Vernon burst back into the room like a man hunted.
The door slammed against the wall — plaster dust drifting down — then thudded shut behind him.
His chest heaved once, twice, suit jacket hanging crooked now, one sleeve torn at the seam from where he'd brushed too close to jagged metal in the corridor.
Ira was already on her feet beside the bed, bare soles planted on the filthy sheet, black dress twisted and clinging, one strap fallen off her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, glassy with leftover terror. The inhuman scream still echoed in her skull, layered beneath the monster boys' savage whoops and laughter that had leaked through the thin walls like poison gas.
She took one look at Vernon's face.
Vernon locked the door behind him — knuckles white, chest heaving.
"You have to go with me."
Ira's voice came small, cracked. "Where?"
"Outside. With me. We're leaving this place."
"I'm not going anywhere." Her voice shook but held. "I have work to complete."
Vernon's jaw flexed so hard the muscle jumped under stubble.
"Shut up."
He lunged.
One iron palm clamped over her mouth — hard, callused, tasting faintly of gun oil and copper. Her muffled cry vibrated against his skin. His other arm banded her waist, yanking her off her feet. She kicked once — useless — heels drumming air — then went rigid as he hauled her toward the door.
He didn't go through the main corridor.
Too many eyes. Too much blood still wet on the floor.
He dragged her sideways instead — down a narrow service passage reeking of mildew and old piss, past rusted pipes weeping condensation, past a half-open utility room where stained mattresses were stacked like corpses.
Ira twisted, nails digging into his forearm, trying to pry his hand off her mouth. Her muffled protests sounded like trapped birds.
"Quiet," he hissed against her ear, breath hot.
They slipped into a disused storage room — shelves collapsed, broken crates spilling yellowed papers and empty liquor bottles. A single high window let in gray light. Vernon kicked the door shut behind them, released her mouth but kept his arm locked around her ribs.
She sucked air, coughing once.
He leaned toward the door — ear pressed to the splintered wood — listening.
Boots. Laughter. Voices drifting closer.
"—still leaking like a fucking fountain—"
"—should've filmed it—"
Ira's eyes darted to the opposite wall. Through the grimy, cracked window she saw movement — dark figures moving low among the trees. Wearing an outfit of The One Night Grave.
She knew that man, he brought her here.
Instinct took her before thought.
Ira's eyes lit with desperate hope.
She wrenched her face free.
"Help!"
The scream tore out — raw, piercing.
Vernon's head whipped around.
He slapped her instinctively, to keep her calm—before he even realized what he was doing .
Ira's head snapped sideways so hard her neck twisted with an audible pop. Strands of dark hair lashed across her face like whips. The red handprint erupted instantly—five perfect, searing fingers branded into pale skin, edges already swelling, the crimson stark and obscene against the her soft skin.
Breath coming in tiny, broken hitches that sounded like glass cracking inside her chest.
Vernon's mind went blank—then he reached again, fast, desperate.
Both palms clamped around the sides of her face, thumbs digging into her jawline— wrenching her head back toward him, forcing her stunned eyes to meet his.
The print stared back at him—cruelly symmetrical, throbbing with her pulse.
Her lower lip started bleeding, eyes teary from pain.
Vernon's breath punched out of him.
Guilt hit like a sledgehammer to the sternum—hot, nauseating, stealing the air from his lungs.
His eyes fractured—something raw and irreparable splitting open behind them.
The Krossvale voices outside—
"Who's that?" Lucas's drawl, lazy and dangerous.
Boots thundered closer.
Heavy. Purposeful. Voices snarling.
No time.
Vernon spun, ripped open the tall metal locker—door screeching on warped hinges—and shoved her inside. She stumbled forward, knees buckling, shoulder slamming into a row of moth-eaten coats that reeked of mildew and old blood. Rusted tools clattered around her ankles.
Vernon folded himself in after her—broad shoulders scraping steel, chest crushing against her back—then yanked the door shut with a dull metallic clang. Only a hairline sliver of gray light remained.
Darkness pressed in.
Her spine molded to his front; his heartbeat slammed against her ear—frantic, erratic, like something caged and bleeding.
Her cheek throbbed in time with it—hot, swollen, the skin pulled tight and screaming.
His cologne wrapped around her—sharp cedar, smoke.
Outside, voices sliced through the crack.
"Thought I heard a bitch scream—"
"Check every fucking room. Now."
Doors slammed.
Boots scraped concrete like knives being sharpened.
A crate exploded under a kick—wood splintering.
Inside the locker, Vernon's arms tightened around her—almost convulsive—one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair as if he could shield her from the sound of his own guilt still ringing in the dark.
She didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Footsteps approached.
Slow. Deliberate.
Kai's polished shoes—soft Italian leather—scraped once, twice, then paused directly in front of the locker.
Vernon stopped breathing.
The sound of those steps alone was enough—measured, unhurried, the way a predator circles before the kill. Each one landed like a hammer on Vernon's ribs, cracking something fragile inside his chest. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning Ira's small, terrified exhales against his sternum.
Kai stopped.
Silence stretched—thick, suffocating.
Vernon could picture it perfectly: Kai standing there, head tilted slightly, obsidian eyes narrowed, gloved fingers probably resting lightly on the dented metal door. Close enough that Vernon smelled the faint trace of his cologne through the crack—cool, expensive, edged with smoke.
Seconds dragged into eternity.
Vernon's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. One wrong sound—one stifled sob from Ira—and it would end here. In this rusted box. With Kai's calm voice ordering the door torn open.
Then—
A soft exhale. Almost amused.
Kai's shoe shifted—once—turning away.
The footsteps retreated—unhurried, fading down the corridor like retreating thunder.
Gone.
To be continued...