The deeper I move into the labyrinth, the darker and quieter it becomes. The metallic walls that had been echoing with the faint hum of machinery now seem to absorb every sound. There's a strange stillness here—no skittering creatures, no shifting traps, just silence. My mind races as I try to make sense of it. After the hell of the last floor, this eerie calm feels unnatural, as if something is waiting for me just out of sight.
I feel the weight of the bloodied map in my hand, the reminder of the journey ahead. Thirty-nine more floors. I've only just begun, and yet my body feels like it's been through a war. My limbs are heavy, the dull ache in my chest a constant reminder of the wounds I've sustained. But each floor has made me stronger, more aware, and more attuned to this place. I know I'm getting closer to something—something dangerous.
The air smells different here, too. Less like rot, more sterile, cleaner. It's almost as if I've crossed into a new part of the facility, one that's been untouched by the creatures and horrors below. But that can't be right. There's something wrong.
And then I hear it.
Footsteps. Heavy, synchronized footsteps coming from the hallway ahead. They're different from the erratic clatter of the monsters. These are human.
I press myself against the wall, peering around the corner into the corridor. A group of men march in formation, their movements precise and methodical. There are five of them, all dressed in sleek black armor that hugs their bodies like a second skin. Their faces are covered by helmets with reflective visors, hiding their expressions, but the way they carry themselves makes it clear—they're soldiers. No, *guards*.
Their armor isn't bulky or military-issue. It's something else. Sleek, high-tech, far beyond anything I've seen. Their gear seems designed to enhance their movements rather than slow them down. Each of them carries a rifle slung over their shoulders, and from the way they move, it's clear they're not afraid of anything. They don't even have their weapons drawn. To them, this is just routine patrol.
They haven't seen me yet.
I narrow my eyes, studying their movements. Their rifles and armor look advanced, futuristic, but my instincts tell me they won't help them. They're too comfortable, too sure of their control over this place. They haven't been down in the lower levels. They haven't faced what I've faced.
But I have.
My heart pounds in my chest as I weigh my options. I could wait for them to pass, let them continue their patrol, and move on undetected. But something stops me. A primal urge I can't ignore.
They have to die.
Without hesitation, I launch myself from the shadows, sprinting toward them with all the speed I can muster. I'm silent, my bare feet making no noise as I close the distance between us. They don't see me until it's too late.
The first guard turns just as I reach him. His visor reflects the dim light of the corridor, and for a split second, I see the confusion in his body language—the slight tilt of his head as he processes my appearance. He wasn't expecting this. He wasn't expecting *me*.
I grab him by the neck, my fingers crushing into the soft spot between his helmet and chest armor, and slam him into the wall with enough force to dent the metal. His body crumples, his rifle clattering to the floor, but I don't stop. I twist his neck with a quick, brutal motion, and the sickening crack echoes through the hallway.
The others react instantly, raising their rifles, but I'm already moving. I lunge at the second guard, grabbing the barrel of his rifle and yanking it downward just as he fires. The shot goes wide, sparking against the wall, and I drive my knee into his chest, sending him sprawling.
His visor shatters on impact, and I catch a glimpse of his eyes—wide, terrified—before I slam my fist into his exposed face, shattering bone and sending him into unconsciousness.
The remaining guards scramble to react, but I'm faster. They're trained, but they're not used to something like me—something primal, something with nothing to lose.
The third guard manages to get a shot off, the bullet grazing my shoulder, but I barely feel it. My adrenaline surges, and I close the distance between us before he can fire again. I grab him by the arm and twist, dislocating his shoulder with a pop. He screams, but the sound is cut short as I drive my fist into his throat, crushing his windpipe.
The last two guards are panicking now. They've seen what I can do, and they know they're outmatched. One of them reaches for something on his belt—a grenade or some kind of explosive—but I don't give him the chance. I hurl a discarded piece of debris at him, the jagged metal striking him in the chest and knocking him off balance.
The final guard raises his rifle, aiming directly at me, but I'm already on him. I grab the barrel of his gun, twisting it out of his hands, and slam the butt of the rifle into his visor, cracking the glass. He staggers back, dazed, and I drive my fist into his chest, feeling the armor buckle under the force.
He collapses to the ground, gasping for breath, and I step over him, my bloodied hands shaking with adrenaline.
The corridor falls silent once more, the only sound the ragged breathing of the last guard as he struggles to remain conscious. The others are dead, their bodies crumpled against the walls, their blood pooling on the floor.
I stand over the last guard, watching him as he tries to crawl away. His armor is shattered, his visor cracked, and I can see the fear in his eyes now—the realization that he's going to die here. Just like the others.
I crouch down beside him, grabbing him by the collar of his armor and pulling him closer. His breath comes in shallow gasps, and I can see the light fading from his eyes as he struggles to form words. He's trying to plead, trying to beg for his life, but I don't understand the language he's speaking. It doesn't matter.
I twist his neck, and the sound of his death is swift and final.
With the guards dead, I take a moment to assess my situation. My body is covered in blood—some of it mine, most of it theirs—and my muscles ache from the exertion. But I'm alive, and I'm stronger for it.
I strip the armor from one of the guards, inspecting it closely. The material is light, almost too light to be protective, but when I pull it over my skin, I feel a strange warmth spread through my body. It's some kind of advanced tech, designed to regulate temperature or enhance movement, but it fits well enough. It's better than the nothing I had before.
I rummage through the bags they carried, but most of their gear is unfamiliar—advanced weapons and tech that I don't understand. I leave the rifles and grenades behind. I don't need them. But I do find something useful—a dagger, small and sharp, strapped to the leg of one of the guards. I take it, feeling the weight of it in my hand. It's balanced, precise. It'll do.
I also find a small makeshift shield—nothing fancy, just a circular piece of metal that's been reinforced with some kind of alloy. It's light, and it won't stop bullets, but it might buy me a few precious seconds in a fight. I strap it to my arm, testing its flexibility.
With my new gear in place, I stand in the middle of the corridor, surveying the aftermath of the fight. The guards are dead, their bodies scattered around me, but the adrenaline still courses through my veins. The urge to keep moving, to keep climbing, is overwhelming.
The blood of the guards coats my hands, but I feel no remorse. They were part of this place—part of the nightmare that created the monsters, the traps, the fusions. Their deaths were necessary.
I glance at the map again, the path ahead clear but dangerous. There are more floors to climb, more monsters to face, and more blood to spill. But now, with the dagger in my hand and the armor on my back, I'm ready.
I move forward, leaving the bodies behind.
There's still so much to do.