Dr. Crane and Mr. Mercer had vanished without a trace.
I stood there at the gate of the sanatorium, disoriented and rattled.
Everything I had seen turned my worldview upside down. Raised under the secular, scientific doctrine of a socialist system, I had never believed in the supernatural. At least, not until that night. I wasn't yet a seasoned operative. If I had encountered this later in my career, maybe I would've handled it better.
But back then, the confusion gave way to something sharper—anger.
I was tired of being passive, tired of reacting. I wasn't here just to be a bodyguard. I was Falcon. And Falcon doesn't get played.
I clenched my jaw and focused. I checked my gear. Studied the footprints on the ground. They were heavy, long-strided—he'd fled in a rush.
I followed them inside the sanatorium. The trail led to a stairwell, then stopped. My instinct told me Mercer had gone upstairs.
I raised my compact SMG—too light for my taste—and crept up.
Room by room, I swept the second floor. Nothing. Mercer had vanished again.
Frustrated, I returned to the stairwell and searched the walls.
Then I found it.
A rusted crucifix, nailed upside down on the back of the staircase—covering a wooden hatch.
A false wall.
I pried it open. Beneath was a narrow stairwell descending fifteen feet into darkness. Someone had recently hung a small wooden cross above the entrance, its center blackened with soot. A Western-style warding sign.
Flashlight ready, I descended. The air reeked of old coal and decay.
At the bottom, I found a massive, rusted machine—an ancient generator. The aluminum label read: "Генератор. Выпуск 1957.""Generator. Manufactured 1957." Soviet-era equipment.
So this place had its own power supply, even back then.
I moved past it and entered a low corridor.
After thirty feet, I found a sealed blast door. Above it hung a charred leather-bound Bible, affixed by two iron nails—a crude deterrent symbol. Not Chinese charms, but Western occult countermeasures.
I pulled the book down and forced the door open.
Inside were three labeled rooms: "Instrumentation," "Medical Supply," and "Examination."Each door bore protective engravings—etched crosses, Latin glyphs, and old holy water stains.
No Mercer.
Another blast door. Another burned Bible nailed to it.
This one had dark bloodstains near the hinges. He had passed through here.
I followed.
A straight corridor led to a junction. Signs read:
Dormitory ADormitory B
People used to live here?
I continued straight.
Room numbers lined the walls: A-1, A-2, A-3... Each room had a cot, a desk, and a massive, candle-shaped bulb. Posters of long-gone revolutionaries decorated the walls.
A-3 had something different—a framed parchment, faded and marked with Latin prayers and black wax seals. It gave me a chill.
Too much lived-in energy. Too much silence.
I moved on until I reached a reinforced iron door. An enormous paper scroll was nailed across it, inked with Latin incantations in a frantic hand.
I tore it down and entered.
More dorm rooms. Same numbering. But the hallway ceiling—thick with fog.
Something had changed.
I hesitated. No gas mask. But I sniffed—mildew, rot, maybe nothing harmful.
I stepped forward.
Clink.
I looked down—my boot had struck a blackened metal chalice.
I knelt. Four grotesque saints were etched into its sides, and a toad carved into its base. Not Buddhist relics. This was European. Occult.
Dust-covered. Old. Not placed by Mercer.
I moved on, sticking close to the corridor's dry edge.
After about fifteen feet, I felt it.
Cold.
Not regular cold. Freezing. The same unnatural chill from my first night here.
I backed up fast.
Clink. Again, the chalice.
Frustrated, I drew my sidearm and fired.
CLANG.
The sound rang in my skull.
SLAM.
The iron door closed behind me.
I spun, yanked the handle. Locked. From the outside.
I fired at the hinges—three times. Still locked.
A voice laughed behind the steel.
"Soldier, don't bother. How many rounds do you have left?" Mercer taunted.
I fired again. Nothing.
My breath steamed. My hands trembled.
Fog thickened. Shapes appeared—people drifting above me, watching. One descended.
Then more.
I drew my knife and slashed the air. They scattered. Then returned.
I grew weaker.
One figure, pale and translucent, dove toward my chest.
I grabbed it—it passed through like smoke. Into me.
"This is a hallucination," I said aloud.
More followed. Ghostly mist, one after another, seeping into my chest.
"No," I whispered. "This is a hallucination."
Mercer laughed again.
"No, soldier. That's wrath. Manifested. They'll freeze you. Suffocate you. And consume you."
I collapsed.
As the fog grew denser, I saw their faces—specters crowding around me, staring like museum patrons examining a specimen.
I lifted my blade and swung wildly. They flinched, scattered, then surged again.
I could no longer lift my arms.
One entered me—fully. Like a wisp of death curling into my lungs.
Then another.
And another.
"This is a hallucination..." I whispered one last time.
And then... I closed my eyes.