A growl comes from the shadows.
Then it steps forward.
A feral.
Black liquid leaks from its eyes, its mouth, the seams of its skin—slow, deliberate, as if gravity is optional. Its eyes are fully dark. Teeth too long. Claws drag against the stone, not sharpening—testing.
Its right hand is leechsteel. Not worn. Not held. Grown into it.
My heart slams. My own leechsteel warms in response—heat without movement. No change of shape. Not yet.
Ashlynn and Gary shift behind me. Close. Too close to retreat cleanly.
The feral advances.
One.
Two.
Three.
Stops.
The distance between us feels measured. Chosen ahead of time.
"Help… me."
The voice is wrong. Too careful. Like it's selecting words instead of remembering them.
"What?" Gary says.
"Help… me."
Ashlynn's hand tightens on my sleeve, pulling it down. "We should leave."
Gary steps around me before I can stop him.
"I can help you," he says, raising one hand—not defensive, not aggressive. An offering.
"But—" Ashlynn starts.
"Shhh," I say. "Let Gary try something."
I don't know why I say it. The thought doesn't feel fully mine.
Gary walks slow. Careful. Methodical. His steps fall into rhythm. His posture straight, confident in a way that doesn't belong here.
"Help… me," the feral says again.
"Help you with what?" Gary asks.
He's two feet away from it. Too close.
Close enough that I can see where its leechsteel disappears into the wrist. Not fused. Not clean. Forced.
The feral's head tilts. Its eyes narrow. Its joints loosen.
Its mouth opens wider than before.
And it grins.
The feral moves.
Gary doesn't.
The distance collapses in a blink. The feral's leechsteel snaps forward—clean, precise. A wet, heavy sound follows—something giving way—and Gary screams as his right hand comes away with it. Fingers scatter across the floor, clattering once before going still.
Gary stumbles back, clutching the stump. Blood pours out too fast, splashing against the tiles.
The feral stops and tilts its head.
"Help… me."
It chuckles as it watches Gary's wound.
My leechsteel heats instantly, crawling beneath my skin without fully forming. Too slow. Always too slow.
I put myself between Gary and the feral.
Suddenly the feral lunges.
I block once—barely. The impact rattles my shoulder and sends me skidding back several steps, boots scraping uselessly. Pain tears up my arm. It didn't even commit to the strike.
Ashlynn is already moving.
She grabs Gary under the arms and drags him backward. He's barely conscious, teeth clenched hard enough to crack.
The feral doesn't chase them. It just grins.
It turns to me. Its joints loosen again.
Then it leaps and slashes.
Too fast. I twist, but its claws tear into my side anyway. Heat. Wetness. My legs almost fold. Not fatal. Not clean. Enough to slow me.
I force myself forward anyway, striking just to keep its attention—wide, ugly movements, nothing refined. I don't try to win. I just don't let it pass me.
Behind me, Ashlynn struggles with Gary's weight. She slips once, almost loses him, then hauls him upright again.
"Move!" I shout, breath tearing out of my chest.
The feral grins.
It advances one step—
then stops.
Its head twitches.
Ashlynn reaches the corridor entrance. She looks back once.
"Len!"
"Go!" I snap. "Don't stop!"
She doesn't argue. She drags Gary toward a door, boots scraping, blood streaking the floor behind them.
I keep my stance. Keep breathing. Keep the feral's attention.
For a long second, it feels like this is where it ends.
Instead, it leans close, breath wet and sour against my ear.
"Next time."
The words are calm but stiff. They're not a threat.
They're a promise.
The feral steps past me—not toward the corridor, but away from it—melting back into the branching hallway, claws clicking softly as it disappears deeper into the shadows.
Only when it's gone do my legs give out.
I slide down a wall, blood soaking my side, lungs burning like they've forgotten how to work.
The hallway is silent again.
And I understand—
it let me live.