KAELIS
Nov 30th
The room smelled of iron, sweat, and disinfectant, a stark white antiseptic so clean it seemed almost hostile. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, humming a high, static note that scraped against the edges of thought. Every surface reflected it, cold and unforgiving, a theater of precision. The soldier sat slumped, wrists bound to the metal chair, uniform damp with sweat, eyes darting like trapped rodents, nostrils flaring at the copper tang that had already clung to his clothes.
Kaelis stepped inside, the soft thump of his boots echoing against tile. Black gloves snapped as he adjusted the coat around his shoulders, the sound measured, deliberate. He let the silence stretch, letting the sterile room amplify it, letting the fluorescent hum press against the soldier's skull.
Abaddon stirred behind his temples, the voice curling in like warm smoke. It bleeds, even for you.
Kaelis inhaled, deep, articulate. "Patience," he murmured softly, as though speaking to a delicate instrument. "Art requires patience."
Patience is indulgence. Kill it, taste it now.
Kaelis' eyes flicked to the tray of tools arrayed on the table: scalpels, pliers, bone saw, knives catching the light in a thousand sterile reflections. He ran a gloved fingertip along the edge of the tray, each tap measured. "Ah, my companions. Patient. Waiting. But you know, one cannot force inspiration."
Force is indulgence. Slice.
The soldier's chest heaved, throat dry. "I—I don't know anything… please.. it's been three days, let me go, I- I've told you everything." He said through rugged and fatigued breath.
Kaelis crouched, fingertips resting lightly on the edge of the chair, head tilted like a connoisseur inspecting a fragile work. "Do you? Or do you simply perform the charade of ignorance, hoping the rhythm of denial will amuse me?"
Abaddon whispered low, slick, pressing against Kaelis' reasoning. Lie, stall. But the lie must sing, it must tremble. Make it beautiful.
"I—I swear, I don't know…" the soldier stammered, voice fragile, trembling. His vision swam, a haze of red and bile creeping at the edges, his stomach twisting with the sharp tang of acid and copper.
Kaelis' gloved hand hovered near the tools. Slowly, carefully, he lifted the scalpel by the tip. The sterile steel gleamed under the flickering fluorescent light, a tiny shard of moon against the pallid white. He tilted it, letting a fraction of reflection strike the soldier's wide, terrified eyes. "Delicate, yes? Every human… delicate."
Delicate and fleeting. Consume.
The soldier gagged, bile rising hot against the blood already thick on his lips. Vision tilted, swam — white tiles shifting like liquid. Cold metal bit into his spine, leather straps slicing into his wrists and shoulders. Every breath carried the acrid sting of iron, disinfectant, and fear.
Kaelis leaned in, the cigarette smoke curling from the edge of his mouth like a ribbon of obsession. "Where is she?" His tone was soft, measured, ritualistic. "Every detail, every motion. Give it to me."
Abaddon pressed at the edges of Kaelis' mind, slow, precise, teasing. Do not waste time. Tear. Rend. Taste the fear, the lies. You know the truth you crave is already within his trembling reach.
The soldier's jaw trembled. "I… I—I don't remember. I—I think—"
Kaelis' eyes narrowed, scanning, noting every micro-expression. Every flinch was a brushstroke, every hesitation a color. "Think… or fabricate? You see, my dear subject, the difference between fear and truth is subtle. Yet… it sings differently on the tongue."
Abaddon murmured, low and persuasive. He trembles. Make it yield. Let him bleed words before flesh.
Kaelis circled, hands brushing lightly over the tray of instruments, each motion choreographed like a dance. "Ah… tools," he whispered, voice smooth as oil. "Old friends. Waiting patiently. We will explore the human form together, will we not?"
The soldier's vision blurred fully now, red and white bleeding at the corners, bile threatening the back of his throat. He forced himself to swallow, tasted copper, tasted fear, tasted the sudden, primal need to survive.
Survive, or adorn the ritual. Choice is meaningless.
Kaelis crouched again, voice low, soft, musical. "Choose… a finger. Any. Tell me its purpose. Or I will decide."
The soldier flinched violently, eyes darting. "I—I don't know…"
Abaddon pressed, razor-sharp, seductive. Do not waver. Bend. Do not beg. He is fragile — consume it now.
Kaelis smiled faintly, a predator's smile refined by art, ritual, and obsession. "Ah… courage and fear in perfect balance. So… exquisite."
The fluorescent lights hummed, the metal tray glinting, the air thick with copper and antiseptic. Kaelis' fingers moved slowly to the soldier's left hand, pressing a scalpel to the first knuckle. A bead of blood welled. The soldier gasped, inhaled bile and iron, stomach twisting violently.
Delicious… yes… the body sings, the mouth obeys…
Kaelis watched. Not impatient, not hasty. The ritual required time. Observation. Perfection.
Time is irrelevant. Hunger is eternal.
He leaned close, lips near the soldier's ear. "Tell me what you know. Every patrol. Every warehouse. Every guard. Every corridor."
The soldier's voice broke, barely audible. "I… I'll… I'll tell you…"
Abaddon whispered, silk against Kaelis' mind. Make it complete. No detail spared. Perfect the terror, then taste the obedience.
Kaelis' gloved hand hovered, lifting the scalpel again, inspecting the tiny drop of blood forming on the man's knuckle. "Patience," he murmured. "We are gods here. Observation, ritual, geometry… the pattern is everything."
Gods are mortal. Hunger is infinite.
The soldier swayed, head tilting as bile and blood pooled, vision swimming in spirals of color. Keep the lie alive… keep them blind… one more night… one more day…
Kaelis' voice softened. "Begin. Speak. And we shall listen… together."
Abaddon pressed closer, a seduction of primal intent. Listen? No. Devour. Observe only to taste. Perfection comes not from patience, but from consumption.
The soldier began, words halting, broken, but spilling the lattice of lies and truths Kaelis needed. Kaelis smiled faintly, the ritual alive, the geometry forming beneath fluorescent judgment, the artist poised, the hunger coiled.
