The black slab kept closing.
It didn't hesitate because his hip was in the way. It didn't care about bone. It cared about cycle.
Mark felt the edge bite the bulge at his belt—stiff board and chalk rig—trying to pinch cloth and turn the doorway into a stone jaw. The black plates beside the frame swallowed the last chalk smear as if consuming a one-time permission. The bolts clicked faster, a tight rattling that sounded like teeth.
He didn't fight it with hands.
Hands were failing.
Blisters and torn skin made grip unreliable. The left palm was split open, raw and wet where the collar chain had bitten. The right palm was wrapped in damp cloth and leather, swollen around a puncture that flared when he tightened fingers.
He used weight.
He slammed his hip into the door edge again, hard, using bone and body mass instead of grip. The impact stabbed the cracked rib where the stiff board pressed under belt wrap. Breath hitched. The drain tightened.
He forced motion through it.
Inhale—one.
Exhale—one.
The slab continued closing.
He shoved his shoulder through the narrowing gap, keeping shoulders square to spare rib twist, letting hips do the rotation. The falchion stayed low in his right hand, blade angled down so it wouldn't catch on the frame. The thick handle was easier than a sword hilt, but his palm still threatened to slip.
The slab kissed his back, then bit at cloth again.
He shoved.
The gap narrowed to fingers.
A final hip shove.
The door sealed with a heavy click that vibrated in teeth.
Bolts seated.
Then a deeper sound—a sliding bar—locked.
Brick.
He didn't turn to test it. Turning was time. Time could become calm in a corridor that swallowed echo.
He moved.
The corridor on this side was colder, air moving in faint drafts through grates that breathed like lungs. Shutters above gave thin slits of light in irregular intervals, making the floor appear in strips and disappear again. The walls were thicker here, ribs closer, as if the building wanted the space to feel narrower than it was.
Narrow could feel like cover.
Cover could feel like safety.
Safety killed.
Mark kept his left hand on the wall seam when he could—palm flat, fingers spread—sliding along cold grooves. The torn skin burned at contact, but the wall was truth.
Heel. Heel. Heel.
Inhale—two steps.
Exhale—two.
Latch stumbled ahead, injured knee dragging slightly despite the crude compression wrap. His ankle chain shortened stride. His collar ring pulled him forward. His head turned late now more often than early, pain stealing his fear-sensor precision. His breathing was wet and ragged.
Mark kept the collar chain taut enough to keep him upright and moving. Not a choke. A guide line. A catch line. The chain was wrapped once around Mark's left wrist to reduce reliance on fingers, because fingers were failing.
The ear ringing was worse now—sharper, persistent—needle thread in the skull that narrowed detail and made every quiet corridor feel like it was shrinking.
He made noise on purpose.
A short rasp of falchion flat against stone at a corner.
Lifted again.
Not a ring that would call a swarm.
A proof for his own nervous system: danger is present.
Behind them, soft footfalls reattached, then withdrew, then reattached again—professionals keeping distance, letting corridors and doors do their work. They didn't need to touch him now that the door system could.
Mark refused to be solved by distance.
He kept moving, keeping them close enough to be threat and far enough not to offer easy refills.
The corridor ahead widened into a junction where three black plates sat beside three doors, each door cycling in staggered intervals—click, click, click—like a set of mouths breathing at different rates. He didn't stop to study patterns. Studying was time. Time was stillness. Stillness killed.
He chose the corridor that smelled less clean.
Oil and leather and human sweat.
People smell meant bodies, and bodies meant the curse would not misread emptiness as safety as easily.
He pushed Latch into that corridor and followed.
—
The first net came before the voices.
It wasn't thrown like a desperate cast. It was released.
A weighted mesh slipped out of a side recess and fell across the corridor at knee height, not to cover his head, to steal steps. The weights at its edge were small, dense, designed to seat against shins and ankles and pull.
Mark saw it in a light strip and felt it in air movement.
