Zane was trapped.
The flimsy, particle-board door of Room 4 was the only thing between him and the hatchet-faced Nail.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The sound from Room 3 was deafening. The Nail guy wasn't just knocking.
He was banging on the wood like a loan shark or JWs.
Zane's current safe room was his four-by-four closet, a paper-thin box.
He fit into it like a coffin.
<...this shithole's empty...>
He heard the Nail's mental voice, a faint signal, barely audible over the screaming agony in his own gut. The Whispers skill was drowned by the withdrawal.
'The skill might be evolving, or the Nails are all in despair. Who could blame them?' he thought as he puckered his lips, moving them side-to-side to stop his nose itching.
The withdrawal was peaking as well.
It was a physical, tearing convulsion. His muscles seized. A low groan escaped his clenched teeth.
He couldn't be quiet.
He couldn't act pathetic like he did on the street. This was real cause he was actually pathetic now.
He was being a writhing, agonized animal, and he was making noise.
...THUD
A heavy boot landed right outside his door.
Zane froze and listened.
He heard the sharp sniff of air drawn through a broken nose.
<...what's that... smell...> the Nail's mind whispered. <...like a 'Spasm-junkie' 'mid-crash'...>
He could smell Zane's agony.
Zane fumbled for the rusted knife in his tunic. His fingers were numb, useless claws. He couldn't get a grip.
CRACK.
The sound of splintering wood ripped through the room. A heavy, steel-toed boot smashed into the particleboard, inches from Zane's face. A viewing hole for him.
"Sump-Pit management!" the Nail roared in a mocking singing voice.
Zane scrambled backward on his hands and knees, crashing into the far wall of the tiny box.
CRASH!
The door exploded inward, flying off its rotted hinges and smashing into the wall Zane had just vacated.
The hatchet-faced Nail stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim, piss-green hallway light. He was a mountain of wet leather and pure malice.
He looked down.
His eyes, cold and dead, adjusted to the dark. They found Zane curled in a shaking, pathetic ball.
A slow, cruel grin split his face.
"Well, well, well," he hissed, stepping into the room. The closet was so small he filled it, blocking all light. "What the fuck do we have here?"
Zane cringed, hiding his face. The withdrawal was so bad he couldn't even speak. He was just a knot of pain.
"Rat-boy screamed about a 'Sump-Demon'," the Nail sneered, nudging Zane's leg with his boot. The simple touch was agony. "Looks more like a fucking 'Spasm-junkie' on his last legs."
He loomed over Zane, enjoying himself.
<...this is the 'fuck' from the street...> his mental voice realized, filled with contempt. <...the one actin pathetic. Looks like he wasn't acting. Pissed off the Boss for nothing. Waste of my fucking time...>
The Nail raised his heavy boot. He was going to stomp Zane's skull. Piss on him for wasting his time.
"Night, night, junkie," he snarled.
Zane tensed, waiting for the impact.
"...ma... ma... please... so... cold..."
The voice was real.
It was paper-thin. A dying woman's whisper.
It came from the wall.
From the next room. Room 5.
Zane's target. The one he'd been about to hunt.
The Nail froze. His boot hovered mid-air.
He slowly turned his head, listening.
[...what... the fuck...] his mind raced. [...is that the 'one-eyed fuck' hiding? 'Pretending' to be an old woman?...]
The sound came again, weaker this time. A wet, hacking cough, followed by a faint plea.
"...help... me..."
The Nail looked down at Zane, his face a mask of pure, impatient annoyance.
"You... don't... fucking... move," he growled.
He stepped back into the hall, turning his attention to the next door.
Zane gasped on the floor, the withdrawal tearing him apart. No... don't leave... I'm starving...
He heard the Nail approach the door to Room 5.
CRASH!
No warning. No knock. He just kicked it open.
Zane heard a faint, terrified gasp from the next room.
"Well," the Nail's voice drifted back. "You're not the innkeeper."
A long pause.
Zane heard a wet, rasping cough.
[...fucking plague-rat...] the Nail's mind spat, faint with distance. [...stinks in here...]
Zane heard a faint plea. "Please... water..."
"Water?" the Nail laughed. "I'll give you one better. I'll give you peace. Boss hates loose ends, and you will do fine tightening it up."
"No... no... please... MA...!"
Zane heard a brief, pathetic scuffle. A dull thud.
A wet, final gurgle.
And then... silence.
The thin, reedy Whisper of the dying woman <...ma... ma...> snapped.
It was over.
Zane braced himself, waiting for the tiny snack, the poor-quality hit from the plague-girl.
It wasn't a snack.
A TORRENT of Soul Essence blasted through the flimsy wall.
It slammed into Zane like a physical blow.
This woman hadn't been resigned like the plague-girl. She hadn't been full of rage like the gangers.
She'd spent weeks, maybe months, dying slowly. Alone. Terrified of the dark. Hoping someone would come.
Her despair was deep. Aged. Pure.
And in her final moment, the Nail had added a massive spike of pure, violent terror.
It was a fucking banquet.
The agony in Zane's gut vanished. Instantly.
It was replaced by a roaring furnace of power.
The convulsions stopped.
The cold sweat steamed off his skin.
The shredding vortex closed, sated.
Zane's vision exploded in clarity. He felt the power sink into his bones, knitting the bruised ribs from the alley-kick back together. He felt his muscles thrum with stolen life.
This wasn't a high. This was a resurrection.
He heard the heavy boot step back into the hallway.
<...just some old bitch...> the Nail's mind muttered. <...not the innkeeper...>
The boot turned.
[...now, to finish off this fucking junkie...]
The hatchet-faced Nail stepped back into the doorway of Room 4.
He stopped. Dead.
Zane wasn't on the floor.
He was standing.
He stood in the centre of the four-by-four closet, his head up, his eyes locked on the ganger.
The shaking junkie was gone.
The power thrummed off him in visible waves of shadow. The air in the tiny room felt heavy, charged, and cold.
The Nail stared, his cruel grin faltering. He saw the man he was about to stomp transform into... something else.
He saw the Sump-Demon Rat had screamed about.
Zane let out a long, slow breath, savouring the taste of the stolen soul.
He looked at the Nail.
The hunger was gone.
The rage wasn't.
He smiled.
"My turn."