⸻———————————————————-
The soldier's words spilled in broken fragments, a trembling mosaic of locations, faces, routines, and half-remembered orders. Each syllable a note in Kaelis' symphony of control. His gloved fingers traced the edge of the scalpel, the movement slow, deliberate, like a painter lingering over the final stroke. The tools on the tray caught the flickering light, steel shimmering, each instrument a brush, each drop of blood a pigment.
Abaddon's voice slid over Kaelis' thoughts, soft, dark, irresistible. You see him unravel. Good. He bends. Taste the truth in his fear, savor it before it evaporates. He thinks he hides, but we consume it anyway.
Kaelis tilted his head, observing. "The geometry of panic," he whispered, letting his words tumble into the sterile air. "Notice how the patterns shift with each hesitation. The body betrays the mind, always. Every twitch, every gasp, a syllable in the language of terror."
Do not admire. Rend. Consume. Let him understand that the ritual is meaningless without surrender.
The soldier gagged again, bile rising with the metallic tang of his own blood. His vision swam, fluorescent lights refracting in red halos around the edges of the room. The leather straps bit deeper into his wrists, pinning him to the chair. Every breath was a labor, every swallow a trial of iron and acid.
Kaelis crouched, black-gloved hands brushing lightly over the table. "See, my dear subject, even the faintest flicker of deception colors the scene. Lies are not mere words—they are tremors, vibrations in the lattice of reality. The body speaks when the mouth refuses. Observe…"
Abaddon pressed, seductive, insistent. Observe to taste. The art is incomplete without consumption. Every hesitation, every denial, is nourishment.
Kaelis' hand moved with ritualistic precision to the soldier's left hand. Fingers flexed, a scalpel pressed gently to the first knuckle, teasing, testing. A thin bead of blood welled. The soldier hissed, stomach lurching, bile and iron mixing in his throat. He choked, vision tilting, white tiles swimming into liquid streaks.
"Do you feel the rhythm?" Kaelis murmured. "The pulse of your fear? Each gasp, a note. Each flinch, a brushstroke. Art… requires an audience. You are my canvas, my instrument."
You lie to yourself. Audience or not, consumption is inevitable.
The soldier's jaw trembled. "I—I'll tell… whatever you want… please…"
Kaelis' smile widened, predatory, calculated. "Ah. Cooperation. Voluntary submission… exquisite. And yet, the line between truth and performance is thin, yes? Let us see where it bends."
Abaddon's presence tightened, velvet and blade. Thin as tissue. Fragile as flesh. Do not hesitate, Kaelis. He resists because he is weak, and weakness is flavor.
The scalpel traced the contour of the soldier's palm, pressing lightly along the junction of flesh and bone. The red welled faster, warm, sticky, metallic. The soldier inhaled sharply, tasting copper and bile, heart hammering in wild, chaotic percussion.
Kaelis leaned in, cigarette smoke curling around him like a halo of intent. "Every detail… every corridor, every guard, every shadow. Speak. I will listen… intently."
Abaddon's voice purred, precise and intimate. Do not listen. Taste. Consume the fear, the lies. He cannot withhold. You know it.
The soldier's head lolled slightly, his mouth dry, body trembling like a marionette with frayed strings. "I… I… I—The compound …Walls… guards… patrols…"
Kaelis' eyes glittered. "Yes… yes, the pattern emerges. Observe how the geometry forms. Fear bending to obedience, the chaos of panic folding neatly into comprehension."
Obedience… delicious. But the hunger wants more than geometry. Tear him apart. Consume the truth until it cannot resist.
A sudden, sharp pressure. Kaelis' gloved fingers twisted the soldier's injured knuckle. A hiss of pain, a gasp of bile, a groan of surrender. The thin bead of blood became a trickle. The soldier's muscles trembled violently, eyes wide, mouth quivering.
Kaelis' smile never faltered. "Delicate. Fragile. And yet… so instructive. You see… the body cannot lie as well as the mind."
Abaddon whispered low, venomous, seductive. The mind bends, but the body bleeds honestly. Follow the pattern. Follow the hunger. Make him yield completely.
Kaelis leaned closer, lips near the soldier's ear, voice soft, coaxing, ritualistic. "Every lie you tell… every truth you hide… is a thread I will follow. Every twitch, every shiver, every gasp… a path through your soul. Do you understand?"
The soldier choked, bile rising, metallic tang thickening his tongue. "Y-yes… I… I understand…"
Abaddon pressed harder, ice and fire, razor and velvet. No. Not understanding. Obedience. Yielding. Fear into art. Consumption into ritual.
Kaelis' gloved hand hovered above the table, fingers brushing the instruments like a maestro considering his orchestra. "Ah… the tools await. They are patient, yet insistent. Shall we proceed… gently… or with a flourish?"
The soldier trembled violently. "Please… spruce.. springs.."
His voice low, mouth full of the mixed concoction of bile and blood.
Kaelis smiled, a predator savoring anticipation. "Good. Patience… preparation… the stage is set. Every detail matters. Every breath is measured. You are… perfect for my art."
Abaddon whispered, silk and blade. Not perfect. Not yet. Tear. Consume. Do not linger on ritual alone—let him bleed truth.
The soldier's vision swirled, fluorescent lights distorting, tiles swimming into shifting, impossible angles. Bile and blood mixed in a metallic tang that coated his tongue. Every breath was a struggle; every heartbeat a drum in Kaelis' symphony.
Kaelis crouched again, tracing the edge of a scalpel along the bloodied metal tray, voice soft and musical. "Every gesture, every twitch… a note. Observe, tremble, and play your part. The pattern is almost complete. The ritual… nearly… perfect."
Abaddon's presence, sharp and insistent, pulsed in Kaelis' mind. Do not admire. Taste. Consume. Make him understand the weight of fear. The inevitability of surrender. The final cut is coming.
The soldier whimpered, head lolled, eyes glassy, mind fraying. He could not form coherent thoughts, only fragments: Don't… let… them… know… keep… it… His vision tilted, world swimming, tiles liquefying into streaks of white, red, and green.
Kaelis' voice softened to a whisper. "Begin. Tell me. Every corridor, every guard, every shadow. Let me hear it… perfectly."
Abaddon's coiled influence hissed, hungry and precise. Not enough. Consume. Make him unravel fully. Taste the obedience. Pull the truth from bone and mind alike.
