They walked through the abandoned street, and Henrik repeated the process multiple times over.
Each time, he would put Rhett on the floor and take his hiding spot, and when another monstrous creature was on the brink of devouring Rhett, he would mercifully take out their life before they did any major damage.
Rhett used the word 'mercifully', because for once he agreed with Henrik and felt he was doing the right thing. These creatures were not normal. Rhett had no idea whether they were some mutant animal experiment, but whatever they were, it was obvious they were living a miserable life of suffering.
The first one that made Rhett's stomach lurch looked like a giant earthworm—if earthworms wore armor plating and sprouted eight hairy, segmented legs. The thing dragged itself forward, each step a struggle against its own bulk. Metal plates clicked and scraped against concrete. Its legs trembled under the weight, threatening to buckle.
But it was the sound that haunted him. Wet whimpers, like a dying dog, leaked from somewhere inside that armored shell. The creature didn't just look wrong—it sounded wrong. Like it was begging for death with every breath.
When Henrik's bullet found its mark, the whimpering stopped. The silence felt like mercy.
They looked like some mad scientist had taken random animals, dissected them, and sewn them together with the aim of creating bizarre creatures to act as minions with no other choice but to attack people.
Soon, Henrik had stopped using his gun and began using a long blade to butcher the creatures as quickly as possible, so he didn't make as much noise. Rhett doubted that Henrik was killing these creatures for fun.
Whatever it was Henrik was trying to do, he didn't want to get noticed.
Rhett racked his brain trying to understand what Henrik was trying to accomplish. Was he trying to hunt someone? Whoever was controlling and creating these creatures?
Then he brushed his head and tried answering the more important question.
"How was he going to escape?"
The biggest problem was he still didn't understand how Henrik's quirk worked. Or if he even had one. He seemed to carry a gun on his person underneath the cloak, but he also had a blade? He remembered how he had cauterized his wound when he slashed out his arm. How could a normal person do that? With a flamethrower? Or some sort of fire quirk?
He had also sedated him too. Was that just something he carried with himself or related to his quirk?
Either way, he was no closer to answering those questions. But he had a strong hunch that those answers lied in whatever Henrik was hiding under that black cloak.
As they went deeper into the alleyway street, they began to go into some kind of abandoned warehouse, though abandoned obviously was not the right term.
The warehouse stretched before them like a cathedral of rust and decay. Steel support beams rose thirty feet overhead, their I-beam construction still solid despite the years of neglect. Loading docks lined the eastern wall, their metal roll-up doors hanging half-open like gaping mouths. Concrete floors stretched in all directions, marked by yellow lines that once guided forklifts through organized chaos.
Now those same lines led nowhere. Pallets lay scattered and broken. Industrial shelving units had toppled, creating a maze of twisted metal and splintered wood. The smell hit him—machine oil, rust, and something else. Something organic and wrong.
The warehouse was rife with even more grotesque, and stronger creatures that threatened to take Rhett's life multiple times.
They were absolute monstrosities, bigger and more disgusting than the tamer ones they had encountered.
Something flopped toward them on what looked like four legs—if you could call them that.
A thick, rubbery body like a catfish. Eyes milky and bulging from a head too big for its neck. Its sides pulsed with gills that twitched with every breath, flaring red and desperate in the dry warehouse air.
But those weren't fish fins dragging it forward. Lizard legs, scaly and bent at wrong angles, carried it in an awkward shamble. Its front claws scraped metal as it moved, leaving gouges in the concrete. It opened what might have been a mouth and let out a wet gurgle—like it was drowning on land, suffocating on every step.
Henrik's blade found its throat before it could reach them. Dark blood mixed with something that looked like pond water.
Another creature emerged from behind a collapsed shelving unit. This one walked upright, almost human in posture, until you saw the details. Its torso was covered in what looked like bee fur, black and yellow stripes running down its chest. But where arms should be, massive praying mantis claws jutted out, serrated edges gleaming. Its head was the worst part—a fly's compound eyes, each facet reflecting the dim warehouse light like a thousand tiny mirrors.
It clicked its mandibles and tilted its head with insect curiosity. Those compound eyes focused on Rhett with alien intelligence.
Henrik moved before it could strike. His blade sliced through one of the mantis arms, and the thing let out a sound like breaking glass mixed with buzzing static.
Rhett's body was a bloody mess by this point. His remaining arm was broken, blood from multiple cuts enveloped his legs, and a gash that threatened to spill his guts sent pain through Rhett's entire being as he trembled in horror.