He didn't jump.
Jumping lifted the compromised leg and exposed the back-of-knee bite line.
He slid.
Flat foot.
Center low.
He stepped into the net's fall line and drove the falchion down, not chopping through mesh at random—weights mattered. If he cut only rope, the weights would still drag and seat.
He chopped the weight cord where it met mesh, one clean chop.
The falchion's single edge did work even with imperfect angle.
The weight dropped.
The net sagged unevenly, losing its clean seat.
Mark stepped through the sag, pulling Latch by collar chain tension to keep him from walking into the mesh.
Latch didn't see the net in time. Pain and fear made his vision narrow. He would have stepped into it and been pinned.
Mark dragged him past it without stopping.
A voice spoke then, clipped, calm.
"Net."
Another voice answered.
"Clamp."
No shouting. No warning. Commands as machinery.
A second net didn't fall from above. It slid from the floor.
A low cast skated across stone, aimed to wrap ankles. The caster stayed out of sight behind a rib recess, using the corridor itself as cover. Professional.
Mark heard the whisper of mesh on stone before he saw it.
He stepped onto it.
Not into it.
Onto it.
He planted his good foot on the mesh and used it as friction to keep it from sliding under his compromised foot. The mesh bit into his boot sole. The weights tugged. The tug tried to roll his ankle.
He dropped center lower, refusing to let the tug become a topple.
Topple meant stillness.
Stillness meant drain.
He chopped the mesh where it met the weight cord again, severing the anchor. The weight skittered away.
His right palm wrap slipped on the falchion handle under the chop's shock. He tightened fingers. Pain flared through the puncture wound and blister edges. Breath hitched. The drain tightened.
He forced motion through it.
Inhale—one.
Exhale—one.
Then back to two.
Inhale—two.
Exhale—two.
Latch stumbled behind him as the ankle chain caught a loose weight cord. The rattle was loud in the corridor. Loudness was dangerous because it gave position away. Loudness was also pressure. Pressure kept breath open.
Mark used it.
He didn't silence Latch. He pulled him forward.
The corridor ahead brightened briefly as a shutter slit opened overhead, and the full unit revealed itself for a heartbeat.
Four netters in leather and cloth, faces partially wrapped, each carrying coiled mesh. Two clamp men behind them—short, heavy tools in hand, shaped like jaws with leather padding, meant to seat on forearm or thigh and lock. And behind them, one figure who wasn't holding a net or a clamp.
A healer.
Not in robes. Not dramatic.
Leather satchel across the chest, small vials strapped tight, white cloth rolls at the belt, a thin metal instrument in hand like a stylus or needle, and a band of pale fabric tied around the upper arm to mark function.
He didn't shout. He watched.
His eyes weren't on Mark's face.
They were on the hands of his own people, on where nets seated, on where clamps might bite, on where blood would appear.
He was the safety net.
He existed to prevent Mark's refills from turning captures into losses.
Mark's lungs eased a fraction because danger was close and clear. The drain backed off by degree.
He didn't let easing become relief.
Relief was poison.
KillSurge made the rule simple in action: remove the thing that restores their function.
Healer first.
Not for ideology.
For mechanics.
A net flew high now, aimed at Mark's shoulders and head to blind and slow. The net's purpose wasn't to hold him forever. It was to force him to use hands and lose grip while the clamp men advanced.
Mark couldn't afford to be wrapped. His hands were failing. Wrapped hands meant grip lost. Grip lost meant falchion dropped. Dropped falchion meant holds.
He stepped forward into the net's fall line and chopped upward through the mesh just below the top weights, severing two weight cords quickly. The falchion's weight made the chop decisive. The net sagged and slid past his shoulder rather than draping his face.
The mesh still brushed his forearm.
Heat-damaged skin stung.
He ignored it.
He moved.
