The oppressive heat of the hidden room in the manor bore down on Zughaib, his heart pounding as the reality of the situation became clear. The dim light flickered across the blood-stained walls, illuminating the grotesque symbols and the twisted figures of the crooked cultists closing in on him. At the center of the room stood Rex, his calm, almost smug demeanor only adding to the growing tension.
"You don't understand the gift they've given me," Rex said, his voice smooth yet filled with an unnatural zeal. He gestured toward the cultists, their bodies jerking and twisting as if controlled by some unseen force. "They can offer you the same, Zughaib. Strength. Purpose. Freedom from the chains of morality and weakness."
Zughaib's silence was deafening. He stood firm, his hands gripping the shotgun tightly, his eyes never leaving Rex's. His gaze was cold and unwavering, but the unease in the room pressed against him like a physical force. Rex tilted his head, as if studying him.
"You've always been an outsider," Rex continued, his tone softening. "A man without a voice, without a place. Join us, and you'll finally belong. You'll finally have power."
The crookeds edged closer, their snarls low and guttural. Zughaib glanced at them, calculating his next move, but before he could act, a sudden flash of light burst through the gaps in the boarded windows, blinding everyone in the room. The sound of shattering wood and glass filled the air as the cultists screeched and recoiled, their bodies contorting in pain.
The light was overwhelming, and Zughaib felt his knees buckle. His grip on the shotgun loosened, and the world around him dissolved into a brilliant white void. He fell into unconsciousness, his mind spiraling into an endless abyss.
---
When Zughaib opened his eyes, he found himself lying in a lavender field, the vibrant purple blooms swaying gently in a warm, fragrant breeze. The sky above was an unnatural pink hue, and the sun hung low, casting a soft, golden glow across the landscape. It was peaceful, serene, a stark contrast to the horrors he had just faced.
He slowly got to his feet, brushing off the petals that clung to his clothes. His body felt light, almost weightless, as he began walking through the field. The air was filled with the sound of chirping birds and the rustle of leaves, and for a brief moment, a sense of calm washed over him.
In the distance, he saw a goliath cottage, its stone walls gleaming in the golden light. Standing in front of it were two familiar figures—Zaid and Leandrá. They stood close, their faces lit with warm smiles as they gazed at each other, their hands intertwined. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a small, genuine smile spread across Zughaib's face. He stepped closer, his heart swelling with a strange mix of joy and longing.
Just as he reached out to them, a firm clap on his shoulder jolted him from his reverie. A voice, sharp and commanding, echoed in his ears.
"WAKE UP!"
---
Zughaib's eyes snapped open. The serene lavender field was gone, replaced by the harsh, sterile light of a clinic room. He was lying on a stretcher, his body sore and heavy. The faint hum of machinery buzzed in the background, and the sharp smell of antiseptic filled the air.
His mind raced as he tried to piece together what had happened. The manor, Rex, the light—it all felt distant, like a half-remembered dream. He turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he noticed a figure standing beside him. The figure placed a black-gloved hand on his shoulder, and Zughaib instinctively jerked away, sitting up quickly.
The man standing before him was clad in an outfit eerily similar to The Cleaner's, but his attire was entirely red, from his gloves to the mask obscuring his face. His presence was imposing, his movements deliberate. When he spoke, his voice was heavily modulated, distorted into an unnatural robovoice.
"Sorry for the pain," the figure said, his tone devoid of emotion. "But the strain isn't over, Mr. Zughaib."
Zughaib's eyes narrowed further, his body tense as he stared at the man. He didn't trust him—not yet. The figure tilted his head slightly, as if amused by Zughaib's reaction.
"You've been through quite the ordeal," the man continued, pacing slowly around the room. "The light you encountered at the manor—it wasn't meant for you. But it seems you survived, nonetheless." He stopped, turning to face Zughaib directly. "That makes you... interesting."
Zughaib clenched his fists, his gaze never leaving the figure. He gestured toward the man, his silent question clear: Who are you?
The figure chuckled softly, the sound distorted through his mask. "You know me as the one who sent you on those little errands," he said, his voice dripping with a strange blend of mockery and respect. "The one from the Sprinter van. But I am more than that, Mr. Zughaib. Much more."
Zughaib's mind raced as he tried to connect the dots. This man—this silhouette in red—was behind the cryptic tasks, the messages, the manipulations. But why? And what did he want now?
Before Zughaib could react further, the sound of engines filled the air. The man turned toward the window, his gloved hand raising slightly as if to silence Zughaib. Outside, a fleet of BIF cars sped down the forest road, their lights piercing through the dense fog. The manor was visible in the distance, its decrepit structure engulfed in flames. The blaze roared against the dark sky, sending plumes of smoke billowing into the air.
The figure turned back to Zughaib, his tone growing more serious. "The manor was just the beginning," he said. "There are forces at play here that neither you nor I fully understand. But one thing is clear: Rex and his cult have crossed a line, and they must be stopped."
Zughaib nodded slowly, his expression grim. He didn't need words to convey his agreement. He had seen enough to know that whatever Rex was involved in, it was bigger than any of them.
The figure stepped closer, his red-gloved hand extending toward Zughaib. "You're not alone in this, Mr. Zughaib. I can offer you resources, guidance... and protection. But in return, you must continue to do as I ask."
Zughaib stared at the outstretched hand, his mind weighing the options. Trust was a rare commodity, and this man had done little to earn it. But Zughaib also knew that he couldn't fight this battle alone. Reluctantly, he reached out, shaking the man's hand firmly.
"Good," the figure said, his voice laced with satisfaction. "Then let's get to work."
---
As the BIF cars arrived at the burning manor, their officers fanned out, assessing the scene. Orwen, his arm still in a cast from his previous encounter with Zughaib, stepped out of one of the vehicles, his expression a mix of frustration and determination. He watched the flames consume the building, his jaw tightening.
One of his men approached, holding a walkie-talkie. "Sir, we found something near the perimeter—a discarded weapon and traces of blood. It matches Zughaib's profile."
Orwen grunted, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the burning wreckage. "He's alive," he muttered, his voice low. "And if he's alive, he's still a problem."
He took the walkie-talkie, listening to the report from one of his agents who had scouted the nearby forest. "Tracks lead deeper into the woods," the agent said. "But they vanish after a few hundred meters. He's covering his trail."
Orwen's grip on the walkie-talkie tightened. "Keep searching," he ordered. "I don't care how long it takes. Zughaib doesn't leave this forest alive."
As the BIF officers moved out, Orwen turned back to the manor, his eyes narrowing against the heat of the flames. He had underestimated Zughaib before, but he wouldn't make the same mistake again.
And as for Zughaib, Orwen knew that wherever he was, the fight was far from over.