The door groaned shut behind him, its heavy metal lock snapping into place with a thunderous CLUNK. The sound echoed louder than it should have, like a gunshot in an empty church. He glanced back, fingers brushing the handle. He tugged once.
Nothing.
Twice. Harder.
Nothing.
His heart picked up speed. Don't think about it. There was no point. The door wasn't opening again. Not without a key, a code, or something he didn't have.
He let out a shaky breath and turned back to face the world ahead.
What he saw knocked the air right out of his lungs.
Blocks of old red-brick buildings stretched out before him, lined up like dominoes on either side of a wide street. Narrow alleyways ran between them, thin veins threading through a decaying body. The bricks were cracked, sun-bleached, and scarred with streaks of grime. Windows were shattered. Rooftops crumbled like old parchment. The streetlights flickered weakly, buzzing in sync with the faint hum of unseen power lines overhead.
It wasn't just old. It was abandoned.
Or so it seemed.
He spun slowly, eyes darting from building to building. No signs of life. No sounds but the distant hum. No distant horizon, either. The town just… stopped. The further he looked, the more it felt wrong. The same red bricks repeated. The same flickering lights. The same empty windows.
A cold knot of realization twisted in his gut. This isn't a town. It's a box.
He squinted at the skyline, his gaze locking onto faint, hairline seams running through the "sky." Not clouds. Not sky. Panels. Mechanical joints just barely visible if you knew where to look. The "moon" was no better—too perfect, too smooth. A spotlight disguised as nature.
A curse hissed out through his teeth. A stage. They dropped me into a goddamn stage.
His gaze snapped back to the door. MOVE. His feet pounded against the cracked concrete as he ran. His heart thudded in his ears, faster, faster. He reached the door, grabbed the handle, and yanked. Nothing. He yanked again. Still nothing.
"NO!" He slammed his hands flat against the door, rattling it hard enough to send tremors up his arms. "No, no, no!" Panic twisted his voice into something sharp and raw. His fingers clawed at the edge of the door like he could pry it open by force.
"Come on!" His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. "Come on, you piece of—"
Nothing.
The knot in his gut pulled tighter. Trapped. You're trapped.
He backed away, sucking in deep, shaky breaths. One breath. Two. Get it together. His hands curled into fists at his sides, fingers flexing as he fought for control. They're watching. They're always watching.
His gaze snapped back to the street, scanning every alley, every broken window, every corner where a shadow might be hiding. He watched. He waited.
Nothing moved.
His eyes locked onto the nearest building. "Imperial Clothes." The letters on the faded sign hung crooked, rust bleeding down from the bolts. He moved. Fast but quiet, staying low as he sprinted toward the door. Every step felt too loud. His boots slapped against the cracked concrete, each step a miniature explosion.
He reached the door and threw his shoulder into it.
It opened with a creak. Too easy. Way too easy.
He hesitated, eyes scanning the dim interior. The pale glow from the streetlights bled through the cracked front windows, cutting uneven strips of light across the floor. Racks of clothes lined the room. Tables piled high with folded jeans and jackets. And the mannequins—six of them—stood in a perfect row, headless, arms raised in some mock display of cheer.
The stench hit him next.
Rot.
Thick, pungent, and wet, like roadkill baking on asphalt under a summer sun. His stomach turned, his mouth filling with sour saliva. Don't throw up. Breathe slow. He pressed a hand to his face, fingers clamped tight over his nose and mouth. It didn't help. The smell had already dug its way in.
He shut the door behind him, his back pressed against it. His breath came short and fast, ribs bound tight with wire. Not safe. Not safe here either.
But he needed clothes. His bare skin prickled with cold sweat, every nerve on edge. Get clothes. Get warm.
He crouched low, weaving through the racks. His eyes flicked between the shelves, darting to the mannequins every few seconds. They didn't move. They didn't shift. But they could. He knew better than to trust things that didn't move.
He snatched the first plain white shirt he found, yanked it over his head, and pulled it down hard. Then came the cargo pants—thick, rugged, and covered in pockets. He fumbled with the button but got it secure. He kept his head on a swivel, checking for movement with every breath.
So far, nothing.
Until he saw the boots.
Steel-toe. Black leather. Heavy-duty.
They sat on a display like a prize. Too clean. Too perfect.
He moved toward them, steps slow and deliberate. This feels wrong. It feels wrong. His breathing slowed, his ears listening past the rush of his heartbeat.
BZZZZZT. BZZZZZZZT.
The low buzz of flies grew louder. Not a normal buzz. This was a swarm, sharp and endless, like static filling his eardrums. His eyes darted toward the source, past the cashier's desk, past the racks of clothes, toward the shadows in the back.
Something lay there.
His heart slowed. No. Don't look. Just take the boots and go.
But his body betrayed him. His eyes locked onto the thing sprawled on the ground. A body. Half of one, anyway.
The torso lay face down, arms outstretched, fingers curled into the tile like he'd been crawling. The lower half was gone. His spine jutted from his back, trailing like a broken rope. Shredded muscle and tattered flesh hung in loose strands from his open waist, still wet with congealed blood.
The flies swarmed him. Their bodies were too big, their glossy wings flickering like machine parts. They darted in and out of the hollow shell of the man's torso. Inside him. Eating him.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Don't look. Don't look.
But he was already moving. Kneeling. His eyes flicked to the man's feet.
The boots.
He reached out, fingers curling around the leather. He tugged. It didn't budge.
Tug.
Nothing.
Tug harder.
POP! SNAP!
He staggered back as something wet slapped against his chest. A foot. The entire foot. Still inside the boot. Muscle strands hung from the dismembered ankle like rubbery noodles, sticky and pale. Maggots poured from the hollow.
"God—!" He lurched back, slamming into the nearest rack. His stomach clenched. His body folded in half as bile surged up his throat. Don't throw up. Don't. Throw. Up. His eyes watered, stomach twisting, chest heaving.
He coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and squeezed his eyes shut. "It's just meat. It's just meat. It's just meat."
A crash echoed from the front of the store.
His heart stopped.
The sound of broken glass. Not close, but not far. His pulse thudded in his skull. His hands moved before his mind caught up, one grabbing the pistol from the man's holster, the other seizing the extra clips.
He crouched low, breathing quiet as he slipped behind the racks. His eyes darted toward the front of the store.
Two figures.
Low. Hunched. Skulking. Their heads moved with unnatural fluidity, scanning side to side. Not walking. Stalking.
Not human.
His breath came fast, every inhale too loud, every exhale too sharp. His fingers curled around the pistol, pressing the grip tight against his palm.
They're coming.
He moved, fast but quiet, back toward the rear door. His breath fogged the air. His fingers gripped the cold steel handle.
Don't hesitate.
He pulled the door open, slipped outside, and vanished into the night.