Tlick. Tlick. Tlick.
The sound echoed louder than his heartbeat. Sharp. Measured. Unrelenting.
He stumbled backward, legs trembling like cracked glass under pressure. Each step sent a jolt of fire through his chest, his cracked ribs grinding together like broken gears. Every breath was short, sharp, and laced with agony. Move. Move. MOVE. But no amount of willpower could turn shattered bones into unyielding steel.
Tlick. Tlick. Tlick.
Glowing red eyes cut through the darkness like a pair of blood-red lanterns. The figure moved slow, heavy, deliberate. Each step was a warning, a declaration of control. He didn't need to run. He knew his prey couldn't escape. His tongue clicked three more times — that eerie, metronomic sound that drilled into the air like a clock counting down the seconds to death.
A shuddering breath escaped the man's lips, too shallow to be called a gasp. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat like a frantic knock on a locked door. Don't stop. Don't freeze. Do something. His hand shot to the gun at his side, fingers wrapping tight around the cold metal grip.
He raised it. Both hands steady. Teeth clenched.
"Die, motherfucker!" he snarled, every ounce of fear buried beneath the rage in his voice.
BANG!
The shot cracked like a firework, bright as a flashbang in the night. Sparks erupted from the ground just inches from Mr. Muscles' foot.
Missed.
His breath hitched, the cold choke of terror slipping down his throat. His eyes darted to the small, unscathed patch of concrete where the bullet had struck. His fingers went numb. No. No, no, no.
The gun slipped from his fingers. It hit the ground with a hollow clink. He dropped to his knees, his strength crumbling under the weight of hopelessness. His body felt like a rusted machine, gears jammed, fuel gone. His head hung low, breath shallow, each inhale coated with the bitter taste of copper.
"Just…" he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. His arms hung limp by his sides, fingers twitching against the concrete. "Just get it over with."
SMACK!
Air whipped past his face so fast it stung, like something had swiped inches from his cheek. His eyes shot open just in time to see the monster fly past — a twisted rat-like creature, its limbs flailing wildly as it spun through the air. It slammed into the pawn shop window with an ear-splitting CRASH! Glass exploded into a rain of shimmering shards, cascading over the pavement.
The creature's neck twisted at an unnatural angle. The glow in its eyes flickered, once, twice — gone.
The man turned toward the source. Mr. Muscles.
He stood in the center of the street, still as stone, head cocked toward his kill. His gaze lingered on the broken body of the rat monster, a predator satisfied with its work.
But the stillness didn't last.
A new sound echoed from the alley. A low, guttural roar.
Another rat-like creature shot from the shadows with an earsplitting shriek. Its claws dug into the ground, propelling it forward like a hunting hound. It leapt, jaws wide, eyes locked on Mr. Muscles.
It was fast.
He was faster.
Mr. Muscles caught it mid-air with one hand, his fingers curling into its torso with ease. The creature squirmed and thrashed, squealing like a boar caught in a snare. He didn't flinch. His other hand raised high — and then came down like a judge's gavel.
CRACK!
The wet, sickening crunch of bones and flesh echoed down the street. Ichor exploded from the impact, painting the ground with streaks of oily black sludge. Pieces of ribs and shredded meat splattered in all directions, soaking into the cracks of the concrete.
The man's breath hitched. His eyes darted back to Mr. Muscles, heart hammering so hard he thought his ribs would burst. He's distracted.
Run. Now.
His palms pressed against the ground, shaky arms barely able to lift his weight. Pain shot through his ribs like someone twisting a knife. He ignored it. Move. Move, damn it.
His feet slammed against the pavement. Run. Just run. Each breath was a white-hot dagger in his lungs, each step a fresh flare of pain from his ribs. His mind screamed at him to stop, to breathe, but he shoved the pain aside, eyes locked on the faint neon glow at the corner of the street.
A restaurant.
The restaurant was in ruins. Shattered windows. Overturned chairs. Blood smeared in wide, jagged streaks across the walls and floor. Tables had been stacked in a desperate barricade but had long since crumbled into splintered wood.
Something had been here. Something violent. Something hungry.
He stumbled inside, every breath burning like gasoline in his lungs. The air hit him like a wall of rot. The stench of spoiled grease and decaying food churned his stomach. Don't throw up. Don't.
His eyes darted to the kitchen. There. In the back. The walk-in freezer.
He bolted for it, every step an act of rebellion against his body's demand to collapse. Keep moving. One more step. One more. He reached the freezer door and slammed his palm against it, his nails scraping against the steel. His hand slipped once, twice. No. No.
He grabbed the handle, fingers locking on. Pull.
It didn't budge.
"Come on," he hissed, gritting his teeth. He yanked with every ounce of strength he had left. CLUNK! The latch popped free. The door swung wide.
His foot caught on the lip of the threshold, and he went down hard. His ribs collided with the frozen floor, pain shooting through him like lightning. Don't stop. Crawl.
He clawed forward, fingers scratching at the icy floor. The cold seeped into his skin, stiffening his joints, numbing his hands. Each movement felt slower. Harder. His muscles felt like dead weight, like anchors dragging him down.
He reached the back wall, his back pressed against the ice-cold steel. His chest heaved with short, shallow breaths. His vision swirled, darkness creeping into the edges. No sleep. No sleep.
Frost crept up his arms. His breath came in short, foggy puffs. He pressed his back harder into the wall, eyes wide but unfocused.
No sleep.
His fingers twitched. His heart thudded. Don't sleep.
The cold was everywhere now, sinking into his bones. His eyelids drooped. No sleep.
His eyes closed.