The pink dust glittered mockingly in Leo's flashlight beam. The new skill, Sense Contamination, wasn't just a notification; it was a feeling, a crawl on his skin like a thousand tiny insects. He could feel the wrongness of this place. The lavender-and-burnt-sugar scent wasn't just a smell—it was a weapon. His Wisdom stat provided the context: a soporific agent. A calmative. Designed to make prey drowsy, compliant, and easy to drag into the crystalline web that coated the door's mechanisms.
This was the Night-Stalker's work. Subtle. Insidious. It wasn't a mindless brute; it was a trapper, a hunter that seasoned its food with terror and then paralyzed it with false comfort.
Time remaining: 48 MINUTES.
Panic tried to claw its way up his throat, but he beat it down. Panic was a luxury he couldn't afford. He needed to get through this door, and he couldn't touch it.
His eyes scanned the area. There were no water coolers, no convenient cables. Just concrete, pipes, and his own limited inventory. The web wasn't physical chitin; it was solidified malice. How do you clean malice?
He thought back to the Puppeteer, to the moment he had blasted the foul influence from the corpse-puppet.
He raised his hand, palm out, aiming at the glittering pink dust. "This is a hazard." He focused his intent, not just on the physical substance, but on the cloying, mind-numbing influence it exuded. He poured his will into the skill. "[Scrub Clean]!"
A pulse of brilliant blue light, brighter than before, washed over the dust. The sweet smell vanished instantly, replaced by the clean, sharp scent of ozone. The dust didn't disappear, but it lost its glitter, turning into a dull, inert gray powder.
[Supernatural contaminant neutralized. +10 XP.]
Good. Now for the door. The crystalline webbing was thicker here than on the Stalk-Weaver's nest. He knew from experience it was incredibly tough. But he also knew it was a supernatural construct. And he was the world's most supernaturally gifted janitor.
He focused on the crystal-coated hinge. "[Scrub Clean]."
A flicker of blue light. The crystal dimmed slightly, its inner shimmer fading, but it held firm. Not strong enough. The skill was Level 1. It was meant for minor grime. This was a major infestation. He needed a more abrasive approach.
He looked at his inventory. He had a vial of [Corpse-Guzzler Slime], two bottles of [Skitterer Acid], and… a plan. A messy, dangerous, but wonderfully janitorial plan.
He opened one of the acid bottles. He didn't throw it. He carefully poured a small amount of the sizzling green fluid onto the flat top of his steel-toed boot. Then, he uncorked the slime vial and drizzled a single, viscous drop into the puddle of acid.
The two substances reacted violently. The acid began to break down the complex proteins in the slime, causing the mixture to bubble and steam. It transformed into a thick, vaporous, hyper-corrosive gel.
[You have created: Unstable Catalytic Adhesive.]
[Item will decay in 60 seconds.]
Using his rebar crowbar as an applicator, he scooped up a glob of the fuming gel. He carefully reached out and smeared it onto the crystalline web covering the door handle.
The effect was instantaneous. The crystal, which was resistant to pure acid, had no defense against this bizarre chemical cocktail. The gel adhered to it and began eating it away, not with a sizzle, but with a horrifying, silent decay. The crystalline structure unraveled like wet sugar, turning into a foul-smelling gray sludge that dripped to the floor.
In seconds, a path was cleared around the handle.
Leo didn't waste a moment. He grabbed the handle, twisted, and threw his shoulder into the heavy steel door. It swung inward, revealing the ground floor of Mercy General Hospital.
He stepped inside, and the full weight of what had happened here hit him.
The emergency room was a snapshot of the world's last normal minute. A gurney was overturned, an IV bag still swinging gently from its stand. Papers were scattered across the reception desk, covering a half-eaten sandwich. The air was stale, thick with the smell of dried blood and disinfectant. There were bodies—staff and patients alike—some slumped in waiting-room chairs, others twisted on the floor, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and terror.
But there were no monsters. Not anymore. The initial wave had done its work and moved on, or been cleared out. Now, it was just a tomb. The quiet was more terrifying than the screams.
Time remaining: 42 MINUTES.
He couldn't afford to be paralyzed by the horror. He needed to find the stairs to the West Wing. In a place this large, he could waste all his remaining time just trying to find the right stairwell. He needed a map.
His eyes, now trained to see the systems behind the chaos, found what he was looking for: a small plastic frame on the wall near the reception desk, obscured by a fallen plant. A fire-evacuation map.
He strode over, his boots crunching on shattered glass, and studied it. The layout was a complex maze of wards and departments. He located his position and then found his destination: "Stairwell C – West Wing." It was on the other side of the lobby, past the main elevators.
He was about to move when his flashlight beam caught something else on the reception desk, pinned under a clipboard. It was a child's drawing, done in crayon. A wobbly stick figure with dark hair held the hand of another stick figure with a doctor's coat and a bright yellow halo. It was signed, "To my big sister Sarah." A drawing he had mailed her last year from his nephew, a piece of home she kept at her work station. A knot formed in his throat.
The sight broke through his hardened exterior for just a moment, a painful reminder of the real person, the real life, that existed beyond the mission. He carefully folded the drawing and tucked it into his pocket. A talisman. A reason.
He shook his head, forcing the emotion back down. He checked the map one more time, then turned toward the main lobby. He moved with a new urgency, a ghost gliding through a gallery of the dead.
As he reached the double doors leading to Stairwell C, a sound echoed from within the concrete shaft. It was a rhythmic, dragging scrape. And it was coming down.
Something was between him and his goal.