The soldier's trembling words began to flow more coherently, fear twisting every syllable into trembling confession. Kaelis' eyes glimmered with satisfaction, the ritual feeding on each syllable. The geometry of chaos bent toward perfection, each flinch, gasp, and twitch a brushstroke in the living artwork.
Outside, snow whispered against the sterile walls, cold and indifferent. Inside, the scent of iron, bile, sweat, and smoke hung thick. Kaelis inhaled slowly, savoring each note in the symphony of fear and obedience.
Abaddon whispered one last time, intimate, razor-sharp, insatiable: This is not observation, not ritual… this is consumption. And it has only begun.
Kaelis' lips curved in a smile, black gloves hovering over the instruments. "Yes… let us continue. The canvas is alive, and the pattern… oh, the pattern demands perfection."
⸻———————————————————-
The soldier's body quivered violently in the chair, limbs twitching like broken marionettes. His voice was hoarse, shredded by bile and fear, yet words still slipped out in fractured rhythm. Every confession, every detail, was a stroke on Kaelis' living canvas.
Kaelis crouched low, gloved fingers hovering above the spread of tools. Each instrument gleamed under the fluorescent lights, precise, beautiful, ready. "Ah… exquisite," he murmured, voice a soft lilt against the room's sterile buzz. "The pattern emerges fully. Observe… the geometry of surrender. Every hesitation, every lie, every gasp… it bends to the art."
Abaddon whispered, velvet and steel, coiling around Kaelis' thoughts. Do not savor yet. Taste it. Consume it. He resists? Good. The push, the pull… it feeds us. The cut comes next.
Kaelis' eyes flicked to the soldier's trembling hands. Fingers bent, knuckles raw, blood glistening. "The language of bone and flesh is honest," he said softly. "Words falter, but the body never lies."
And the mind… weak, twisting. Yield. Let him yield fully. Abaddon's voice pressed, seductive, relentless.
With deliberate care, Kaelis pressed the scalpel into the soldier's palm again, tracing the fragile lines of veins, each cut precise, calculated. The warm metallic tang rose immediately, thick on the soldier's tongue. Bile forced its way up, choking him, yet he swallowed. Every intake of breath a trembling testament to terror.
Kaelis' voice softened to a whisper, intimate, coaxing, ritualistic. "Every detail… every corridor… every guard. Let me taste it from your body, not your mouth. Let the rhythm of fear speak clearly. The pattern is almost complete… almost…"
The soldier whimpered, vision blurring, world swimming in sharp white and red streaks. He tried to focus, tried to cling to a semblance of reality, but the room was no longer just a room. The metal walls pulsed, fluorescent lights bending, reflecting in impossible angles. Every sound—his own ragged breathing, the buzzing lights, Kaelis' slow boot steps—twined into a tangible weight pressing against his skull.
Abaddon pressed, intimate and insatiable. Do not delay. Rend. Consume. Pull truth from bone and mind alike. Make him see it. Make him understand the inevitability.
Kaelis' black gloves brushed over the tray, fingers hovering, selecting. A bone saw, slender and gleaming. He lifted it, letting it catch the harsh light, letting the soldier's gaze fixate. "Every line, every shadow… every tremor in your body… it speaks to me. The ritual… the pattern… must be complete."
The soldier's body flinched violently, bile and blood threatening to choke him again. "P-please… I…I told you… everything…"
Kaelis leaned closer, smoke from his cigarette curling around him like a halo of intent. "Yes… yes… almost there. The rhythm… the surrender… exquisite."
Abaddon murmured, velvet and sharpened steel. Do not admire. Devour. He resists? Perfect. Break. Consume. Let him unravel utterly. Your hunger… is precise.
Kaelis' gloved fingers twisted another joint, eliciting a sharp hiss, a gasp, a surrender. The soldier's head lolled, eyes glassy, body trembling in unison with each subtle movement of Kaelis' ritualistic hands. The scalpel cut shallow, measured, drawing lines of bright red across pale skin. Each drop, each tremor, each groan… fed the crescendo, the art, the ritual.
He bent over, lips near the soldier's ear, voice low, coaxing, seductive. "Do you understand now? The geometry… the pattern… the rhythm of fear? You are no longer resisting. You are a note, a stroke… a line in the art of my hands. See? You belong… entirely."
The soldier choked, gagging, swallowing a bitter mixture of bile, blood, and fear. Each breath he took was labored, each heartbeat a drum in Kaelis' composition. Words no longer mattered; obedience flowed in spasms, gasps, tremors.
Abaddon's voice pressed, ruthless and intimate. Do not linger in ritual. Consume. Tear apart the walls of pretense. Every lie, every thought, every shred of control—devour it.
Kaelis' fingers moved with precision, now fully blending artistry and hunger. A deliberate incision. A sharp hiss of pain. The soldier's vision spun, white and red merging, fluorescent lights bending into fluid, impossible shapes. His arms quivered, legs shook, and bile streaked across his chin.
"Every twitch… every gasp… every shiver…" Kaelis whispered, eyes glimmering. "A note. A stroke. A line. The pattern… complete… almost…"
The soldier's voice broke entirely. "I… I… I'll tell… everything… please… stop…"
Kaelis' smile widened, predatory, ritualistic, magnetic. "Yes. Yield fully. Every corner, every shadow, every guard, every moment… spill it."
Abaddon whispered, sharp and silk-wrapped, curling around Kaelis' mind. Perfect. Taste it. Consume it. Let him unravel completely. Let him see—he is nothing but art. And the cut… the cut is inevitable.
Kaelis tilted his head, inhaled slowly, savoring the scent of blood, iron, bile, sweat, and smoke. The soldier slumped further, vision fading into streaks of red and green. Breath came ragged, shallow. Every gasp, every tremor, every flinch… the living painting of fear and surrender, complete.
Kaelis' black-gloved hand hovered over the instruments, poised, ritualistic. "Now… let us finish. The ritual, the geometry… the perfection of fear… cannot wait. Observe, tremble… and submit."
The soldier's head sagged entirely. Words no longer formed. Only obedience remained, flowing in spasms, gasps, and tremors.
