Chapter Eighteen: The Breaking Point
The simulation chamber hummed to life around Caleb. White walls dissolved into a grimy urban alleyway, complete with the smell of rotting garbage and distant screams.
"Training sequence initiated," the mechanical voice announced. "Wave one of five. Difficulty: Adaptive."
Three figures materialized at the far end of the alley. Basic humanoids, armed with crude weapons. Nothing too challenging. Caleb drew his tactical knife, feeling it warm in his grip like a living thing.
The first enemy charged. Caleb sidestepped, drove the blade up under its ribs, angled toward the heart. The kill was clean and efficient.
But as the second one approached, something shifted. Instead of the quick throat cut he'd planned, Caleb found himself slashing across its face first. The spray of blood felt warm against his cheek. Satisfying.
He took his time with the third one. Let it swing twice before breaking its wrist, listening to the sharp crack of bone. Then he drove the knife slowly into its stomach, feeling the resistance of muscle and the wet give of organs beneath.
Beautiful, something whispered in his mind.
"Wave two initiated."
Five enemies this time. Armored in crude metal, carrying real weapons. They moved faster, hit harder. Caleb had to work for it.
The first one's mace caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around. Pain flared, but underneath it was something else. Excitement. He laughed, a sound that echoed strangely in the alley.
His knife found the gap between helmet and neck. The blade sliced through cartilage with a wet grinding sound. Blood poured down the construct's chest like a crimson waterfall. The enemy dropped, but Caleb held on, riding it down, feeling the warmth soak through his clothes.
The second one tried to run. Caleb tackled it from behind, driving it face-first into the brick wall. The nose exploded in a spray of blood and bone fragments. He grabbed the back of its head and slammed it into the wall again. Again. The skull cracked like an eggshell.
By the time he finished with the other three, the alley looked like a slaughterhouse. Blood painted the walls in abstract patterns. Bone fragments littered the ground like broken pottery.
Caleb stood in the center of it, breathing hard, his knife dripping. He looked at his hands. They were steady. Steady and red.
More, the whisper urged. You're just getting started.
"Wave three initiated."
Seven enemies materialized. Faster ones this time. They moved like shadows, striking from multiple angles. Caleb had to think, to plan, to—
No. Planning was for the weak.
He roared and charged into the middle of them, knife spinning in complex patterns. Blood followed the blade like paint following a brush. He carved through flesh and bone with artistic precision, creating spirals of gore across the walls.
One enemy's arm came off at the shoulder, spinning through the air to land with a wet slap. Another's ribcage split open like a flower, organs spilling onto the ground in steaming piles. Caleb caught the blood in his mouth, tasted iron and salt and something indefinably sweet.
The knife pulsed in his hand. Hungry. Always hungry.
When the wave ended, Caleb was laughing. The sound echoed off the blood-soaked walls, multiplying until it became a chorus.
"Wave four initiated."
These enemies were stronger. Smarter. They coordinated their attacks, used tactics. It should have been challenging.
It was ecstasy.
Caleb moved through them like a dancer, every cut deliberate, every strike designed for maximum suffering. He broke bones slowly, savoring the sound. He carved patterns into flesh, turning bodies into canvases. When one enemy fell to its knees, begging in a simulated voice, he crouched down and whispered comfort before opening its throat.
The blood was everywhere now. On the walls, on the ground, soaking into his clothes and skin. It felt like baptism.
Perfect, the whisper said. Now you understand.
"Wave five initiated."
The final wave was different. Some of the enemies were armed. Others weren't. Some fought back. Others cowered.
Caleb killed them all the same.
The unarmed ones were the best. They ran, which made the hunt more interesting. When he caught them, their fear was intoxicating. He could smell it, taste it, feel it vibrating in the air like music.
He took his time with each one. The knife found every nerve cluster, every pressure point, every place where pain lived. The blood came in waves, painting him red from head to toe.
By the end, the alley was a lake of gore. Bodies lay in pieces, arranged in patterns that pleased him. The walls dripped red like tears.
Caleb stood in the center of it all, arms spread wide, face turned toward the ceiling. The knife in his hand hummed with satisfaction.
"Training complete," the mechanical voice announced. "Performance rating: Exceptional."
But Caleb didn't want it to be complete. He wanted more. More blood. More screams. More of that perfect moment when life became death under his hands.
The alley began to fade, walls dissolving back to clinical white. The blood vanished. The bodies disappeared. But the hunger remained.
The door to the simulation chamber opened. Ellen and Soren stood in the doorway, their faces pale.
They stared at him. At his blood-soaked clothes. At the knife still dripping in his hand. At the expression on his face.
"Jesus Christ," Soren whispered. "Caleb, what—"
Ellen took a step back. "Your eyes," she said. "They look different."
Caleb looked at her. Really looked. Small, fragile Ellen with her sharp brown eyes and dark hair. She was afraid. The fear rolled off her in waves, sweet and intoxicating.
Do it, the whisper urged. She's weak. Useless. Put her out of her misery.
"Caleb?" Ellen's voice was smaller now. Frightened.
The knife in his hand felt so warm. So eager.
He took a step toward her.
"Don't," Soren said, moving between them. "Whatever you're thinking, don't."
But Caleb was thinking how easy it would be. How satisfying. Ellen was small, untrained. One quick cut and—
Yes.
His hand moved before his conscious mind caught up. The knife flicked out, faster than thought, cutting a line across Ellen's forearm. Blood welled up, bright red against pale skin.
Ellen screamed.
The sound was beautiful.
Caleb smiled, raising the knife for another cut. Deeper this time. More artistic.
Soren tackled him, driving him back against the wall. They wrestled for the knife.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Soren shouted.
But Caleb wasn't listening. He was watching Ellen's blood drip onto the white floor. Watching her clutch her arm, tears streaming down her face. The fear in her eyes was exquisite.
He wanted to see more of it.
He broke Soren's grip and backhanded him across the face. The bigger man stumbled, blood flowing from his nose. Caleb's smile widened.
Two victims. Even better.
This time when he moved toward Ellen, she ran.
Caleb followed, his enhanced speed making it almost effortless. He caught her at the door, slamming her against the frame. She cried out, and the sound sent electricity through his veins.
"Please," she whispered. "Caleb, it's me. It's Ellen."
He pressed the knife to her throat, feeling her pulse flutter against the blade. It was so fast. Her fear intoxicating.
"I know exactly who you are," he said softly.
And he realized he was going to kill her. Here. Now. And he was going to enjoy every second of it.
The whisper in his head had become a roar of approval.
Do it. Kill her. Taste her fear. Paint the walls with her blood.
Caleb pressed the knife deeper. A thin line of red appeared on Ellen's throat.
She closed her eyes and waited to die.
For just a moment, something flickered in Caleb's mind. A memory of who he used to be. The man who'd tried to protect people.
But that man was weak. That man was dead.
The knife bit deeper.
Ellen whimpered.
And Caleb realized he had never been happier in his entire life.