Minute 17
The central wing was darker than the east.
Not the darkness of absence—the darkness of intention. Like the building was saving its light for something else. Something worse.
David shifted the duffel bag to his other shoulder for the seventh time. His left arm had gone numb twenty minutes ago. His right arm was catching up fast.
"So," Ivie said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade wrapped in velvet. "You still making it to school today?"
David blinked. "What?"
"It's 3:37 AM." She didn't look at him. Her eyes were scanning the walls, the floor, the ceiling—every surface a potential threat. "You have classes, don't you? Engineering?"
"Structural Mechanics. 8 AM." He almost laughed. "Yeah. I'll make it."
"You're fighting a Phobia in an incomplete hotel at four in the morning, and you're going to lecture at eight."
"I've had worse mornings."
She glanced at him then—a quick, assessing look. "Have you?"
David thought about it. The courtyard. Marcus dying. Axum's mirrors. His own blood on the floor.
"Different kind of worse," he admitted. "This is… manageable."
"Manageable."
"I can hold a pencil. That's all Structural Mechanics requires."
Ivie's lips twitched. "And your date?"
David's stride hitched. "How do you know about that?"
"You mentioned it. In the SUV. To yourself." She was definitely almost smiling now. "You said, and I quote, 'Don't mess this up, don't mess this up, don't mess this up.'"
David felt heat crawl up his neck. "I was nervous."
"About a girl."
"About a very specific girl." He replied instantly
"Who in their right mind dates a sleep-deprived engineering student who fights monsters in his spare time?"
He chuckled—a real one, tired and warm. "She's too good for me, honestly."
"Probably."
"You're supposed to say 'no, you're wonderful, she's lucky.'"
"I'm supposed to keep you alive. Flattery isn't in the job description."
They walked in silence for a moment. The hammering was louder here—closer—but Ivie didn't seem concerned.
"We've passed this same place seven times," she said.
She stopped and pointed at the wall. A small mark, barely visible—a scratch in the shape of an X.
"I left that there. Roughly Eighteen minutes ago."
David stared at the mark. Then at the hallway ahead. Then behind.
"The building is looping us."
"The building is toying with us." Ivie's voice was calm, but her jaw was tight. "It knows we're here. It's trying to keep us away from something."
A boom echoed through the walls, distant but unmistakable. Concrete cracking. Steel groaning.
"Jonathan," David said.
"And Praise." Ivie tilted her head, listening. "They're engaged."
"Should we…"
"No." She started walking again, faster now. "They're buying us time. We use it. If my hunch is correct."
Then a man gently called put to them "Hello" Ivie turned at her own pace while David was starstruck.
He was average height—maybe 5'7"—with a soft, plump build that suggested he hadn't done manual labor in decades. His clothes were old but well-maintained, the kind of outfit someone wore when they wanted to look respectable without spending money.
He was pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. His hands were clasped behind his back, his head bowed, his lips moving silently.
When he saw them, he stopped.
"You're alive," he said. His voice was high, nervous, a little breathless. "I thought..I heard the screams..the building.."
"Who are you?" Ivie's hand drifted toward her belt. Not threatening. Ready.
"I'm just like you lot trying to survive." He glanced over his shoulder, then back at them. "This place..it eats people. I've been avoiding it for... for a while now. You shouldn't be out here. It's not safe."
"Where should we be?" David asked.
The man beckoned them closer, his eyes darting to the walls, the ceiling, the floor.
"There's a room. A blind spot. The building can't see it. Some of us are hiding there." He lowered his voice. "You should follow me. Quickly."
David looked at Ivie.
She nodded.
They followed.
The man talked as they walked.
"The inheritance was supposed to be split," he said, his voice echoing off the raw concrete. "The land. The building. The business. Everything. Half for me. Half for him."
"Your brother?" David asked.
"My brother." The man's jaw tightened. "But he wanted it all. He convinced our father. Said I was reckless. Unstable. Said I'd ruin the family name."
He laughed, a bitter hollow sound.
"So they gave it to him. Everything. And I was left with nothing."
They reached a door. It looked ordinary with a simple handle, the kind of door you'd find in any office building.
The man pushed it open.
"After you."
The door shut behind them.
The room was the size of a classroom—maybe forty feet by forty feet—with a low ceiling and no windows. The walls were bare concrete, rough and unfinished.
Except they weren't bare.
They were covered.
Human body parts jutted from the walls like decorations on a grotesque Christmas tree. Arms. Legs. Torsos. Heads frozen mid-scream, their mouths open, their eyes hollow. Some were fresh..skin still pink, blood still wet. Others had been there longer, desiccated and grey, shrinking away from the concrete that held them.
The building had been eating. And what it couldn't finish, it had gotten bored of. Left behind like a child's abandoned toy.
David's stomach turned.
"Oh," he said weakly. "Oh, that's.."