Abaddon whispered, velvet and razor-sharp, intimate, insatiable: Consume it. Complete it. Let the art be unbroken. Let him bleed truth and fear alike. This… is the apex.
Kaelis' lips curved in a smile, the cigarette smoke curling around him, black gloves hovering over the tray. "Yes… yes. Perfect. The canvas is alive. The pattern… complete… and the cut… inevitable."
Outside, snow whispered against the sterile walls. Inside, blood, bile, and smoke perfumed the air. Kaelis exhaled slowly, letting the ritual sink, letting the art of fear, obedience, and consumption stand finished—for now.
Abaddon lingered, coiled, satisfied, and hungry still. We are never finished. There is always more to taste.
Kaelis' smile sharpened. "Indeed… always more."
⸻———————————————————-
The room was a cathedral of humming fluorescence.
Cold white light dripped down the walls, pooling across the tile, turning every shadow into something surgical. The soldier slumped in the metal chair, breath rattling in thin, fractured pulls. His blood had streaked the floor in thin arcs, drying into brown ribbons. The gag over his mouth was soaked dark, trembling with each breath.
Kaelis stood in front of him like a priest before an altar.
He held his instrument — a slender, razor-edged scalpel — between two gloved fingers, admiring the bevel of the blade the way others admired a sunrise. He tilted it once, letting the light catch the edge. A thin star of glare flashed, then died.
Behind his eyes, something stirred.
Use the hammer.
Abaddon's voice slid in, low and soft as oil, curling around Kaelis' temples.
Crush him. Break him. Let the bones sing when they split.
Kaelis let out a slow breath, the exhale steady, measured. The cigarette at his lips glowed dull red, smoke curling up along his cheekbones like drifting ink.
The soldier watched with a single weeping eye. His other had swollen shut long ago.
Kaelis lifted the scalpel. Not to cut yet — only to feel its weight, its promise.
Too clean, Abaddon whispered.
Too quiet. Art requires crescendo. Use the hammer. I want to feel him fold.
A warm, pressing ache slid behind Kaelis' forehead. Abaddon coiled tighter, a serpent winding around the base of his skull, applying invisible pressure — hungry, urging, pleading.
Kaelis tilted his head slightly.
The gesture was almost gentle.
Almost sympathetic.
"You misunderstand," he murmured — not to Abaddon, not to the soldier, but to the room itself.
Then he leaned in.
With his free hand, he touched the soldier's jaw, thumb sliding along the pulse beneath the skin. A delicate, thoughtful motion. His touch was steady, reverent, as if aligning the final piece of a sculpture.
"Shhh," Kaelis whispered, though the soldier hadn't made a sound.
Stop that, Abaddon hissed.
He's prey. Not porcelain.
Kaelis brought the blade to the man's throat — not pressing, merely resting. Testing the angle. The degree. The line. His eyes traced the curve of the skin, the way it bowed slightly under its own tension.
He adjusted the soldier's chin a fraction higher.
Perfect.
PLEASE—
The word cracked like a starving animal's cry.
Use the hammer. Split him. Let me taste—
Kaelis closed his eyes just once, as if savoring a quiet note in distant music.
And when he opened them, he moved.
Quick. Clean.
A single practiced draw of the blade.
The scalpel parted flesh like silk.
Not jagged. Not violent.
A cut made by someone who could have been a surgeon if he cared for healing.
Blood surged in a beautiful arc, warm and immediate, splashing across Kaelis' gloves, streaking the floor in a fine fan. The soldier made a wet, choking sound — short, soft — then stilled as crimson drained down his chest.
The fluorescent lights hummed on.
Abaddon went silent.
Not defeated — starving.
A quiet, sulking hunger curling into itself.
Kaelis wiped the scalpel on a square of linen, movements slow, almost meditative. Not savoring the kill — savoring the precision. The success. The completion of the line he had chosen.
He didn't look triumphant.
He didn't look indulgent.
He looked… satisfied.
Not with the blood.
With the decision.
He placed the scalpel back into its leather sheath, smoothing the flap closed with the pad of his thumb. A ritual, as exacting as everything else.
Only then did Abaddon speak again — faint, cold, a whisper behind Kaelis' ear like breath through a grate:
You starve me on purpose.
Kaelis lit a fresh cigarette off the dying ember of the old one.
"Of course," he said softly.
He turned away from the corpse, coat whispering across the tile as he stepped into the sterile corridor — a silhouette framed by hard white light, smoke trailing after him like a benediction.
Behind him, the soldier bled in silence.
The art was finished.
And the hunger waited.
—————————————————————-
The door unlatched with a mechanical clack, sharp and sterile, echoing down the narrow concrete corridor behind him. Cold morning air muscled its way inside — thin, iron-tanged, carrying resin from distant conifers, and the metallic sting of frost. It pressed against Kaelis' skin with subtle insistence, curling under the seams of his suit like a living thing. Site 13 smelled perpetually of contradiction: human sterility fighting the encroaching forest, machines struggling to suppress decay. No matter the filtration cycles, no matter the sterilizers humming behind the walls, the wild pressed back through the seams — patient, insistent, inevitable.
Kaelis stepped out.
The structure behind him rose like a gray, uncompromising monolith. Composite slabs and steel ribs plunged into Black Mountain's granite spine, brutalist, absolute. It radiated NERDS' personality — utilitarian, paranoid, efficient to the point of spiritual sterility. Cameras tracked his crossing with insectlike precision, rotating three degrees at a time, lenses glinting faintly against frost-webbed reflections. Pad lights pulsed in orchestrated sequences, bathing the concrete in intermittent, strobing bursts of white-orange that highlighted frost sheen and thin puddles.
Two guards flanking the doorway stiffened as he passed. They hid it well, but Kaelis noticed everything: the brief spike in heart rate, the minuscule tightening of trapezius fibers, the shallow inhalation betraying instinctive vigilance. They weren't saluting. They were bracing.
Everyone braced.
His presence carried weight. Not fame. Not glory. Weight.
