[Morning, Crestvale Hotel Lobby]
Erin Crawford stood at the reception desk, her posture straight, her hands folded neatly in front of her. The lobby was silent, the faint hum of old fluorescent lights the only sound in the air. She glanced toward the entrance, though no one entered.
Most days were like this—empty. The occasional guest would drift in, always strange, always silent, their visits brief and unsettling. She would greet them with a practiced smile, hand them their room key, and watch them disappear into the elevator or stairwell.
Erin: "Welcome to Crestvale Hotel. Do you have a reservation?"
Her voice echoed slightly in the desolate lobby, though no one was there to hear it. She returned to her duties, rearranging papers, checking the guest ledger—a relic from another era—and ensuring the keys were aligned perfectly on their hooks.
The phone rang. Erin picked it up with robotic precision.
Erin: "Crestvale Hotel, how may I assist you?"
No response. Just static. She hung up without hesitation. This, too, was normal.
[The Basement]
After her morning duties, Erin made her way to the basement. The air grew colder as she descended, the dim light casting elongated shadows on the crumbling concrete walls. The faint smell of decay grew stronger with every step.
At the bottom of the stairs, she approached a metal door. Unlocking it with a key she kept hidden in her uniform, she stepped inside.
The room beyond was a macabre scene. Corpses lay piled along the walls, their bodies in varying stages of decomposition. The air was thick with the stench of rot and copper. Erin moved through the room without flinching, her expression blank as she selected a knife from a nearby table.
One of the bodies—a woman who receptionist before Erin take her job—was dismembered and laid out on a butcher's table. The remnants of her flesh were already prepared for the kitchen upstairs. This was the first receptionist Aamon had met, now reduced to nothing more than a source of "supply."
Erin worked mechanically, as though this was just another part of her job. She didn't question why or how—her mind was not her own.
A sudden noise drew her attention. The sound of footsteps echoed through the basement halls. A figure cloaked in dark robes, holding a staff adorned with strange symbols, entered the room. His presence was commanding, his voice low and resonant.
Cultist: "Erin, come."
She obeyed without question, following him up a narrow stairway to a hidden chamber on the second floor. The room was lavishly decorated, in stark contrast to the rest of the decrepit hotel. The cultist turned to her, his face obscured by the hood.
Cultist: "You know why you're here."
Erin didn't respond. Her body moved as though compelled, her expression vacant. The cultist stepped closer, his hand reaching toward her.
But before he could touch her, Erin's body convulsed unnaturally. Her stomach rippled as though something inside her was alive. A wet, gurgling sound filled the room, and suddenly, a hand burst from her chest, stabbing a blade directly into the cultist's skull.
The cultist staggered back, his staff clattering to the floor.
Cultist: "Wha—"
From Erin's body, Aamon emerged as if made of liquid, his form solidifying as he stepped fully into the room.
Aamon: "Isn't this a bit low, even for you? Taking advantage of a girl like that?"
Erin collapsed to the floor, unconscious but breathing. Aamon caught her before she hit the ground, gently laying her aside. He looked at the cultist, who was still twitching, then pulled a knife from his coat and finished the job with a swift motion.
Aamon wiped his blade on the cultist's robe and began searching the room. He opened drawers, overturned furniture, and examined the walls. His search led him to a hidden trapdoor beneath the ornate rug.
Aamon: "Another basement? You people are getting creative."
He lit a cigarette, the glow illuminating his face in the dim room. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled slowly and stared at the trapdoor.
Aamon: "Let's see what's waiting for me down there."
He glanced back at Erin, who remained unconscious on the floor, and then turned his attention to the darkness below.
Aamon descended into the labyrinth beneath the hotel, the air growing colder and more oppressive with every step. The flickering light from his lighter cast eerie shadows on the walls, revealing rooms filled with horrors.
He passed a ritual room, the walls smeared with ancient symbols and blood, candles burning low on a grotesque altar. Another room was stacked with human flesh, butchered and preserved like meat in a storage locker. The smell was unbearable, but Aamon walked through it without a flinch.
