[Police Impound Lot – Monday Late Evening]
The Plymouth Barracuda sat gleaming under the dull orange glow of the impound lot's lights. Aamon and Anundr approached it, both silently taking in the sight of the battered but still imposing muscle car.
"Well, that's one thing back in our hands," Aamon muttered as he unlocked the door.
"Hold it," Anundr said casually, stepping in front of him. "I'm driving."
Aamon raised an eyebrow, hand on the car door. "You? Driving this? Not a chance. You drive like a grandma with vertigo."
Anundr tilted his head, his expression unchanging but his tone sharp. "And you drive like a kid on sugar. No thanks. I prefer not dying in a flaming wreck today."
Aamon leaned against the car, his bland demeanor giving way to sarcasm. "Oh, right, because your idea of safe driving involves taking corners like a tank rolling through rubble. I'd rather trust a blindfolded monkey."
"Better than trusting you," Anundr shot back, his stoic facade cracking just slightly as he smirked. "I've seen you parallel park. Took you three tries and a prayer to get it straight. Should we call a priest before you even start the engine?"
"At least I don't treat the brakes like they owe me money," Aamon replied, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "Remember that time you pancaked a mailbox? And you said, 'It came out of nowhere'? It was bolted to the ground, Anundr."
Anundr's smirk deepened. "And who drove us into a ditch because he couldn't resist checking his reflection in the rearview mirror? You're like a teenage girl with a midlife crisis."
Aamon scoffed, his hand now tapping impatiently on the roof of the car. "Okay, fine. If you're so great, explain why this car had to be bailed out of impound in the first place. Oh, right—it was you driving last time."
Anundr shrugged. "Not my fault the cops couldn't keep up with me. They should've just let it slide. You know, like how you let all your targets escape because you're too busy monologuing."
Before Aamon could fire back, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket. He glanced at the screen and sighed.
"It's Seth," he said flatly, answering the call. "Yeah?"
Seth's voice came through the line, calm but laced with urgency. "Aamon, we've got a situation. From what the other hunters are reporting, something's off near the harbor. Really off."
Aamon's expression didn't change, but his posture stiffened slightly. "What kind of off?"
"Employees," Seth continued. "Workers at the harbor or anyone who's been there too long—they're acting strange. Too quiet. Standing around like statues. The hunters tried to get closer, but there are too many eyes—cops, reporters, the works. It's a powder keg waiting to blow."
"And you want me to waltz in there?" Aamon asked, his tone neutral, though a flicker of annoyance crept into his voice.
"You'll fit the profile better," Seth replied bluntly. "The area's too hot for anyone else to poke around. Take Anundr with you. He can back you up."
Aamon glanced at Anundr, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"Fine," Aamon said into the phone, his voice flat. "We're on it." He hung up and slid the phone back into his pocket.
"What's the job?" Anundr asked, already leaning casually against the car.
"Harbor investigation," Aamon replied, stepping past him to the driver's side. "You're coming. Seth's orders."
"Great," Anundr muttered, moving to the passenger side. "Guess I'll just sit here and pray you don't hit anything."
"Keep talking, and I might aim for something," Aamon shot back as he climbed into the driver's seat.
The engine roared to life, and with a screech of tires, they were off into the night. Neither of them spoke for the first few minutes, but the tension of their earlier banter lingered in the air.
Finally, Anundr broke the silence. "You know, if you crash this thing, I'm taking your share of the paycheck."
Aamon didn't even glance at him. "If I crash, you're paying for the repairs. And the lawyer. Again."
The Barracuda sped down the empty streets, heading toward the harbor, where trouble waited just beneath the surface.
[Night, Monday 11:00 PM – Outside the Harbor]
The harbor was bathed in flickering light from the scattered streetlamps and the beams of flashlights wielded by cops and reporters. A tense conversation played out between officers and a few journalists as they discussed the eerie behavior of the harbor employees.
"They don't respond to commands, don't flinch at tear gas or stun guns," one officer said, his voice low with unease. "We can't risk hurting them without knowing what's going on."
The reporters murmured among themselves, some snapping photos of the motionless workers standing like statues under the cold night sky.
From a parked Plymouth Barracuda down the street, Aamon and Anundr observed the scene.
Aamon took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke that swirled lazily in the air before dissipating. "Get ready," he said simply, his tone devoid of any drama.
Anundr adjusted the strap on his bag, his expression unchanging. "I'm always ready," he replied, his voice calm.
They moved away from the main area, ensuring they were out of sight. With a fluid motion, Aamon and Anundr dove headfirst into the ground—not into the dirt, but into a shimmering, almost liquid surface that had formed beneath their feet.
Inside the strange, water-like dimension, Aamon maintained perfect control, his ability shaping the water into a clear, glass-like surface that allowed them to see the world above. The distorted view of the harbor passed overhead as he propelled them forward like a current, bypassing reporters and cops entirely.