He didn't look at them. Didn't need to. Their eyes drifted away automatically, as though making contact was a law they had learned through trial and instinct. One of them — young, narrow-jawed, quivering eyelid — met Kaelis' peripheral vision for a heartbeat before flinching. The other kept his gaze pinned to frost-glazed pavement, studying it as though he could will it to hold fast beneath his feet.
Kaelis walked on.
His boots struck the ground in unhurried rhythm, impact muted by a thin sheen of half-melted snow. The cold stung, but his physiology neutralized it before discomfort could form. The chill existed only as data — altitude, humidity, dew point, the creeping winter massing in the valleys.
Beyond the security ring, the forest loomed — a gothic mass of pines and skeletal hardwoods draped in morning fog. Tendrils of mist curled around the trunks, slow and sinuous, weaving like deliberate, sentient fingers. Silence here had a pulse. Somewhere in the muted haze, a long, dragging groan rose, neither animal nor wind — maybe infected, wandering, uncommitted to prey. The guards stiffened subtly at it; Kaelis did not. The world often rearranged itself to stay out of his way.
"They remember," Abaddon murmured. Presence more than sound, heavy as stone sinking through black water. The screams carried farther than they claim. Their animal brains remember the pitch beneath the lights.
Kaelis inhaled, tasting the faint electric tang of cortisol leaking from human pores. Fear was subtle yet distinct, like the first trace of iron on the tongue.
"Good," he whispered. Not to the guards. Not to the morning. To Him. To Abaddon.
A quiet satisfaction thrummed inside his skull, like a hand brushing across harp strings made of bone.
"And the young ones?" Abaddon asked. "Do you feel how their dread sharpens? Fresh. Untempered. Almost sweet."
Kaelis' gaze slid to a cluster of technicians at a far terminal — civilian-adjacent, softer edges, less trained, more honest in terror. Their instruments crackled at his presence. Static spat from chest-pinned comms. Monitors flickered. A coffee mug rattled in staccato tremors. One froze mid-step, shoulders locking. Another lowered his gaze. A third stepped back an inch — enough to betray the primal code encoded in the spine of every lesser being confronted with a predator.
Kaelis savored it.
"Exquisite," he murmured, letting the word roll across his tongue like dark honey.
Clay and gristle, Abaddon replied. Trembling silhouettes before the pyre. They built this place to contain gods. Now they watch one walk free.
The corner of Kaelis' mouth lifted in a faint, imperceptible curve.
"They should watch," he whispered.
Fog drifted across the landing pad, curling around his boots like silk. Mountains rose jagged and austere behind Site 13, pines coated in frost. Cold bit the inside of his lungs — invigorating, honest. A sharper palette of the world.
Ahead, the V-280 Valor waited. Gunmetal stormclouds, angular, aerodynamic menace. Twin rotors churned lazily, stirring fog into eddies like coiling spirits. The fuselage seemed carved from obsidian — crouched, hungry, poised to vanish into the forest.
Two handlers waited at the base of the ramp, clipboards and holopads clutched. Their bodies shifted like live wires. They watched Kaelis with awe and dread the kind reserved for volcanic eruptions or unexploded ordnance.
Kaelis' stride remained steady. Unnervingly calm.
The facility had seen thousands of personnel, but this morning belonged to him.
The security door hissed shut behind him, hydraulic finality.
A gust cut across the clearing, lifting frost in a fine spray. The low thrum of the rotors pressed against the chest, felt more than heard — a heartbeat beneath the world.
Kaelis rolled his shoulders — a movement so subtle it could be mistaken for nothing. Muscle fibers aligned, posture calibrated, respiration optimized. His body existed as a living instrument, tuned to perfection. Every gesture, conscious or not, served efficiency.
The handlers stiffened further as he approached. One managed a stiff nod; the other seemed to forget breathing entirely. Neither dared speak.
Inside the Valor, amber light spilled through tinted windows. A silhouette moved: the flight engineer making final adjustments. The ramp lay lowered, open like a predatory jaw.
Kaelis' gaze drifted upward. The sky was a slab of pale gray, streaked with copper-hued clouds. Beyond them, the jetstream roiled, the loft from which the Valor would soon carry him. When the ramp opened midair, the world would unravel beneath him like a frozen tapestry — peaks, valleys, forests, the distant scar of Bishop.
"You feel it before a hunt," Abaddon whispered. Not hallucination. Not quite. Shadow of instinct made articulate.
Kaelis ignored it.
At the ramp base, frost-melt formed spirals from repeated landings, crater-like impressions familiar from study. He paused, observing. Data only.
The scent of aviation fuel cut through the cold, mingling with ozone and the faint warmth radiating from the machine's belly. Machines preparing for his path of violence.
One handler finally spoke.
"Operative Kaelis, flight is prepped. Winds stable. Schedule set—"
Kaelis stepped onto the ramp, cutting the words. Timing irrelevant. Flight plan, wind vectors, thermal shifts, predicted infected migration along the valley near Farlow — memorized. Numbers flowed to him like scent to a wolf.
The ramp vibrated beneath his boots.
Inside, the cabin smelled of warm oil, polymer, faint electrical ozone. Amber light bathed the interior. Kevlar seats lined the walls, straps swayed with rotor motion.
He did not sit. Standing asserted dominance, readiness. The cabin door hissed closed, muting the external world. Rotor hum became interior thunder — rhythmic, hypnotic.
Kaelis grabbed the overhead strap, gaze fixed on the forest. Fog pooled between pines like diluted smoke, curling up slopes of Black Mountain. Silence was unnatural.
Miles away, a tunnel wound toward Bishop, and beyond that: the city of the dead. Somewhere within it: Dr. Holf.
The Ascendant goal of this mission. Valuable. Fleeing. A remnant NERDS feared losing more than human life itself.
Abaddon stirred. She runs because she thinks she is prey. She has forgotten what hunts her.
Kaelis' pupils dilated, drinking in fog, cold, pursuit.
"I'll remind her," he said.
And then he stepped into the Valor.
—————————————————————-
The rotors of the Valor deepened in tone, shifting from a lazy churn to a steady, cavernous hum. Each rotation pushed air against the pad in undulating waves, frosting the edges of the metal catwalk and teasing the fog into curling spirals around Kaelis' boots. The ground beneath trembled faintly with the collective rhythm of engines, hydraulics, and the stored kinetic energy of a machine designed to defy gravity.
