The horned figure and the shackled girl didn't just arrive when the second breakout occurred—they caused it. They tore through the veil that separated worlds, rending it open in their search for Angelo. And with them, they brought nightmares.
Creatures that knew nothing of reason or restraint. Beings forged from hate and hunger, born only to kill and destroy.
The moment the veil was torn, the world felt it. A silent chill, a creeping dread, rippled across the globe like a death knell. Cities fell into chaos. Skies darkened. And the creatures, their master's command echoing in their minds, began their search.
The Horned Figure and his army crossed through the rift—then the torn gate snapped shut behind them, sealing their passage and locking the nightmare firmly into this world.
They didn't know what Angelo looked like.
But they could feel him.
Drawn to the signature of his existence—his presence—they moved with purpose. Cutting a path of ruin through everything in their way, they left behind broken bodies and burning ground.
At the base, Angelo was strapping on his boots when Colonel Pierce stormed into the room, his expression grim.
"Where do you think you're going?" the colonel demanded.
Angelo didn't look up. "They're here. I can feel them. I have to go—before they get any closer."
Pierce stepped forward. "You think running off alone is going to fix this?"
"It's not about fixing anything," Angelo snapped, standing. "It's about keeping everyone here alive."
Pierce's voice rose. "And you think you're the only one who cares about that?"
Angelo met his gaze. "No. But I know I'm the reason they're coming."
"That's a hell of an assumption."
"It's not an assumption," Angelo growled. "They're not just attacking at random. They're searching—for me."
Pierce narrowed his eyes. "And what if you're wrong? What if you lead them straight to another town? Another base? You think this is some noble sacrifice?"
Angelo hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a utility blade. He dragged it across his palm.
Blood surfaced. It didn't vanish. Didn't heal.
He held it out to the colonel. "My powers aren't working. Not like they used to."
Pierce's eyes flicked to the wound, then back to Angelo's face. "What happened?"
"I don't know," Angelo said quietly. "But whatever came through that veil… it's not just powerful. It's different. Even at full strength, I'm not sure I could stop them. But now? I'm not even in the fight."
Pierce said nothing.
"I'm not asking for permission," Angelo added. "But you need to start evacuation. Now. Get everyone out—head southeast. They're approaching from the west. I'll move north, draw them away."
Pierce was silent for a long moment. Then he stepped back and muttered, "God help us all."
He turned and walked out. "Hale, you're with me," he called as he passed the corridor where Hale and Grant stood.
Grant approached slowly. "What the hell was that?"
Angelo looked down at his still-bleeding hand. "The truth."
Grant folded his arms. "You really think this'll work?"
Angelo nodded. "It has to."
Colonel Pierce led Hale to his office in silence. Once inside, he pulled a large black bag from behind his desk and handed it to her.
"That kid's lost his damn mind," he said, voice low with concern. "He's going to get himself killed if he walks out there unprepared and alone. I'm sending you and one other with him. Keep an eye on him—and report everything back to me."
He paused, then added with a sigh, "Give him this. It's got some clothes, basic tools, and supplies. That dumbass was planning on going out in a torn-up jacket. And wrap up his hand—he's still bleeding."
Hale gave a small smile. "Yes, sir."
She left and made her way back to Angelo's room, where she found him still talking with Grant. Without a word, she stepped in and began gently wrapping the cut on his palm.
"He sent you to patch me up?" Angelo asked.
"And to make sure you don't die like an idiot," she replied, handing him the bag. "The colonel might be more attached to you than he lets on."
Angelo opened the bag and pulled out a few neatly folded shirts, jackets, and pants—all black.
"Nice," he said, already peeling off his torn jacket. "Still not my type, though."
They all laughed lightly, a rare moment of calm in the storm.
But as Angelo changed his shirt, Hale and Grant caught a glimpse of the mark on his back. Grant's expression shifted.
"Hey… has your mark always had those cracks?" he asked.
Angelo froze. "What?"
He grabbed a nearby hand mirror, angling it over his shoulder. His eyes widened at the fractured lines running through the mark, thin and jagged like splintered glass.
"What the hell…?" he whispered. "Where did all these cracks come from?"