, soaking into the ground. Her fingers stretched out from beneath the debris. Motionless.
Carmen let out a soft, broken chuckle and gripped his head with his remaining hand.
This had to be a dream.
Or a breakdown. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he'd had too much to drink. There was no way—no way—his mother had just died in front of him.
Then it hit.
All at once.
His knees buckled. He collapsed to the ground, hand trembling, eyes blurring with tears. Around him, the world began to fall apart.
Screams pierced the air.
Footsteps thundered past him.
Stone shattered.
Sirens blared—three piercing rings. Repeating endlessly.
A Myutant invasion.
"Mom..." he whispered, voice cracking. "C'mon, let's go. It's three rings, right? That means we need to move toward the lower part of the haven, toward the shelters, there's not much time left, we have to go..."
...
"Mom... let's go. You're wasting time."
...
"Mom..."
...
"MOM!!"
A blur moved behind him. A shadow.
"I hate when you people scream," a voice muttered.
Knox's hand slashed through the civilian's skull, cleaving it clean in two. The head dropped like a fruit off a branch, hitting the pavement with a wet thud.
"That's probably one of your worst features," Knox went on, flicking blood from his fingers as he stepped over the corpse. "The screaming, the wailing... who wants to hear that? Why were you even built like that? Honestly."
He turned.
"Disgusting design flaw."
Then sighed, eyes settling on the scenery before him.
Screams pierced through the air, drowned out by the loud sirens, then the sirens in turn were drowned out by even louder screaming. And even heavier footsteps.
He glanced upward.
Ten Myutants loomed, towering like statues of old. Their feet pounded the earth, each step cracking stone, mixing blood and dust into a crude cement.
Knox smiled.
The sounds were rising—frantic, panicked, desperate.
He hated the screaming.
But oh, how he loved when they ran.
Running meant they were scared—but not frozen. It meant they still believed. Still hoped.
Maybe, they thought, ifI can just get out—just a little further—I'll survive.
Knox adored that. That spark. That hint of foolish optimism.
He raised a hand, gave a lazy flick.
The Myutants surged forward. A blur of limbs and teeth and howling violence. Their legs tore into pavement. Arms sliced the air. Jaws gnashed through flesh and bone like it was nothing.
The sirens continued. Orders echoed across the walls.
Knox turned his gaze upward.
Perched atop a small structure built into the twenty-foot perimeter wall stood a man clad in blue—calm, collected, a sword resting in its sheath at his waist.
He was controlling the evacuation. Directing the sirens.
Worst of all? He wasn't afraid.
Knox crouched, then launched himself upward. His ascent was fast, effortless. His hand snapped to the railing as he landed on the ledge, face-to-face with the man.
"Saving the others before you save yourself..." Knox shook his head softly. "Are you sure that's the right call?"
The man looked at him slowly, squinting.
"Kid, you're not supposed to be up—"
But then the words sank in. His hand went straight to the hilt.
The blade sang. One quick slash.
The railing shattered.
Knox dropped—
But not for long.
Blood erupted from his fingertips, threading out like tendrils. The black strands lashed around the structure, anchoring him mid-air.
"That thing wasn't human," the man muttered, stepping back. Glancing at his companion who stood by him, visibly shook.
"What exactly is happening?" She said, panicking. "What do we do now, John, should I use the speaker-phone and warn them? Should I—"
John put his hand over her head. "Don't put even more panic into their bodies. You're a border patrol officer. Act like it," he sighed. "Make the sirens louder."
"Okay." She said, turning back.
"As much as I hate to admit it." John said, staring at the chaos, at the mighty haven that was being trampled upon. "Where the fuck are those exterminators?!"
"Exterminators..." Knox echoed, hanging by his bloodstrings like a marionette.
His head tilted slightly.
"The same ones that captured Harkkevel?"
As if reminded of something, he exhaled.
Right. His mission.
He let go.
He was looking for someone. An affected human. Near-perfect. So much power in one body—and yet, the fool had no idea.
Empowering.
And so, so tragic.
Knox wiped a single tear from his eye as he crashed to the earth below.
The hunt for the exterminators would be... problematic. He hadn't seen them yet, and in the chaos he'd caused—hundreds dead, streets soaked in red—he didn't assume the haven's residents would be raring to answer his questions.
Knox laughed.
Then skipped forward, hands in his pockets, whistling his own playful rendition of Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata.'
It fit the scene, he thought.
Dark.
Dramatic.
Beautiful.
A perfect soundtrack for the end of the world.
Maybe Visca was onto something after all.
The screams came in waves.
Some half-formed, torn from throats just moments before the thud of Myutant feet or the loud snap of bone. Others followed by the sweep of arms cutting the air, too fast to dodge, too brutal to survive.
The sounds were muffled against Knox's ears, like listening underwater. But he could still see their faces.
Grimacing. Crumpling. Writhing.
His legs trembled slightly. Drool ran from the corner of his mouth.
This—this—was the greatest feeling in the world.
Until it wasn't.
A sound tore through the chaos. Sharper than any siren.
A screech.
Not from the humans.
From her.
Knox's eyes widened. His smile faltered.
His sister.
He ran.
.
.
.
Vladimir grunted, one hand pressed to his earpiece.
"Ten T-level Fours." He glanced at the twitching corpse at his feet. "Correction—nine."
Sabrina's voice crackled through. "What's the state of the haven?"
He scanned the battlefield—smoke rising, flames licking the darkened skyline. Theresa walked past him, her shoulder dented from a brutal impact, blood slick down her arm.