As they moved, Aamon caught a glimpse of a familiar face—Erin, the journalist, crouched behind a stack of crates, her camera clicking as she photographed the employees. Her expression was one of quiet intensity, but Aamon barely acknowledged her, his focus locked on the mission.
Anundr noticed the glance and raised an eyebrow. "Old flame?" he asked, his tone laced with subtle amusement.
"No," Aamon replied bluntly, his voice as even as ever. "Just a distraction."
They continued forward, undetected and unseen, the water carrying them closer to their destination.
Emerging silently from the water, Aamon and Anundr found themselves within the sprawling harbor. The employees stood scattered in unnatural stillness, their faces blank and unseeing, as though trapped in a waking dream.
"Spread out," Aamon whispered, his voice low but firm. "Look for anything unusual. And remember—"
"No lethal weapons, no unnecessary harm," Anundr interrupted, finishing the sentence with practiced ease. "I know."
Aamon nodded, his expression unreadable. "Not even a scratch if you can help it. These people are victims, not threats."
The two split up, moving carefully among the towering stacks of cargo containers. The stillness of the employees made the air heavy with an unnatural tension, broken only by the distant creak of metal and the gentle lapping of water against the docks.
And then it began.
A faint, haunting melody filled the air, emanating from somewhere deep within the harbor. It was soft at first, barely audible, like the chime of a delicate music box. But as it grew louder, it seemed to burrow into their minds, pulling at their thoughts with an otherworldly insistence.
Anundr stopped in his tracks, his head tilting slightly. "You hear that?" he asked, his voice steady despite the unease the melody brought.
"Yeah," Aamon replied, his tone clipped. He glanced around, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the area. "Don't let it get to you. Focus."
The melody seemed to guide them, drawing them toward one of the cargo ships moored at the docks. The ship loomed like a shadowed monolith, its decks silent and empty.
Aboard the ship, Aamon and Anundr moved carefully, their footsteps light and deliberate. The melody continued, louder now, echoing through the ship's metal corridors.
"Stay sharp," Aamon muttered as they entered the hold. "Whatever's causing this, it's here."
They split up, each taking a different path through the labyrinthine interior of the ship. The air was cold and damp, and the faint scent of saltwater mixed with something far more unpleasant—a metallic, almost bloody tang that clung to the walls.
Aamon's eyes scanned the area, searching for anything that might explain the employees' behavior or the source of the haunting song. His hand hovered near his weapon, though he had no intention of using it unless absolutely necessary.
Meanwhile, Anundr moved with quiet precision, his gaze sharp and unwavering. He examined the crates and containers, looking for any signs of tampering or unusual cargo.
As the song grew louder, the sense of unease deepened, but neither man faltered. They had faced worse before, and they would face worse again.
Finally, Aamon's voice crackled softly through the comms. "Found anything?"
"Not yet," Anundr replied, his tone as steady as ever. "But whatever this is, it's not natural."
Aamon frowned, his gaze shifting toward the source of the melody. "Keep looking. And don't let your guard down."
Somewhere in the shadows of the ship, something stirred.
Aamon and Anundr continued their search, the haunting melody still faintly echoing through the ship. Their steps were deliberate, their senses sharp, when they noticed a figure in the distance.
It was a man, unnaturally tall and thin, standing unnervingly still in the dimly lit corner of the hallway. His face was obscured by shadows, but his presence exuded an unnatural malice.
Aamon squinted, taking a cautious step forward. "You see that?"
"I see it," Anundr replied calmly, his hand resting lightly near his weapon.
The two rushed toward the figure, their movements swift and silent, but as they reached the spot, the figure was gone.
"Gone. Just like that," Aamon muttered, his voice flat but laced with irritation.
Anundr looked down the dark hallway, his expression unchanging. "We keep moving."
They continued down the corridor, their footsteps echoing in the silence. But as they turned a corner, the scene ahead was unsettlingly familiar—it was the same spot where they had started.
Aamon stopped, his eyes narrowing. "Déjà vu?"
"No," Anundr said firmly, scanning the area. "It's a loop."
They turned back to retrace their steps, but the result was the same. Every path led them back to the starting point, as if the ship itself was alive and toying with them.
"This isn't working," Aamon said bluntly, lighting another cigarette to steady his nerves. He exhaled a plume of smoke. "We're going deeper."
Anundr nodded without hesitation. "Lead the way."
Aamon created the shimmering surface beneath their feet, and both dove into the water-like realm that mirrored the ship's interior. The distorted reflections of the metal corridors passed by as they moved deeper, searching for the source of the problem.
But the realm was silent, empty. Not a single clue revealed itself, and the melody seemed distant, as if mocking their efforts.
"Nothing," Aamon said, his tone clipped. "Not even a trail."
