Near the entrance to the combs, Brandon skips ahead, lighting the way as he always does. He glances back to make sure Gideon is still following.
"Everything's gonna be okay, Gideon. Right?"
Gideon only nods, continuing forward.
Man… he's really messed up. Maybe I should stop being so hyper.
The combs swallow them again.
Brandon keeps moving, breathing in the semi-toxic fumes leaking from broken pipes, stepping around discarded scraps of people's lives—until he hears it.
Gideon stops.
"G-Gid? You okay back there, bud?"
A beat.
"Go. Now. To the den. Don't come out until I say."
Brandon tenses, processes it—and runs.
He barely hears Gideon's bag hit the ground before he dives into the den, scrambling to the far corner, breath refusing to steady.
He knows that look.
He knows that tone.
Then—
The creak of a door.
Slow. Familiar.
The one they came through the first time.
Brandon goes pale—paler than usual.
His arms wrap around himself, hands gripping tight at his elbows.
What's Gideon gonna do? He can't defend himself. I should help him—
Crunch.
Brandon freezes.
"Aye, the buff one's over here!"
Footsteps.
Too many footsteps.
They're gonna kill him. He can't handle ten guys…
But Brandon doesn't move.
He sits there, rigid in the dark.
Crunch.
Another step closer.
Then—
Squish.
Whimper.
Slam.
A storm of sounds erupts from outside.
Brandon stares at his hands.
I-I…
"Please… mercy. The boss didn't mention that you—YOU—"
R-riiip.
Squelch.
Brandon gags, his body trembling—not from hopelessness, but from something colder.
"Brandon. You good?"
Silence.
Then movement.
With shaking legs, Brandon crawls out of the den.
The smell hits him first.
Not just the lingering metallic scent.
Violence.
"Gideon?" His voice cracks. "Where are you? Can I make a light now? I'm—I'm scared."
"Didn't I tell you…" Gideon's voice cuts through the dark, low and sharp.
"…to stay in the fucking den."
A hand lands on Brandon's shoulder.
Brandon squeaks. "I couldn't! You were getting hurt and—"
"I'm. Not. Hurt."
A pause.
Then, quieter—
"Not anymore."
Brandon goes still.
Something drips onto his shoulder.
The fire inside him flickers—then dims.
Too thick.
Too warm.
…Wet.