Kaelis' hand remained firm on the overhead strap, fingers calibrated to absorb the vibrations without feedback. His eyes scanned the fog, the treeline, the mountains. Not out of caution — the forest below might hide the unwary, but it could not hide from him. It was a living map he carried in muscle memory, neural pathways tuned to topography, wind currents, and prey patterns.
Abaddon stirred, low and liquid, echoing against his mind like molten iron. Feel it. The tremor of the woods. The pulse beneath frost and soil. They think you come for them. You come for her. But everything between is prey waiting to be sorted.
The Valor tilted into vertical lift. The landing struts retracted with hydraulic precision, the sound a metallic sigh swallowed by the low-frequency rotor thrum. The forest below compressed into a soft green-gray mosaic, fog curling over the pine crowns, running like smoke along ravines and slopes. Frosted ridges glimmered briefly under the morning light before melting into shadow.
Kaelis' boots remained planted, posture unyielding, even as the cabin shivered with wind push and mechanical torque. He inhaled — taste of polymer, fuel, ozone, and faint iron from the mountain's veins. Every inhale carried the scent of motion, of air compressed and fractured over rotors, over metallic fuselage. The world outside was noise to lesser minds; to him it was data: speed vectors, turbulence, thermal columns, the distant groan of glaciers and ancient trees shifting under frost weight.
They built this craft to carry gods, Abaddon murmured. Yet they fear what walks beside them, even within the hull.
Kaelis allowed a faint tightening of his jaw. Not irritation. Not satisfaction. Calibration. Every fiber of his body aligned with the aircraft, the mountain, the unseen currents spiraling above valleys. His eyes swept the distant horizon, where the Black Mountain spine gave way to undulating foothills. Beyond that, eighty miles out, Bishop waited — hollowed, silent, and unknowing. Somewhere within its perimeter, Dr. Holf moved, unguarded yet under perpetual threat.
The cabin temperature, artificially stabilized, barely registered. Kaelis' body compensated instinctively. His lungs adjusted, oxygen saturation optimized, muscle fibers primed for explosive contraction. Reflexes and strength already anticipating the jump. A top-speed fall, wind-resistance calculations, air density: he could do this all in microseconds and still land on a slope with precision no human could replicate. Demigod, Abaddon whispered, savoring the word. Ascendant. Predator. The world does not shape you — it bends before you.
Outside, the forest shrank into a woven tapestry of greens, grays, and muted browns. Streams reflected dawn like liquid glass, sunlight striking frost on the peaks. Rotors sliced the air into a continuous vibration, thrumming through the cabin and up into Kaelis' spine. Every sense, every nerve ending, resonated with mechanical and environmental feedback.
Abaddon's voice was patient, teasing, an undercurrent beneath his consciousness. Do you hear them? The distant movements, the instinctive scatter of animals far below. Even the mountains breathe, Kaelis. All of it senses you. And she waits.
Kaelis let the thought pass like smoke. Observation, not emotion. The forest was prey, but he was not hunting it — not yet. This was reconnaissance in motion, an appraisal of environment and vectors. High altitude, low turbulence, predictable air currents. He visualized the moment the ramp would open mid-flight. The world beneath would unfurl in a frozen tapestry, valleys and ridges, forests and creeks, every slope, every shadow noted and memorized.
She will run. Let her, Abaddon whispered. She always runs. The hunt is where you meet her.
The Valor banked slightly, sensors blinking, hydraulics murmuring. Wind hissed through panel seams. Kaelis adjusted stance imperceptibly, every muscle pre-calculating the impact of air pressure, lift, and rapid descent. He felt the pull of gravity, the counterweight of centrifugal force, the way the cabin shivered beneath him, and translated it instantly into spatial coordinates.
Through the open side viewport, he glimpsed the fog crawling over the ridges, moving like liquid smoke over the mountains' frozen teeth. The pines bowed subtly beneath it, their frost-laden tips glittering. He imagined how they would appear from a freefall — a rushing tide of green-gray punctuated with rock and ice, obstacles and vectors, wind gusts accelerating down chimneyed ravines.
Abaddon murmured, amused: She cannot see you yet. But you feel her pulse. The scent of fear in that distant city, mingled with curiosity. She is human. She bleeds, she anticipates, she calculates. And she will know you when you fall.
Kaelis allowed himself the faintest smile. Not at her fear — yet — but at the inevitability of it. I will remind her, he thought. Not consciously. Not a promise. An assessment of certainty.
Inside, the cabin seemed to contract around him. Amber light bathed every surface, metal and polymer and Kevlar. Straps swayed slightly with rotor vibration. Air temperature was stable, but the microclimate on the platform of his body was hyperaware: heat exchange, skin convection, oxygen partial pressure, wind impact. All accounted for. Every step, every jump, every pulse of action pre-registered in neural and muscular systems.
Your physiology has been calibrated for this moment, Abaddon whispered, almost approving. Strength. Speed. Reflex. You will fall, and the world will bend to catch you. And she will see the Ascendant before she understands it.
The climb continued, the forest below melting into a muted, moss-and-fog tapestry. Frosted peaks gave way to ridges, ridges to valleys, every shadow recorded in Kaelis' mind. He registered the subtle rise of thermal columns, predicting turbulence before the cabin even experienced it. Sensors, wind, altitude, every variable. His body integrated it all instinctively, like a living simulation engine.
Minutes passed. The trees became indistinct, the valleys merging into the broad contours of land. Bishop waited beyond, and within it, Dr. Holf — brilliant, elusive, indispensable. And Kaelis, demigod of muscle and calculation, predator incarnate, would meet her mid-fall.
Abaddon's voice, faint but omnipresent, wrapped around him: You are the storm she cannot outrun. The shadow she cannot hide from. The world will fold beneath your descent, and she will know — she has never seen a god land before.
Kaelis exhaled once, slow, deliberate, feeling the wind currents swirl in micro-eddies along the open ramp. The climb, the altitude, the distant mountains, the roiling forest fog — all preparation. Observation. Calibration. Anticipation.
