The roar hadn't faded.
It rolled again across the ruined street, deep and resonant, not like the shrill screech of Vinilings or the pitiful moans of zombies. This was heavier. Older. Predatory.
Charles slowed his steps, dagger raised, ears straining. His chest tightened—not in fear this time, but in anticipation. The air itself felt different, thick with weight, like the world was warning him to turn back.
The hairs on his neck prickled.
From the shadow of a collapsed building, movement stirred. A silhouette slinked forward, muscles rippling under coarse fur. It stepped into the bleeding red light of the sky.
From the shadow of a collapsed building, it crawled into view—massive shoulders rolling, claws scraping asphalt. A cat. No—a monster. Its frame was easily the size of a lion, sleek but terrifyingly dense, black fur matted with streaks of crimson. Its eyes burned gold, unblinking, locked straight onto him with a hunger that made his stomach knot.
The air grew heavier with every step it took.
Charles gripped his dagger tighter. His throat was dry, but his chest pounded not just with fear something else. Anticipation. "I might just be crazy"
The beast spotted him. For a breath, silence stretched between predator and prey.
The beast lowered itself, tail swaying like a whip.
Then it pounced.
Its bulk slammed forward like a living avalanche, claws scything down. He rolled sideways, the pavement scraping his arms raw, just as the claws split concrete where he'd stood. The ground cracked like glass beneath its weight.
"Shit—"
The lion swung again, a blur of muscle and fury. Charles barely raised his dagger in time, the poisoned blade scraping along its claw. The impact rattled his bones, the force sending him staggering back. His ribs flared with pain, his lungs burning.
This wasn't like the zombies. Or the Vinilings. This was raw, monstrous power.
The lion roared and lunged again. Charles ducked under its swipe, twisting on instinct, and slashed across its side. The dagger bit deep enough to leave a crimson gash, ichor spilling dark and foul-smelling. But it wasn't enough. The beast barely flinched, spinning on him with frightening speed.
A paw crashed into his chest.
Air left his lungs in a brutal rush as he was thrown across the pavement. His back hit a cracked car door, the metal denting inward with a crunch. He slid down, coughing blood, chest screaming with pain.
For a moment, the old fear threatened to swallow him whole. The same fear from that first alley. The same fear when the first Vinyling loomed over him.
But then—his hand tightened around the dagger. The faint green haze of its poison curled off the blade, whispering promise.
Not this time.
Charles pushed himself up, legs trembling. The lion was already coming, tail lashing, maw wide enough to bite half his torso clean off.
He sidestepped at the last second, the world blurring with his boosted speed, and drove the dagger into its shoulder. Flesh tore, black ichor spraying. He ripped the blade free and slashed again, shallow but fast—left, right, another cut across its ribs.
The lion roared in fury, spinning, claws slicing the air where his head had been moments ago. Charles dropped low, rolled, and stabbed upward into its thigh. Not deep. Not killing blows. But enough. Enough to let the poison sink in.
He pulled free, panting hard. His chest burned. His arms felt heavy. But when the lion turned again, its steps weren't as smooth. Its roar cracked slightly, more guttural than before.
"It's working," Charles muttered, teeth bared.
The poison. Slowly, surely, eating at its insides.
But "slowly" meant he had to survive long enough for it to matter.
The beast lunged again, and this time Charles wasn't fast enough. Claws scraped across his side, tearing fabric, drawing blood. He hissed, stumbling, but forced himself forward into the pain. He ducked under its snapping jaws and slashed again, carving a line along its belly before retreating.
His heart pounded like a drum. His breath tore ragged through his throat. But every time the lion moved, he saw it—the slight hesitation, the momentary sluggishness in its strikes. The poison was crawling deeper.
He was still losing ground, but slower now.
Minutes passed in a blur of claws and steel. Charles slashed wherever he could—ribs, legs, shoulders—never committing too much, never staying close enough to be trapped. Cuts piled on its body, shallow but numerous. Every drop of poison mattered.
Still, his body screamed. His arms felt leaden. His vision blurred with sweat and blood.
He remembered, bitterly, that five hours ago he'd been just a student. A student with nothing but a pipe, terrified of a spider. Now he was bleeding, panting, standing against something that could snap him in half with a swipe.
And yet… he was still standing.
Another roar ripped from the lion's throat, but it staggered this time, its paw swiping wide, slower. Charles darted in, his body moving on instinct, and drove the dagger into its ribs. The blade sank deep, ichor spraying warm across his face.
The beast howled, staggering back, its massive frame trembling. Its legs buckled slightly.
Charles panted, chest heaving. His whole body shook. But in his eyes—fire.
"I'm not… prey anymore."
The lion roared again, a sound weaker than before, and Charles lunged. His dagger slashed again and again—across its flank, its neck, its chest. Dozens of cuts, fast and brutal, until black ichor slicked the pavement beneath them.
The beast roared in fury, blood flecking its jaws. It staggered, legs shaking now. Its strength was fading, its movements sluggish.
Charles circled, dagger steady, waiting for the opening—the final strike.
But then—
The hairs on his neck prickled again.
A second roar.
From behind him.
His blood went cold.
From the shadows of another alley, eyes glowed red. Another lion stepped forward, larger than the first, fangs glinting in the crimson light.
The ground trembled under its steps as it stalked closer.
This one wasn't poisoned. This one was fresh.
Charles's body tensed, his dagger slick with ichor. He turned slightly, angling himself between them. His breath came sharp, heart pounding so loud it filled his ears.
The poisoned beast snarled weakly, its strength waning but not gone. The new one prowled closer, each step deliberate, confident, as if it knew its prey was already cornered.
Charles swallowed hard.
One weakened. One fresh. Both still lethal.
This wasn't survival anymore. This was a death sentence.
And yet, as the beast's roar shook the broken street, Charles only straightened his back. His chest still heaved, his wounds still burned, but there was no thought of running, his hand didn't shake. His grip on the dagger was iron, knuckles white, breath steadying as his focus narrowed.
He thought of Marco's words. Together, we have a chance. Alone, you'll be meat for the next monster.
Maybe Marco was right. Maybe this was suicide.
But Charles couldn't back down now. Not when his blood burned with newfound strength. Not when he'd already tasted how far he'd come.
If he ran, he'd never forgive himself.
The first beast snarled, trembling. The second's eyes gleamed brighter, anticipation in every ripple of its muscles.
Charles licked dry lips, lowering into a stance, dagger held low, ready to strike.
Two predators. One prey.
But the prey was done being just prey, he was also going to hunt.
The street held its breath as the two monsters circled him, shadows sliding long across the broken asphalt.
Charles whispered, voice barely audible but burning with steel:
"Let's see if I'm still prey."
The lion roared, and the night shook.