The door opens.
A figure enters.
No eyes. No mouth. No nose. Black hair. Red coat over white shirt. Boots. Same height as mine.
My heart hammers.
It stops a few steps in and stands still. Just stands. Its body fixed toward me.
I step right. It turns—not the head, the whole body—keeping me centered.
I step left. Same movement. Same correction.
I raise my right hand. Leechsteel forms a blade. I point it at where a face should be. I glance at Ashlynn. She nods.
I move forward slowly. No rush. No feint. Each step even. Measured.
Leechsteel warms, but its shape holds.
I get close. Too close.
The blade stops a finger's width from its face.
Nothing. No flinch. No reaction.
I lower my hand. My heartbeat slows.
I look back at Ashlynn.
"We're safe."
She hesitates, then nods. "If you say so."
I gesture for her to move as I walk pass it.
POW.
A fist slams into my stomach. Air leaves me in a rush of fire. I drop to one knee.
CRUNCH.
A kick catches my face. I skid backward across the floor.
Ashlynn is on me immediately, hauling me upright.
The first figure hasn't moved from its spot.
Leechsteel heats again. Still solid.
I charge, closing our distance.
As I swing—
Pain explodes through my thigh.
A spear plunges into me, deep. Shaft buried, locking me upright, forcing me to stagger. Warm blood drips between my legs. The second faceless figure stands behind the first, ready.
Shock anchors me to the floor.
So that's how they talk.
I cut the shaft—just enough to free my swing—but the tip stays inside me. Collapse to one knee. Warmth spreads fast.
The first figure swings its fist while I'm staggered. I don't dodge. It hits. Hard. The air shreds from my lungs.
SWING.
I bring the blade across its neck. Clean. Smooth. The body folds like paper.
I lunge for the second—
Leechsteel burns. Heat crawls up my forearm, thick and relentless. The blade melts, reshaping into a heavy sleeve. My punch doesn't land.
The second figure pauses. Then backs away. Then runs.
Silence swallows the corridor.
"We need to get the spearhead out," Ashlynn says.
She guides me to a table. I lie back. She presses near the wound. Frowns.
"Your blood's already clotting."
"No," I say. "That's not possible."
She doesn't answer. She takes a knife from a tray, works quickly, pulls the spearhead free. Tears a strip from the fallen figure's uniform and binds my leg.
I watch my blood thicken too fast, closing before I expect it.
"Well," she says quietly, "who are you?"
"Just someone."
She stops at first, her eyes drift all over my body then she shrugs.
She ties the knot. "Tell me when you're ready."
I nod.
I look at my arm. Leechsteel has settled into a hardened sleeve. No blade.
GUUUUUUU—
My stomach growls.
"No food here," I say. "Third floor should have a kitchen."
She nods.
We leave the room. I glance back once. The first figure's neck leaks black fluid onto the floor.
The corridor beyond: brick and stone, curved, wide. Lanterns spaced evenly. No cells, only doors. Blood fades with distance. The sharp, clean smell fades too.
Some doors make noises; others are silent. We blend our steps to the noises, slow and certain, passing each door.
At the end, another corridor, resembling the one we came from but warmer.
Creak.
A door opens ahead. The smell hits. Cooked meat.
A faceless figure steps out. Stops. Faces us.
I walk forward slowly. Fists are up.
It moves aside, leaving enough space between it and the room. Then it stops.
I glance past it into the room: a table, two chairs, two cups of water, two plates, two sandwiches.
GUUUUUUU—
Ashlynn's stomach betrays her.
"You first," I say,eyes still locked on the figure.
She slips past the figure. I follow quick, closing the door behind us.
Click.
We approach the table and sit.
We grab a sandwich each and take a bite. Bread is tough. Meat tender. Sweet.
Ashlynn eats fast. I slow down. Savor it.
My grip slips. Bread tears wrong.
Something smooth rolls against my fingers.
The sandwich opens.
An eyeball stares up at me.
Watching.