In the next room, shelves lined with cursed artifacts pulsed faintly with dark energy. Aamon ignored their sinister whispers, his focus unwavering as he pressed deeper into the twisted underbelly of the hotel.
At the heart of the underground, Aamon found a cavernous chamber. A group of cultists gathered around a massive gate made of flesh, its pulsating form birthing parasites that scurried across the floor. In front of the gate, a young woman was tied to a stone altar, her cries for help echoing off the walls.
Aamon dropped down from a ledge behind the cultists, landing silently.
They turned to face him, their chants halting as they recognized him as an intruder.
One cultist stepped forward, pointing a dagger at Aamon.
Cultist: "You dare trespass here? You will be sacri—"
Aamon: "Die, you lowest trash."
With a wave of his hand, he summoned a tempest, the room erupting into chaos as a violent storm of Water rained down. Lightning struck with the force of anti-tank rounds, tearing through the cultists like paper. Flesh and bone scattered, their screams drowned by the roaring storm.
The tempest dissipated as quickly as it came, leaving the room in silence. The woman on the altar was untouched, trembling as Aamon approached.
Aamon knelt to untie her bindings, his movements swift but careful. As soon as she was free, she slapped him hard across the face.
Aamon blinked, stunned.
Aamon: "Bitch, I just came here to save you. You're welcome, by the way."
The woman, still in shock and confusion, stumbled backward. She looked around, her eyes wide with fear as she pointed to a writhing parasite crawling toward her.
Woman: "Kill it! Please, kill it!"
Aamon stomped the parasite without hesitation, its body squelching under his boot. He flicked the remains off his shoe and turned to her.
Aamon: "Upstairs. There's another girl unconscious. Stay there and wait for me."
The woman hesitated, fear etched across her face.
Woman: "But—"
Aamon cut her off, his voice low and menacing.
Aamon: "If you don't listen, I'll throw you to that."
He gestured to the massive flesh gate, where parasites continued to spawn. The woman paled, nodding quickly. She scrambled toward the stairs, her movements frantic.
Aamon lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag as he turned back to the gate.
Aamon: "Now, let's see what kind of nightmare you've got behind there."
Aamon walked toward the pulsating mass of flesh, his every step echoing through the chamber like a death knell. As his boots met the ground, the parasites that had been scuttling across the floor fell still and drowned as if the very ground he walked on was submerged in water. The creatures' bodies collapsed in silent, gruesome death, their forms crushed beneath some invisible weight.
Aamon paused, the tip of his cigarette glowing as he exhaled, watching the last of the parasites die.
Just as he was about to unleash destruction on the Flesh Gate, a low, guttural growl rumbled from within the gate. The air grew colder, and Aamon's senses sharpened, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his blade, ready to strike. But he stopped.
He recognized the sound.
The Flesh Gate, the eldritch being behind it, wasn't just some mindless creature. It was aware. And it was speaking.
From the depths of the gate, a voice echoed—a voice that was more a collection of whispers and roars than a singular entity speaking. The words were a twisted, maddening jumble of sound, but Aamon understood perfectly.
The Flesh Gate:
"Hunter..."
The voice was both deep and haunting, each word carrying a weight that threatened to crush the very air around them. The gate seemed to shift, its form quivering as if something ancient and terrible was reaching out to him.
The Flesh Gate:
"I know you, Hunter. I know your name. You've come for me, haven't you? You seek to end me... to take what I have created. But I beg you..."
The tone of the voice shifted, turning desperate, pleading. It was unlike anything Aamon had encountered before—an eldritch being so twisted it was beyond comprehension, yet somehow aware of its own fate.
The Flesh Gate:
"I have witnessed the unraveling of worlds, the fall of gods, and the birth of nightmares. I have existed through countless ages, feeding on the weak, consuming their essence, their minds, their very souls. But you... you are different, Hunter. You are the one who has come to end it all. Please..."
The Flesh Gate trembled, its flesh twisting and writhing, the air thick with the stench of decay and rot. A sense of hunger emanated from it, a hunger that transcended anything Aamon had ever felt.
