The night was thick, heavy — the kind of silence that felt alive.
Broken windows let the wind crawl inside, carrying whispers of forgotten screams.
Somewhere in the darkness, chains rattled softly.
Dylan Armstrong pushed the door open with one hand, his other clenched so tightly that blood dripped from his knuckles. His breath was steady, but his eyes burned with cold intent. The house was a carcass — rotting walls, mold creeping like veins, and in the center of the chaos — a faint voice.
"Dylan…"
It was Stacy. Her tone was cracked, desperate, barely human.
But before he could move, laughter echoed through the hall — low, sharp, slicing through the stillness.
Andrew Peterson stepped out of the shadows. His grin split his face like a scar. His knife glimmered with the faintest red hue.
"Still chasing ghosts, master?" he asked, tilting his head. "How long will you cling to your 'logic' before it breaks you?"
Dylan didn't answer. His steps were slow but deliberate. Every motion was calculated — the calm before a storm.
"Where is she?"
Andrew's smile deepened. "Inside. Watching. Waiting. Do you ever wonder what happens when the virus you fight becomes… aware?"
And then, without warning, the world shattered.
A blur — movement too fast to follow.
Their fists collided with the force of collapsing concrete. The floor cracked, dust exploded into the air. Dylan pivoted, elbow slicing through Andrew's guard, but the man twisted unnaturally, laughing even as the blow connected.
"Good!" Andrew hissed, his eyes wide with euphoria. "That's it! The rational beast!"
Dylan didn't speak — he simply drove forward, a relentless machine of precision. His fists struck like thunder — ribs, jaw, shoulder. Each hit echoed like a drumbeat of fury. But Andrew flowed with the strikes, absorbing the pain like it was pleasure.
Wood splintered. Walls caved.
Every impact rippled through the building until cracks ran up the ceiling like lightning veins.
Then came the sound — the screech of metal, chains snapping.
Stacy screamed as the shockwave hurled her out through the shattered wall. She landed outside, the cold night biting into her bruised skin. Dust and blood filled her lungs. She tried to move, but the bindings cut deep — she could only watch the house shake from the fury inside.
Inside, the storm continued.
Andrew's laughter was a weapon itself — disorienting, taunting, maddening.
"You fight like a machine, Dylan! But tell me — when the machine kills enough, does it still think it's human?"
Dylan's response came through gritted teeth — "Better a machine… than a monster."
He lunged. The floor shattered under his heel.
His punch slammed into Andrew's chest, sending him flying into the far wall.
Plaster exploded. The entire room bent inward from the shock.
For a heartbeat, it seemed Dylan had won — the madman lay motionless in the rubble.
But then… the laugh returned.
Low. Broken. But alive.
"Monster?" Andrew rasped, rising slowly, blood dripping from his lips. "No. I'm what comes after your reason dies."
He slammed his knife into the floor.
A burst of dust filled the room — thick, blinding, suffocating.
Dylan's instincts screamed danger.
He stepped forward — only to realize the silhouette was gone.
Outside, Stacy's heart jumped when she saw him — Dylan emerging through the smoke. Relief flooded her veins. He was alive. He was winning.
He was coming for her.
"Stay still, Stacy!" he shouted, sprinting toward her.
But before he reached her…
the ground erupted.
The earth tore open.
Dirt and fragments of stone shot into the air as a figure burst from beneath — Andrew.
The glint of his knife was the last thing Dylan saw before the world tilted.
A sharp sound — like a thunderclap.
Then silence.
Pain.
It came a second later, sharp and consuming. Dylan's vision blurred — his left arm was gone, blood soaking through the fabric. He staggered back, disbelief in his eyes, his breath turning ragged.
Andrew stood before him, chest rising and falling with wild rhythm, dust swirling around him like a storm of madness.
"Didn't see that coming, did you?" he said softly. "You rely too much on reason. It blinds you to chaos."
