Within the second floor, the silence pressed down like a living thing, thick and expectant, as if the dungeon itself had drawn a breath and forgotten to release it. Only their footsteps broke the hush measured, armored clacks against the flagstones that echoed too sharply, too deliberately, the way the first floor had made Rolan's dragged boots sound like a confession. Interwoven with them came the low, rhythmic hum of the Magic Neutralizer in Bulk's grip and the constant, metallic clink-clink-clink of Camilla's hidden metal and buckles beneath her cloak with every skipping step she took. The hovering light orbs drifted above them like pale, disinterested ghosts, their cold white glow carving harsh shadows that danced along the black stone walls. Violet runes pulsed faintly in the distance, winking out one by one as the Neutralizer did its work ahead.
Bulk led at the front, the massive reinforced box of the artifact strapped across his broad back like a second spine. The device was a brutal marriage of rune-etched alchemical steel and crystal matrices part siege engine, part surgeon's tool. Its pointed tip glowed with a sullen amber light, sweeping left and right in slow arcs as he walked. Every time it brushed near a latent trap, the runes flared, drank deep, and the violet latticework in the floor or wall would shiver, then dissolve into harmless sparks that smelled of scorched ozone and wet grave soil. He moved with the heavy confidence of a man who had dismantled a hundred such horrors before breakfast, but his shoulders were already beginning to sag under the growing weight of the air itself.
Rate walked beside him, cloak whispering against his boots, eyes narrowed and never still. The captain's posture was relaxed in the way only predators can manage loose, but coiled. He scanned the corridor with clinical detachment, as though the dungeon were merely another ledger to balance. Behind them came Rolan, his body a grotesque ruin that no longer obeyed the simple arithmetic of human anatomy. The left side of his face crudely rebuilt by Rate's dark energy had set into something half-melted and bark-like, the skin puckered and blackened where the magic had cauterized too deep. Shattered bone had been shoved back into approximate place, but nothing aligned cleanly. His left eye was a narrow, crooked slit leaking a slow trickle of blood; the right was swollen nearly shut. Every step sent fresh needles of pain lancing through his ribs and spine. He limped forward in a lurching shuffle, boots scraping, breath wet and ragged.
Camilla kept pace right beside him, close enough that her cloak brushed his ruined armor. She hadn't stopped smiling since they crossed the threshold. Her head was tilted just enough that the hood cast half her face in shadow, but the one visible eye gleamed with mischievous hunger as she watched him from the side. She didn't speak. She simply stared, lips curved in that wet, delighted little grin that made the air taste sour.
Quinn brought up the rear, gauntleted fist loose at his side but never more than a heartbeat from Rolan's shoulder. His metal plates still carried the dried streaks of the adventurer's blood from the first floor; he hadn't bothered to clean them. He moved like a machine on patrol silent, tireless, eyes locked on the prisoner with the same clinical interest he might give a malfunctioning cog.
"Captain?" Bulk's low rumble cut through the quiet, almost apologetic. The big man didn't slow, but his gaze flicked down to the Neutralizer's tip where the amber runes had begun to dim at the edges.
Rate didn't turn his head. "Speak."
"This might be too much coming from me," Bulk continued, voice gravelly with the weight of the suppression already pressing on his chest, "but this whole place feels… too sound. Too quiet for what it carries."
Rate's reply came measured, precise, eyes still sweeping the corridor ahead. "I hear you, Bulk. Places like this the quiet is the trap. It fools you into thinking the danger has passed. One misstep, one moment of complacency, and the floor opens its throat." He exhaled slowly, the breath visible in the cooling air. "We've seen it before. Dungeons that lull you with silence right before they drink you dry."
Bulk grunted, adjusting the Neutralizer's angle as another violet lattice ahead fizzled out with a wet pop. "Ever since we entered this floor, we haven't come across a single resource node. No mana crystals, no salvageable relics, nothing worth the coin we paid for the intel. Could it be we're not searching the right places? Or could it be the dungeon's watching us pass by, saving the good stuff for later?"
Rate's mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile that never reached his eyes. "Your assessment is accurate. But I see it differently. I've cracked dungeons like this one before. The kind that hoard their rewards like misers. Everything of value waits at the end. The deeper you go, the sweeter the prize. Makes the meat pay for every inch."
"You think it's one of those," Bulk said, not quite a question.
Rate didn't reply. His face stayed carved from stone, gaze fixed forward as the corridor curved gently downward, the black stone walls glistening faintly with condensation that smelled of old blood and broken promises.
Behind them, Rolan's mind churned in the red fog of pain and calculation. Every dragging step sent fresh agony spiking through his rebuilt jaw, but he kept his ruined face neutral. Break free. There has to be a way. Suicide, then. He knew what waited at the end of their task, death by inches, or worse, whatever "playtime" the smiling bitch beside him had in mind. Better to end it on his own terms. Quick. Clean. His sword was gone, discarded somewhere back on the first floor. Jumping sideways to trigger a trap was tempting, but the man behind him, Quinn moved with inhuman speed and precision. One wrong twitch and those metal gauntlets would inflict more pain before he even hit the floor.
That left one option. His tongue.
He'd bite it clean through the moment their attention shifted. Bleed out fast enough that even the dark energy couldn't stitch him back together in time. Simple. Painful, but final. He waited, counting the clinks of Camilla's boots, the hum of the Neutralizer, the wet rasp of his own breathing. Just one opening. One second.
A few moments later, Bulk made a sudden stop. The big man lifted the Neutralizer closer to his face, scowling. The runes at the pointed tip had dimmed further, flickering like a dying candle. The power core encased in the rear compartment stuttered, its inner crystal pulsing unevenly.
"Is there a problem?" Rate asked, voice flat.
