The petals felt so fragile beneath his fingers that Seojun instinctively pulled his arm back, afraid they might crumble at the slightest pressure. Delicate petals drifted down, settling on the dirty chair seat below. When he rubbed his hands together, a fine dusting of pollen clung to his palms.
"Don't say it like that, Dennis." Brown's voice had an edge to it now. "You're making it sound like Luciel threw a tantrum, demanding we hit both sites in one night."
St. Montgomery Hospital was the kind of place you weren’t sure was forgotten or just flat-out abandoned. Not that the distinction mattered much. Without anyone to patch its leaks or pull its weeds, the building was losing its fight against time, same as any other.
The sky was the color of a fresh bruise. Clouds churned overhead, dark and swollen, racing across the horizon as if chasing one another. The air felt humid enough to grab by the handful.
The strangest part was Seojun’s first thought when he saw the Factory Manager’s skull caved in: a flicker of regret that he’d brought pepper spray instead of salt water.
Seojun’s sincere proposal died a quick death, shot down by a snort from McCullan before the words had even finished leaving his mouth.
“Not a chance in hell. You want me to tangle with that crazy bastard and his knife? Forget it.”
The sudden beam of light hit his eye like an act of violence. After cowering in total darkness for so long, the brightness pierced through Seojun’s closed eyelid, sending sharp pain straight to his skull.
The silence that followed was heavier than the cold creeping into their bones. Seojun rubbed his arms, a useless gesture against the goosebumps crawling up his skin. The chill wasn’t from the air—it was the memory of that freezer, of being locked inside with the dark pressing in.
Seojun’s stomach plummeted. He bit down hard on his tongue, swallowing the scream rising his throat. The sharp sting was familiar; he’d bitten the same spot again, and it hurt like hell. But it worked. His fear escaped as nothing more than a quiet, choked gasp.
“If I have to deal with this crap again, I’ll stop being a person. From now on, I’m Cynthia’s guinea pig! Bobby’s dog! No, screw that! I’m a stray dog now. A mutt with zero rights and emotional damage!"
“Aaaaah! Gyaaaa! Holy—!”
Three voices twisted together—shriek, choke, gasp—into a single ragged wail.
In the trembling cone of their flashlights, the pig-masked figure doubled over. Not in pain. In laughter. A wet, wheezing sound that bubbled up like he was drowning in his own lungs. The cleaver dangled from a meaty fist, each hacking laugh flicking fresh, warm drops across the concrete.
“W-What are you talking about?”
Luciel’s voice broke halfway through the question. She tried to stand straighter, tried to look confident, but her voice gave her away. And it wasn’t because of the cold this time.