The Nail stared.
The thing in front of him wasn't the shivering junkie he'd kicked earlier.
This thing was standing.
It was wreathed in faint, oily shadows.
The grime and filth on its skin seemed to be crawling.
The air in the four-by-four closet felt thick, heavy, and fucking cold.
Zane smiled. "My turn."
The Nail's moment of shock lasted exactly one second.
He was a Rusted-Nail. He'd seen junkies jacked on Spasm and Rage-Dust. He'd seen them fight like demons right before their hearts exploded.
This was just another tweaker.
<...junkie fuck...> his mind snarled, the Whisper faint and full of contempt. <...going to gut you...>
"You're fucking dead," the Nail roared in the real world.
He lunged.
He didn't punch. He attacked like a butcher.
He drew a heavy-bladed cleaver from a sheath on his back—the same kind the innkeeper had. It was caked in old rust and new blood.
He swung it horizontally in the tiny room, a blow meant to take Zane's head clean off.
Zane didn't flinch.
He didn't dodge.
He just… moved.
The Soul Essence thrumming in his veins wasn't just power. It was clarity. It was speed.
The Nail's swing looked slow. Clumsy.
Zane dropped into a low squat.
The cleaver hissed through the air where his neck had been, embedding itself three inches deep in the particle-board wall.
THWACK.
The Nail grunted, surprised by the miss. He tried to wrench the blade free for another swing.
It was stuck.
Zane rose up like a snake.
He still had the rusted knife from the alley. He clutched it in a shaking, white-knuckled grip.
He wasn't a fighter. He'd never hit anyone in his life.
But the vulture instinct, the scavenger impulse... it knew what to do.
He stabbed upward, plunging the 6-inch blade deep into the Nail's exposed armpit, burying it to the hilt in the soft flesh under the leather vest.
"GAAAAH!"
The Nail screamed, a wet, choked sound. He forgot the cleaver, releasing it to grab his skewered arm.
Zane shoved him back.
The Nail stumbled out of the closet, tripping over the broken door and crashing hard onto the hallway floor.
Zane stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, his eyes wide, staring at what he'd done.
The Nail looked at the rusted handle sticking out of his armpit. Then, he looked at Zane.
His contempt was gone. Replaced by pure, unadulterated rage.
<...fucking rat... you... fucking... RAT! I AM GOING TO EAT YOUR FUCKING HEART!...>
The wound was deep. Painful.
It wasn't fatal though.
The Nail roared, ignoring the knife, and charged forward, leading with his good shoulder like a bull.
He slammed into Zane before Zane could react.
The impact was brutal.
Zane felt his newly healed ribs crack all over again.
He flew backward, crashing into the far wall of the tiny closet, smashing his head hard against the particleboard.
Stars exploded behind his eyes. The power faltered.
The Nail filled the doorway, his face a mask of purple rage, blood gushing from his armpit.
He drew a second weapon—a long, thin stiletto.
"I'm going to cut you apart, junkie," he hissed, advancing into the dark room.
Zane slid down the wall, his head spinning.
He'd lost.
He'd had the element of surprise and he'd failed.
He really wasn't a killer.
As a matter of fact, he was a saviour.
As the Nail raised the stiletto high, aiming for his throat, Zane wondered why he was being punished for saving people.
Is the universe… multiverse just that shitty? Why was he even born and why wouldn't it let him rest?
<...this fucking closet is as dark as a tomb...> the Nail's mind snarled. <...can barely see him...>
Dark...
The word echoed in Zane's skull.
The power from the old woman's soul wasn't just strength.
She had died in the dark. Terrified of the dark and the light, of everything sane and predatory.
Her fear was now his power.
Zane looked at the deep shadows in the corners of the four-by-four closet.
They weren't just shadows.
They were his.
"Wait..." Zane whispered, holding up a hand.
"Wait for this!" the Nail shouted, plunging the stiletto down.
The system message in Zane's mind had disappeared and he didn't really care.
Before death, he would have said the systems in his novels were a blessing but here, he didn't even want it's help because he trusted nobody. He was scared to.
But he had gotten his stats the first time so he knew what he could do but he didn't have time to practice with the fucking pang gnawing at him.
So, armed with a knowledge, Zane didn't dodge.
He pulled.
He pulled the shadows from the corners like a blanket.