Each breath sent fire through his ribs. The warehouse floor felt like sandpaper against his torn skin. Every time Henrik dragged him forward, broken glass and metal fragments ground into his wounds.
"Please, just let me die." He slurred. At least then he would be able to regenerate. At least then he would have a completely healed and healthy body.
When he really thought about it, he really did have a pretty shitty quirk. A regeneration power would be better that allowed all injuries to be healed as quickly as they appeared, but his version only let him heal himself once he had gone through the excruciating pain of dying first.
'At least I have a quirk now.' He clenched what was left of his fist in defiance, remembering how he used to be bullied back when he was still a little kid because he didn't have a quirk, and how Casey stepped up for him, even using her smoke quirk to beat up his bullies, even when she got beat up back, punished by the adults, and even taken away from him to another foster home.
As soon as the deprecating thought of his quirk being useless arose, he drove it down quickly. He was given something. And that something had potential if he used it right.
He might not be able to save the whole world, but he could damn well save the people he cared about.
Casey would have risked her own body and life to save him. This was a necessary measure to repay the favor.
"Like I said, I won't kill you." Henrik muttered under his breath, loud enough for Rhett to hear. "In fact, I'm surprised you even made it out alive. The reason I decided to use you as bait is because of your inability to stay dead, but that didn't appear to come in handy."
"Shut the fuck up." Rhett groaned through broken teeth. "It's not going to remain that way for long."
The reason he said that was because screams, screeches, roars? He couldn't tell, but they were getting closer. And sounding angrier.
The sounds echoed off the warehouse walls, multiplying and distorting. Metal scraped against concrete. Something heavy dragged itself across the floor, leaving wet trails. In the distance, that same gurgling sound—but deeper now, more threatening.
They were learning. Adapting. The creatures that survived Henrik's blade were the smart ones, the dangerous ones.
Or they were being controlled by something smart.
Rhett closed his eyes, hoping they would give him a quick reprieve so he could start over in a new body and hopefully find some way to escape. Maybe even kill Henrik while they were at it. Only one of the duo was immortal after all.
"Shit. They're getting closer." Henrik spat out, but there was something more to his exclamation. There was an edge of danger, but also one of something close to happiness. No, relief. "We're almost out of this hellhole."
"What do you mean?-" Rhett was about to ask, but Henrik deftly swerved round a corner, his grip on Rhett's neck tighter.
They passed through a section where the warehouse connected to what had once been office space. Cubicle walls lay in broken heaps, their fabric panels torn and stained. Computer monitors sat dark and cracked on metal desks. A water cooler had tipped over, its plastic bottle shattered, leaving a permanent stain on industrial carpet that squelched under Henrik's boots.
Even though the sun was rising, the deeper they went, the less sunlight filtered in. Every step kicked up a puff of dust and stirred the stale, rusted air. Electrical cables hung from the ceiling like vines, their plastic coating cracked and peeling. Somewhere overhead, a broken vent fan spun lazily, clicking every third turn with mechanical persistence.
Somewhere in the distance, the low, wet moan of another creature rolled through the ruined warehouse—closer this time.
There was something Rhett had noticed with the interactions with the beasts. When they started, they met one every ten-ish minutes. Then two every five-ish minutes, like the density of monsters were increasing the farther they went.
What they were placed and created for, Rhett had no idea, nor was he keen on finding out.
But it did feel like they were doing one thing, prowling around the surroundings. They were guarding something.
The pattern was too organized to be random. These things weren't just wandering—they were positioned. Like sentries. Like a perimeter defense system made of flesh and nightmare.
Henrik apparently shared Rhett's sentiments and dashed through the other arc. The way he moved, it felt like he knew this place. Even the way he quickly put down some of the monsters made it feel like he had experience dealing with them.
He moved through the warehouse like he'd memorized the layout. Knew which corners to avoid, which paths were clear. This wasn't his first time here.
Rhett's breathing was shallow. Not from panic, but from exhaustion. Every inch of him throbbed. Henrik led them through a partially collapsed maintenance tunnel carved into the underbelly of an office building.
The tunnel was narrow, barely wide enough for one person. Exposed pipes ran along the walls, some still dripping condensation that had pooled on the concrete floor. Emergency lighting strips hung at odd angles, half of them dark, the others casting sickly yellow light that made everything look diseased.
Then Henrik stopped.
He crouched low beside a security panel hanging from the wall by a bundle of shredded wires. It sparked uselessly, throwing brief flashes of blue light across his face. Rhett slumped against a pile of bricks and tried to adjust himself, but the ropes around his ribs and arms ground against every bone like sandpaper.