Anundr's expression remained calm. "Then we go back. Something will show itself eventually."
As they emerged from the water realm back to the surface of the ship, Aamon's sharp eyes caught movement in the distance. Erin, the journalist, was on board, crouching near a stack of crates and taking photos of the eerie stillness of the employees.
Aamon frowned deeply, his irritation clear. "What the hell is she doing here?"
"Not our problem," Anundr said flatly, though his gaze lingered on her.
"She's a liability. Stay here. I'll deal with it." Aamon's tone was curt, his patience wearing thin.
He pulled Anundr into the water realm again, surfacing far from Erin's location to avoid revealing his ability. They emerged a safe distance away, but when they returned to Erin's last known spot, she was nowhere to be found.
Aamon's frown deepened. "She was right here. Where the hell did she go?"
Anundr glanced around, his demeanor calm but watchful. "Check again."
Aamon dropped back into the water realm, moving swiftly through the distorted corridors. But what he saw when he surfaced again stopped him cold.
Erin and Anundr were standing side by side—but neither could see or hear the other. Erin was frantically snapping photos of the area, her focus sharp but unaware of Anundr's presence. Anundr, meanwhile, stood still, scanning the area as if Erin didn't exist.
"What the…" Aamon muttered, his usually bland tone now tinged with unease. He dove back into the water realm, surfacing again near Anundr—but this time, Anundr was gone.
Panic flickered briefly across Aamon's face as he pieced it together. "We're being separated. Different realms. Same space."
The realization hit like a freight train. The ship wasn't just looping them—it was dividing them, isolating them in parallel realities where they could see the same place but not each other.
Aamon clenched his fists, his mind racing. If they lose themselves here, there's no guarantee they'll find each other again.
The melody grew louder, as if mocking him.
Aamon stared into the eerie silence, the faint music-box melody threading through the ship like a sinister whisper. His thoughts raced as the seriousness of their predicament became clearer. Yet, his demeanor remained unflinching.
"Well," Aamon said dryly, exhaling smoke. "Good thing I'm the perfect guy for this mess."
Without hesitation, he dove back into the water realm. This time, he surfaced near Anundr, who stood in his usual unbothered posture.
Aamon smirked to himself as the floor beneath Anundr began to shimmer and ripple like liquid. Before Anundr could react, the metal dissolved into water, and he sank abruptly.
"Seriously?" Anundr muttered, managing to suppress his surprise but glaring as he sank. "A little warning next time."
"No time for formalities," Aamon said, guiding Anundr deeper into the watery depths with calm precision.
As Aamon was about to pull Erin into the water realm to reunite them, she vanished from sight. His gut twisted. He surfaced again just in time to see her being dragged away by the unnaturally long, thin man.
"Dammit," Aamon muttered, his calm cracking just slightly.
From beneath the water, Aamon summoned his revolver. The weapon emerged, sleek and deadly, glinting in the dim light of the ship.
With practiced ease, he aimed at the creature's elongated leg and pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed like a thunderclap, the bullet piercing through the thin man's foot. Erin fell from its grasp with a startled cry, but Aamon acted swiftly.
Before she hit the ground, the surface beneath her turned to water, catching her mid-fall.
The long man's head snapped toward Aamon, its grotesque face twisting in rage. It began to lurch forward, but Aamon's revolver was already trained on its head.
"Not today." His voice was cold and steady as he fired. The bullet tore through its skull, and the creature crumpled like a broken marionette, its elongated limbs folding unnaturally beneath it.
Erin, now sinking gently in the water realm, screamed, her panic spiraling as she flailed. "What the hell is happening?! I—I'm drowning! Oh God, I can't—"
Her cries were cut off by a sharp shout.
"Shut up!" Anundr's voice boomed, firm and commanding, cutting through her hysteria like a knife.
Erin froze, her wide, terrified eyes locking onto Anundr as he floated nearby, his expression calm but with a flicker of annoyance.
"You're not drowning," he said bluntly. "So stop screaming. It's pointless."
Aamon surfaced beside her, his expression as unreadable as ever. "Relax. You're alive. For now."
Erin gawked at him, still trembling. "For now?! What the hell does that mean?!"
"It means," Aamon said flatly, "you're in way over your head. And now, thanks to you, we've got more cleanup to do."
"Start explaining, or I'm calling—"
"You're not calling anyone," Anundr interjected coolly. "Focus on staying calm, or you'll make this worse."
Aamon smirked faintly. "Yeah, listen to him. We've got bigger problems."
He glanced at the dead long man, its body slowly dissolving into a black, tar-like substance. "This is far from over."
The faint melody, now laced with discordant tones, echoed once more.
Erin clung to her camera, her face pale as she glanced nervously between Aamon and Anundr. Her voice trembled as she asked, "Where's that melody coming from? It's… wrong."
