The basement was still.
Too still.
Allen stood over the bodies—Damien's, crumpled and half-buried in his own blood, and Catherine's, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Her eyes were open, unblinking, staring at nothing. The lifeblood of both spilt into the cold, cracked concrete beneath their still forms, pooling around their bodies like some grotesque offering to the darkness.
He'd done this.
The realization hit him like a cold slap—no longer a distant shock, but something deeply rooted, embedded in his skin. The saw he'd used to end Damien's life lay beside the larger man's body, its teeth slick with blood, still gleaming in the dim light. The table was a mess of overturned tools and scattered flesh—remnants of a twisted love story that had turned into a nightmare.
Allen's breath was shallow, his hands shaking. He couldn't stop staring at Catherine.
Her face, once so full of life, was frozen now in a mask of both peace and horror. It wasn't the way she looked when she died. It was the way she wanted to look. Her eyes were not wide with terror, but with a strange acceptance—as if, in that last moment, she had seen all the pieces fall into place.
He crouched down beside her, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch her cold skin. A sharp, nauseating sense of finality hit him.
"She's gone, Allen. Gone forever." The voice came from behind him, low and smooth, dripping with venom.
Allen froze. His heart skipped a beat.
He knew that voice.
He turned.
Damien.
Blood dripped from his mouth. His clothes were stained, but he was standing—alive, somehow. His eyes were cold, wide, and vacant.
"No," Allen gasped. He stumbled backward, his legs giving way beneath him. He hit the floor hard, his breath catching in his throat. His chest burned, his heart slamming against his ribs.
"This is the price, Allen." Damien's voice was distorted, muffled, like he was speaking from the depths of a well. "You've crossed the line. You're not just a murderer now. You're something worse."
"No." Allen's voice cracked. "No, you're dead."
Damien took a step forward, his footfalls echoing against the walls. "I'm still here. You can't escape what you've done. Not in your mind. Not in your soul."
Allen tried to push himself up, but the room spun. His vision blurred, the faces of Damien and Catherine twisting into nightmarish, inhuman shapes. His hands shot out, gripping at the floor, desperate for anything solid. "I killed you," he whispered. "I killed both of you. You're… you're not real."
"Oh, but I am, Allen," Damien said, the words dripping with malice. "I'm as real as your guilt. As real as the blood on your hands."
Allen squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the image of Damien away. But when he opened them again, Damien was standing right in front of him—his eyes hollow, his smile predatory.
Allen scrambled back, heart hammering in his chest. "No… no…"
But the words came too late. The basement around him seemed to close in, the walls pressing against him like a vice. The air grew thick and suffocating, the stench of blood clinging to his skin. It was the scent of death. His death.
He could feel it now—the cold grip of insanity creeping in, his mind beginning to fracture under the weight of his actions. The guilt clawed at him, tearing through him with jagged, unrelenting force. Every inch of his body screamed to run, to escape, but there was no escape. Not from what he had done. Not from the horror he had unleashed.
"You can run from the truth, but you'll never outrun yourself." Damien's voice echoed in the room.
Suddenly, the shadows shifted—shapes moved around him, flickering in and out of focus. The room seemed to pulse with life, the walls closing in tighter. The smell of iron grew stronger.
A soft whisper reached his ears.
"Allen…"
It was Catherine's voice.
He whipped his head around, his breath ragged.
Her body was still on the floor, lifeless. But her voice—it sounded so real. So close.
"Allen…"
He crawled toward her, his hands trembling as he reached out to her. "Catherine…"
She didn't move. She couldn't. She was dead. But her voice—her voice was everywhere now, swirling around him like a thousand whispers.
"You did this," she said softly, but with a tone that made his blood run cold. "You killed me."
"No," Allen gasped. "No, I didn't want this. I didn't want to hurt you. You—"
The air grew thick with a sense of impending doom, like the walls themselves were closing in on him. His breath caught in his throat as he realized the truth.
Catherine's eyes were never just empty. They had been a mirror—a mirror that reflected his deepest fears, his darkest impulses. She had wanted this. She had wanted him to cross that line. To become a monster.
And now, he was.
"Do you see now?" her voice murmured, cold and hollow. "You can't unmake what you've done."
Allen's mind spun out of control. The world around him fractured into shards of broken memories, blood, and guilt. He could still feel the weight of the saw in his hands, the sickening crunch of flesh, the finality of the death he had given them both.
His hands shook violently as he pressed them to his temples, trying to block out the voices, the images, the overwhelming flood of horror.
And then, through the madness, one final whisper.
"You'll never be free, Allen."
The basement was silent again.
But not in the way it had been before.
It was a silence that screamed.