A week and a half slipped by, and in that time, the facility festered with unease. Whispers moved through the corridors like a rising tide, each hushed murmur feeding the next. Edwin's absence was more than a missing person-it was a wound that refused to close, bleeding paranoia into every darkened hall.

  Albert, too, was different. He vanished for hours at a time, his return always heralded by an unsettling shift in the air. Some said he was planning something—a "test," they called it.

  Others feared something worse. The fear had weight, thick enough to choke on, pressing down on the already fractured foundation of their world.

  Robert moved through his rounds mechanically, a shadow of himself, haunted by the echoes of Edwin's violent escape. The aftermath lingered in every corner-guards with shattered bones, scorched walls where blasts had torn through, the warped and broken gate that led into MidFallen. The facility wasn't just damaged; it was shaken to its core.

  In order to save his son and compound’s face, Albert labeled the East Gate Incident as a terrorist attack that failed. The entire Fallen City was taken aback by the sudden news.

  And then there was James.

  He had paid the price for his failure, for the mere suspicion of helping Edwin slip away. Someone had seen him talking to Edwin before the breakout, and that was enough. Albert had him dragged in, stripped of his rank, interrogated for hours behind locked doors. No one knew the exact details of what had been done to him, only that when he emerged, the man was... less.

  Robert caught a glimpse of him once, a fleeting moment during a round. James was leaving the compound, his usual self-assured stride reduced to a hollow shuffle. His face was a mask of emptiness, his proud, sharp eyes dulled by something Robert couldn't name.

  A fractured man. A ghost of what he had been.

  Sanchez's sacrifice was honored-but not in truth. His story was twisted, reshaped to fit the carefully constructed narrative Albert needed the world to believe. He was no longer a guard who had died as a result from a fierce battle against the monsterized version of Edwin. Instead, he was a martyr, a symbol of defiance against the so-called terrorist threat. A patriot.

  Albert orchestrated the memorial with calculated precision, ensuring the entire city of Centerpoint bore witness. The compound's courtyard, draped in banners of mourning, became the stage for a grand display of grief and patriotism.

  Somber music played as a massive screen broadcast a carefully edited tribute-Sanchez's face immortalized in grainy footage, his deeds distorted into legend.

  When Albert took the podium, his voice was heavy with sorrow, yet unwavering with purpose.

  "Manuel Sanchez gave his life to protect us," he declared, his words slicing through the still air.

  "His bravery must not be forgotten."

  Then, with a flourish designed to cement Sanchez's place in history, Albert unveiled his plans. The East Gate, once a mere passage, would now bear Sanchez's name-M.S. East Gate—a permanent reminder of his heroism, sacrifice and patriotism. A statue, grand and imposing, would be erected at the city's entrance, it's cold stone gaze set upon all who entered, a monument to the version of him that Albert had created.

  The crowd erupted into applause, a mix of admiration and blind acceptance. But beneath the surface, behind the polished speeches and scripted grief, the truth lay buried-just like Sanchez.

  ———///////———

  On the Third Level, Doctor Cenilera was fighting a war of her own.

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  Edwin's fury had left her infirmary overflowing with the shattered remains of guards who had dared to stand in his way. The strongest had clung to life, surviving through raw will and multiple long session, desperate surgeries. But the rest...

  The rest were already being carried out in body bags.

  The medical ward reeked of blood and antiseptic, a battlefield of its own kind. Nurses moved like phantoms, some trembling, others running on sheer exhaustion. A few had collapsed in corners, their bodies betraying them after too many sleepless shifts. Those who still stood did so on shaking legs, haunted by the weight of the wounded and the suffocating knowledge that they couldn't save them all.

  Anxiety pressed against the walls like a living thing, thick and oppressive, turning every breath into an effort.

  Then—

  "Stitches. Now."

  Doctor Cenilera's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. It was sharp, unyielding—a thread of control in the unraveling madness.

  "I-I don't know where they are!" Nurse Cal's voice shook, his hands trembling as he rifled through a cart of scattered supplies.

  "Second drawer from the top," she snapped, barely keeping the bite from her tone. "Where they've always been."

  A beat of silence. Then—

  "They're gone, Doctor."

  Cenilera froze. Her jaw clenched as she turned, her eyes burning with exhaustion and frustration.

  Supplies were vanishing faster than they could be replaced, and now, at the worst possible moment, they were out of something as simple as stitches.

  Cal’s hand hesitated over the drawer, finding only a stapler where the stitches should have been. He looked up, his face reflecting a bleak resignation. “This is all we have.”

  With a hardened expression, Cenilera took the stapler from Cal.

  Her gaze shifted to the guard lying before her.

  David. His uniform was slick with blood, his skin deathly pale, his torso a ruin of deep, infected gashes. Each breath he took was a struggle, a testament to his fading endurance.

  Cenilera exhaled sharply, "This will hurt." A pause. A flicker of something softer. "I'm sorry, David. We have no painkillers left."

  For a moment, he said nothing. Then, despite everything, his lips curled in the ghost of a smile.

  "Maybe that's for the best," he rasped. "Might remind me I'm still human."

  His eyes met hers, holding steady despite the agony lurking beneath. There was fear there, yes, but also something more. Resilience.

  Acceptance. A quiet understanding that pain was all that was left for them now.

  Cenilera pressed her lips together, then proceeded.

  The first staple punctured flesh with a brutal snap. David's body arched, his scream tearing through the infirmary-a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the walls and settled deep in Cenilera's bones. It wasn't just pain; it was agony, primal and unrelenting. His fingers clawed at the edges of the bed, his breath ragged, eyes rolling back as she drove another staple into the open wound.

  The room felt smaller, suffocating under the weight of his suffering.

  Then, suddenly, his body slackened. A sharp inhale, a final shudder-and silence.

  Cenilera hovered over him, heart pounding. His chest still rose and fell, each breath shallow but steady. He had passed out from the pain. She exhaled slowly, pressing the back of her hand to his clammy forehead. Burning up. Infection was already setting in.

  "Rest now, David," she murmured, the words barely above a whisper. It wasn't a comfort-it was all she could offer. "I’ll have one of our nurses bring you medicine."

  A faint sound slipped from his lips, something between a sigh and a groan, before unconsciousness claimed him completely.

  She didn't move.

  Her legs felt stiff, as though bound by invisible chains. Exhaustion pressed down on her like a lead weight, dragging her deeper into the pit she had been trying so desperately to claw out of.

  Blood-his blood-streaked her gloves, soaking into the cuffs of her sleeves.

  How many more?

  How many more body bags are going to pass through these doors? How many of the wounded will actually survive?

  A soft nudge against her arm jolted her back to reality.

  "Lilith." Cal's voice was gentle, but firm. "You need a break."

  She turned toward him, barely registering the concern etched into his features.

  "There's no time," she said, her voice hoarse, her own exhaustion evident in the dark smudges beneath her eyes. "If I stop now.." She swallowed hard, unable to finish.

  If I stop now, I might never get another chance to atone.

  Cal didn't look convinced. "Then at least step away for a bit. Take a walk. Clear your head before you collapse."

  Cenilera hesitated. The idea of leaving felt wrong, like abandoning a battlefield before the fight was done. But she wasn't winning this fight.

  None of them were.

  Reluctantly, she nodded, peeling off her gloves and dropping them into the waste bin. She turned and stepped out of the room, out of the ward, out of the suffocating scent of antiseptic and blood.

  The hallway felt eerily quiet in comparison to the chaos behind her.

  She stepped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft hiss. The moment it began its descent, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.