The killer's head snapped forward with the sudden, violent tension of a coiled spring, his forehead slamming into Jayce's bridge with a sickening, wet crunch that sent a spray of crimson across both of their faces. The world went white for a heartbeat, a high-pitched ringing drowning out the chaos of the cafeteria as Jayce staggered back, his hands instinctively flying to his broken nose while blood poured between his fingers. The "criminal."
didn't miss a beat; he let out one last discordant cackle, shoved Jayce hard into a stack of overturned chairs, and took off running toward the service exits with a lanky, predatory stride. Jayce blinked back the stinging tears and the haze of the headbutt, spitting a glob of blood onto the tile before bolting after him, his boots skidding through the mess of shattered glass and spilled coffee. "Suspect moving East toward the skywalk!" Jayce roared into his shoulder mic, his voice gravelly and raw as he burst through the swinging double doors into the main hallway. Behind him, the heavy thud of tactical boots announced the arrival of the SLPD strike team, their flashlights cutting through the dim, late-night corridors like searchlights in a storm. The pursuit was a blur of motion—the killer's purple coat fluttering around corners like a phantom while Jayce pushed his lungs to the breaking point, the adrenaline the only thing keeping his legs moving. They bypassed the surgical wings and the darkened gift shops, the chase echoing through the quiet halls until the decor began to shift. The sterile grays and whites of the trauma center gave way to bright, primary colors and hand-painted murals of rainforests and space stations; they had crossed the threshold into the Children's Hospital wing. The air here felt different—thinner, heavier with the weight of fragile lives—and the killer knew it. He didn't slow down, his boots squeaking on the waxed floors as he wove through the corridor of the pediatric oncology ward. Jayce could hear the distant, rhythmic beeping of monitors from the patient rooms, a haunting soundtrack to the hunt. The police were closing the gap, their shouts of "Drop the weapon!" and "Freeze!" bouncing off the colorful walls, but the killer was heading straight for the central playroom, a glass-walled sanctuary filled with plastic toys and miniature tables that now looked like a kill-box. Jayce's heart hammered against his ribs, not just from the exertion, but from the terrifying realization that in this wing, there were innocents who couldn't run away. He rounded the final corner just in time to see the killer slide behind a nurses' station, his painted face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated malice as he looked back at Jayce, waiting for the perfect moment to turn this chase into a hostage situation.
The killer didn't hesitate; he burst through the heavy oak door of Room 412, the "Joker" paint on his face smeared into a grotesque mask of sweat and blood as he lunged toward the small, adjustable bed in the center of the darkened room. Before Jayce could cross the threshold, the madman's arm was already locked around the throat of a frail seven-year-old girl named Maya, her bald head a stark reminder of the battle she was already fighting. He pulled her tiny body flush against his purple waistcoat, the serrated edge of a black pocket knife pressing into the soft skin of her neck, and the girl could only cry silently, her wide, tear-filled eyes locked on Jayce in a plea for help that shattered his heart. The SLPD officers skidded to a halt in the hallway, their weapons leveled but their fingers frozen on the triggers—the risk was too high, the target too small. The killer threw his head back, the adrenaline of the hunt peak-shaving into a manic high, and he closed his eyes as he let out a long, jagged laugh that rattled the IV poles beside the bed. "The punchline, Doc! Don't you see it? We're all dying anyway!" he shrieked, his grip tightening. But the laugh was cut short by a single, deafening crack that echoed through the small room like a thunderclap. A neat, dark hole appeared right in the center of the white greasepaint on his forehead, and the light vanished from his eyes instantly as his body went limp, sliding off the bed and hitting the floor with a hollow thud. Jayce spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs, only to see Hazel standing in the doorway, her scrubs splattered with old blood from the ER and her hands steady as she lowered a compact 9mm she'd taken from a fallen officer's holster in the chaos. Her breathing was shallow but her gaze was iron, the maternal instinct of a nurse turned into the lethal precision of a protector. Jayce rushed forward, his first instinct to check on Maya, but as he scooped the shaking girl into his arms, his relief was instantly scorched by a flare of white-hot anger. He looked up at Hazel, his face a bruised, bloody mess of shattered features and raw emotion. "What the hell were you thinking, Hazel?" he growled, his voice a low, vibrating tremor of fury. "You don't cross that line. You stay in the ER. I told you to stay away from the shadows, and here you are, pulling a trigger in a cancer ward!" Hazel didn't flinch, her eyes softening only for the child in his arms while her jaw remained set against him. "I did what you couldn't, Jayce," she whispered, the smell of cordite hanging heavy between them. "I saved her. And I'm not letting you go back into the dark alone this time."