Dylan clenched his teeth. His right hand curled into a fist so tight the skin split. He lunged again — one-armed, bleeding, yet unyielding. Their collision sent shockwaves through the street. Broken concrete erupted, walls trembled, glass shattered in waves.
Each hit was slower now — heavier. Dylan's strength was draining, his vision dimming.
Andrew, however, moved with erratic precision, like a dancer guided by some invisible rhythm of destruction.
"Why fight it?" Andrew laughed, ducking a blow and countering with a strike to Dylan's ribs. "You've already lost the arm. Lose the logic next."
Dylan caught his wrist mid-motion, forcing the knife away — and for an instant, the two were locked in pure will.
Their eyes met — chaos versus control.
Rage versus reason.
"You talk too much," Dylan growled and head-butted him with brutal force.
Andrew staggered back — laughing even as blood ran down his face. "Beautiful! That's the real you."
And then — the fatal moment.
Dylan stepped forward, his body trembling but his gaze still burning with resolve.
Andrew moved like lightning — his knife cutting through the space between heartbeats.
The world froze.
Then came the sound — a dull, heavy thud.
Dylan's knees buckled. His body collapsed against the cracked pavement, eyes still fixed forward as if refusing to die before understanding.
Andrew stood above him, breathing heavily, knife slick and trembling in his hand.
The laughter was gone now — replaced by silence. The kind of silence that feels wrong.
He looked down at the fallen man and whispered, almost tenderly,
"You were… magnificent."
Stacy screamed.
Her voice broke, a sound of pure disbelief. Tears blurred her vision as she crawled toward Dylan's body, the chains scraping the ground.
"Master… no… please—"
Her voice died as she saw his eyes — open, but empty.
The strength she had clung to was gone.
Andrew turned toward her slowly, the wild grin returning. "You see it now, don't you? That's reality. No order. No salvation. Just the end."
Stacy's breathing quickened. Her tears turned into laughter — at first quiet, then louder, trembling, fractured. Something inside her snapped. The laughter echoed through the ruined street — broken, human, terrifying.
Andrew tilted his head, watching her with fascination. "Ah… so that's how a rational mind breaks."
He raised the knife — slow, deliberate. "Don't worry. You won't be alone for long."
The night held its breath.
And then — the air shifted.
A blur of motion. A shadow crossing the space between them faster than thought.
The next instant, Andrew's body slammed into the ground with bone-crushing force, the earth cracking beneath him.
He coughed blood, eyes wide.
Before him stood a man — tall, dressed in black, insignia glinting faintly on his collar.
A voice cold as iron:
"Target confirmed. Andrew Peterson — terminated on sight."
The newcomer's eyes glowed faintly — unnatural, focused, inhumanly calm.
Andrew tried to laugh, but no sound came.
And as darkness closed in, his last thought was not of victory… but of curiosity.
Who was this man?
The wind picked up.
Rain started a minute later, as if trying to wash the blood off the cracked asphalt.
Streetlights flickered, their glow cutting through the darkness, reflecting off shattered glass, broken concrete, and motionless bodies.
Andrew lay still in a crater left by his fall. His face pressed into the dirt, his breath almost imperceptible. For a moment, it seemed like life had left him completely — but the faint twitch of his fingers betrayed the truth.
Ten figures in dark tactical suits emerged from the shadows. Their movements were silent, synchronized. One of them, the leader, stopped beside Dylan's body — a clean hole through his chest. He crouched, looking at the lifeless face.
"Your kindness… that's what killed you."
He turned his gaze toward Stacy's body — her head tilted unnaturally, eyes still open, frozen in a twisted smile.
"And she had such potential."
The man stood up, his tone cold and final.
He motioned to the others.
"Clean it up. Take him too."
Two agents lifted Andrew's unconscious body with care, sliding it into a black containment bag.
The leader tapped his earpiece.
"We have him."
A pause. Static on the line. Then a voice replied — calm, distant, and heavy with authority:
"Bring him in. He's too dangerous… erase him from the system."
The agent looked at the rain one last time before walking away.
The storm swallowed the scene whole.