Henrik tapped the panel, then reached under the console and pried off a chunk of loose wall tile. Behind it was a tunnel entrance—round, narrow, and covered by what looked like a drain cap, half melted at the edges.
"Is that... a sewer?" Rhett croaked, voice raw.
Henrik nodded. "The old lines. No one's patrolled them since the first attack on Brookside. Too risky. But they still run under most of the inner district. It's how I get around."
He climbed halfway in, then looked back and clicked his tongue. "You're lucky you're skinny. Fat bait wouldn't fit."
Rhett rolled his eyes. "You're charming. Really."
Henrik didn't laugh.
Instead, he reached out and grabbed Rhett under the arms, dragging him inside with the grace of someone used to handling unconscious bodies. Rhett winced as his bruised legs bumped the edges of the pipe, but he bit down on the pain. Not for Henrik. For Lucille. For Casey. For the people still on his list.
The pipe tunnel was cool and damp, reeking of mildew, rot, and long-dried blood. The concrete was smooth, worn by decades of water flow, but now it carried different things. Every few meters, graffiti was seen, symbols, arrows, names scrawled by desperate survivors marking the way.
Some of the markings were in languages Rhett didn't recognize. Others were just symbols—crude drawings of creatures, warnings, directions to safety or away from danger.
The monstrous sounds were getting lower, as if they were moving away from them. He noticed Henrik's breathing had been tense and shallow, but now they felt deeper and invigorated.
"Almost there." Henrik muttered, as if he didn't believe it himself. Then he looked down and gave an almost brotherly pat on his matted and rumpled hair torn at awkward places. "Sorry I had to put you through this, but we're almost there. Then I'll have nothing else to do with you."
"What. Do. You. Mean?." Rhett grumbled painfully. But that wasn't even what he was concerned about right now. Even if Henrik let him go, he would still be in excruciating pain until he died. He didn't want that.
"I mean we're finally escaping this hellhole city." Henrik grunted. "Villains, vigilantes and heroes too have blocked the exit of this Brookside place. This guy with the BeastMorph quirk has been blocking the path through the industrial warehouse, but this route-"
"-Passing through the sewers bypasses all of that." Rhett realized. The pieces of Henrik's plan were starting to fall into place in his mind. He needed the bait, not to hunt the owner of the quirk, but to intrude just enough into their territory so he could take a shortcut without ever confronting the enemy.
Smart, avoiding enemies you couldn't fight. Rhett was beginning to realize how tactical Henrik actually was. In the mall, when Rhett fought against the Iron Knight, Brett apparently, Henrik bided his time until Rhett killed Brett, and then Henrik attacked and incapacitated him.
He was the kind of guy to wait and learn before attacking, then run from a fight where he wasn't sure he would win.
For some reason, it made Rhett sick. He was nothing like him.
He didn't want to run from Brookside. He had to make sure everyone he cared about was safe before he did.
He wanted to die swiftly so he would regenerate in the next ten seconds. But Henrik wouldn't do that, most likely. His injured, incapacitated state was the only reason why Henrik handled him. And Henrik didn't seem like the guy to go out of his way to grant him the mercy of death.
Did that mean the only option was for him to find a way to kill himself? He was fine with dying if it was against an opponent's hand, but could he do that to himself?
He didn't have the time to answer those questions.
They reached a larger chamber underground, one of the old crossroads that had been a subway station in the past. The architecture told the story—tiled walls in faded blue and white, designed in the clean geometric patterns of early twentieth-century public works. Platform edges lined with yellow safety strips, now cracked and peeling. The curved ceiling rose twenty feet overhead, supported by steel girders that had once been painted cheerful colors.
Several subway trains lined the rail tracks, long forgotten. Their windows were dark, some cracked, others completely shattered. Graffiti covered their sides in layers—tags, murals, desperate messages from people who'd sheltered here during the early days of Brookside's evacuation.
The lights above shone dimly, still powered by the backup functioning grid. Emergency fluorescents flickered in irregular patterns, casting moving shadows that made the abandoned trains look like sleeping beasts.
Henrik's boot crunched against broken glass as his head swiveled from side to side.
"I finally made it." Henrik breathed to himself.
"No, I don't think you did."
Rhett felt Henrik's spine arch under his cloak as he turned violently toward the sound. The air was damp and thick, carrying echoes strangely. The lights above didn't shine everywhere, leaving pools of shadow between the trains.
Some of them had been broken deliberately—glass crunched underfoot in patterns too neat to be accidental. Others had been left intact, creating islands of sickly yellow light that revealed more than they should.