The Valor reached its operational altitude. Below, clouds gathered in muted patches, broken sunlight slicing over frozen slopes. The rotors thrum became almost musical, a low-frequency resonance tuned to the physiology of predators. Kaelis' eyes swept the horizon. The world, measured and precise, awaited the leap.
Abaddon whispered one final note before release: Ascendant. Flight, and then the hunt. Let the world see you fall like the god you are.
Kaelis' fingers brushed the hatch edge, stance perfect. The forest waited. Bishop waited. Dr. Holf waited.
And he was ready, for his hunt, his ritual.
—————
The hatch yawned open.
Air tore into the Valor's cabin, cold and insistent, carrying ozone, metal, and the faint whisper of pine resin from far below. Kaelis stepped forward. Not hurried. Not hesitant. With a godlike rhythm, each step was deliberate, controlled, almost ceremonial. His boots met nothing but air for a heartbeat, then the void took him, and he became both predator and projectile.
Abaddon hummed in his mind: Fall, Ascendant. Let the world bend beneath you.
He stepped off the ramp. The wind claimed him immediately, buffeting limbs and armor, tugging at straps and collar, slicing across the cheeks. He tilted slightly, letting the gusts flow along his body, guiding him, channeling them as though they were instruments tuned to his will. His descent was precise — not a plummet, but a sculpted motion, every millisecond precomputed.
The forest rushed upward, fog curling in serpentine columns, skeletal trunks reaching like hands. His eyes cataloged every ridge, every shadow, every frozen branch. Data streamed faster than thought, yet instinct translated it all without hesitation.
Kaelis' muscles were tuned to a near-divine frequency. They contracted, flexed, and absorbed forces no ordinary human could withstand. His spine acted like a steel spring, tendons like braided cable, every joint a pivot and shock absorber. Air pressure shifted; lungs expanded and compressed with algorithmic efficiency. Blood pulsed through arteries with metronomic perfection, feeding oxygen where needed, shunting it where not.
Speed built. Fifty miles per hour. Sixty. The wind whipped past, tearing at the flight suit, raising gooseflesh in frozen ripples. Frost flakes collided with the edges of his gloves and boots. The forest whispered in response — branches groaned, leaves shivered, distant animals froze.
Abaddon purred: They built you for this. Yet still you surpass even their dreams. You are wind and bone, storm and steel. Feel it. Own it.
Kaelis tilted, rotating midair. Branches scraped shoulders and arms; he absorbed each strike, flexing subtly, letting armor and tendon carry the friction. Fingers bent to deflect, shoulders shifted to absorb, spine braced. Every strike against him became a note in a symphony of descent.
Fog thickened, thinning, eddies and spirals forming and dispersing with his passage. His eyes never left the target area — the clearing below, invisible yet mapped perfectly in his mind. Angles, drag, wind shear, and friction all folded into his trajectory.
The last twenty feet compressed in a heartbeat. He adjusted knees, elbows, shoulders. Hands spread, tilted, micro-angled to distribute drag. The forest seemed to pause, watching.
Impact.
The earth shuddered beneath him. Boots sank deep into frost-hardened dirt and moss, compressing soil, pulverizing leaf litter, scattering micro-fragments of rock. Dirt lifted in spirals, a storm of granular smoke curling into the air, catching the early light. Branches snapped from shockwaves, frost trembling along trunks, debris rattling in their minor tremor.
Kaelis rolled and flexed simultaneously — knees bent, elbows absorbing, spine compressing and unwinding like a coiled spring. Shoulders tilted, wrists twisted to channel force. Every ounce of kinetic energy was funneled through his body in an elegant lattice of motion. The shock propagated through tendon, muscle, bone — not absorbed blindly, but sculpted, rendered harmless.
He did not stumble. Did not falter. His landing was a precise, godlike choreography. Dust and frost settled around him, eddies spiraling outward from his descent. He remained a singular silhouette in the clearing — composed, commanding, untouched by the violence of gravity.
Abaddon whispered, low and amused: See how the earth bends beneath you. Every stone, every frostflake, every leaf acknowledges your passage. She waits. And you have arrived.
Kaelis rose to full stance. Not rigid. Not casual. Perfectly balanced, a predator aware of every centimeter around him. Boots pressed into the soil with deliberate pressure, heels and toes distributing weight with uncanny precision. His shoulders rolled once, small, almost imperceptible, neck straightened, spine aligned — the posture of one who has descended through chaos and landed as dominion.
He inhaled. The scent of crushed dirt, displaced frost, pine resin, ozone, and distant decay filled his senses — a sensory map of the terrain, of the forest's breathing, of the air's hidden currents. Every heartbeat, every nerve, every muscle still alive, registering, adjusting. The predator was ready. The hunt had begun.
———
Kaelis inhaled, slow, deliberate, savoring the cold, frost-laden air. Tiny snowflakes drifted around him, settling on shoulders and eyelashes, each a whisper of a world laid bare before him. The forest was his stage, the clearing a cathedral of ice and silence, waiting — every detail sharp, every shadow a note in his symphony.
Abaddon stirred in the depths of his mind: A titan of destruction released upon the world. Every tree, every stone, every trembling thing is yours to shape. The world bends to the ritual.
Kaelis' chest rose and fell, shoulders easing into fluid readiness. Fog curled back, branches bowed subtly, even the wind shifted, drawn toward him like a halo of obedience.
Then it moved.
A single zombie shuffled into the clearing, disrupting the ritual of his observation. Its ragged breath hissed in the quiet, a note sour against the symphony of snow and forest stillness.
Kaelis' eyes went wide. Not fear. Ecstasy. Manic clarity. His pupils dilated, drinking in the disruption, his body a coiled instrument of wrath.
A wet, splintering laugh tore from him, ricocheting off the trunks like shards of ice.
"Interrupted?!" he shrieked, voice ragged and volcanic. "You dare interrupt my ritual?! My peace?!"
Abaddon pressed closer, serpentine and delighted: They will never stop you. They cannot. Only pretend.
Kaelis leaned toward the creature, whispering, almost tenderly, voice low and venomous:
"Do you feel it? The silence I commanded… the rhythm I set? You break it. You defile it. You mean nothing. Only the ritual matters. Only the pattern. Only me."