Aamon, still calm, exhaled a stream of smoke. "It's from one of their 'Boss.'"
Anundr's sharp voice cut through the tension, his tone unyielding. "Aamon, don't tell her too much."
"Relax," Aamon replied with a bland expression, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm just gonna erase her memory later."
Erin's eyes widened in panic, and she instinctively took a step back. "Erase my memory? You can't be serious!"
Aamon looked at her with an almost detached gaze. "It's for your own good. All of this? It'll mess you up. Give you paranoia. Trust me, you don't want that."
As Erin opened her mouth to protest, Anundr snapped, his voice loud and commanding. "Enough! Both of you, shut up!"
The melody grew louder, pulling them toward a specific cargo container. The sound twisted and echoed unnaturally, filling the air like a living entity.
Still submerged in Aamon's water realm, the three were pushed toward the cargo container. When they reached it, they hesitated. The melody was deafening now, yet when they peered inside, they saw… nothing.
Absolute nothingness filled the container. Not an object, not a figure—just an empty void.
"What the hell?" Anundr muttered, his usually composed demeanor faltering for a brief moment.
Aamon stared into the void, his brow furrowing. Something was off, but it took a moment for him to piece it together. Then, it clicked. "It's a separate realm," he said, his voice low. "We're not seeing it because we're still in here."
He turned to Erin. "Stay in the water. Don't move. It's safer for you in here."
Erin's panic deepened as she grabbed his arm. "Wait—don't leave me alone! I—"
But before she could finish, Aamon and Anundr had already surfaced, leaving her alone in the water realm.
When Aamon and Anundr emerged, they found themselves in a completely different setting. The cargo ship was no longer docked. Instead, it was adrift in the middle of a violent ocean storm. The wind howled, rain lashed down in sheets, and waves crashed against the ship, threatening to tear it apart.
"What the hell is this?" Anundr asked, his voice steady despite the chaos around them.
"Looks like we're not in Kansas anymore," Aamon replied dryly, squinting against the storm as he lit another cigarette, shielding it from the rain with his hand.
The ship creaked ominously, the storm seemingly alive, as if it were watching them.
Meanwhile, inside the water realm, Erin sat trembling. The distorted, liquid-like corridors were silent now, except for the faint, lingering melody. Her breathing quickened as she realized she couldn't see Aamon or Anundr anymore.
"Hello?" she called out, her voice echoing strangely in the watery void.
Her fingers gripped her camera tightly as her eyes darted around. She felt safe in the water, but the absence of the others made the silence unbearable.
"Get a grip, Erin," she muttered to herself, though her voice shook. "They said it's safer here. Just… stay calm."
The melody seemed to laugh at her, twisting and growing louder, though nothing in her surroundings changed.
Back on the surface, Aamon and Anundr trudged toward the cargo container, their steps heavy against the violently rocking ship.
"You think this is connected to the song?" Anundr asked, raising his voice over the storm.
"No doubt," Aamon replied, his revolver already in hand. His tone was sharper than usual, his usual bland demeanor replaced by a rare seriousness. "This isn't just some coincidence."
As they approached the container, lightning illuminated the deck, revealing something in the shadows—figures.
The long, thin man was there again, standing at the far end of the container, watching them with its unnatural stillness.
"Well, there's our problem," Aamon muttered, raising his revolver.
Anundr pulled his weapon, though his gaze stayed steady. "What's the plan?"
"Same as always," Aamon said simply. "We shoot it."
The storm roared, and the melody reached a fever pitch as the two prepared to face whatever horrors awaited them.
Aamon and Anundr stood amidst the growing pile of lifeless long, thin men, their ragged breathing mingling with the eerie silence. Aamon reloaded his revolver with methodical precision, his face a mask of calm. Anundr, however, tightened his grip on his shotgun, his casual demeanor unshaken.
"Well, that was... easy," Aamon muttered, his tone laced with disbelief.
"Too easy," Anundr replied, scanning the shadows ahead. His eyes narrowed as a faint creak echoed from the ship's interior.
Before either could make another move, more of the grotesque figures emerged, their tall, skeletal forms dragging unnaturally toward them.
"Alright," Aamon sighed, raising his revolver. "Guess we're not done."
Both of them opened fire, the deafening blasts lighting up the corridor like bursts of lightning. But no matter how many they took down, more appeared, their movements jerky and relentless.
"We need to move," Anundr barked, shoving one back with the butt of his shotgun before firing point-blank.
Aamon nodded, and without another word, they stormed deeper into the ship, their footsteps echoing through the metal halls.
The corridor seemed endless, the oppressive darkness swallowing their flashlight beams. Every step echoed unnaturally, as if the ship itself were alive and listening. The air grew heavier, carrying a metallic tang that clung to their throats.
"This place feels wrong," Aamon muttered, his voice unusually low.
