"Guilt's a waste of oxygen."
Yanshuo said. He looked at the balcony window. Minako's blood was still there, dried dark on the glass. He remembered her scream, his name breaking in her throat, but he pushed the sound out of his head.
Thinking about it wouldn't help him live.
He moved fast through the room. No wasted steps. Survival was about staying calm. About planning. Minako lost the moment she panicked.
He slid the steak knife into his belt.
Better than nothing.
The desk lamp came next. He ripped the cord out and tested the weight. One good swing could drop someone. He nodded once.
The armchair tipped over. He kicked at it, then snapped one leg free. Thick wood. Long reach. He rested it on his shoulder.
From the desk, he grabbed a few magazines and stuffed them into his pocket. Noise could be useful. Throw one, draw them away.
He opened the minibar and took a bottle of whiskey. He wrapped it in a towel and slid it into his jacket. If it broke, the edges would cut.
From the closet, he tore towels into strips and wrapped them tight around his arms. Padding. If something grabbed him, it might not bite straight through.
He checked the door again. Locked but staying here was stupid. They would find him sooner or later.
Better to move now.
"Should've waited," he said to the empty room.
He opened the door a crack and slipped into the hallway. Red emergency lights flickered, throwing long shadows across the marble floor. The yacht hummed under his feet, steady and deep.
Ahead, something moved.
One of them.
It was crouched over the floor, shoulders jerking. The same one from the balcony. The one that bit Minako.
Yanshuo pulled out a magazine and tossed it down the hall. It hit the wall crack.
The creature snapped its head up. White eyes. It turned and shuffled toward the sound.
Yanshuo moved the other way, silent. The service elevator was close. He knew the layout. Rich guests stayed up top. The back halls were usually empty.
"Come on," he whispered. "Let's see what you've got."