The third breakout didn't happen on its own like the first two.
It was forced.
The Horned figure and the Shackled girl didn't simply step through an opening in space—they ripped it open, tearing through the veil between worlds as if it were paper, rending reality apart in their search for Angelo.
And with them… came nightmares.
Creatures that knew nothing of reason or restraint. Beings forged from hate and hunger, born only to kill and destroy. The moment the veil tore, the world felt it. A crushing pressure rippled across the globe like a death knell. Skies dimmed. Birds fell silent. Cities trembled beneath a dread no one could name.
Even the scattered remnants of the earlier creatures—the ones still roaming the earth—felt it. A presence far greater than anything they expected to exist here. And like beaten dogs recognizing the return of their master, they bowed in loyalty… and in fear.
The horned figure and the girl stepped through first. Their army followed—twisted forms, armored wraiths, things that slithered through their own shadows. Once the last had crossed, the torn gate snapped shut, trapping the nightmare firmly inside this world.
They didn't know what Angelo looked like.
But they could feel him.
So the horned figure and the girl stayed behind… and their army marched. Drawn to the echo of his existence—his presence—they moved with purpose. A silent, inevitable tide leaving behind broken bodies and burning ground.
Inside Fort Blackspear, the suffocating pressure had eased, but not enough. Others felt it like a whisper crawling down their spine. Angelo felt it like a hand around his throat.
In his room, he was fastening his boots when General Pierce stormed in, jaw clenched tight.
"Where do you think you're going?" the General demanded.
Angelo didn't look up. "They're coming here. I can feel them. I have to go—before they get any closer."
Pierce stepped forward. "You're planning on running?"
Angelo kept packing, voice steady. "Yes."
The word made Pierce's blood boil, but before he could explode, Angelo added, "They're after me. If I go the other way, they'll follow. That gives everyone here a chance to escape."
Pierce froze.
It wasn't cowardice. It was bait.
He exhaled slowly, the fight draining out of him. "What if they don't change course? What if they attack the base even after you leave?"
The question struck Angelo like lightning.
He stopped. Turned. Met the General's eyes.
Pierce tried to hide the fear in his own, but couldn't.
Angelo swallowed hard. "That's why everyone needs to leave. Now. Head opposite of me."
Pierce's voice rose, desperation bleeding through the cracks. "We can't just put our tails between our legs and run. We need to fight back. You've got your crazy powers—you could take them on!"
Angelo snapped—hurling his bag to the floor.
"There is no way you stand a chance against what's coming!!"
Pierce didn't back down. He grabbed Angelo by the collar, fury shaking through his grip. "That's why I'm asking for your fucking help, boy!"
Angelo saw it clearly now—the spark of false hope burning behind the General's eyes.
Without a word, he pulled out the knife at his side and sliced across his left palm.
Blood spilled freely.
Pierce recoiled. "Why the hell would you do that!?"
Angelo lifted his hand, letting the blood drip onto the floor.
"Do you see it now? It's not healing."
He lowered the wounded hand, clenching it with his right. "My powers aren't working either."
Pierce's eyes widened. His face drained of color.
Angelo's voice softened, stripped of its usual strength. "I'm useless. Just deadweight."
The room went quiet.
Then, after a long breath, Angelo continued, "Whatever came through that gate… it's stronger than anything we've fought. I don't think I could beat them even at full strength. And now? I'm not even in the fight."
Pierce didn't argue anymore.
Angelo picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.
"You need to start evacuation. Head southeast. They're approaching from the west. I'll move north—draw them away."
Pierce stood silent for a long time. Finally, he stepped back, muttering under his breath:
"God help us all."
He turned and left.
"Lieutenant Hale, you're with me," he barked as he passed the corridor where Hale and Grant stood.
Grant approached Angelo slowly. "What the hell was that? I don't think I've ever seen the General like that."
Angelo glanced down at his still-bleeding hand. "The truth always stings."
Grant folded his arms. "You really think this'll work?"
Angelo nodded once. "It has to."
Hale followed Pierce into his office. Once inside, the General moved to a locker tucked in the corner and yanked it open.
"That kid's lost his damn mind," he muttered, voice low with concern rather than anger. "He's going to get himself killed if he walks out there unprepared and alone."
He pulled out a large black bag and shoved it into Hale's hands.
"I'm sending you and one other with him. Keep an eye on him—and report everything back to me."
A tired sigh escaped him. "Give him this. Clothes, basic tools, supplies. That dumbass was about to head out in a torn-up jacket. And wrap up his hand—he's still bleeding."
Hale gave a small, knowing smile. "Yes, sir."
She headed back toward Angelo's room. When she stepped inside, he was still mid-conversation with Grant. Without announcing herself, she took Angelo's injured hand and began wrapping it with practiced gentleness.
"He sent you to patch me up?" Angelo asked.
"And to make sure you don't die like an idiot out there," she replied, handing him the bag. "The General might be more attached to you than he lets on."
Angelo opened it and pulled out a few neatly folded shirts, jackets, and pants—standard camo, clean and ready.
"Nice," he said, already peeling off his torn jacket. "Attached to me, huh? By the way he treats me, it feels more like I owe him money."
All three of them chuckled—brief, fragile relief amid the rising chaos outside.
But as Angelo lifted his shirt to change, Hale and Grant both went still.
The mark on his back.
Cracked.
Grant's expression shifted immediately. "Hey… has your mark always had those cracks?"
Angelo froze. "What?"
He snatched a small hand mirror from the table, angling it over his shoulder. His eyes widened.
Fractured lines ran through the mark—thin, jagged, branching like splintered glass beneath the skin.
"What the hell…?" he whispered. "Where did all these cracks come from?"