"You don't say," Anundr replied dryly, his casual tone betraying the tension in his stance.
They continued forward, the hallway narrowing, the walls covered in what looked like rust but felt too organic when brushed against. The floor beneath them groaned with each step, a reminder of the ship's age—or perhaps its defiance of logic.
Faint whispers drifted through the air, indecipherable but persistent.
"You hearing that?" Aamon asked, his tone flat but with a slight edge.
"Don't acknowledge it," Anundr warned. "It's just trying to mess with us."
Suddenly, they reached a crossroad of corridors, each path identical in its bleakness. They paused, glancing at each other.
"Which way?" Aamon asked.
Anundr scanned the options, his jaw tightening. "Left. Always start left."
They moved cautiously, the atmosphere pressing down on them like a physical weight. The lights overhead flickered, their hum distorted and almost melodic, mirroring the haunting tune that had led them here.
The corridor ended abruptly at a large metal door, its surface marred with deep scratches. Aamon stepped forward, running his fingers over the gouges.
"Something strong did this," he noted, his tone even.
"Something pissed off," Anundr added.
They exchanged a glance, then Aamon pushed the door open.
The room beyond was cavernous, the walls lined with towering crates. A faint mist clung to the floor, swirling unnaturally around their boots. The oppressive silence was broken only by the occasional groan of the ship's structure.
"This place feels... abandoned," Aamon said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Abandoned doesn't mean empty," Anundr replied, his shotgun raised.
As they ventured further, a soft thud echoed behind them. They froze, their weapons at the ready.
"What was that?" Aamon asked, his tone still calm but his movements sharp.
"Something watching," Anundr replied, his eyes scanning the shadows.
The crates seemed to close in around them, the mist thickening. Shapes moved in their peripheral vision, always just out of reach.
"It's playing games," Aamon said, his voice firm.
"Then we play back," Anundr replied, his finger tightening on the trigger.
They pressed on, the atmosphere suffocating, each step a challenge against the mounting dread. As they rounded a corner, they found themselves back at the metal door.
Aamon stopped, his eyes narrowing. "We've been here before."
Anundr nodded. "It's looping us."
Aamon exhaled sharply, his usual composure cracking. "Great. Just what we needed—haunted geometry."
"We need to break the loop," Anundr said, his voice steady despite the tension.
"How?"
Anundr looked at him, his expression unreadable. "We find the source."
"And how do you suggest we do that?" Aamon asked, raising an eyebrow.
Anundr smirked faintly. "The hard way."
The two of them turned back toward the corridor, the oppressive darkness waiting to swallow them once again.
The ship was nothing short of a labyrinth, a place where every shadow seemed alive, and every sound crawled under your skin. It was silent, unnervingly so, except for the faint hum of something unseen—something waiting.
Aamon walked ahead, his stride casual, his demeanor indifferent, but Anundr noticed his movements tighten slightly, his hand hovering close to his sidearm. The air felt wrong, heavier with every step.
Just as Anundr was about to speak, a sudden force yanked Aamon away, as though an invisible hand had plucked him from existence.
"Aamon!" Anundr's voice was steady but sharp as his partner vanished into the darkness.
Aamon came to, sprawled across the grimy, cold tiles of what seemed to be a small bathroom. The stench of mildew and something far more putrid made his nose curl. Groaning, he pushed himself up.
"Of all places…" he muttered, brushing shards of porcelain off his coat. "A bathroom? Really?"
The flickering light above cast erratic shadows, making the cramped space feel even smaller. A sink sat crooked on one wall, its faucet sputtering water that refused to stop.
Annoyed, Aamon moved toward it. He twisted the handle, but the water only gushed harder, splashing his hand. Slowly, the water turned crimson, the metallic scent of blood filling the air.
"Great. Blood water," Aamon muttered. "What's next, haunted soap?"
As he leaned closer to inspect the faucet, something cold and wet clamped onto his wrist, yanking him violently. Aamon's body slammed into the mirror behind him with enough force to crack it. He slid down to the floor, coughing and clutching his side.
"Alright, that's enough of this crap," he growled.
But the unseen force wasn't done. The faucet's grip tightened, dragging him back and throwing him across the room. He hit the toilet, shattering it, shards slicing into his side. Blood trickled down his arm as he struggled to his knees, breathless but still defiant.
"Oh, you're not done yet?" he spat, wiping blood from his lip. "Fine, let's dance."
As he braced himself for another hit, the mirror shattered completely, and a shadowed figure began emerging from its fragmented surface.
Meanwhile, on another part of the ship, Anundr stalked the hallways, his posture steady, his steps deliberate. The sharp noise began subtly, a faint whine that slowly grew into a deafening screech. It clawed at his ears, threatening to unbalance him.
He paused, pulling a small photo from his coat pocket. The image was of a young boy holding a pair of earplugs. As he stared, the photo shifted unnaturally, the earplugs within the picture materializing into his hand.
