The beam of a flashlight slices through the dim, blood-soaked room. Obinai squints against the harsh light, his tear-filled eyes barely able to focus on the figures stepping cautiously into the space. The soldiers are clad in sleek black camouflage that seems to drink in the light, their gear advanced and almost alien in design. Their helmets are fitted with multi-spectrum visors, glowing faintly with a blue hue, and their uniforms are reinforced with segmented armor plates that shift subtly with their movements.
"On me," the lead soldier orders, his voice low but commanding. His hand signals are sharp and deliberate, and the others fall into formation, their movements precise and calculated.
"Clear the perimeter," one soldier says, his tone calm but tense as he sweeps his flashlight across the room.
"Roger that. Sector secure," another responds, his voice muffled by the helmet. His flashlight moves methodically, casting long shadows across the walls.
As the beams of light trace the wreckage, the soldiers begin to see the true extent of the carnage. Blood paints the room in macabre streaks and pools, dark and viscous under the harsh light. Smeared handprints decorate the walls, frozen in desperate final moments. The broken remains of furniture lie scattered, jagged edges protruding like exposed ribs from the room's carcass. The stench of blood and something far worse—rot, perhaps—clogs the air.
"Jesus Christ…" one of the soldiers mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible through his helmet. His light pauses on the crumpled form of Amos, Obinai's father, twisted unnaturally with a bone jutting from his arm. The soldier's hand falters, trembling slightly, before he forces himself to continue scanning the room.
Another soldier's beam lands on Maria, her outstretched hand frozen in a futile attempt to reach for safety. The soldier freezes, his breath hitching audibly. "Commander," he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. "You need to see this."
The beam moves further, illuminating the tiny, bloodied frame of Mya. The room goes silent except for the faint hum of their equipment and Obinai's ragged breathing. One soldier in the back stumbles, his rifle slipping from his grip and clattering against the floor. He rips off his helmet with shaking hands, revealing a pale young man, his face slick with sweat and contorted in horror. His dirty blonde hair sticks to his forehead as his eyes dart wildly between the bodies.
"Oh God… Oh God…" he stammers before turning and bolting out of the room. The sound of retching echoes down the corridor as he collapses against the wall, his whole body trembling. Tears streak his face as he gasps for air, his helmet slipping from his grasp and rolling away.
Inside the room, the lead soldier steps forward, his boots squelching in the thick, sticky blood pooling across the cracked tiles. Each step punctuated by the faint suction of his soles against the floor. He pauses, scanning the scene with a practiced yet grim expression. Slowly, he removes his helmet, revealing a face that seems carved from stone. A long scar runs diagonally across his nose and down his cheek. His piercing blue eyes sweep over the carnage.
"Eyes up, focus," the commander growls, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the stunned silence of the room. "We're not here to freeze. Sweep it, now."
The soldiers move in formation, their boots creating a morbid rhythm against the blood-soaked ground. Their flashlights beam across the room, illuminating a grotesque tableau of violence and carnage. The walls are streaked with dark, arterial splatters, and entrails hang from what remains of a broken chandelier like some grotesque mockery of festive decor. The shattered remnants of furniture lie scattered, their jagged edges soaked in blood and bits of unrecognizable tissue.
One of the soldiers, standing closest to the doorway, gasps audibly as his flashlight lands on a severed hand lying amidst a pile of books. The hand, pale and delicate, wears a simple gold band on one finger, its lifeless grip frozen in a final spasm.
"Goddamn it," he mutters, his voice shaking as he averts his eyes. He stumbles slightly, his knees threatening to give out. Another soldier steadies him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Hold it together," the second soldier says sharply, though his own voice wavers. His flashlight continues its grim sweep, trembling slightly in his grip.
"Take Santos back to the van," the commander orders. He gestures toward the soldier who is visibly shaking.
