I didn't know how long had passed when the heavy door finally creaked open.
The instant it moved, a deafening shriek tore through my skull — not a scream from a single person, but a cacophony of countless voices. Women, animals, children… all wailing, fleeing, howling in terror.
I felt hands strip the rifle from my fingers. My backpack was yanked from my shoulders.
A voice followed, calm and gleeful.
"Soldier… I didn't mean to hurt you. But you were just… unlucky. This place, this chamber of wrath, is exactly what I needed. I won't change it. I'll make it stronger."
It was Cain Mercer.
"If you go back and report this place, I may never find another nexus like this in my lifetime. So forgive me—this is farewell. Your death will only enrich the energy here. I won't fear starvation anymore."
"Oh right," he added, laughing. "Almost forgot. I'm what they call a Wrath-Eater."
I didn't know what that meant. But these so-called "practitioners" always had their cryptic titles, their bloated sense of importance. Cain was no exception — mystical nonsense and self-righteous arrogance rolled into one.
Cain squatted beside me, reaching for my ammo clip.
My eyes snapped open. I seized his wrist and slammed my forehead into his face. He staggered back with a grunt, and I surged to my feet.
He fumbled for the gun, but with only one arm, he couldn't even find the trigger.
I kicked his jaw—hard. He dropped again with a groan.
Without hesitating, I drove my combat knife into the gory mess of his severed shoulder.
"ARGH!" he shrieked.
"You…" he gasped.
"Me?" I said coldly. "I'm Falcon." I yanked the blade free, then stabbed him again.
Screams. Blood. Silence.
As I stood up, I realized I wasn't alone.
They had returned — the figures of smoke and shadow, gathering in the hallway, silent, watching. Dozens of them, spectral and faceless, just standing there… five or six yards away.
I glanced down at Cain. He was pale, trembling, barely breathing.
"Why… why aren't you corrupted by the Wrath?" he croaked.
"Corrupted?" I replied. "That crap? That was just hallucination. A mind trick. You think because I felt cold, it was real? You think I saw them crawl into my chest, and that meant they were inside me? Please."
"They're real," he hissed. "They are the Wrath… What are you, really?"
"I'm a soldier," I said. "Nothing more. Maybe it's electromagnetic fields, maybe psychic suggestion. Maybe this place is cursed. Call it what you want. Doesn't matter to me."
"No. No… you're one of us. You're a Wrath-Eater too!"
"Get up," I said, ignoring him. "Don't make me leave your body here."
Cain slowly rose to his feet, and I yanked the rifle out of his trembling hand.
"You people love your damn labels," I muttered.
"You don't understand," he insisted. "You might not even know it yourself, but your body absorbs Wrath… one day it'll consume you."
I hit him in the stomach with the rifle butt. "Walk. And shut up."
"Please… Falcon… did you suffer as a child?"
"I was fine."
"Were you ever betrayed? Maimed? Lost a finger? A toe?"
"Shut the hell up."
He walked ahead in silence. The shadows on the ceiling began to retreat. The mist thinned. They weren't brave enough to pass between us. They pulled back and merged into the ceiling once more.
Then Cain turned around to look at me.
I slammed the rifle butt into his jaw. "Did I say you could turn around?"
He collapsed to the ground, bleeding from his mouth.
"Ha… ha…" he laughed bitterly, blood staining his white teeth.
"You like that?" I asked.
Before he could answer, I smashed him in the mouth again. He dropped like a rock and lay there unmoving.
I waited.
Twenty minutes passed before he stirred.
"Up," I ordered.
He nodded and rose like a zombie.
You might ask — if I already had him, why didn't I just leave?
Because I needed to see it. The place where the "Faceless" had died. I remembered Crane's mentor saying they were taken somewhere and executed. Not just shot. Burned.
I knew their strength. It would take more than bullets to subdue them. They must've been herded somewhere they couldn't fight back — a slaughterhouse.
We passed through more blast doors. The same eerie black chalices sat on the ground; each time, I shattered them with bullets.
Cain's hand-drawn seals, symbols, marked many of the walls — I tore them down one by one.
The mist above us grew heavier.
Finally, we reached the last iron door.
It opened into a vast chamber.
I scanned with my flashlight. In the center was a drained concrete pool — wide, empty, coated with black sludge. It smelled of old fire and rot.
"Move," I said.
We circled the basin. Around the edges, I saw claw marks. Deep, hundreds of them — as if steel rods had been dragged across the walls in desperation.
I looked up and saw rusted iron mesh suspended above.
It made sense.
They trapped them here. Dozens. Hundreds. Dumped them into the pit, dropped the iron net, and opened fire from above. Then the fire. Burned them until nothing was left.
This pool was the Wrath's womb.
Cain spoke again, solemnly.
"This is the wellspring… the heart of the Wrath. This pit became a local Wrath gate — bound within, feeding outward."
I didn't answer. My flashlight caught the four corners of the pool — each marked with a dark ceramic pillar, nearly buried in dust.
"Move," I said again.
We approached one.
Cain whispered, "These are wrath-lock urns."
I raised my rifle. Four shots. Each one shattered its target.
We circled once more. Nothing else stood out.
I turned to Cain. "I've seen enough. Let's go. I won't kill you. My mission is to protect you."
His eyes lit up for a second — then dimmed.
"But don't push me," I added. "I'd still love to."
"No, Falcon… I understand. But listen to me. You're not a Wrath-Eater. I was wrong. You're a Wrath-Seeker. Being a soldier… isn't your destiny."
I shoved him forward. "Keep walking."
We emerged back into daylight. I tore down the last of his charms on the way out.
The sun was high.
I tossed him some gauze.
"Wrap that."
"We don't use that," he replied,
I rolled my eyes, took out some powder, applied it myself, and tied his arm with clean bandages.
He looked at me. "Thank you… Falcon."
"Take off your clothes."
"What?"
"You heard me."
He hesitated, then obeyed. Shirt. Undershirt. Gone.
I tied his ankles and wrist to a sycamore tree behind us.
Then turned to leave.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To find Crane," I said without looking back. "My job is to protect both of you."
"I hope you do."
I said nothing.
"Falcon… were you really no scare?"
I froze.
Then kept walking — straight toward the storm drain. Toward whatever remained of Dr. Harold Crane.