The Flesh Gate:
"Mercy, Hunter... show me mercy. You know what I am. You know what I've become. But I beg you to understand... this is not what I wanted. This was never my will. The parasites, the flesh... I did not create them. I was forced into this... this existence. Please, Hunter... Please, I—"
Aamon remained silent, his gaze cold and unwavering. He could feel the gate's desperation, its plea for mercy. It was the voice of something ancient, something that had existed long before mankind's first breath, but it was still... just another monster. Another thing that had to be destroyed.
The Flesh Gate's whispers grew frantic.
The Flesh Gate:
"I am not a god! Not anymore! I was once a guardian, a protector of realms, of lives. I was bound by my oath to watch over the passage of time... but they—They betrayed me."
The voice twisted into a low snarl.
The Flesh Gate:
"They twisted me, made me this way. I was not meant to feast on life, not meant to become the thing I am now. They used me. They used me as a tool, as a weapon. I have no choice. You must understand—"
Aamon stood perfectly still, letting the words wash over him, but he said nothing. The eldritch being's words grew weaker, its once commanding tone becoming nothing more than a hollow, desperate cry.
The Flesh Gate:
"Please... spare me. Spare the last remnants of what I was. I do not seek death. I only seek release. The parasites, the corruption... it is all I know now. But you, Hunter... you can end it. You can release me from this prison. I offer you everything. The power of the gods... the knowledge of the ancients... Please, Hunter... Let me go..."
It was a voice that trembled with fear. A voice that, for a moment, seemed to beg not for mercy, but for understanding.
But Aamon didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, the cold, calm force of nature that he was, as the echoes of the Flesh Gate's pleading words slowly faded into the distance.
The gate was not asking for mercy—it was begging for release.
But Aamon's mind was set. This creature had caused too much destruction, too much suffering. There would be no mercy.
The Flesh Gate's voice grew softer, almost a whisper now.
The Flesh Gate:
"Hunter... Please..."
But Aamon's gaze hardened.
Aamon: "Die."
And with that, he raised his hand and summoned the tempest once more, ready to obliterate the last remnants of the eldritch being that had terrorized this place for so long.
As the Flesh Gate screamed its final, desperate cry of "Nooo!", it was swallowed by the earth beneath it. The eldritch being's massive form dissolved into a pool of dark, oily water, as if it had never existed at all. The chamber fell silent, save for the soft sound of dripping water and the distant echo of the gate's last scream. Aamon stood there, watching as the remnants of the Flesh Gate disappeared into the ground, his gaze cold and unwavering. He'd done what he needed to do. There was nothing left for him here.
But just as he turned to leave, a horrifying surprise awaited him.
The Girl from earlier, the one he had sent upstairs, was still standing there, frozen in place. Her eyes wide with confusion and fear, she hadn't moved.
Aamon nearly had a heart attack.
With an exaggerated scream, more akin to that of a startled animal than a man of his caliber, he shouted, "AAAHH Shit, Why are you still here?"
The girl, her voice trembling, stammered, "I... I got lost. I was too scared to go on..."
Aamon let out a deep sigh of annoyance. "Just go straight, and you'll make it. I'm not babysitting you."
Without wasting any more time, Aamon grabbed her, and with a sudden, violent movement, the floor beneath them seemed to give way, dropping them both. It was as if the ground was made of water, and they were submerged in it. Then, like a torpedo, the water shot them upward, propelling them toward the upper floors of the hotel where Erin was.
The girl screamed in terror as they shot upward at high speed. Aamon barely spared her a glance, his eyes still cold and focused on the task at hand. With a sudden crash, they landed at the top, the force of the fall softened by the water-like floor beneath them. Aamon, ever the professional, caught her just before she hit the ground.
Before she could even process what happened, Aamon gripped her once again and launched them both out of the hotel. The ground beneath them disappeared, and they were shot out like a cannon, landing far from the building.
As Aamon stood tall, shaking off the remnants of the shock, something far worse began to unfold. All around the hotel, the staff and guests who had once been innocent people were now transforming. The very monsters Aamon had just fought off were now emerging from the building, their grotesque forms twisting and distorting as they turned into parasitic, flesh-warped abominations.
Aamon stepped in front of the girls, his expression unreadable. The girl, still trembling, asked shakily, "What are you going to do now?"
