His entire body screamed in agony, every nerve alight with pain. Blood trickled from his lips as he coughed, the metallic taste flooding his mouth. His trembling hand reached forward, leaving streaks of red on the filthy floor as he dragged himself toward his pistol. The wound in his side pulsed with every movement, sharp and unrelenting. He could hear her screams—raw, desperate, and filled with terror—piercing through the chaos.
The monster's guttural laughter echoed around him, reverberating in his skull and suffocating his thoughts. It was a sound that mocked their struggle, one that seemed to pull at the very fabric of his soul. But he kept moving, every inch forward feeling like a mile, his body willing itself toward the pistol. Toward salvation.
He didn't dare look back at his partner, not while the creature tore her apart. If he looked, he might stop. And stopping meant death. His fingers stretched toward the gun, just out of reach, and as he clawed his way closer, his mind drifted—unbidden—back to how they had stumbled into this nightmare.
**20 Minutes Ago**
The brief winter break had ended, and it was time to return to duty. He hurriedly got dressed in his Ironguard uniform, double-checking his gear with practiced efficiency. His fingers moved with the rhythm of habit, fastening straps, securing his sidearm, and adjusting his hat before he dashed out the door.
"Gotta go, I'm already running late," he called back to his family over his shoulder, his voice tinged with the mild panic of someone who had pressed the snooze button one too many times.
Stepping outside, he was immediately assaulted by the biting chill of winter. The wind howled through the narrow streets, cutting through his coat and nipping at his skin. He hunched his shoulders against the cold, muttering under his breath, "Goddess, I hate this weather."
A voice snapped him out of his misery, sharp and impatient. "Finally! I've been waiting out here in the cold for minutes!"
He turned to see her standing there, arms crossed and a scowl on her face, her breath visible in the frosty air. His partner—not just on the job but in ways far more personal since the break.
"What took you so long, Lucas?" she demanded, her tone more exasperated than angry.
He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, offering a weak grin. "I slept in a bit," he admitted, knowing it wouldn't help his case. "You know me, Laura. I don't like the winter."
She shook her head, her irritation melting just enough to reveal the faintest hint of a smirk. "Yeah, yeah. You've made that painfully obvious. Let's just get moving before we freeze out here."
Laura stepped forward, grabbing Lucas by the hand and tugging him along without hesitation. "Looks like someone's eager to get started," Lucas said, trying to lighten the mood.
Laura didn't break stride as she nodded, her expression set in grim determination. "While the break was nice, it didn't bring us any closer to catching Philip Crude. He's still out there," she said, her voice sharp and tinged with frustration.
Lucas felt his stomach drop at her words, the weight of their shared failure settling over him like a fresh layer of snow. "You're right," he muttered, his tone subdued. He couldn't ignore the truth of her words. Philip Crude—the killer responsible for the brutal deaths of two of their fellow Ironguard—was still at large. His face was plastered across wanted posters on every street corner, but none of that had brought them closer to justice.
During the break, Lucas had allowed himself to push the thought to the back of his mind, to pretend for a little while that he could just be himself and not an officer chasing a nightmare. But reality had come rushing back, and now it hit him with full force. "Let's pick up the pace," he said, quickening his stride to match Laura's as the two moved with purpose down the snowy street.
**A few Minutes Later**
They had been walking for just over five minutes, moving out of the quieter residential district where they lived. Despite Lucas sleeping in, it was still relatively early, and the streets were mostly empty save for a few bundled-up figures braving the snowfall. The cold seemed to dissuade most people from venturing out, leaving the city eerily quiet beneath the thick blanket of white.
The silence shattered suddenly.
A scream—sharp, desperate, unmistakably a woman's—ripped through the morning air. It wasn't just any scream. It carried with it the raw terror that neither Lucas nor Laura could forget, a sound painfully reminiscent of one they'd heard before.
"That's…" Laura froze mid-step, her breath hitching in her throat.
Lucas didn't wait for her to finish her thought. His teeth clenched, and adrenaline surged through his veins as he broke into a sprint. "Let's go!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the empty streets as he charged toward the source of the scream.
