Monti stumbled through the smoke-filled hallway on the second floor, coughing, his eyes streaming. He'd tried going up the main stairwell to reach Kínitos, but the heat had driven him back. Now he was trying the service corridors, searching for another way up.
"Kínitos!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "KÍNITOS!"
No response. Just the roar of flames and the groan of the building settling.He rounded a corner and froze. A group of zombies stood in the hallway ahead—five of them, maybe six.
They weren't moving. Just standing there, swaying slightly, their dead eyes staring at nothing.
Waiting.
Monti activated his suit, red light flaring. Purple smoke began to leak from his body. He inhaled it, feeling his muscles surge with power. The zombies didn't react. Didn't attack. Just… waited.
That was wrong. The zombies had been aggressive before, violent, driven by whatever force animated them to kill anything living.
But these ones just stood there. Like soldiers awaiting orders.
Monti took a cautious step forward.
The zombies' heads turned in unison, tracking his movement. But they didn't attack.
"What the hell…" Monti muttered.
Footsteps echoed behind the group of zombies. Slow. Measured. The click of expensive shoes on debris-covered floor.
The zombies parted, moving aside in perfect synchronization.
And the man in white walked through.
Up close, he was even more terrifying. The white suit was pristine—not a spot of blood, not a trace of ash, despite the carnage he'd walked through. The white mask covering his face was smooth and featureless except for two eye holes, dark and empty.
He moved with absolute confidence, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the destruction like a museum curator examining art.
Beside him, Widow floated, her feet not quite touching the ground. Her long black dress flowed around her as if underwater. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the firelight, and her blue eyes—those horrible glowing blue eyes—fixed on Monti with cold interest.
The man in white stopped about fifteen feet away.
For a long moment, he just looked at Monti. Studying him. Assessing.
Then he tilted his head slightly, a gesture that was almost curious.
When he spoke, his voice was muffled by the mask but still clear. Calm. Almost gentle.
"Red suit. Interesting." He took a step closer. "You're not one of theirs. Not Saint Patro. Not local."
Monti didn't respond. His hands clenched into fists, purple smoke thickening around him.
"And yet," the man in white continued, "you're here. In their building. On the night of their deal." Another step. "That suggests purpose. Organization." Said the masked man
Widow drifted closer, circling Monti like a shark. Her glowing eyes never blinked.
"Who do you work for?" the man in white asked.
Monti's jaw tightened. "Fuck you."
The man in white chuckled—a soft, dry sound. "Loyalty. Admirable." He gestured casually to the zombies. "But unnecessary."
The zombies moved.
Not attacking. Not yet.
Just closing in, forming a tighter circle around Monti.
"I'm going to ask you one more time," the man in white said, his voice still perfectly calm.
"Who. Do you work for?"
Monti inhaled more purple smoke, his body swelling with power. "I said. Fuck. You."
The man in white sighed. "Pity."
He raised one gloved hand.
The zombies charged.
Monti exploded forward, purple smoke trailing behind him. His enhanced strength let him move faster than human eyes could track. He grabbed the nearest zombie and threw it through the wall, the body crashing through drywall like it was paper.
The second zombie lunged at him. Monti caught its arm and twisted, snapping bone, then drove his fist through its chest. His hand came out the other side, covered in black blood.
"He's cute in the face," said Widow
"Well when he dies he'll be a loyal poppet," replied the man in white
But the zombie kept moving, grabbing at him with its remaining arm. Headshots. Only headshots stop them. Monti ripped his arm free and grabbed the zombie's head, squeezing. The skull cracked under the pressure, brain matter oozing between his fingers.
The zombie finally went still. Three more were on him now, moving with that horrible burst of speed. Monti activated his strength fully, purple smoke pouring from his body. He became a whirlwind of violence, breaking bones, crushing skulls, tearing through the dead with raw power.
But there were too many. For every one he put down, another rose from somewhere in the building, drawn by the sounds of combat.
And through it all, the man in white just watched. Standing perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, like he was observing an experiment.
Widow floated beside him, her expression unreadable. Monti destroyed another zombie, then another. His suit was covered in black blood now, his breathing ragged despite the enhanced stamina.
"Impressive," the man in white said. "But ultimately futile."
He took a step forward. Just one step.
And Monti felt it. A presence. A weight. Like gravity itself had increased around the man in white, pressing down on everything nearby.
The air felt wrong.
The man in white raised his hand again—not toward Monti, but toward one of the bodies he'd just killed. Placed his gloved fingers on the crushed skull. Purple light flickered beneath his hand—different from Monti's red, different from the purple of Kínitos's suit.
This was darker. Corrupted. Wrong. The zombie's eyes snapped open. Its skull was destroyed. Brain matter leaked from the cracks. By all rights, it should be permanently dead. But it stood up anyway.
And turned toward Monti.
"You see," the man in white said conversationally, "I don't just raise the dead. I control them. Even your little headshot trick only works… until I decide it doesn't."
Every zombie Monti had killed—every single one—began to twitch.
To move.
To stand.
Monti backed away, his heart pounding. "What the fuck are you?"
The man in white tilted his head again, that curious gesture.
"I'm the one who's going to kill everyone you care about," he said simply. "Starting with whoever sent you here."
Widow's eyes flashed brighter.
And every zombie in the hallway charged at once.