Aamon didn't answer, his attention focused on the monstrous swarm approaching them. His hand hovered over the ground, and with a sudden motion, a heavy revolver shot straight up from the earth below him, as if summoned by sheer will. The revolver was massive—almost absurdly so—and its cold metal gleamed under the moonlight.
The girl, still not fully comprehending the situation, asked nervously, "What are you doing with that... thing?"
Aamon's voice was flat, almost bored as he reached for the gun, the weight of it seeming to barely faze him. "Take out the remainder."
With practiced ease, Aamon raised the revolver and fired, each shot resonating with a deafening crack. The bullets didn't hit the people-turned-monsters, but rather, they pierced the parasites controlling them. Each parasite shriveled and died in an instant, its hold on the body it had infested broken.
However, the swarm was relentless, and more of the citizens, now transformed into monstrous, parasitic creatures, came flooding from the hotel.
Aamon muttered under his breath, annoyed. "I hate reloading."
With that, he raised his hand high and summoned the largest tempest yet, the swirling vortex of wind and destruction sweeping through the city. The air howled as the tempest spread, its destructive power ripping through every last parasite, tearing them out of the bodies they had infested. No one could hide. The storm knew no mercy, sweeping across the city like a cleansing force, purging the parasites once and for all.
As the last of the monsters fell to the ground, reduced to nothing more than corpses and scattered remnants of parasites, the girl, still watching in awe, turned to Aamon.
"Why... why did you use that revolver?" she asked, her voice still shaky but curious. "You hate reloading, right?"
Aamon, his expression indifferent, tucked the revolver back into the ground as it sank beneath the surface like water once more. He turned to her, his voice deadpan, almost as if it was a matter of fact.
"I just want to look cool."
The girl blinked, dumbfounded by his response, but she didn't have time to protest. Aamon had already begun to walk away.
"Wait..." she called, her voice urgent. "Where are you going?"
Aamon glanced over his shoulder, his face unreadable. "Nowhere."
She was about to ask again, but Aamon spoke first, the words slipping out casually, as if they meant nothing.
"My name?" Aamon smiled, though it was fleeting. "Nobody."
And with that, he vanished into the ground like water, his figure disappearing as if he were part of the very earth itself. The girl, left in the aftermath of the storm, could only stare in disbelief.
The chaos had ended, but who exactly had she just encountered?
[Meanwhile few hours later, Aamon Inspects His Broken Car]
Aamon stood beside the wreckage of his black sedan, the vehicle now a crumpled mess after being launched several meters by the force of the attack. The once-sleek car was a reminder of how quickly things could spiral out of control.
Leaning back against the twisted metal frame, Aamon stared at the wreckage for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. His fingers moved swiftly across the screen, sending a call to Seth.
The phone rang twice before Seth picked up, his voice sounding as casual as ever, but Aamon could hear the slight tension in the air.
"Seth." Aamon's tone was flat, but there was an edge to it. "My car got attacked. It's gone, destroyed. But that's not the issue. There's someone else behind this. Third party. I need more intel."
Seth paused for a moment, then replied, "Understood. I'll send a few Hunters to investigate. We'll get eyes on it. But for now, Aamon... I need you to focus on the next mission. You know the drill."
Aamon clicked his tongue in frustration. "You can't be serious. How do you expect me to get to the mission? You know I don't walk."
Seth chuckled lightly on the other end, a soft but knowing sound. "Right, right, I forgot. I'll send you a car, and the Hunters will get to work. Don't worry, Aamon. Just handle the mission."
Aamon sighed, glancing at the wreckage of his sedan once more. He didn't need to wait for Seth's instructions. He already knew the hunt would continue, regardless of the setback.
"I'll be ready," Aamon muttered, hanging up the call before Seth could respond.
As he stood there in front of his broken car, waiting for the Hunters to arrive with a replacement vehicle, he couldn't shake the feeling that this attack was no accident. There was something more—someone else pulling strings. And Aamon would find them, one way or another.
The wind howled around him as he pushed away from the wreckage. It was time to move. And when the time came, he would strike—relentlessly and without mercy.