"Neat trick," Anundr muttered, fitting the earplugs into place. The noise stopped instantly, leaving only the ship's low hum in its place. He let out a breath and smirked. "Didn't expect that, did you?"
The corridors were endless, each one identical to the last. Rusted metal walls seemed to sweat with condensation, and the air carried a sickly sweet stench that only grew stronger. Every so often, Anundr caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye, but when he turned, there was nothing there.
"Focus," he muttered to himself, his voice low and controlled. "Just the ship messing with you. Keep moving."
Back in the bathroom, Aamon was still dodging and weaving, his movements quick and calculated. The shadow figure, a formless mass of darkness, lunged at him again, its tendrils twisting through the air like a predatory serpent. It seemed almost to glide, its body writhing with an unnatural fluidity as it sought to ensnare him. Aamon's eyes were sharp, never losing focus, as he rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the attack. His hand moved instinctively to his sidearm, drawing the revolver.
"Alright, pal," he said, leveling the gun. "Let's see if you bleed like the rest."
The shot echoed through the bathroom, and the shadow recoiled, screeching in an inhuman pitch before vanishing into the cracked tiles. The faucet went silent, and the room stilled.
Aamon exhaled, rolling his shoulder as he stood. "That's what I thought. Stay dead this time."
But them in Come back from behine about to strike Aamon jump backward as Without hesitation, Aamon fired, the sharp crack of the revolver echoing in the confined space. The bullet tore through the air, striking the shadowy figure in what could only be its core. The creature dropped to one knee, a deafening shriek filling the room as it recoiled in pain. Its form flickered and wavered, as if struggling to maintain its shape, but it didn't falter for long.
The figure's anger erupted in a pulse of raw power, and before Aamon could even react, the shadow launched itself at him with terrifying speed. He had no time to brace himself. The force of the attack was so intense that Aamon felt his body leave the ground, the air forced from his lungs as he was thrown against the bathroom's walls. He slammed into the cold tiles with a sickening thud, the impact jarring through his bones.
He was tossed from one end of the cramped bathroom to the other, crashing into the toilets, his head striking the sharp edge of a broken mirror. Blood dripped down his forehead, his vision blurring. The light overhead flickered violently, casting long, jagged shadows across the chaos. The force of each blow was almost incomprehensible, each impact a sharp reminder of the fragility of the human body. Every time Aamon's body collided with the walls or the sink, it felt like his ribs would snap, his organs threatened to rupture.
The human body is not designed to withstand such violent forces. A single impact at high speed can shatter bones like glass, crush vital organs, and leave the nervous system in a state of shock, unable to send signals to the limbs. Aamon's spine felt as though it had been jarred loose, his mind swimming in a haze of pain as his muscles screamed in protest. His breathing became shallow, each inhale a struggle as he tried to regain some semblance of control.
But through the fog of agony, something in Aamon's mind snapped. He could feel the cold tiles beneath him, his body aching with every breath, but he refused to give in. He wasn't dead yet. Not yet.
The shadow, sensing his weakness, loomed over him, its form swelling like a storm cloud ready to strike. It moved closer, its tendrils slithering toward him like vipers, ready to finish what it had started. But Aamon, lying on the floor, still breathing, wasn't finished either.
As Aamon struggled to push himself off the floor, his vision swimming from the blood dripping down his face, his fingers instinctively moved for his revolver once more. He could barely grip the handle, but it was the only weapon he had. His mind screamed for him to keep fighting, to survive.
He raised the revolver, aiming shakily at the shadowy figure. The figure, however, was faster. Before Aamon could even squeeze the trigger, the shadow lashed out, snatching the revolver from his hand with an eerie, fluid motion. It flew from his grasp and hit the floor with a dull clatter. For a moment, it seemed to hover in mid-air before launching back at Aamon's hand, as if it had come from the water itself, the shadow twisting and warping with unnatural force.
Aamon's eyes narrowed, and he fired again. The shot missed wide, the bullet ricocheting off the wall as the figure slithered closer, a menacing hiss echoing from its depths.
Then, with a swift motion, the shadow twisted Aamon's right arm, bending it in an unnatural angle. A short, involuntary scream escaped Aamon's lips as pain exploded through his body. The crack of his bone breaking was sickening, echoing in the empty bathroom like a snapped twig underfoot. His arm felt as though it was being torn apart from the inside, the bones grinding together as if they had no place in his body.
The shadow didn't stop there. It seized his broken arm, forcing it into an even more grotesque angle before crushing the revolver in its shadowy grip. The once-pristine firearm was now nothing more than twisted metal and shattered components, rendered useless in seconds. The sound of the revolver being destroyed sent a surge of frustration through Aamon, but his face remained as cold and indifferent as ever. It was a simple thing: something destroyed, something lost. A moment of inconvenience.