He didn't back away from the netters. Backing created distance. Distance invited the professionals behind to withdraw into silence and let the drain climb if the unit ahead held position. He needed pressure. He needed it controlled. He needed it now.
He pushed through the netters in a shallow diagonal, not straight. Straight lines were how nets seated.
A netter stepped into his path and cast low again, aiming for the compromised knee.
Mark felt the loop approaching the back-of-knee line and refused lift. He slid the foot flat and used the falchion's spine to pin the mesh against the floor for a fraction, then stepped over the pinned line.
Pinned line became slack line.
Slack line did not seat.
The netter yanked.
The yanking pulled the mesh out from under the falchion and made it snap against Mark's shin. The snap jolted his leg. The bite line behind the knee pulled hot.
Pain tried to steal breath.
He forced it through.
Inhale—two.
Exhale—two.
The clamp men were closer now.
One clamp jaw opened as he advanced, leather padding visible, designed to seat around forearm and lock, turning an arm into a lever point.
Mark's left arm was already compromised—burned forearm under bandage, unstable shoulder. A clamp on that arm would end him. It would stop his ability to use wall contact and collar chain control, and it would make the door system ahead irrelevant because he would be held in place.
He refused the clamp by denying its approach line.
He stepped inside the clamp man's space, close enough that the clamp jaws couldn't open fully without hitting Mark's torso. Close range ruined tool arcs.
The clamp man adjusted without panic. He didn't try to swing the clamp like a club. He turned it sideways and attempted to seat it on Mark's thigh.
Thigh clamp would stop steps.
Stop steps meant stillness.
Stillness meant drain.
Mark chopped the clamp arm.
Not the metal jaw.
The wrist holding it.
A tight downward chop that didn't require perfect edge alignment.
The falchion bit the forearm near wrist bone.
Blood appeared.
The clamp tool dropped.
The clamp man staggered.
Mark didn't finish him yet.
He needed the healer.
The healer had stepped back half a pace, calm, already reaching into the satchel with one hand. Not to fight Mark. To fight Mark's refills. To keep his people standing.
Mark made the decision quickly because decision windows were shrinking. He didn't indulge the thought of "cleaner" methods.
He used the corridor.
He used nets and bodies as stepping stones.
He drove forward toward the healer.
A net fell across his path, thrown by a netter trying to deny his line.
Mark didn't cut it fully. Cutting net fully was time and hand stress.
He chopped one weight cord to make it sag, then stepped onto the sagging mesh with his good foot, using it as a brief platform. The mesh held for a heartbeat. The weights dragged at his boot. His knee dipped slightly under unstable footing.
He transferred weight quickly and used that elevated half-step to clear a clamp man's shoulder line without needing a long stride from the compromised leg.
The movement put him within arm's length of the healer.
The healer's eyes went to Mark's hands, then to the falchion, then to the torn palms.
He didn't flinch.
He reached into the satchel and drew a small vial.
Not thrown like a weapon.
Used like a tool.
Mark saw the vial's purpose without needing lore: it was meant to restore a downed man or prevent a downed man from dying. It was meant to deny Mark a refill and keep the unit functional.
Mark ended him first.
He drove the falchion point into the healer's throat line in a tight forward thrust, not a wide chop that would risk slipping grip. The falchion's tip wasn't a needle, but in close range with a heavy blade it didn't need finesse.
Steel met flesh.
Blood spilled.
The healer's vial dropped and shattered on stone with a soft glass crack.
The healer collapsed.
Heat slammed through Mark.
Refill.
Breath opened full.
Tremor vanished.
The cracked rib stayed cracked.
The compromised knee stayed bent.
The palms stayed torn.
The ear ringing stayed needle-sharp.
But alignment returned for a window.
The window mattered more now because he had removed the unit's safety net.
The remaining netters reacted—not with panic, with procedure.
A voice snapped, clipped.
"Down."
Another answered.
"Clamp him."
They didn't say "healer."
They didn't need to. The healer was already still.
