The heavy brass deadbolt snapped back with a noise that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.
Mac stood frozen in the center of his living room, his broken right arm pinned uselessly to his side, the heavy black clipboard gripped tightly in his left hand. The microwave clock behind him, out of sight, continued its silent, bloody countdown.
The front door slowly swung inward on its hinges.
It didn't reveal the flickering fluorescent lights of the apartment building hallway. Instead, the doorway opened into a swirling, impenetrable void of thick, grey fog—the exact same fog that lined the Uncharted Variant of Highway 81.
A sharp, freezing draft rolled over the threshold, bringing with it the smell of ozone and old paper.
A figure stepped out of the fog and into Mac's living room.
It was a man. He was tall, thin, and impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the sickly yellow light of the apartment. His pale grey skin stretched tightly over sharp cheekbones. His hair was slicked back, perfect and immovable. Covering his eyes was a pair of highly polished, silver-mirrored aviator sunglasses.
It was the man who had dragged Elias into the dark.
The man paused on the cheap floral welcome mat. He meticulously wiped the soles of his immaculate black leather dress shoes, looking around the dilapidated living room with an expression of mild distaste.
Then, his head snapped toward Mac.
Mac didn't move. He kept his gaze locked on the bridge of the man's nose.
Squelch.
The entity tethered to Mac's back shifted. For the first time, the wet, rhythmic breathing hitched. The freezing air on the back of Mac's neck suddenly felt less like a threat and more like a terrified animal trying to make itself small.
"Operator Vance," the man in the suit said smoothly. His voice was the exact same corporate baritone that had spoken over the truck radio and the rotary phone. "I am the Regional Director for this dimensional sector. I apologize for the intrusion during your final evaluation."
Mac swallowed the blood in his mouth. "The manifest stated I have no supervisor."
"An administrative oversight," the Director replied seamlessly, taking a slow, measured step onto the worn living room carpet. "We are currently experiencing a surge in unauthorized attachments. I see you are suffering from one right now."
The Director raised a long, pale finger, pointing directly over Mac's shoulder.
"Don't," the entity behind Mac whimpered. The layered, watery voices were stripped of their malicious glee, replaced by sheer, raw panic. "Please, Maclin. Don't tell him I'm here. He'll put me back in the box. It burns in the box."
Mac's heart hammered against his ribs. The pain in his broken wrist was a blinding, rhythmic throb that threatened to pull him under, but the psychological trap forming in front of him was far more dangerous.
"You are injured, Operator," the Director noted, his mirrored glasses reflecting Mac's pale, sweat-drenched face. "A fractured radius. Elevated heart rate. The entity attached to your dorsal sphere is actively draining your core temperature. This is a severe OSHA violation."
The Director took another step closer. He was now only five feet away.
"As management, I am authorized to intervene," the Director said, his tone dripping with practiced, corporate empathy. "Crimson Cross values its employees. We do not expect you to endure an unsanctioned parasite. All you have to do is turn around. Acknowledge the hazard, and I will terminate it. You will be free to finish your shift in peace."
The entity on Mac's back began to weep. It was a horrific, wet sound, like a drowning child. The cold chest pressed harder against Mac's spine, a desperate, clinging embrace.
"I was an Operator too," the thing sobbed into his right ear. "I missed the third pull. Please. If you turn around, I die."
Mac's mind spun.
The Director was offering him an out. A loophole. If management was overriding the evaluation, maybe it was a legitimate rescue. But the single rule burned vividly in his mind. Do not acknowledge the person standing behind you.
Was the Director real management, or was he just another manifestation of the Audit?
"I am currently undergoing Shift 3/3," Mac stated, forcing his voice to project through the living room, clinging desperately to his corporate persona. "My domain is secure. There are no hazards present."
The Director's polite smile vanished, replaced by a thin, cruel line.
"Do not be insubordinate, Operator Vance," the Director warned, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating the floorboards. "I am giving you a direct order. Turn. Around."
"I am following the printed manifest," Mac replied, his voice shaking.
The Director let out an irritated sigh. "If you will not turn to look at it, then look at me."
The man in the black suit closed the remaining distance in a blur of impossible speed. He stopped inches from Mac's face. The Director was so close Mac could smell his breath—dry, hot, and smelling of sterile bleach, a violent contrast to the rotting stench on his back.
The Director leaned down slightly, bringing his face level with Mac's.
"Look at me, Maclin," the Director commanded softly.
Mac kept his eyes open, staring directly at the man.
And then, he realized the trap.
The silver-mirrored lenses of the Director's aviator sunglasses were perfectly polished. They acted as twin, curved mirrors.
In the reflection of the right lens, Mac saw his own terrified face. But directly behind his reflection, looming over his shoulder, he saw it.
It wasn't Elias. It wasn't his mother.
It was a towering, misshapen mass of wet, grey flesh, stitched together with dark, rotting veins. It had far too many joints, its limbs folding in on themselves like a crushed spider. Where a face should have been, there was only a gaping, vertical slit lined with what looked like hundreds of shattered human teeth, actively weeping black water onto Mac's collar.
The visual confirmation hit Mac's brain like a physical blow.
He had seen it. If he held the gaze for even a microsecond longer, his brain would process the horror, his face would react, and he would break the rule.
Mac violently slammed his eyes shut.
He threw his chin down, burying it into his chest, entirely blinding himself to the Director and the reflections.
"My domain is secure," Mac screamed into the darkness, his voice cracking with sheer, unadulterated terror. "There is no hazard! I am alone in this room!"
The silence that followed was agonizing.
Mac stood perfectly rigid, sandwiched between the hot, dry presence of the Director in front of him and the freezing, wet mass of the entity clinging to his back. He waited for the Director's hands to grab him. He waited for the jaws behind him to unhinge and bite through his neck.
Instead, he heard a dry, hollow chuckle.
"Exceptional compliance," the Director murmured. The voice sounded distorted now, losing its human edge, turning metallic and grinding. "But the audit is not over, Operator. Three hours is a very long time in the dark."
Mac felt the hot presence in front of him slowly recede.
He heard the heavy, leather soles of the dress shoes walk backward across the carpet.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The front door creaked on its hinges, followed by the heavy, definitive SLAM of the wood meeting the frame. The brass deadbolt mechanically clicked shut on its own.
The freezing draft vanished.
Mac slowly, cautiously opened his eyes, keeping his gaze locked firmly on the carpet between his boots.
The living room was empty. The fog was gone. The Director had vanished.
But the wet, rhythmic breathing on his neck remained.
In... out. In... out.
"That was close, Maclin," the guttural voice whispered, the terrified weeping completely gone, replaced once again by the sickening, malicious glee. "You almost looked at me. I would have liked that."
Mac didn't answer. He couldn't. His body was pushed to the absolute breaking point. His broken wrist was swelling so badly his fingers felt numb. He swayed on his feet, pure exhaustion threatening to drop him to his knees.
He slowly lifted his left hand, angling the black clipboard so he could read his watch without moving his head.
The digital face glowed.
01:45:00
He still had an hour and forty-five minutes left.
And the entity behind him was getting heavy.
Mac felt a sudden, crushing weight bear down on his shoulders. It felt like a hundred-pound sack of wet sand had been draped over his back. His knees buckled slightly under the pressure.
"I'm tired, Maclin," the voice gurgled happily, the wet chin resting heavily on Mac's right shoulder. "Let's go sit down."
The entity didn't just want him to stand there anymore. It was going to force him to move.