But this time, the pressure in Aamon's chest was different. It wasn't just pain. The anger was building. Something had shifted within him, a quiet rage, like a dam about to break. His usual blandness, the calm exterior—something was cracking beneath it. He could feel it.
For a moment, he simply lay there, his face twisted in pain. His arm, shattered and useless, hung limply at his side. The shadowy figure was close now, towering over him, its tendrils ready to strike.
Aamon's eyes flickered with an almost imperceptible change. His voice, usually flat and unbothered, took on a sharp, steely edge. "Alright, enough of this." His tone was low, calculating. His anger was restrained but obvious, like a predator waiting to make its move.
The game had changed.
Aamon's eyes slowly fluttered open, the intense pain that had once consumed his body now dulling to a manageable ache. His right arm—once broken, twisted at an impossible angle—now seemed to heal before his very eyes. The bone, which had shattered so violently, was now whole again, the skin unmarked. Even the bruises and cuts that littered his body seemed to have faded, the damage rapidly repairing itself in a way that defied logic. Aamon blinked a few times, disoriented, his breath shallow. He pushed himself to his feet, the motion stiff but resolute.
He glanced around, his eyes catching the remains of the revolver. The shadowy figure was gone, its presence having dissipated like smoke in the wind. Aamon didn't care. It didn't matter anymore. He exhaled, shaking his head as if clearing away the remnants of pain. The shadow, the injuries—everything was a mere inconvenience. There were more pressing matters at hand.
Aamon wiped the blood from his face with a steady hand and then focused, as if mentally preparing for something. He tilted his head slightly, his expression still as bland as ever.
"Alright," Aamon began, his voice flat and factual, "I suppose it's time to explain."
He flexed his right arm, testing the strength of the newly healed bones. Satisfied, he began to speak, his words coming out slow and deliberate. It was clear now that he wasn't going to rush through this. If there was one thing Aamon had learned, it was that sometimes you had to explain things in detail, especially if it meant getting something you needed.
"That revolver you saw earlier," he continued, his tone now completely devoid of emotion, "is a Pfeifer Zeliska .900 Nitro Express revolver. It's a custom job—heavily modified. It costs $50,283, and each bullet is custom made cost $100." He glanced around, almost as if waiting for a response that never came. "You need a year and a half of registration just to own one. It's not a weapon people get easily. And that's not even the crazy part."
He paused for a moment, taking in a breath before continuing, his eyes focusing as if the information he was about to relay was vital.
"The revolver itself is designed with intricate patterns, a theme of flowers and green leaves, engraved into its metal. It's a work of art as much as it is a weapon, crafted for someone who demands more than just firepower. The barrel is strengthened to handle the immense pressure of the .900 Nitro Express rounds. The trigger mechanism is slick, almost responsive, and the recoil—it's like a punch to the shoulder that you can't really prepare for." He ran a hand over his face, clearly collecting his thoughts.
"It's designed for big game hunting, primarily, but the power behind it... it's not just about taking down animals. It's for people who want to bring something down that's out of their league—something that's supposed to be too big or too dangerous to kill. The force behind the bullet is enough to shatter bones and tear through flesh with ease. And let's just say... when you pull the trigger, you feel it. You'll feel the power in your chest."
Aamon let that sink in, his eyes staring at the shattered remnants of his revolver on the ground. He wasn't talking just for the sake of it. Every word had a weight to it.
"But here's where it gets interesting." Aamon's demeanor shifted slightly, his voice taking on a more matter-of-fact tone. "The Pfeifer Zeliska .600 Nitro Express revolver is its predecessor. It's still an absolute beast of a weapon, but compared to the .900 Nitro Express, it's like comparing a hammer to a wrecking ball."
He tilted his head again, his mind clearly shifting into a more technical mode as he continued.
"The .600 Nitro Express packs a hell of a punch, to put it simply. It has a muzzle velocity around 2,100 feet per second, and a bullet capable of punching through solid bone and armor. It's a popular choice for those hunting the largest and most dangerous game. The recoil, though, is savage. A novice shooter wouldn't stand a chance with it—they'd break their wrist or worse."
Aamon looked down at the wreckage of the revolver once again before raising his gaze. "But the .900 Nitro Express? That's an entirely different level. The .600 Nitro was already capable of taking down creatures over a thousand pounds, but the .900 Nitro Express will bring down something even bigger, faster, and harder than before. The bullet's mass and velocity make it not only lethal on contact but capable of blowing through multiple layers of armor, just by sheer force."
He let the silence settle in for a moment, as if letting the technical details hang in the air.
"The logic behind the .900 Nitro Express is simple. More power equals more devastation. The engineering is designed to handle a higher pressure, using a specially reinforced barrel that can withstand even greater heat and force without warping. It has a specially designed recoil system that helps mitigate the savage kickback, though even with that, it's still a weapon you need to respect. If you don't, it'll tear you apart."
