The hallway fell silent. So silent it felt deafening.
The only sound was the steady drip of blood hitting the cold floor.
One drop at a time.
Everyone stared at the silhouettes in the dark—that was all they could see. Waiting. Straining their eyes to know which one was still standing.
Only one figure lay sprawled on the ground.
Everyone held their breath.
Was the king already defeated… or had the creator fallen?
The hand of the fallen figure twitched, trembling as it pressed against the floor. Slowly, shakily—he rose.
Experiment 545 stood again. His body was a map of wounds, every inch soaked in blood. He was badly injured, barely holding together.
But instead of joy, the defective experiments felt no relief at the sight of their so-called monster king standing once more. Their faces did not light up.
They could not smile.
They could not shout.
Because what they saw was not victory.
It was a reminder.
A reminder of their suffering.
Of the pain forced on them.
Of the nights they crawled broken, dragged back from death not to live—but to suffer again.
The hope they once clung to wavered. The fire inside them flickered, suffocated by doubt.
Hope was a lie.
Their faces remained hollow, unable to cheer, unable to rejoice that their king had risen again.
Not because they had no faith in him—
…but because trauma had stolen from them the luxury of happiness.
Then, one failed experiment broke the silence—not with joy, but with rage.
All eyes turned to the mastermind. His body too was torn and bloodied, like a map of scars and rivers of blood.
For a moment, they believed. Maybe there was still a chance. Maybe they could end the mastermind here. Their broken bodies moved together, an instinct carved into them by years, months, days, hours, every second of torment without rest.
They charged at him.
An avalanche of the broken, like starving beasts or mindless zombies.
Their hearts screamed one truth: we lived through violence, so violence will end this.
But it was a mistake.
A cruel, fatal mistake.
They were torn apart like children before a monster. Arms ripped off. Necks snapped without effort. And the most terrifying part—the mastermind used nothing but his bare hands.
One by one, they fell. Yet adrenaline made them reckless, charging even as their brothers and sisters died around them.
One experiment was lifted by the throat, slammed into the wall so hard his body split from his head before he could even scream.
Another was thrown across the hall like a rag doll, bones breaking on impact.
In the eyes of Experiment 545, this was no battle for freedom—this was a massacre.
Through clenched teeth, he whispered,
Experiment 545:"Are they fighting to be free… or did they choose to die just to escape this place? Maybe death is the only way to end the suffering."
His mind went silent as he watched them slaughtered before him.
And then the painful truth sank in.
"Maybe I was never the king… just another failed experiment."