Boots struck earth with ghostly precision as he advanced. Snow puffed faintly under each step. The zombie lunged clumsily. Kaelis moved like a god among mortals — limbs coiling, releasing, a perfect calculus of muscle, tendon, reflex. With a single grip, the creature was twisted and shattered, ribs collapsing, sinew shredding, limbs scattering like instruments discarded mid-performance.
Rage met elegance. Violence was art. Abaddon's voice purred: Beautiful. So exquisitely beautiful.
He pivoted, scanning the frozen clearing. Chest heaving, shoulders rolling, every breath a song of mastery. Snowflakes whirled around him, light and silent witnesses to his fury.
A nearby pine beckoned. Kaelis' fist drove into it, sinking deep, splintering the trunk. Pain radiated back through bone and muscle, grounding him, calming him. Calm returned like a tide pulled by the violence itself.
Abaddon's voice hummed, low and approving: See? The world obeys. Every fracture, every tremor, every exhalation — beautiful elegance. Always beautiful.
Kaelis straightened, stance measured yet predatory. Snow drifted lazily around him. The forest waited, reverent and terrified, the clearing alive with the residue of his ritual's restoration.
And in that silence, he breathed again, slow, deliberate, tasting iron, ozone, and pine — the world alive beneath his feet, ready for the titan of destruction released, for the ritual to continue, uninterrupted.
————-
Kaelis straightened, chest still rising in slow, deliberate breaths. The forest had settled — a fragile truce restored. Frost dusted his shoulders and hair, the light snowfall settling like ash upon the clearing. Broken branches and shredded earth marked the remnants of his ritual, each crack and upheaval a testament to his presence.
Abaddon whispered, a low, ruminating hum that threaded through bone and sinew: The clearing is yours. The world bends beneath your gaze. All that stirs now waits for you.
Kaelis' eyes swept the perimeter with calculated calm. Every tree, every tangle of undergrowth, every fold in the snow became a reference point, a potential obstacle or ally in the hunt. The clearing was a map rendered in frost and decay, and he knew it intimately, as though he had grown from its soil.
His boots sank slightly into the churned dirt, pulverized pine needles cushioning his weight. Snow puffed upward in tiny, suspended clouds with each step, catching the morning light in brief, pale glimmers. Each exhale fogged, curling upward like ethereal smoke rings, marking the rhythm of the predator's readiness.
Abaddon's voice rippled again, subtle now, serpentine: Play, Kaelis. The world stretches for you. Every shadow, every movement — your canvas.
Kaelis flexed his shoulders, tested his stride, muscles contracting and releasing in perfect harmony. With a fluid pivot, he launched into motion, stepping lightly between the ragged bases of pines, dodging low-hanging branches, the tips of his boots skimming over frost-matted ferns and underbrush. The snow resisted but yielded beneath his weight, crunching quietly in the percussive rhythm of his sprint.
The forest around him seemed to bend to his passage. Twigs fractured midair before they could obstruct, leaves parted instinctively, the cold air pressing past his skin only to be replaced seamlessly with the next inhalation. Every movement was a statement of dominance: a god striding across a world too small to contain him.
Abaddon murmured, almost amused: They will not follow. They never can. You are the storm in waiting. The hunter among lesser things.
Kaelis' pace increased. The undergrowth blurred beneath his peripheral vision, air rushing past at thirty miles per hour, then forty, the wind tugging at hair, clothing, and skin like the fingers of invisible hands acknowledging him. Snow swirled into tiny eddies around his ankles, the light flakes caught in the turbulent air streams raised by his passage.
He navigated with instinctive precision, calculating every trajectory. A fallen log became a launch point — not an obstacle — and he vaulted over it, absorbing the landing with knees and forearms flexing in controlled, godlike absorption. Soil erupted in small arcs from each impact, dirt and frost spraying outward, settling back like tiny crystals returning to their rightful place.
Each breath was measured, internal organs aligning, diaphragm and lungs working in perfect tandem, a symphony of biological engineering. His heartbeat was steady, restrained, a slow drum beneath the rapid mechanical cadence of limbs in motion.
The road lay ahead, unseen but anticipated. Roughly ten miles beyond the clearing, a thin ribbon of asphalt slicing through the forest, its presence betrayed only by subtle shifts in the tree line and the faint metallic scent of distant vehicles. Kaelis' mind projected the path: gaps between trunks, angles for acceleration, patches of snow to avoid unnecessary friction.
Abaddon's voice rose, thrilling with the imagery of the hunt: Every second bends to your will. Every stride writes a story of motion. Look — the world is a playground, waiting for the pattern you impose.
Kaelis' lips lifted in a faint, imperceptible smile. The predator's gaze never wavered, scanning constantly, absorbing data: the slight dip of a moss-covered root, a branch bent under hidden snow, a distant owl startled into flight. Each detail cataloged, processed, filed — potential variables in the ritual of pursuit.
The snow thickened imperceptibly, a whisper of winter brushing across his shoulders, scattering in his wake. He dove between two trees, skidding slightly on frozen soil, and recovered instantly, the impact absorbed through muscle, tendon, and bone. Frost and dirt erupted outward in a miniature plume — the earth itself yielding to the god's passage.
Time stretched and compressed simultaneously. Every second contained decades of sensory input, calculations of trajectory, velocity, and environmental forces. The road came into view as a pale line through the trees, and Kaelis' stride lengthened, speed controlled but relentless, a force of nature hurtling through the forest.
Abaddon purred, darkly pleased: Soon. The pattern aligns. The ritual resumes. You move as both storm and sculptor. Nothing stops you. Nothing but the prey you choose.
Kaelis inhaled, chest expanding, savoring the cold and the rush. His playground lay before him: snow-laden branches, frosted earth, the twisting pines, every shadow and hollow a potential brushstroke. And at the far edge of this unfolding canvas, beyond forest and frost, the world's next piece awaited.
He ran on. Silent, inexorable, unstoppable — a demigod descending through his cathedral of trees, the snow whispering around him as witness to the ritual of motion, the precision of godlike power unleashed.