They hid beneath the dumpster, breaths shallow, bodies trembling. Rain soaked through their torn clothes. Blood mixed with grime. The silence was unbearable. Except for the low, mechanical groan echoing through Gallagher Street like a metal beast breathing.
Missy. Dina. Natasha. Kevin. The only ones left.
Jiro was gone—thrown like a rag doll, his body shattered and forgotten in the chaos they'd barely escaped. Then came the sound. A crack of metal. A stomp. A low hiss. The emergency exit at the back of the fused house-shop crumpled open like paper.
Michael Harrington had arrived. But he was no longer Michael. Not truly. His body was mutated beyond humanity—wires bulged from his limbs, fusing bone and steel, his spine now a braided tangle of tubing that sparked and leaked black fluid. His face was stretched, jaw half-melted, eyes pale and glowing like bulbs about to burst. And at the center of his chest, a molten red core, pulsing—alive, ancient, hungry.
He was a machine of rage and grief. He sniffed the air like a hound. Then he turned his head toward the dumpster.
He charged. The dumpster was flung aside like it was weightless. The four survivors screamed as they were tossed across the alley like dolls, scraping against gravel and trash. Kevin shielded Natasha. Dina pulled Missy up with one arm, dragging her back. Michael didn't hesitate—he advanced, claws dragging deep gashes in the concrete.
Suddenly, a shadow leapt down from the rooftops. SCRIBBLE.
The ink-like, skeletal creature slammed into Michael's side, latching on like a spider. It shrieked—its mouth filled with black ribbons and teeth made of glass.
Michael roared, stumbling back, smashing Scribble into the wall—but it clung tighter, slicing its claws into his metal-fused ribs.
"You turned grief into a machine," Scribble hissed, "I'll turn it into rot."
Michael grabbed the creature by the neck and hurled it—but Scribble landed like liquid, reforming instantly. It leapt again, snarling.
Monster against monster. Sparks flew. The alley shuddered. And while they fought, Missy, Kevin, Dina, and Natasha ran. Their legs burned, lungs aching, but they didn't look back. As they rounded the corner, the glowing shop came into view. Untouched. Unbothered. Its windows were uncracked. Its doors still open.
They bolted inside. And inside, behind the counter, sat Markie. Still. Unmoved. The sounds of war outside didn't touch him. The screams. The blood. The monsters.
He sat in the faint glow of the hanging bulbs, hands folded, eyes vacant. He didn't even flinch. Missy slammed the door behind them. Breathless. Terrified.
The hum of the shop wrapped around them like silk. Outside, Michael and Scribble's battle shook the street. Inside, silence. Until Markie finally blinked and smiled.
The air around the shop was cracked and trembling. Fire belched from broken gas lines. Smoke writhed like dying ghosts.
Michael's new form—a towering mess of rusted armor, exposed muscle, and living wires—stood beneath the crooked sign of NEW LIFE: Restoration & Repair. His claws still dripped with blood. The core in his chest pulsed like a second, unnatural heart.
From the alley, Scribble emerged—its limbs bending in ways they shouldn't, its body stitched from shadows and torn memories. Pages of forgotten faces drifted around it like ash.
They stared at each other. The survivors hid, breathless, watching. Michael's voice rumbled, not from his mouth, but from deep within the walls of the shop: "You shouldn't be here."
Scribble tilted its head, a swirling eye blinking into existence.
"And yet… here I scribble."
Michael took a heavy step forward, metal groaning under his weight.
"This world needs order. Needs punishment. They forgot my son."
Scribble twitched.
"You buried your son beneath circuits and fire. You loved him once, but now—you're just a machine trying to rewrite grief into obedience."
"You're not justice. You're a tantrum."
Michael roared, electricity crackling through the wires in his back.
"I gave him life again! I gave this city a chance to remember!"
"You mocked him. You made a god out of bones."
Scribble's form split, jagged mouths opening across its chest. Whispers slithered from its many voices.
"I remember Lukas. I remember his drawings. His dreams. You killed all of them."
Michael lunged. Scribble caught him mid-swing. Sparks. Blood. A shockwave shattered the nearby window.
They tumbled into the street, rolling like beasts. Wires strangled tendrils. Teeth snapped at bolts. As they clashed, the sky above them warped, lightning spiraling in unnatural directions. Missy watched from the shadows, clutching Natasha.
"We have to move," Dina hissed.
"No," Missy whispered. "Not yet. They're... they're tearing each other apart."
Back on the battlefield, Scribble hissed, its many voices echoing:
"You want to restore the world. I want to break it open. Neither of us belongs… but I don't lie to myself about it."
Michael's core flared with rage. "Then die screaming."
"I already did," Scribble smiled.
They charged again—two nightmares, forged by pain, fueled by contradiction. And somewhere, deep inside the shop, the walls began to cry. The alley was silent, except for the final, wet gasp.
Scribble lay broken on the pavement, his inky tears staining the cracked concrete. His twisted, crayon-fused limbs twitched for the last time as Michael stood over him—no longer man, no longer even memory. Just a monstrous thing of wire and wrath, crowned by firelight. The silence that followed Scribble's death was sharp, echoing like a scream that refused to leave the throat of the city.
Inside the shop, the survivors stood still.
Missy pressed her face to the front window, the blood smudged on the glass hiding her horror. Kevin held Natasha close, his arm around her shoulders like a weak barricade. Dina leaned against the counter, her eyes not moving from the shop entrance. They had heard everything. The crunch. The hum. The end.
"He killed him," Missy murmured. "He killed his creation."
"Why?" Natasha asked, voice trembling.
No one answered.
The store lights flickered overhead, long tubes of dull yellow humming like nervous insects. Dust swirled. The air was electric—thick with the pressure of something else stirring. Something deeper.
Missy turned to them. "Why did we come back here?"
Kevin glanced at her, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. "Because we need to hide. Besides. I believe that Hush-Mum is already gone."
Then, beneath their feet, the floor vibrated. It wasn't an earthquake. It was breathing. From the trapdoor behind the repair counter—where Markie used to stand, where they thought no danger could rise—came a slow, rattling click. Missy spun, backing away from the sound.
From below, a scraping—like bone dragging on rusted steel. Then, the hatch creaked open. The light above it blew out. And something rose.
It crawled from the basement like a shadow peeling itself off the wall. Its spine curled unnaturally, ribs exposed through paper-thin skin. Its hair—if it could be called that—was a tangled crown of black strands twisted like horns, curling inward like it had grown in pain. Its nails were long, disjointed, and unfinished—as if they'd been stabbed on one by one, each rejecting the body they were forced into.
It looked at them—but not with eyes. Its face was covered in a thin, leathery veil of melted plastic and stitched silk. A mouth moved beneath it, twitching.
"Another one…" Dina whispered.
"No," Missy said. "Something new."
The creature stepped forward, its broken limbs adjusting with a snap-snap-snap, like a puppet being taught to walk for the first time. It left behind a trail of sludge that pulsed faintly, as if carrying a heartbeat. From the alley, Michael's roar could be heard—distant, feral. But the thing in the basement didn't seem to belong to him.
It turned its head—slowly, unnaturally—toward the sound. And then it whispered.
A word that none of them could understand. But it felt like vengeance.
Kevin stepped back, clutching a broken metal pipe. Natasha, still shaking, grabbed Missy's hand. Dina's eyes narrowed, calculating. Missy's voice was steady now.
"Whatever that thing is… It's not just his."
And from somewhere deep in the broken circuitry of the shop, the store lights all turned red.