The signal came through a blur of static and dread.
High above the charred land, nestled within command centers far from where screams had long been silenced by concrete and depth, the agencies sat up straight. A pulse. A whisper. An unknown frequency—tangled in the wreckage of forgotten air. The coordinates came in distorted, trembling. And so, with a tremor of urgency and a name spoken like a spell, they summoned Zhianea Xi.
Her fingers trembled with adrenaline as she listened, earpiece glowing like a final star in a blackening sky.
"Deserted zone. Something's still breathing," a voice crackled.
"We call now. Report it."
As the gears of panic turned above, somewhere far below, a final song began to play through unseen speakers. "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when…" The notes floated like ghosts through the windless void. The old world met the new in mourning.
Steel doors groaned under human desperation. A dozen officers surrounded the sealed underground lab's gate, their faces pale, their fingers curled tight on cold weapons. They pounded and cried and cursed—but the door, welded by madness and time, refused them.
"Blow it open!" someone screamed.
The bomb went off in a silent roar. The door crumpled. Shrapnel screamed through the air like wasps. A sharp sliver—no longer than a needle—found Zhianea's eye.
She dropped to the floor, clutching her face, her scream louder than the sirens.
"I HAVE TO BROADCAST! PLEASE! I CAN STILL SPEAK!" But no one listened.
They dragged her away, strapped in gauze and pain, as her voice echoed through the halls: "I HAVE TO FINISH THIS!"
Far beneath, where the light no longer reached and the ground breathed with unnatural warmth, Ephraein, Farah, and Pierro stood at the edge of a nightmare that refused to die. The remaining survivors, chiseled thin by grief and horror, now prepared for the final confrontation.
They whispered the plan like a prayer.
"Lukas is the source."
A boy no longer, a vessel for the ancient grief of Michael Harrington, of Marque, of all who fed the blood-churned soil. The only way was to burn the body. Reduce him to ash. Cast the ashes into the mouth of the earth.
And so they armed themselves.
Rust-worn axes. Nails tied to wood. One flamethrower pieced together from broken science and sheer desperation.
They moved like shadows—what little was left of them. But the darkness did not sleep. From the broken hallway, the veil hissed. Minnie came first—levitating, twitching, her limbs warped into sick puppetry. Her mouth no longer closed. Then came Hush-Mama, her knives dragging like fingers across metal walls, moaning lullabies that made the soul itch.
The fight was quick, brutal, and biblical. Farah drove a blade into Minnie's heart as she screamed prayers. Ephraein caught Hush-Mama in flame, her skin bubbling, her voice singing even as her jaw split open in unnatural hinges. Her bones cracked like thunder. Then silence. They ran.
They ran because they had no other choice. Something lit the end of the hallway. A door. A soft, amber light. Inside—Lukas. Sitting calmly on a bed, head tilted like a doll whose strings had been snapped. He looked up as they entered. His eyes, once human, were hollow. Inside them was only a pale flame. Michael's presence.
No one spoke. They screamed and swung and struck him with weapons. Wood snapped. Metal cracked. He did not flinch. The room shuddered. The walls pulsed. Lights flickered. Then—everything began to float.
The air rippled with gravity's rejection. Books, bones, weapons—rising like forgotten souls.
Above Farah's head, a viscous drip fell.
She looked up.
A mouth in the ceiling. No, not a mouth—Led. Melted and broken, but alive. Eyes soured white, claws as perfect as razors. He dropped.
The impact threw Farah across the room. Glass shattered. Her body slammed through a window, out of the chamber, into nothingness.
Ephraein was alone. Except for Pierro. Bloodied, eyes wide. Still breathing. He looked at Lukas. And knew.
"Goodbye, my friend," Pierro whispered. He ran to Lukas and grabbed him in a desperate hug.
The lighter clicked. The flames roared.Lukas—Michael—screamed. Led stabbed, but Pierro didn't release. The fire consumed them. The room exploded.
Flames became lungs and roared until there was no more screaming left to give. Ephraein, thrown backward, crawling—collapsed at the door. His hand reaching. His mouth whispering someone's name that no longer had a face.
The air sucked itself into silence. The failed experiments—all of them—collapsed like puppets cut loose. Their cries ended.
Forever.
Farah woke to ash and fire. Her hands were cut. Her hair burned at the edges. But Ephraein—he was breathing. Barely. She grabbed him, hoisted him over her shoulders, and staggered out of the abyss. They passed through scorched ruins. The creatures—what was left—twisted, warped, silenced. Burned. Farah didn't cry. Not yet.
They saw flashing lights. The police. She raised her blood-soaked arm and screamed.
They ran to her, shouting. They made it out. At last.
One day later. at the Hospital Room B8. White sheets. Machines clicking. A monitor blinked every few seconds.
Zhianea Xi entered. One eye bandaged. One eye watching. She sat across from Ephraein, her hand trembling on the recorder.
"Tell me what happened," she whispered.
The tape began to turn.
Ephraein, weak but steady, told her everything. Every whisper. Every scream. Every light that died and never came back.
"Your eye," he asked.
Zhianea smiled faintly. "The metal wanted to keep me quiet. It missed."
Farah excused herself. Said she needed a moment. She walked into the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. She no longer recognized the eyes staring back. "What's wrong with me…?" she whispered. She cried. But only for a moment. She wiped her tears and stepped out——into a nightmare she thought she left behind.
Officer Jasper. But his eyes… were wrong. His face—twisted with something hollow. "You did this to me!" he screamed. He lunged.
She gasped. His hand was already around her throat.
"YOU STUPID SHIT!" The first shot echoed. Then the second. Then the third. Zhianea and Ephraein bolted from the room just as blood splattered the floor tiles.
They saw her fall. Jasper ran. Ephraein chased. Screaming. But his leg gave out.
The corridor swallowed the sound of retreating footsteps.
They caught Jasper later. But it didn't bring Farah back.
In time, Ephraein moved far away. To California. He fell in love with someone who smiled in the mornings and never asked about the scars. Zhianea stayed. She moved to a quiet village. A peaceful one. They called it Gall Village. She didn't know. She didn't know what used to stand there. Not yet.
The end of Volume 10: Lab of the Ratz