Lucas stared into the darkness of the hallway, his new club feeling both reassuring and utterly inadequate in his hands. The hallway stretched left and right, doors lining both sides. Apartment 4B to his left. 4C to his right. The emergency lights were dead, leaving only the grey, alien glow from a window at the far end.
"This is stupid," he whispered to Scribbles, who had waddled up beside him. "I'm a shut-in, not a dungeon crawler. I should be waiting for a patch. Or at least some user-created guides."
But the Safe Zone timer was ticking. Seven days. He needed loot, experience, and most importantly, stronger Thralls.
He decided on a plan. "We clear our own floor first. Then work our way down. No stairs until we have to. Stairs are natural choke points and probably full of spiders the size of dogs. Because of course they are."
His first target: Apartment 4C. Old Mrs. Gable's place. She was a retired librarian who'd occasionally left him homemade cookies with passive-aggressive notes about "young men needing sunlight." Her door was slightly ajar.
Using hand signals he'd seen in games, he pointed at the door, then at himself, then made a pushing motion. Scribbles tilted its cover, confused.
"Just... follow me and look menacing," Lucas sighed.
He nudged the door open with his club. It swung inward with a loud creak. He froze, heart pounding. No movement from inside.
The apartment was a mirror of his own, but tidier. And ransacked. Furniture was overturned. Glass from a shattered picture frame crunched under his sneaker. There was a dark, dried stain on the floral-patterned carpet.
[Ambient Danger Detected.]
[Caution Advised.]
"No kidding," Lucas muttered. He moved in slowly, club raised. The living room was clear. The kitchen... also clear, though the fridge door hung open, revealing spoiled food. The smell made him gag.
He checked the bedroom last. The door was closed. He listened. A soft, wet, tearing sound came from within.
Oh no.
He almost backed out. Just turned around. But the thought of a monster leveling up in the room next to him, waiting to burst through *his* wall, was worse. He had to know.
With a deep breath, he turned the knob and pushed.
Mrs. Gable's bedroom was a horror show. The thing in the center of the room wasn't Mrs. Gable anymore. It was a human-shaped mound of the same wet, shifting trash that had made up the Detritus Lurker, but bigger. It wore tatters of her floral housecoat. It was hunched over what was left of her bed, its "head" a rotating mass of crushed photo frames, dented spoons, and knitting needles. It was... consuming the fabric.
[Entity: Memoriam Husk]
[Level: 3]
[Health: 80/80]
[Disposition: Sedentary, Confused]
[Skills: [Memory Lure] - Emits psychic echoes of the deceased's memories. [Debris Armor] - Takes reduced damage from piercing/slashing.]
[Note: Born from strong emotional residue and integrated matter. Weak to purifying elements (fire, light, extreme emotion).]
It wasn't attacking. It was just... there. A lump of sadness and garbage.
Lucas's grip on his club tightened. It was Level 3. Higher than him. It had armor. But it was distracted. And his [Absolute Subjugation] hummed. This was a potential Thrall. A stronger one.
He needed to get its health down without getting close. The bed. It was flammable.
"Scribbles," he whispered. "The curtains. Corrode the ring holding them up."
The Tome-Hound silently moved to the window and began secreting acid onto a metal curtain hook. Lucas, keeping his eyes on the Husk, felt around Mrs. Gable's nightstand. His fingers closed on a familiar object: a cheap plastic lighter. She'd smoked on her balcony sometimes.
The curtain hook gave way with a *ping*. The heavy fabric fell in a heap.
The Husk turned its spoon-faced head toward the sound. Lucas moved.
He grabbed the curtain, dragged it toward the bed, and flicked the lighter. It took three tries. The synthetic fabric caught with a reluctant fizzle, then bloomed into flame right next to the Husk.
The creature let out a sound like a sighing tea kettle and stumbled back from the sudden heat.
[Memoriam Husk Health: 65/80]
[Status: Distressed, Burning]
Not enough. The fire was small, already dying on the carpet.
The Husk focused on him. It raised an arm that ended in a cluster of kitchen knives. A wave of psychic energy washed over Lucas—not pain, but memory. The smell of lavender and cat food. The sound of a game show from the living room TV. A deep, lonely ache. [Memory Lure]. It wanted him to stop, to remember, to be sad.
"Lady, I'm plenty sad already!" Lucas yelled, shaking off the melancholy. He charged, not at the monster, but at the flaming curtain. He kicked it, sending a shower of burning embers onto the Husk's debris-covered body.
The creature shrieked—a real sound now—as the flames caught on its dry, papery components.
[Memoriam Husk Health: 42/80]
[Status: Burning, Agitated]
Now. He had to close in. He hefted his club, aiming not for the body, but for the cluster of photo frames on its "head"—a weak point in its armor.
The Husk swung its knife-arm. Lucas ducked, feeling the blades whisper past his hair. He brought the club down hard on its shoulder.
*THWACK.*
[Memoriam Husk Health: 28/80]
[Will Critical.]
The golden prompt flashed.
[Target Vulnerable. Activate [ABSOLUTE SUBJUGATION]? Y/N]
The Husk was on its knees, burning weakly, its spoon-face tilted up at him. He could see a faded photo of a younger Mrs. Gable smiling, trapped in the debris of its face.
He didn't hesitate this time. "Yes."
The golden chain, thicker than the one he'd used on Scribbles, shot from his chest and slammed into the Husk's core. The flames snuffed out instantly. The garbage and knick-knacks collapsed, then reformed, compacting and shifting.
What stood before him was no longer a monster. It was a humanoid figure about five feet tall, composed of polished, dark wood and ceramic, like a living antique doll. Its face was a smooth porcelain mask with faint, painted features. In its hands, it held a single, large, wicked-looking knitting needle made of tarnished silver. It looked like a solemn, silent butler.
[ABSOLUTE SUBJUGATION Successful!]
[Thrall Acquired: [Memoriam Husk] -> Designation Updated: [Mnemosyne Ward 'Mem'].]
[Capacity: 2/4.]
[Soul-Theft Initiated... Scanning...]
[Ability [Debris Armor] detected.]
[Extracting Skill-Shard... Integrating at [Level 1]...]
[New Passive Skill Acquired: [Improved Density - Lvl 1] - Your skin and clothing gain a slight resistance to piercing and slashing damage. Effect is minor.]
Lucas felt his skin prickle for a moment, becoming subtly tougher. He looked at his new Thrall. It bowed its head slightly.
"Mem," Lucas said, testing the name. "Can you fight?"
Mem gave a single, sharp nod, hefting its silver needle like a short spear.
"And... the memory thing? The sadness aura?"
Mem shook its head slowly. That skill was gone, stripped away and locked in Lucas's own new, minor durability.
"Good. That's... good." Lucas looked around the ruined apartment. The emotional residue was gone. It was just a sad, empty room now. "Okay. New rule. We loot quickly and quietly. Look for useful stuff. Food, medicine, tools. Scribbles, you're on corrosion duty for any locked cabinets."
As his two Thralls set to work, Lucas felt a new sensation. Not just power. Not just fear.
It was the beginnings of a party. A weird, depressing, book-and-porcelain party.
He had cleared his first room. The grind was officially on.