The monster's grip around Maarg's throat tightened like a metal vice. His boots left the floor as he was hoisted into the air, his breath caught in a shallow gasp. The cold hand around his neck felt half-dead, half-mechanical, and completely unrelenting.
Then came the voice—inside his head.
"My humble apologies for not introducing myself," it spoke with unnerving calmness, not through its mouth but through his mind. "I am your escort through the hell. Nice to make your acquaintance."
Maarg's blood ran cold.
The monster hadn't spoken. Its jaw hadn't moved. Yet the words were perfectly clear, echoing in his skull like a parasite with a tongue.
"You can call me... Charity."
Maarg's eyes darted around, searching for anyone who might have heard it too. But Jack and the others—were shouting in confusion and rage, reacting only to the creature's physical presence. They hadn't heard the voice. Only Maarg had.
"No need to strain yourself," the voice whispered again. "This is a private line."
Charity's head cocked slightly to the side, and then he whispered something more sinister.
"You've made me run all the way from the other side of the world to find you… Activator."
Just then, a blur of movement cracked through the standoff.
Jack.
With a roar, Jack lunged forward, swinging his fire axe with brutal force straight for the creature's neck. Charity saw the blow coming just in time and, instead of finishing Maarg off, he released him to dodge. Maarg fell hard to the ground, coughing violently, but alive.
Jack's axe glanced off the metal plate running along Charity's neck. Sparks flew. The monster stumbled back with a low growl.
Charity's lips never moved, but a new emotion flooded Maarg's mind through that silent link—amusement.
The monster turned its head slowly toward Jack, a twisted grin spreading across its face. Its dull, corroded metal teeth bared, but it was Maarg that it addressed again.
"Found you…" the voice hissed, full of venomous glee. "Activator."
Maarg's blood froze.
Jack took position in front of Maarg, standing like a wall between his friend and the monster. His axe raised, ready. Behind him, Tara pulled Maarg away by the arm, while Henry took another shot, the gunfire ringing out across the ruined building.
Charity stood still for a second—unmoving. Then, without another word, it turned and leapt through the jagged remains of the wall, vanishing into the thick morning mist.
But the voice lingered in Maarg's head.
"Soon."
***
Maarg coughed violently, still reeling from the grip that nearly crushed his throat. The world spun around him. His head throbbed with the echo of the voice—Charity's voice—still slithering through his mind like a parasite that refused to leave. His fingers dug into the dusty floor as he tried to stand, his legs shaky beneath him.
He wanted to move. To help Jack. To fight.
But his body wouldn't respond.
In front of him, Jack fought like a man possessed. The once laid-back animation student was gone—replaced by something feral, raw, and unrelenting. He weaved under swings, ducked past strikes, his axe flashing in arcs of silver. Sparks burst from every blow that met Charity's metallic limbs. It was a dance of death—Jack versus a machine-built monster.
Steel crashed against steel, the clangs echoing like war drums. Maarg's eyes widened as he watched his friend slash at the creature's side, only for his blade to bounce off its armored plating. But Jack didn't falter. He moved with a fury that belonged to something far older than fear.
"A demon hound straight from hell."
Henry knelt behind a broken column, his Glock trained on the monster's head. His finger rested on the trigger—but he didn't fire. Not yet. He was waiting. Calculating. One wrong shot could hit Jack. One perfect one could end it.
As chaos unfolded, Tara scanned the area, her breath ragged. Her eyes caught something—just a flicker—at the edge of the ruined floor.
A hand.
Gripping the shattered railing for dear life.
"Mark!" she gasped.
He was alive.
His knuckles were white, fingers clenched around the edge like a man dangling between life and death.
Without hesitation, Tara turned to Maarg. "Stay here!" she shouted, propping him gently against the wall. His eyes met hers briefly, still dazed.
She dashed toward the edge.
Charity didn't notice. Not yet.
Tara dropped to her knees beside the broken floor and grabbed Mark's arm. "I got you, hold on!"
Mark's face appeared below the ledge, bloodied but alive. He grit his teeth, pushing with what strength he had left. Tara strained, using her entire body to lift him.
Back at the center of the storm, Jack's axe collided with Charity's forearm. Sparks exploded. The creature let out a low, mechanical growl and raised its arm to retaliate—but Jack ducked, spinning low and carving a line across its leg.
Maarg watched, helpless, his hands twitching. Every instinct screamed at him to get up. To help. To fight. But his body trembled with exhaustion, the aftershock of whatever thing had happened between him and that monster still pulsing in his chest.
And all the while, in the back of his head, Charity's voice lingered.
"Soon, Activator. Soon."
Jack roared as he twisted the axe in his grip and drove it deep into the joint of Charity's arm. Metal groaned, sparks spat into the air, and with one final, vicious jerk, the entire limb tore free, splattering the floor with a disgusting blend of blackened blood and pale hydraulic fluid.
The creature shrieked—not with pain, but with a static-laced sound that sent goosebumps racing down Maarg's arms.
Jack stumbled back, chest heaving, covered in grime, blood, and sweat. His arms shook from exhaustion, but his eyes never left the monster. He was ready for more.
But Henry was already stepping in.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Fifteen rounds. Rapid-fire.
Every. Single. One.
Henry emptied his Glock into Charity's head—no hesitation, no pause. The rounds slammed into the metal-clad skull, one after another, puncturing through layers of flesh, steel, and circuitry. The force of it finally shattered the mechanical visor protecting the creature's face, revealing a sludgy mass of bone and wires beneath.
The monster's body spasmed, sparks spraying out from its ruined head. A guttural noise crawled up its throat—half-scream, half-mechanical hiss—before it finally collapsed to the ground with a thud that shook the floor.
Silence followed.
Real silence.
The kind that only comes when death has claimed something unnatural.
Maarg stared at the twitching remains, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. The pressure in his mind—the invisible weight, that foreign presence—finally vanished.
It was over.
He let out a shaky breath, leaning fully against the wall as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The others were catching their breath too—Jack wiping his brow, Henry checking the slide on his pistol, Tara still helping Mark to his feet.
And then—
"Soon."
A whisper.
Slithering in the back of Maarg's skull like a shadow that refused to die.
His eyes widened.
He looked at the corpse—Charity's body was still, the single remaining eye glazed over and lifeless.
Yet the voice... still spoke.
"Soon."