Bulk turned the artifact in his thick hands, studying the behavior with a technician's frown. "I think the suppression magic is getting stronger the deeper we advance. It's probably close. The Neutralizer's struggling to keep up."
"You think?" Rate echoed, the words carrying no judgment, only calculation.
"It's the only reasonable outcome," Bulk said, rolling one massive shoulder as if testing the growing fatigue in his own muscles. "Ever since we crossed onto this floor I've been feeling it lead in the limbs, energy drying up like water in desert sand. I'm sure you've felt it too, Captain."
"You're not wrong," Rate admitted. "Everyone's noticed it. The air's heavier. Breathing costs more."
"Then the suppression circle has to be close," Bulk pressed. "If we push a little further..."
"That I'm not certain of," Rate cut in, still staring ahead. Bulk glanced at him, waiting. Rate's face remained impassive. "Based on my observations, it's unlikely we'll stumble across it just by walking. Whoever designed this floor was intellectually precise. Ruthless. It could be exactly where you suspect, hidden in the walls, under the floor, even woven into the very stone. Possibly beyond our immediate reach."
"Where, then?" Bulk asked.
Rate tilted his head back slightly, eyes tracing the shadowed ceiling high above. The black stone there was veined with faint, dormant runes that looked almost like veins beneath skin. "Were I the one setting the trap," he said quietly, "I would have placed it in the ceiling. Best vantage. Hardest to detect until it's already feeding."
Bulk followed his gaze upward. The big man's brow furrowed. "Who would have thought…"
The sudden stop rippled back through the formation like a stone dropped in still water. The change in momentum was subtle, but it was all Rolan needed.
He struck.
Tongue thrust out between his split, swollen lips in a desperate, lightning-fast motion, he bit down hard, aiming to sever it at the root. Blood flooded his mouth instantly, hot and coppery.
He wasn't fast enough.
Camilla had been watching. Of course she had. Her head snapped toward him with predatory glee, and in the same heartbeat she moved. Her right hand shot forward like a striking viper, fingers splayed, and slammed deep into his open mouth. The impact drove Rolan's head back; she used the momentum to shove him sideways and down. His body hit the flagstones with a meaty thud that sent a faint shockwave through the stone. Her fingers clamped around his lower jaw like iron hooks, pinning his mouth open, thumb pressing hard against his tongue to keep it from completing the bite.
Rolan growled around her hand. A wet, animal sound choked with blood and rage. Saliva and fresh crimson mixed, dribbling over her fingers.
The rest of the squad's attention snapped backward.
"Camilla," Quinn said, voice flat and cold as he stepped closer. "What did you do that for?"
Camilla looked up at him, eyes wide and innocent beneath the hood, then back down at Rolan. "What do you mean?"
"What seems to be the problem back there?" Rate turned, voice carrying the same calm authority as always. He didn't raise it.
"Camilla, couldn't hold herself back from trying to rip the hostage apart," Quinn said, the words laced with dry satire that somehow still sounded mechanical.
"No I did not!" Camilla protested, voice lilting with mock indignation. Her fingers stayed buried in Rolan's mouth, wiggling playfully now, tracing the ridges of his gums, sliding along his tongue, coating themselves in the warm mix of blood and spit.
"Is that so?" Rate ordered, stepping back toward them. "Then explain yourself."
"He was going to bite his tongue off," Camilla said sweetly, still crouched over the prisoner. "I stopped him in time. You said keep him alive and coherent, Captain. I was just following orders."
Rate studied the scene for a long beat. Rolan's ruined face twisted in fury and pain beneath her hand; trying to stabilize the new damage. "That's recommendable, Camilla. You did the unexpected."
"Yeah," Quinn muttered, low and flat. "How unexpected."
"Tie him up," Rate said, already turning back toward the front. "We can't afford any more delays."
"Understood," Quinn answered.
Meanwhile Camilla remained crouched over Rolan, her fingers still deep in his mouth, playing. She traced lazy circles over his gums, pressed down on his tongue, let the saliva and blood coat her glove until it glistened. "Come on," she whispered in a low, excited tone that dripped with delight, "I know you want to bite me. Go ahead. Bite me." She leaned closer, hood slipping back just enough to show the full curve of her smile. "Bite me. I dare you. Bite me…" The words repeated like a nursery rhyme, soft and singsong, each one punctuated by another playful prod of her fingers. "Bite me… bite me…"
Bulk reached back without looking, unclipping a coil of thick, rune-etched rope from the underside of the Neutralizer's housing. He tossed it over his shoulder to Quinn. The gauntleted man caught it one-handed, then stepped forward and grabbed Camilla by the back of her cloak.
"Alright, get off him, you freak," Quinn growled, hauling her upward with effortless strength. Camilla came away giggling, the sound bright and wrong in the heavy dungeon air, fingers finally sliding free of Rolan's mouth with a wet pop. A long string of bloody saliva trailed after her until it snapped.
Quinn hauled Rolan upright by the collar of his crushed armor, setting the broken man on his knees like a discarded marionette. The prisoner's chest heaved, blood still pouring from his damaged gums and the fresh splits in his lips. Quinn worked quickly, looping the rope around Rolan's head first, cinching it tight to force his mouth open in a permanent, grotesque gape. The coarse fibers dug into the corners of his lips, pulling them back from his jagged teeth. Then Quinn bound the man's wrists together in front of him, knotting the rope with brutal efficiency, leaving just enough slack that Rolan could walk but not enough to reach his own face.
The squad reformed without another word. Bulk lifted the Neutralizer again, its tip flaring once as it fought the growing suppression. Rate's gaze returned to the corridor ahead, where the violet traps pulsed like hungry hearts in the walls and ceiling.