The smoke thickened.
Despite the roaring fire from his barrels, despite the shouts and spells from defenders, the mist continued to creep through the cracks—twisting between broken walls, slipping past ruined barricades, and clawing into the hearts of those too slow or too afraid to move.
Inigo's boots pounded across the blood-slick street as he moved forward, laying down suppressive fire. The minigun's scream never let up. Each round carved through the writhing horde, limbs exploding, ichor gushing.
And yet—it was like shooting into water. Every space he cleared filled back in within seconds.
Then came the pulse.
A silent wave, not heard, but felt.
It slammed into Inigo's chest like a hammer made of thought. His vision warped. The buildings around him twisted. The colors inverted.
He blinked—and found himself alone.
No demons.
No defenders.
Just an empty street drenched in colorless fog.
"What the hell?" he whispered, lowering the minigun.
Behind him, footsteps.