For a moment, Laura hesitated, her mind wrestling with the memories of past failures. But then, like a spring snapping back into place, she moved, following her partner with a determined, frantic pace. She couldn't let this happen again—not to someone else.
The scream led them to an alley—narrow, dark, and foreboding. It was always an alley, as if the shadows themselves conspired against them. They didn't slow down this time, didn't hesitate as they had before. Their boots pounded against the icy ground, their hearts hammering in sync as they rounded the corner.
And then they stopped, their momentum halting as confusion washed over them.
Instead of Philip Crude and another Ironguard officer, they found someone else entirely. A man stood at the far end of the alley, his posture relaxed and his expression unnervingly calm. Behind him, a woman, a civilian cowered, her back pressed against the wall, terror etched into her features.
"Joshua Ambrose?" Laura called out, her voice sharp with disbelief.
The man smiled at her, a slow, deliberate grin that didn't reach his cold eyes. "Ah, officers. Greetings," he said, his tone almost cheerful.
Lucas's hand went to his weapon, the pieces of the puzzle snapping into place too late. Joshua Ambrose, the man known to be an accomplice of Philip Crude, stood before them. But this scene—it didn't make sense. None of it made sense.
"Hands up, and—" Lucas started, his voice rising as he reached for his gun.
But then he heard it—a sound behind them, the faint thud of something heavy landing on the ground.
Before either of them could turn, the world went black.
---
After that, they woke up in an abandoned building, most likely in the slums. The air was damp and reeked of decay, the faint sound of dripping water punctuating the silence. Joshua Ambrose stood nearby, his arms casually folded, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he watched the unfolding carnage like a detached spectator at a macabre play. His cold, calculating eyes flicked between them, savoring the despair written across their faces.
Philip Crude loomed over Lucas, his claws gleaming. Without hesitation, he plunged them into Lucas's side, tearing through flesh and muscle as if he were ripping apart paper. Lucas's strangled cry echoed through the room, his body convulsing as blood poured from the deep wound. Beside him, Laura screamed, her voice raw and broken, as Philip turned his attention to her.
With deliberate cruelty, he began to carve into her, his claws sinking into her body over and over again, leaving deep, jagged wounds. Her cries of pain filled the air, each one more agonized than the last, as Philip's laughter rose above the chaos. It was a sound that chilled the soul, a mockery of the suffering he inflicted.
Lucas, trembling and bleeding profusely, turned his head and spotted his pistol lying a few feet away. It was close—agonizingly close. The faintest glimmer of hope sparked within him. He didn't notice how deliberately the gun had been placed there, just out of reach, nor did he see the slight upward twitch of Joshua's lips as he began to crawl toward it.
Every movement was agony. Blood smeared across the dirty floor as he dragged himself forward, his trembling hand stretching toward the weapon. Laura's screams grew weaker with each second, her strength fading as Philip continued his relentless assault. Still, Lucas pushed on, driven by desperation, by the faint hope that he could stop this nightmare.
Finally, his fingers wrapped around the cold grip of the pistol. Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, he lifted it, turned, and aimed at Philip. His vision blurred from blood loss, but he managed to lock onto the hulking figure of the monster. He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
The gun was empty.
Philip's head turned toward him, that cruel grin stretching wider as he let out a deep, guttural laugh. He took a step forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over Lucas. With a mocking chuckle, he reached down, grabbed Laura's limp body, and hurled her next to Lucas. She landed with a sickening thud, her bloodied form motionless save for the faint, shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Lucas's heart shattered as he turned his head toward her, his trembling hand reaching out. But before he could even touch her, Philip moved again. His claws came down, slashing through flesh and bone. Lucas screamed as his arms were severed, the pain blinding, his blood pooling beneath him.
Joshua watched it all, his expression never wavering.
Philip leaned down, his voice dripping with sadistic glee. "You can watch her die, but you won't hold her. Not even one last time."
Lucas's vision dimmed, his body growing cold as he lay there, helpless. He watched as the life drained from Laura's eyes, her final breath leaving her bloodied lips. The last thing he saw before darkness consumed him was the monstrous grin on Philip's face.