Emily and the others exchange uncertain glances, feet shuffling against the blood-slick floor as they inch toward the door.
Meanwhile, the child lifts his chin, letting his golden gaze sweep over the survivors. "Ah, the anguish that clings to those who live," he says lightly. His eyes gleam, and he offers a small, theatrical shrug. "So much richer than the spectacle of death alone. I do love a bit of lingering misery. Gives the whole affair a certain... finesse."
The other four get closer to the exit...
Emily, however, stumbles partway, then sinks to her knees, hands splayed on the floor. Tears trace paths down her cheeks, her voice trembling, "Why do this?"
The child shifts his weight, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "Why?" he echoes...
"Why not?"
A breathy laugh slips free, echoing in the silent room. He gestures expansively. "You humans," he remarks conversationally, "take delight in quaint little things—a nice sunset, a familiar tune, silly jokes shared with friends. Cute, really. But for me, well..." He lifts his hands, rotating them slowly. "The wails of despair, the fractured hopes, the... oh, the writhing agony. Those are my sunrises and serenades."
Emily's shoulders shake as she tries and fails to steady her breath, her gaze locked on the child's bare feet stepping through crimson. He paces in a wide arc around her, humming softly under his breath.
"I'm simply chasing my own version of happiness," he continues. "Isn't that what you do? Strive for what brings you joy? Our joys differ—mine just happen to be your suffering, but let's not dwell on trivial details." He halts before her, white locs swaying slightly as he tilts his head. "I do what makes me happy."
He leans in closer, voice dropping to a near whisper. "And speaking of what makes me happy..." he murmurs, the corners of his lips curving up, "why not linger a second longer?" He flicks his gaze behind her. "Go on, turn around—have a peek at the finale."
Emily shifts, turning her head just in time...
Lucas, already at the threshold, is about to push the door open when black flames erupt around him. There's no scream—only a brief, dreadful illumination as his entire figure dissolves into smoldering ash. The glow fades, leaving nothing but a dark residue on the floor.
Emily's breath catches in her throat. Her gaze snaps to the others—Rebecca, Michael, Samantha—where they stand mere steps away. Each of them crumples abruptly, collapsing in unison as though an unseen hand has yanked them down. They hit the ground with dull thuds, their limbs jolting in violent spasms.
She looks and notices the child chanting...
"Vashe noru kala vestra!"
The words hang in the air.
Rebecca, Michael, and Samantha stop twitching all at once. Their backs arch, heads thrown back. A low, wet sound follows as their torsos begin to collapse in on themselves, each body unraveling in unnatural contortions. Skin cracks and peels, sinking inward with sickening slurps. Muscles and bones liquefy into a dark, sludgy mass that oozes across the floor. Each body merges into glistening puddles.
"Every ending is merely a transformation," the child says...almost bored. He observes the scene. "And every scream of agony, a note in the grand symphony of chaos I conduct."
Emily, half-collapsed on her knees, recoils at the sight, her heart pounding so fiercely she can hear the rush of blood in her ears. The child steps over congealing sludge, drifting closer. He settles onto Grace's lifeless body as though it's a mere seat, crossing one leg over the other.
He leans in, lifting Emily's chin between two sticky fingers. "Come now," he murmurs, voice light. "No need to look so lost. You're alive, aren't you?" His tone shifts to a near whisper. "Survivors are my favorite, after all. You get to carry this memory forever...
...or not"
Emily trembles, noticing his eyes staring blankly at her, as though catching something unseen, while she tries—and fails—to pull her chin free from his grip.
*"I...may have glimpsed into something unpleasant...
...this is the end," he says softly.
Emily's breath catches in her throat. Tears blur her vision. She wants to speak—maybe to beg, or to curse him, or just to weep out loud—but...
He exhales in mild disappointment when her silence persists. "Are you always this quiet when confronted like this?" he wonders aloud. With a quiet groan, he repositions himself. One blood-streaked hand curls around her throat. As easily as lifting a doll, he hoists her upward, her feet scraping the floor.
"How boring," he murmurs. Emily's hands flutter at his wrist, nails digging into his flesh in a desperate struggle to breathe.
..."I expected more for a final act," he remarks. Emily can only gasp.
"See that?" he says, leaning in. "That raw panic in your eyes—that's the truth behind all your hopes and dreams, isn't it? Just the last pathetic sparks of a dying star." His fingers press a little harder, cutting off any retort she might muster.
Emily's eyes threaten to roll back, her body shuddering as oxygen becomes a cruel luxury. Through the haze of agony...her eyes glare.
She spits directly onto his face.
The spittle lands across his cheek, mingling with the red stains clinging to his skin.
He pauses, the moment seeming to stretch out. Then a broad, twisted smile spreads across his lips. "Well," he coos, dabbing at his cheek with the back of his free hand. "Couldn't have asked for a better farewell."
He shifts his grip with care—almost gently—and gives a swift, vicious twist. The sickening snap of her neck resonates through the silent room. Her body slackens, limbs limp as he lowers her with surprising delicacy to the blood-spattered floor.
Straightening with a satisfied sigh, he surveys Emily's motionless form. For a brief second, he tilts his head, studying the emptiness in her dead eyes, then rolls his shoulders. "And so ends that story," he says lightly, stepping away from her lifeless shape...