Mark didn't stand over the body. Standing over a kill was stillness. Stillness would become calm for a breath if the unit pulled back, and calm would invite drain even with bodies present, because the corridor's controlled rhythm could be misread.
He moved immediately.
He kicked the healer's satchel aside, not looting it, denying its contents to other hands. The satchel slid into a corner, leather scraping.
He shifted focus to the clamp.
The clamp men were the next function multipliers. Nets slowed. Clamps stopped.
Stops killed.
A net flew again, higher, aimed to blind and drag the falchion arm.
Mark used the chain.
The chain wrapped on his left forearm was small enough to swing. Metal on metal would ring, but ringing was pressure and pressure kept breath open. He swung the chain in a tight arc and caught the net mid-air, snagging mesh and weights for a fraction. The net's fall line shifted, landing on the floor instead of over his shoulders.
The chain burned his torn skin where it touched. Heat and friction together. Pain flared bright.
He didn't stop.
The clamp man advanced and opened jaws at Mark's forearm height.
Mark stepped inside range again, refusing the clamp's full arc, and chopped the clamp man's elbow crease instead of wrist. An elbow cut made the arm fail even if grip stayed.
The falchion bit into leather and tendon.
The arm went slack.
The clamp jaws closed on nothing.
The clamp tool dropped.
The clamp man backed away a half step, recalculating.
Professionals recalculated.
They didn't flail.
A netter tried to seize that moment and cast low at Mark's feet.
The mesh skated across stone, aiming to wrap both ankles at once and turn his next step into a fall.
Mark used chalk.
He tore a chalk stick from the rig with his teeth and snapped it, grinding dust between his right fingers while still holding the falchion. The dust stuck to sweat and blood on the damp palm wrap, making paste.
He threw the paste at the floor in a shallow fan where the net skated.
Chalk on stone made it slick in a controlled patch. The net slid farther than intended, overshooting his ankles and skittering into the wall seam, catching on a rib and tangling itself uselessly.
The netter yanked and the net didn't respond cleanly.
Fraction.
Mark used the fraction to close distance and chop the netter's wrist line.
Blood.
The net rope went slack.
The netter fell back.
No refill.
Not dead.
Mark didn't chase.
He kept moving because he could feel the other hazard: the corridor's doors.
Black plates were embedded in the walls even here, spaced along ribs, watching. The bolt clicking he'd heard earlier returned now, closer, as if the corridor was preparing to cycle a door behind the unit.
The door system didn't care whether the net unit succeeded. It would seal regardless. It would try to brick corridors, forcing Mark into boxes.
The net unit's job was to slow him until bricks seated.
Mark refused by staying mobile.
He made the unit chase him forward, not back. Back was where bricks had already seated. Forward was unknown.
Unknown was dangerous.
Danger helped the curse read the moment correctly.
A clamp man lunged in close, abandoning careful approach. He tried to seat the clamp on Mark's thigh again, using the tool sideways like a jaw to bite cloth and muscle.
Mark rotated hips without twisting ribs and let the clamp catch the stiff board bulge at his belt instead—wood and cloth—rather than flesh.
The clamp jaws bit into belt wrap.
The clamp began to close.
If it closed fully on the belt wrap, it would snag the board and chalk rig and turn his waist into an anchor. Anchor meant stop.
Stop meant drain.
Mark felt the clamp teeth seat and the pull begin.
His breath hitched.
The drain tightened.
He ended the clamp now, not later.
He chopped down with the falchion, not at the clamp jaws, at the clamp man's hand holding the handle.
The falchion's weight did the work.
Fingers severed.
The clamp handle dropped.
The clamp jaws stayed biting cloth for a fraction.
Mark ripped himself free by stepping forward, using his weight to tear cloth rather than fighting the clamp with hands.
The rip stabbed the cracked rib as the board shifted under belt wrap.
Pain flashed.
He didn't stop.