The soldier assigned to assist snaps to attention, saluting with a sharp, practiced motion: fist over heart, then extending downward in a fluid sweep. "Sir!" he responds, moving quickly to guide Santos, now retching, out of the room. The sounds of stumbling footsteps echo faintly down the hallway as they disappear from sight.
The captain exhales through his nose, his face an impassive mask as he turns back toward the center of the room. "Looks like the monster's been busy," he mutters grimly, almost to himself.
Obinai, still crumpled on the floor, looks up at the captain, confusion etched into his tear-streaked face. He slowly turns, following the captain's gaze, and and his eyes widen.
The room feels larger now, the shadows stretching across the walls like specters. Bodies—five or six, maybe more—are strewn across the floor in grotesque positions, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Torn entrails snake across the ground, glistening under the harsh light of the soldiers' flashlights. A broken torso leans against an upturned chair, its head missing, leaving only a jagged, bloodied stump. The air is thick with the sickening stench of copper, decay, and something fouler, something primal.
One body catches Obinai's attention, and his breath catches in his throat. It's an older woman, her frail form lying crumpled against the far wall. Her cloudy eyes stare blankly upward, the remnants of a gentle smile still etched on her face. Her floral dress is soaked in blood, the delicate fabric shredded to reveal deep gashes across her chest and stomach.
Recognition hits him like a blow to the chest. "Mrs. Tanaka…" he whispers, his voice barely audible. She was blind but always kind, asking for his help to clean her small apartment even though she never saw his work. He hadn't actually helped her, just said he did, letting her pay him with a smile and gratitude he didn't deserve.
"No…" Obinai crawls backward, bile rising in his throat. Again he vomits...but only a bit of stomach acid comes out onto the blood-soaked floor. The acid burns in his throat.
"Don't move!" a soldier shouts, his voice sharp with panic, as Obinai instinctively tries to crawl away from the sight. Several rifles snap to attention, their barrels trained on him.
The commander steps forward, his boots crushing shards of glass underfoot. He crouches down in front of Obinai, the scent of tobacco faint on his breath. His scarred face looms close, and his piercing blue eyes bore into Obinai with unsettling intensity.
"Turn around and look," the captain says, his voice low. Through this Obinai takes more notice of his face, exposing a row of teeth, one or two glinting with gold. "Look at what you did."
Obinai's heart pounds erratically in his chest, each beat a drum of panic and despair. He turns his head slowly, his body trembling as his gaze falls once more on the scene. The faces of the dead blur in his vision, but Mrs. Tanaka's serene, bloodied visage remains clear, seared into his mind like a brand.
"I didn't…" he whispers, his voice shaking. "I couldn't have…"
Obinai's breathing quickens, each inhale more ragged than the last. His eyes dart around the room, desperate for something, anything, to ground him. His gaze catches on the cracked mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. Its jagged shards reflect the scene in fragmented pieces.
Around the edges of the mirror, faded family pictures are still taped—smiling faces frozen in happier times. He stares at them, his chest tightening painfully as he remembers those moments: his mom laughing as she held Mya, his dad's goofy grin as he balanced an entire stack of plates. Their joy feels impossibly distant now...
Then he sees his own reflection. His face stares back at him, unrecognizable. His bloodshot eyes are wide, almost feral, their whites streaked with red...his ruffled up black locks stick to sweaty forehead. Dried blood is smeared across his mouth and trails down his neck in dark, congealed streaks. His clothes are stained and torn, clinging to his trembling frame.
"Mom?" he croaks, his voice barely audible. "Dad? Mya?" The names fall from his lips like a prayer, desperate and broken. He looks around the room wildly, as if hoping to find them hiding somewhere, unhurt. But there's only silence...
The world around him tilts, the room spinning. His vision blurs, his mind frantically clawing for answers that refuse to come. He turns back to the captain, his lips trembling, but no words escape.
The captain watches him coldly, unmoving, as Obinai's body gives in to the weight. His body feels heavy as his eyes roll back as the room darkens around him. The last thing he hears is the sound of his own ragged breathing...
fading...