Chapter 16
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Running.
Always running.
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His father's fist hitting the wall. His mother screaming. Seven years old. Max running to his room. Locking the door.
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The knife. The bathroom floor. Daniel's voice. "What did you do?" Max running before the ambulance arrived. Down the street. Anywhere else.
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The plane ticket in his hand. His father's words: "Get out of this country." Max running. To Japan. To escape.
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Aiko asking him to the party. The other girl asking for help. Max choosing. Running from one to the other. Always the easier path.
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The whispers. The notes on his desk. The images of Aiko. Max running from university. From class. From everything. Back to his room. His cage.
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Melting faces. Staring. Hating. Max running through the hallway. Running into darkness.
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"Die die die die." His parents chanting. Max running out the door. Into the black.
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The black room. The door opening. Food appearing. Max running from the decision. Refusing. Starving. Running from choice.
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Every time something mattered.
Every time there was a choice.
He ran.
But not this time.
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Max walked.
The corridor stretched ahead. Fluorescent lights overhead. Harsh. Clinical.
White walls. White floor. White everything.
Blood dripped from his mouth. From his teeth. From his fingers.
His arms hung at his sides. Mutilated. Chunks missing. Exposed muscle. Bone visible in places.
His face was blank.
Eyes open but empty.
No fear. No pain. No anything.
Just walking.
His bare feet left bloody footprints on the pristine floor.
Step. Step. Step.
The sound echoed.
Doors lined both sides of the corridor. Numbered. Closed. Locked probably.
Max didn't try them.
Just kept walking.
Blood drops hit the floor at regular intervals.
Drip. Step. Drip. Step.
His breathing was steady. Mechanical.
The lights hummed above him.
Nothing else.
Just the corridor.
And the blood.
And Max.
Walking forward.
Not running.
Not anymore.
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The last door was different.
Double doors. Metal. A small window in each one. And above them—a light. Red. Illuminated.
The door was slightly open.
Just a crack.
Enough to see light spilling through.
Max stopped in front of it.
Looked at the red light.
Then at the crack.
Raised his destroyed hand.
Pushed.
The door swung open.
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The room was large.
Medical equipment everywhere. Surgical lights. Monitors with green lines. IV stands. Trays of instruments. An operating table in the center. Stainless steel. Clean.
And people.
Four surgeons in green scrubs. Masks pulled down around their necks. Two guards in black uniforms. One doctor in a white coat examining a clipboard.
They all turned when the door opened.
Saw Max.
Blood-covered. Arms destroyed. Face blank.
Standing in the doorway.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Max smiled.
Not a normal smile.
Too wide. Too empty.
His teeth were red.
The smile stretched across his face like a wound.
Then he laughed.
Loud. Sharp. High-pitched.
The sound echoed off the walls.
Bounced back. Multiplied.
Max laughed and laughed.
One of the surgeons backed up. "Security—"
Max walked into the room.
Still laughing.
He walked to the nearest instrument tray.
Picked up a scalpel.
Tested the weight.
The laughter stopped.
He looked at them.
Still smiling.
"Wait—" the doctor started.
Max moved.
Fast. Certain.
He crossed the distance to the nearest surgeon in three steps.
The scalpel went into their throat.
Clean. Precise.
Max pulled it out.
Blood sprayed.
The surgeon clutched their neck. Fell.
The others scattered.
One surgeon grabbed a bone saw from a tray. Raised it. "Stay back!"
Max walked toward them.
The surgeon swung.
Max caught their wrist. Bent it backward. Felt the snap.
They screamed.
Max cut their throat too.
The guards moved. One pulled a baton. The other rushed forward.
The first guard swung the baton at Max's head.
It connected. Hard.
Max's head snapped to the side.
He turned back slowly.
Still smiling.
Grabbed the guard by the face.
Drove them backward into the wall.
The guard tried to fight. Hitting. Kicking.
Max held them there with one hand.
Used the scalpel with the other.
Methodical. Efficient.
The guard stopped moving.
Max let them drop.
The second guard pulled a knife. Military style. Serrated edge.
"Stop! Stop right now!"
Max walked toward them.
The guard stabbed him. Right side. Between the ribs.
Max looked down at the knife. Then back up.
Still smiling.
He grabbed the guard's hand. The one holding the knife. Pulled the knife deeper.
The guard's eyes went wide.
Max twisted the knife. Pulled it out.
Stabbed the guard with their own weapon.
Three times. Four times. Five.
The guard fell.
The remaining two surgeons had backed into the corner. One was crying. The other was frozen.
The doctor in the white coat was reaching for the door.
Max turned.
Threw the knife.
It hit the doctor in the back. They fell forward. Crawled.
Max walked over. Stepped on their back. Held them down.
Picked up a surgical drill from a nearby tray.
"Please—" the doctor gasped. "Please we were just—"
Max pressed the trigger.
The drill whirred.
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Silence.
Max stood in the center of the room.
Seven bodies. Blood everywhere.
On the walls. The floor. The equipment. The operating table.
On him. More than before.
He looked at his hands. One still holding the drill. One empty. Both destroyed. Both covered.
He dropped the drill.
It clattered on the metal floor.
Max turned.
Walked out of the room.
Back into the corridor.
His right leg dragged now. Injured. The knife wound in his side leaked steadily.
But he kept walking.
Down the corridor. Past the other doors.
To the exit.
The door at the end. Marked EXIT in faded red letters.
Max pushed it open.
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Outside.
Night. Or early morning. Dark sky. No stars.
The old school building behind him. Three stories. Broken windows. Overgrown.
Empty street ahead.
No cars. No people. No lights except distant streetlamps.
Max stepped onto the cracked pavement.
His leg gave out slightly. He caught himself. Kept moving.
Walking. Limping. Hobbling.
Blood dripped behind him with each step. A trail.
His breathing was labored now. Wet. Something punctured inside.
But he moved forward.
Away from the building.
Down the empty street.
Not running.
Never running again.
Just walking.
Blood from head to toe. Face. Hair. Clothes. Arms. Hands.
Everything red.
Everything ruined.
But moving.
Forward.
The street stretched ahead.
Dark. Empty. Silent.
Max walked into it.
Limping.
Uneven steps.
But walking.
Not stopping.
Not looking back.
Just forward.
Into the dark.
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