The Nail's blade plunged down.
And hit nothing.
The stiletto sank into the filthy floor mat where Zane had been.
The Nail blinked.
Zane... was gone.
The Nail looked left. Right. The closet was empty.
"What... the fuck..." he whispered.
The room was impossibly dark. The dim light from the hall seemed to die at the doorframe, sucked into the oppressive blackness within.
<...where... where did he go?!...>
"Right here."
Zane's voice came from behind him.
The Nail spun around, his eyes wide, swinging the stiletto wildly.
He was standing in the hallway.
The closet (Room 4) was in front of him.
Zane's voice had come from inside the closet he was already staring into.
"What fucking sorcery is this?!" the Nail screamed.
<...I'm trapped... he's in the walls... it's the demon... the Sump-Demon!...>
His rage was gone. Instantly replaced by a new, delicious flavour.
Panic.
The hunter was now the prey.
Zane stood perfectly still, pressed into the corner of the closet, wrapped in a shroud of pure darkness.
It was his skill.
Umbral Cloak.
He was invisible. Silent.
He could hear the Nail's heart hammering in his chest. He could hear his panicked, shallow breathing.
And he could hear his thoughts.
<...got to get out... got to get help... fuck this... fuck this...>
The Nail bolted.
He turned to run down the hall toward the stairs.
Zane stepped out of the shadows.
The Cloak dropped, peeling off him like smoke.
He was fast. So fast.
He grabbed the Nail by the collar of his leather vest and yanked him backward.
The Nail screamed as he fell back into Room 4, crashing onto the floor.
Zane stood in the doorway, blocking the only exit.
"You can't leave," Zane whispered. His voice sounded different. Deeper. Guttural.
He wasn't Zane anymore. He was the Demon.
"The old woman you killed..." Zane said, letting the Nail see him clearly. "She was terrified of the dark."
The Nail scrambled backward on his ass, kicking like a crab, his eyes wide with primal terror.
<...it's a fucking Revenant!... it's a ghost!... it's her fucking ghost!...>
"She's waiting for you in it," Zane whispered, channelling every ounce of menace he could muster.
"NO!" the Nail shrieked, his mind completely broken. He was just a terrified thug, his despair spiking to an intoxicating level.
"Please! No! I didn't mean it!"
He tried to scramble past Zane.
Zane didn't bother with the knife.
He stuck out his foot.
The panicked Nail tripped over it, falling face-first out of the room into the hall.
He landed hard, right on his face.
As he tried to push himself up... he froze.
He'd landed on something.
He pushed himself up and looked down.
The rusted cleaver. His cleaver.
The one he'd stuck in the wall of Room 3 when he'd kicked it in.
He'd fallen right onto it.
The blade was buried to the spine in his own gut.
He looked up at Zane, his eyes wide with disbelief.
He opened his mouth. A torrent of blood poured out.
<...no...> <...it's... cold...> <...fuck...>
His despair was overwhelming. A tidal wave of pure, filthy, violent terror.
Zane stepped out into the hall, his own hunger roaring back to life, demanding its prize.
He knelt over the dying ganger.
He placed a hand on the man's forehead, just like Mortis had done to him.
"Shhh," Zane whispered, his voice suddenly soft. "I'm here for you. Just let go."
The Nail's eyes rolled back.
His soul tore free.
Zane inhaled.
The feast was nothing like the old woman's. Her soul was cold, sharp, and full of terror.
This soul was hot, greasy, and tasted like blood, rage, and cheapbooze. He couldn't tell how a soul tasted like cheap booze, but he just shrugged it off.
It slammed into him with brutality.
Zane grunted, feeling the new Essence settle into him.
It didn't make him feel fast. It made him feel heavy.
Hard.
His cracked ribs mended again, but this time they felt thicker. Denser.
He'd done it. He'd won his first real fight. He'd killed. He'd fed.
He was the Sump-Demon.
He stood up, relishing the feeling of brute strength settling in his shoulders.
...THUD... THUD... THUD...
Zane froze.
Heavy footsteps. More than one pair.
They were coming up the stairs.
"I fucking heard it!" a new voice roared from below. "Gart screamed like a bitch!"
"Spread out!" another voice yelled. "Boss wants the innkeeper or whatever is here." "I don't care what!"
The rest of the Nail's squad was here.