Aamon took a moment, almost as if savoring the weight of his words.
"Anyone who thinks they can handle a weapon like that without understanding it... well, they're just setting themselves up for failure. The .900 Nitro is an evolution—everything about it is stronger, faster, more efficient. And the power it gives you isn't something you just 'point and shoot.' It's a tool, but you need the right hands to wield it."
He let out a soft breath, almost indifferent, before adding, "That's why it's destroyed now. You won't see it in action anymore. That kind of power isn't meant to be wasted."
Aamon rose to his feet, his demeanor unchanged. He looked down at his outstretched hand, his fingers curling into a tight fist before extending his index finger straight ahead. His movement was almost childlike, like a kid pretending to be a cowboy with a finger gun, but there was an eerie confidence behind it. A single droplet of water appeared at the tip of his finger. It shimmered for a moment, reflecting the dim light around them before something strange happened. The water began to glow, a soft, ethereal light pulsing from it as though it were alive, reacting to Aamon's will.
He didn't look at the figure before him, instead speaking in that flat, almost uninterested tone. "This move... will kill you. I promise."
The water hovered, suspended in the air like a threat. Then, with a slight motion, Aamon flicked his finger, sending the drop of water hurtling toward the shadowy figure.
"Light travels at about 299,792,458 meters per second in a vacuum," Aamon began, speaking as if explaining something trivial, his voice unwavering. "That's fast. Really fast. But this—" He paused, watching the drop begin to pulse and shimmer even more intensely as it gathered speed. "This is twice the speed of light. That's about 599,584,916 meters per second. It's the speed at which this drop will travel, and it's faster than anything you can comprehend. The force behind it, well… let's just say you won't have time to blink."
The shadowy figure, still writhing, had no time to react. Aamon continued, his gaze fixed on the approaching projectile, now a glowing mass of condensed water.
"When this hits, no matter where, the force will be equivalent to over 1,000 megatons of TNT." His eyes never wavered, the explanation calm and detached. "For reference, 1,000 megatons of TNT is an unfathomable amount of energy. The largest nuclear bomb ever detonated, Tsar Bomba, was 50 megatons. This? A thousand times that. It would obliterate entire cities with ease. The shockwave would level everything within miles, turning the landscape into nothing but rubble. In short, it's not just powerful. It's... extinction-level."
The water shimmered brighter now, as though it was ready to tear through reality itself.
"The force behind that much TNT would create a blast that could devastate a whole country. Imagine the devastation of 1,000 Tsar Bombas—each one a symbol of the raw, destructive power humanity can unleash. The explosion would not only annihilate all matter within range, but it would also send a shockwave through the atmosphere, causing fires, earthquakes, and devastating the environment beyond recognition."
Aamon took another step back, his gaze now focused solely on the target in front of him. He could feel the tension build, the reality of what he was about to do settling in. "I don't like using this move. It's too much. Too powerful. Too... final. If I used this on Earth, well, it would be the end of the planet itself. Millions, no, billions would be wiped out, just like that." His voice grew quieter for a moment, the weight of his words almost making it feel like he was talking to himself. "But this isn't Earth, is it? No, this is something else entirely. A cargo ship, in the middle of the sea. In the dead of night. In a different realm. Not my world, not your world—this place is something else entirely."
He aimed carefully, then pulled his finger back as though releasing a bowstring, launching the water with incredible force. The drop of glowing water shot forward, leaving a faint, rippling trail behind it, disappearing in an instant. Its velocity was unmeasurable, like a streak of light across the void, carrying with it the weight of destruction.
As the water closed in on the shadowy figure, the air itself seemed to distort in its wake. The shadow didn't have time to react, not even to dodge. The energy from the water was so immense that it warped the air, creating a crackling sound as it tore through the atmosphere.
The scientific logic of it all was simple but devastating. When a particle moves faster than the speed of light, the laws of physics themselves are bent, and the energy released upon impact is far greater than anything conventional weapons could muster. The drop of water would strike with the combined force of an explosion so massive, it would tear through the shadow's form like paper.
The moment the water made contact, the sound of the impact was like the world shattering. A deafening wave of energy radiated outward, and the entire area seemed to distort, the space around them warping as the shockwave expanded. The figure was hit with the force of an explosion ten times greater than any bomb humanity could ever conceive. The force wasn't just physical—it was a shockwave of pure energy, rippling through everything in its path.
The shadowy figure, once relentless, was vaporized in an instant, its form dissipating like mist in the wind. The light from the water remained for a split second before fading into the air, leaving only the lingering silence in its wake. Aamon lowered his hand, his face unchanged, as if he had just done something mundane. He glanced at the space where the figure had been moments before, then back at his hand.
"See?" he said, his voice once again flat. "Told you."