"Not great," he muttered. "Border Patrol helped push evacuees toward the lower sectors, but the barriers are thin. These Myutants aren't slowing down and as much as I don't want to say it. The grade threes won't be stopping them from chasing the civilians."
"I understand. I'll try forcing Enoch toward the lower sectors... if only the bastard would pick up his receiver." Sabrina sighed. "For the rest of the myutants, handle it. And keep your eyes open for any of Diamantis's allies."
"Copy that," Vladimir replied. Then dropped his arm, letting the earpiece go silent.
As much as he wanted to throw the grunt work onto the First-Grades, the truth was simple: If they didn't pull their weight, more people would die.
And today, the casualties only grew by the second.
The ground shook.
Another Myutant lumbered into view, each step hammering the street, its legs smashing through closed shops and clipping the edges of buildings.
It looked like a bat—if a bat had grown to the size of a bus and learned to walk upright. Its forearms were long and winged, but thick with muscle, streaks of grey splitting through the joints like battle scars.
With a shrill screech, it launched into the air—then dove.
Straight toward them.
Vladimir sighed and slipped his headphones on just as Cillian darted ahead.
"I'm not even Grade One," Vladimir groaned, blades drawn. "And somehow I've already been in two fights today."
"We better be getting paid per kill," Theresa muttered, stepping in front, planting her shield firmly on the ground.
They wouldn't.
It was Sunday, after all.
Vladimir dashed through the streets, 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough' thumping in his ears. He disappeared into the building to his left, sprinting up crumbling stairwells like a shadow. Cillian mirrored him from the opposite side, vanishing into a fractured wall.
Theresa sighed, bracing her body.
The Tank life.
Always the tank life.
"This better count for extra pay!"
The Myutant crashed into her, its full weight smashing against her shield. Metal groaned. Her fingers cracked under the pressure, bones threatening to give—but she held.
Teeth gnashed as her legs pulled back.
Shoulder pushing the myutant backward, rivaling its strength.
From above, Cillian dropped like a missile, his legs slamming into the Myutant's back. With one smooth motion, he hurled his briefcase forward—click—snap!—it flew open mid-air.
He sprinted past it and yanked out a chain, wrapping it around the Myutant's throat, dragging it backward with raw momentum.
The creature howled, flailing wildly, claws scratching at its own neck, desperate to tear the chain away.
"Ain't no river wide enough—"
Vladimir's boots slammed into the rooftop ledge. He bobbed his head to the beat, blades gleaming in both hands.
He launched.
Soaring through the air, blades raised—
Then, he came down hard, both weapons burying themselves deep into the Myutant's skull. Then pulling them back just as quick, he severed its neck with one swift slash.
The beast's shriek cut off instantly as it collapsed.
Vladimir landed in a crouch beside it, the music still humming in his ears.
"Oh, how I missed you, Cillian." He said.
Cillian tossed up a peace sign, casually retrieving his suitcase.
Theresa slid her shield onto her back with a grunt. Shaking her wrist softly. "What now? Should we head lower, help the Grade Threes protect?"
"Most likely," Vladimir said, scanning the area. The street had gone eerily still. No Myutants in sight. Either they were already dead... or locked in fights elsewhere.
"Yeah," he nodded, stepping forward. "Just be careful. If the controller's anything like Diamantis, it'll be a nightmare to single them out—"
"Diamantis?"
The voice came from beside him—soft, almost curious. A hand hovered near Vladimir's face, fingers relaxed but deadly. The nails gleamed, sharper than any weapon he'd ever seen.
Vladimir's instincts screamed.
He shot backward in an instant, fast enough to blur, slamming into the wall with a bone-rattling crack.
He was still alive.
Barely.
Only because the fingertip had stopped a whisper from his skull.
But make no mistake—he had died.
And been spared.
"Where is Diamantis?" the man asked again, stepping forward before pausing.
He crouched beside the fallen bat-like Myutant, resting a hand gently on its back.
"You did your best, Betty," he whispered, giving her corpse a soft pat. "Leave the rest to me."
Theresa stared, her hand subtly creeping toward the shield on her back.
"Betty?" she repeated. "What are you even talking about—"
"Where's Diamantis?" the man cut in again. His voice wasn't angry, just impatient. "Answer quickly," he said, turning toward her. "And I'll end you just as fast."
Theresa locked eyes with him. She already understood—understood from Vladimir's reaction alone that this wasn't a fight they were meant to win.
So she stalled.
"Who's Diamantis?" she asked flatly.
Knox narrowed his eyes. "You just mentioned his name right now, why do you pretend as if—"
A blade pierced through the air.
Cillian was already behind him. A scalpel in hand, dragged cleanly across Knox's neck. Blood burst out in a dark spray, splattering across the sand.
The boy dropped.
Blood pooled fast beneath his head, soaking into the dirt.
Theresa exhaled, stepping back slightly. For some reason, every threat seemed to be coming directly for them. She turned to Vladimir, her tone relieved.
"Are you okay? We've killed—"
A hand tore through her chest.
She froze.
Blood gushed over the arm that had pierced her from behind. Her eyes widened—then dulled.
Cillian's mouth opened.
"No—"
Knox was already on his feet, hand sliding free from Theresa's torso like a blade from its sheath.
Vladimir moved—blades flashing, feet pounding—
Too slow.
Thump.
Bodies hit the ground.
Arms severed, torsos pierced, like flesh wrapped on skewers.
Knox let out a long, quiet sigh.
"Humans..." he murmured. "So unreasonable."
He turned, blood still dripping from his fingers.
"All that and I still don't know where Diamantis is."