Jim's POV
At the end of the corridor, there was only one door left.
It stood there quietly, half-swallowed by shadow, no different in appearance from the others we had passed. The surface was scarred and uneven, the paint peeling away in long, lifeless strips, revealing darkened wood beneath. Time had worn it down into something unremarkable.
And yet, the moment my eyes settled on it, a sense of unease rose inside me without warning.
There was no clear reason.
No sound came from behind it.
No movement.
No voices.
But the air around that door felt wrong.
Heavier. Thicker. As if the space itself resisted being disturbed. Breathing suddenly required effort, each inhale shallow and incomplete, as though the corridor had narrowed without anyone touching it.
Seven stopped in front of the door.
He didn't reach for it immediately.
Instead, he shifted his weight slightly and turned his head, looking back at me over his shoulder. His expression hadn't changed, but his presence felt different here—sharper, more focused, like a blade drawn just far enough from its sheath to cut.
"Stay farther back."
His voice was lower than before.
Not harsh.
Not urgent.
Calm in a way that allowed no misunderstanding.
"And find something to cover your face and head."
For a brief second, my body didn't respond.
The words registered, but my thoughts lagged behind, tangled in the pressure filling my chest. Then instinct caught up. I nodded hard, almost too fast, and turned away from the door.
My hands moved clumsily through a pile of discarded junk stacked along the wall. Broken crates. Torn packaging. Objects whose original purpose had long since been forgotten. Dust clung to everything, rising in thin clouds with each movement.
I found a piece of cloth—once white, now gray-brown with grime—and wrapped it around my head. The fabric was stiff and rough, scraping against my skin. The smell hit immediately, sharp and sour, like something left damp for too long.
It made my stomach twist.
But I didn't loosen it.
I left only my eyes exposed and stepped back, pressing myself closer to the wall.
Seven had already turned back toward the door.
"This is the last line of defense," he said evenly.
The words settled into the space between us.
"There's a high chance they have firearms."
For a moment, nothing else existed.
Firearms.
The word fell into my chest like a weight, sinking deep and refusing to move. I had seen guns before—on television, in news footage, in distant scenes that always felt removed from reality.
I had never imagined standing this close to them.
My throat tightened. My palms grew slick with cold sweat. I swallowed once, then again, but the dryness wouldn't go away.
The next second—
Bang.
The door exploded inward.
Seven's kick landed with brutal precision, wood splintering under the force. The sound ripped through the corridor, echoing off the walls and bouncing back at us before my ears could even adjust.
Almost at the same instant, gunfire erupted.
Sharp.
Explosive.
Unhesitating.
The sound was nothing like movies. There was no drawn-out echo, no dramatic pause. Just violent cracks tearing through the air, each one slamming directly into my nerves.
My mind went blank.
I saw only flashes—brief bursts of orange-white fire blooming inside the room, lighting up terrified faces for fractions of a second before vanishing again.
And then—
Nothing came out.
The bullets stopped.
Not slowed.
Not redirected.
Stopped.
They hung in the air in front of Seven, suspended as if reality itself had been interrupted mid-action. Each metal round trembled faintly, vibrating under pressure from an unseen force, yet unable to move forward even the smallest distance.
My eyes refused to believe what they were seeing.
"Telekinesis," Seven said.
His voice was low, steady, cutting cleanly through the chaos.
In the next instant, the pressure reversed.
The bullets snapped backward.
The sound inside the room changed immediately. Panic replaced aggression. Shouts collided with the heavy, chaotic impacts of metal striking walls and furniture. Someone screamed as bullets pinned the corner of his clothing to the wall, fixing him in place without piercing flesh.
The gunfire stopped.
Silence followed.
Not a peaceful silence, but one filled with shock and disbelief, thick enough to choke on.
Seven stepped inside.
His footsteps were unhurried.
Each step landed clearly, deliberately, echoing through the room like a countdown. I stayed near the doorway, my body rigid, every muscle tense, my senses overwhelmed by the aftermath.
"Where's the ledger?" he asked.
No shouting.
No threats.
Yet the words themselves carried weight.
They pressed down on the room, bending the air around them. I watched as several heads turned almost in unison, eyes wide, movements instinctive. Their gazes locked onto the same person.
Before anyone could speak—
A flash of cold light.
A knife slammed into the table with violent force, the blade burying itself deep into the wood. The man's hand was pinned beneath it, trapped inches from the edge.
The scream that followed was raw and uncontrolled, ripping through the air and making my chest tighten painfully.
I flinched.
My legs felt weak, as if they might give out at any moment.
"The moment people are most likely to break," Seven said slowly and calmly,
"is the instant pain appears."
He didn't turn around.
Yet I knew—somehow—that those words were meant for me.
"If you ever have a telepath on your team in the future," he continued,
"this method can be used together."
It struck me then.
He wasn't showing off.
He wasn't indulging in cruelty.
He was instructing.
The ledger lifted from the table.
Slowly.
As if gravity had forgotten it existed.
The pages fluttered softly as it rose, stirred by a breeze that wasn't there, stopping obediently above Seven's open palm. Inked lines blurred together in my vision as my focus wavered.
A lighter followed.
The flame caught.
Paper curled inward, edges blackening, the surface bubbling as the fire spread. The smell of burning ink and paper filled the room, sharp and unmistakable.
I watched the fire without blinking.
It was brighter than any firework I had ever seen.
Not because of its color—but because of what it represented.
This wasn't destruction for spectacle.
This wasn't violence for pleasure.
It was erasure.
Quiet.
Final.
Absolute.
And in that moment, something inside me shifted.
I didn't want to be the one standing behind anymore.
Didn't want to be the one holding my breath, praying not to become a burden.
I wasn't afraid of hardship.
Not afraid of bleeding.
Not even afraid of pain.
What terrified me was staying where I was—
watching Seven walk forward alone.
The desire to become stronger surged inside my chest, hot and relentless, filling every empty space until it felt like it might overflow.
So strong that I could no longer ignore it.
Seven stood before the dying flames, his expression unchanged.
The fire reflected in his eyes—
and left nothing behind.