He pulled Latch by collar chain tension, forcing him forward too.
Latch stumbled, injured knee screaming. The cloth wrap around his knee darkened further with blood. His face was gray with pain.
Mark half-dragged him, not fully lifting, taking enough weight to prevent a collapse.
Behind them, the net unit's formation broke. Without the healer, wounded men stayed wounded. Cuts didn't become recoverable. Panic still didn't arrive—they were professionals—but their options narrowed. They couldn't trade bodies as freely if bodies didn't return.
Mark had changed the dynamic.
He didn't have time to congratulate himself. He had time only to use the change.
He used the change by denying the clamp men their clean seat.
He kept moving.
Inhale—two.
Exhale—two.
The corridor ahead narrowed into another door frame. A black seal door was visible in a thin shutter slit, bolts clicking in a fast cycle. The door was open a handspan and closing.
A mouth.
Mark didn't stop to study the cycle.
He shoved Latch toward it.
Latch hesitated at the moving slab, fear freezing joints.
Freeze was stillness.
Stillness killed.
Mark yanked the collar chain and shoved him bodily through.
Latch stumbled through the handspan as the door began to close.
Mark followed, falchion low, hips twisting without rib twist to slip belt bulge through.
The door kissed his back and then sealed.
Bolts seated.
Then a deeper bar sound.
Brick.
The net unit's footfalls hit the door on the other side and stopped.
They couldn't pass without chalk or authority.
Mark had stolen the chalk kit, but he didn't have infinite permission.
He had opened one door earlier with a chalk smear and another with a stencil. He could not assume every door would listen.
He moved away from the newly bricked door, taking advantage of the brief separation. Separation was dangerous because it could create quiet. Quiet could trigger drain. But the corridor ahead wasn't quiet. Bolts clicked. Shutters shifted. The building stayed active.
Active systems could still feel like calm if no bodies were near.
Mark kept bodies near by bringing Latch with him and by making sound cues: a single clink of chain on rib seam, a short rasp of falchion flat against stone.
Latch's breathing stayed wet and loud. Pain kept him from becoming calm. Pain also threatened to drop him.
Mark kept him upright.
The corridor ahead opened into a small maintenance pocket where air moved through a vent grate. Cool draft pulled smoke residue away. The draft felt clean enough to be tempting.
Temptation was poison.
The drain tested it by tightening under sternum.
Mark refused by making the pocket loud.
He kicked a loose metal ring into the vent grate so it clattered.
Clatter.
A harsh sound that would travel through the vent and force attention.
He didn't linger.
He used the pocket only as a breath reset for Latch and then moved on.
Latch's knee buckled once in the pocket, pain making his leg fail. Mark caught him by collar chain and shoved shoulder into his torso, taking more weight without fully lifting. Full lifts torqued ribs. Ribs were cracked.
He moved in shove-support.
The ear ringing remained needle-sharp, layered under all sounds. It made the corridor feel narrower than it was. He ignored it by trusting wall seam and heel counts.
Heel. Heel. Heel.
Inhale—two.
Exhale—two.
The chapter of nets and clamps had ended in one simple truth that the body would remember even if the mind refused to speak it aloud:
Some enemies were not meant to be fought last.
Some were meant to be removed first because they erased consequences.
Healer first.
Always.
Because without the healer, wounds stayed wounds. Without the healer, refills remained decisive. Without the healer, the fortress couldn't afford to trade bodies as freely.
Mark kept moving deeper into Black corridors with a falchion heavy in his damaged right hand, a chain biting his torn left wrist, a chalk kit bruising his ribs, and a limping, bleeding guide on a collar ring whose pain had become a second clock.
Behind him, the bricked door clicked once more—final confirmation—and the corridor ahead began clicking too, as another set of bolts started cycling, promising that the next fight wouldn't be nets and clamps alone.
It would be whatever the building chose to add next, now that its safety net was gone.