Henrik dropped Rhett to the floor as if he didn't need him anymore, and walked forward, tense and ready to fight, like the next battle wasn't avoidable.
Rhett wanted to crawl away. But he couldn't. Not with broken bones and mangled legs. So he watched. That was all he could do.
As Henrik's boots made a cold clicking sound against the concrete floor, the person who made the statement came out of the darkness to greet them.
The first thing that came into view threatened to make him pass out from the sheer terror it evoked.
It started as movement in the shadow between two trains. Something massive shifting, scales catching what little light there was. Then it kept coming. And coming.
It was simply gigantic, as long as six of the subway trains put in a single line, and as thick as at least three of them. The platform groaned under its weight as it moved, concrete cracking in spiderweb patterns.
It was cylindrical and had black, gleaming scales on its lower body that reflected the emergency lights like oil on water. But on its upper body, instead of scales, hard shell pieces with what looked like sharp horns were attached at each point, acting as not only protective armor, but an offensive weapon for anyone who attacked it from above.
The shell plates moved with organic fluidity, overlapping and separating as the creature breathed. Each horn was the size of a traffic cone, curved and wickedly sharp.
Not only that, but it had wings. Not bird wings, or bat wings, but insect wings, seemingly dragonfly to be exact. They were four times its body width, translucent and so large that Rhett could see the vein lines pulsing through them like a roadmap of nightmares. When they moved, they created their own wind, stirring the stale air into small cyclones.
The wings stretched from neck to tail, ending in a stinger that pulsed like a dying heartbeat.
The wings on the front half of the titan began fluttering, sending plumes of dust and air like a helicopter, suspending the top half of the monstrosity in the air. The sound was deafening—like a thousand bees amplified through stadium speakers.
Its head was even more grotesque, so much so it looked like a psychopath had made it, defying all logic and biology.
Where the shards of the rocky shell ended, a thick, glistening neck emerged, black and textured like whale skin. The eyes that locked onto Henrik weren't just large—they were endless. Deep black holes that seemed to pull light into them and give nothing back.
Its growl rattled Rhett's bones like loose teeth. Then it let out a shrill screech that shook the tunnels, raining dust and debris from the ceiling. Rhett felt blood running through one ear—his eardrums had actually burst.
And he watched as the boy—this greasy-haired beastmaster—rose from the monster's back like a king on a throne of nightmares.
His eyes went to the top of the eldritch horror's head. Sitting on it was a boy, not much older than he was with pitch black greasy hair, dark, faded jeans and piercing blue eyes that held depths Rhett didn't want to explore.
But there was something else in those eyes. Not just malice or anger. Something like genuine affection when he looked at his creature. Like a parent watching their child perform.
"Wait a minute, you're that hero bastard from last week!" The boy on the beast growled as he seemed to recognize Henrik. His voice carried easily over the creature's rumbling, like he was used to speaking over monsters.
"And you're the bastard we beat and sent running with his tail between his legs." Henrik replied snarkily, hiding his tension behind barbs.
"That was only because your hero friends were here to save you." The boy shot back, but his laugh was bitter and strange. Not quite human. When he looked down at Rhett, a bloody, beaten pulp on the ground, something shifted in his expression. "Looks like none of them have your back now."
The boy's fingers moved along his creature's shell plates, almost absently. Like a pianist warming up. The monster responded to his touch, muscles rippling under its armor.
"I can handle things on my own." Henrik shrugged, maintaining his seemingly calm demeanor. "I did manage to kill some of your abominations."
The boy's face shifted to something like restrained anger, and the behemoth coiled and reared its ugly head, as if responding to his emotions. The synchronization was perfect, disturbing.
"Yes, you killed my children." His voice dropped to something softer, more dangerous. "They trusted me to keep them safe. To give their pain meaning."
His eyes darkened as he met Henrik's gaze head on. "I don't like breaking promises."
Henrik rolled his shoulders beneath his cloak, preparing for the unavoidable battle. The reason he'd taken the shortcut through the sewers was to avoid the influx of powerful beasts and the quirk owner themselves, but that seemed to have been futile.
Their opponent had foreseen that, and now they had to fight one giant beast if Henrik wanted to escape.
Rhett still wasn't sure what Henrik's quirk was, but whatever he had under that black cloak, he hoped that it would be enough to at least escape from the monstrosity.
Because if not, Henrik would die. Rhett would die and come back to face whatever this boy considered "fun."
He didn't have a positive relationship with Henrik, but he would rather be his bait with a purpose than be turned into a 'plaything' for the strange boy's 'children.'