(A/N: A tad shorter then I wanted but I honestly just didn't want this chapter to end on a high note)
The stairwell groaned beneath Mason's boots as he descended, each step louder than he wanted it to be. Dust hung in the air, glittering faintly in the thin light spilling from the second floor. Cheshire barked again from somewhere outside, but Mason couldn't turn back. Not now.
He reached the bottom and paused at the corner. The smell hit him before the sight did thick and unmistakable. It rolled up from the kitchen like a fog, heavy enough to make his stomach twist. He tightened his grip on the pistol and peeked around the doorframe.
What he saw stopped him cold.
Eight figures moved in the dim light filtering through the open kitchen door. Their shapes were familiar the way one limped, the way another's head tilted when she walked. The smallest of them stumbled and bumped into a chair, letting out a soft, broken moan that Mason had heard a hundred times before, though never like this.
Miss Anne was the closest; her white apron still tied around her waist, though now it was streaked with dark stains. Her once-kind eyes were dull and grey; her lips torn as she shuffled toward the sound of his footsteps.
Mason's throat closed. His hand trembled so hard the barrel of his gun shook.
"No…" His voice broke. "No, no, no."
He stumbled back a step, hitting the wall behind him. His breath came fast, shallow. The gun felt heavy, in is hand. The world tilted, spinning between what was real and what should have been real.
Miss Anne the woman who'd raised him, who'd scolded him for sneaking out after dark, who'd hugged him tight the day he left to live on his own, she was gone. And yet, she was standing right there, reaching for him with bloodied hands.
Behind her were the kids. Seven of them. Each one etched into his memory like family. Tyrese, who used to sneak cookies from the kitchen when he thought Miss Anne wasn't looking. Little Naomi, who always carried that stuffed bear with the missing ear. Even quiet Leon, who barely spoke but always smiled when Mason brought home scraps of candy.
They were all here. All gone.
Mason's legs gave out, and he slid down the wall to the floor, his gun clattering beside him. His chest heaved, and for a moment, the air wouldn't come. His vision blurred with tears he hadn't even felt coming.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. He wanted to wake up.
Instead, he sat there, shaking, staring at the only family he'd ever known as they shuffled closer, their soft moans filling the kitchen like a twisted lullaby.
Miss Anne reached the threshold first. Her fingers brushed the fabric of his sleeve, slow and searching. Mason didn't move. Part of him wanted to let her, to let her take him, end it there. What was the point of fighting anymore? Everything he'd been holding onto, everything that had kept him alive, it was all lying dead before him.
He closed his eyes. For a second, he was thirteen again, standing in the kitchen doorway while Miss Anne stirred soup on the stove. The kids' laughter filled the room, bouncing off the tiled walls. The smell of bread baking filled the air. It was warm, safe, home.
Her voice carried over the noise, gentle but firm: "You look after them, Mason. Promise me that."
The memory cut through him like glass.
He opened his eyes, and what stood before him was no longer Miss Anne. Just a corpse wearing her face.
The gun was back in his hand before he even realised it.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. His voice cracked. "I'm so damn sorry."
He fired once.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. Miss Anne's body dropped where she stood, still as stone. The others froze for half a second, then turned toward the noise; their moans rising into a collective wail.
Mason's tears streaked down his cheeks as he steadied his aim. Each face that emerged from the dim light tore another piece of him away. Tyrese stumbled over Miss Anne's body, arms outstretched. Naomi's small frame moved stiffly behind him, her once-bright eyes empty.
Mason's hands shook, but his shots were steady. He moved by instinct, training, and heartbreak. One after another, they fell. The sound echoed through the halls, a terrible rhythm of endings.
When the last echo faded, the kitchen was silent again. The only sound left was the faint ringing in his ears and the rasp of his own breathing.
The smoke curled faintly from the barrel of his gun. He stared at the bodies on the floor in eight shapes that had once been everything good in his world, and the silence pressed down on him until it hurt to breathe.
He dropped the gun. It clattered across the tile and came to rest beside Miss Anne's hand.
Mason sank to his knees. The tears came hard this time, wracking sobs that tore through the quiet. His body shook; his palms pressed against his eyes as if he could block out the sight. But it didn't help. The images were carved into him now.
The only family he'd ever had lying cold at his feet.
When the sobs finally eased, he sat back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, painting lines across the walls. It should have felt like peace. It didn't.