"Don't throw up," Ivie said calmly. "This place is already bad enough."
She was already moving, her eyes scanning the room, counting.
"The bag, David."
He dropped the duffel. It hit the floor with a heavy thunk.
Ivie crouched and unzipped it in one smooth motion. Inside, nestled in foam cutouts, were weapons. Not many. But enough.
She began to speak, fast and precise, as she laid them out.
"Modular hilt. Three heads. Three throwing knives. Punch-dagger. Wire saw."
She patted her belt.
"On my body: combat knife. Weighted knuckles."
She looked up at David.
"Total Sanctite weapons: nine. I can kill this Host."
"The man.." David stated.
"Isn't a man."
She moved.
One moment she was crouched by the bag. The next, she was behind the man, her combat knife already buried in his spine.
Except there was no blood.
No flesh.
The man's body cracked—like dried mud, like old plaster—and from the fissures poured grey dust and rust-colored sand. His form collapsed inward, revealing what had been underneath.
Cement. Solid, grey, unfeeling cement.
The thing that had been wearing the man's face crumbled to the floor.
And from the walls, the body parts began to move.
They pulled themselves free of the concrete—arms crawling on fingers, legs hopping on severed thighs, torsos dragging themselves by their spines. And as they emerged, they changed. Each one swelled, reshaped, became a copy of the man. Same height. Same plump build. Same nervous, darting eyes.
Twelve of them. Standing in a loose circle around Ivie and David.
"Twelve," Ivie said. "Manageable."
She moved.
David had seen Jonathan fight—brutal, earth-shaking, inevitable. He'd seen Praise—precise, distant, almost surgical. He'd seen Ezra—silent, final, terrifying.
Ivie was different.
She was fast.
Not superhuman fast. Not Gift-enhanced fast. Just... trained fast which was further elevated by her blue aura. Decades of muscle memory compressed into every motion. She flowed between the copies like water between stones, her combat knife finding throats, her weighted knuckles crushing skulls, her body never stopping, never hesitating.
Each copy that fell crumbled into cement dust.
"Short sword," she called, not looking at him. "Modular hilt. The wires too."
David scrambled to the bag, his hands shaking. He found the hilt—a metal cylinder with three slots—and the heads that clicked into place. A blade. A serrated edge. A hook.
He tossed them to her.
She caught the hilt mid-spin, clicked the blade into place without looking, and cut. The nearest copy lost its head. Then its arms. Then its legs. The pieces crumbled before they hit the ground.
"You don't have a Gift," David said. It wasn't a question.
"Don't need one." She kicked a copy's knee backward, stabbed it through the throat, moved on. "Sanctite weapons work fine. Faith reinforcement works fine. Gifts are... shortcuts. Useful. But not necessary."
"Then why does everyone.."
"Because Gifts are easier." She decapitated another copy. "I don't do easier."
The hand came from the floor.
Not a copy's hand. Not cement. Flesh. Pale and cold and strong.
It wrapped around David's ankle and pulled.
He didn't even have time to yell. The floor swallowed him—not breaking, not crumbling, just... opening, like a mouth, like a throat—and he was falling through darkness, the duffel bag sucked down behind him, Ivie's voice distant and fading.
"DAVID…"
He landed on concrete. Hard.
The room was small. Bare. A single chair sat in the center, facing a wall covered in photographs and yellowed papers. Blueprints. Contracts. Letters.
And in the chair, sitting calmly, was the man.
Not a copy. The real one.
"You're awake," he said. "Good. I was worried I'd have to explain everything twice."
David pushed himself up, his body screaming. "Where's Ivie?"
"Still in the other room. She's very capable. She'll be fine for a while." The man smiled. It was a sad smile. Tired. "I'm Kola. Kola Adebayo."
David stared at him.
"Okay," he said finally. "I didn't know we were sharing names."
"You're David.. Heard when your senior said your name." Kola's eyes flickered—something like hope, quickly suppressed. " Would you like to hear my story."
"No shut the hell up. Can I just leave now?"
"No."
Kola stood. He was shorter than David remembered—or maybe David was just seeing him clearly for the first time. His hands were clean. His face was smooth. He hadn't aged in twenty years.
"I'm going to have to kill me," Kola said. "Both of you. You entered this building supporting my brother. That makes you my enemy."
David's stomach dropped.
"Your brother? This again." He said already fed up
"The owner of this land. The one who stole my inheritance." Kola's voice was flat. "The one who started this hotel. The one who left me with nothing."
"So you made a contract with a Phobia."
"I made a deal."
"You sacrificed your family."
Kola's expression flickered. Just for a moment.
"They were never really mine," he said quietly. "They belonged to him. To my brother. Everything always belonged to him."
David felt something cold settle in his chest.
"Here I thought Phobias were just monsters," he said. "But I'm standing in front of one."
Kola didn't flinch.
"Was it worth it?" David asked. "Killing your family? For a piece of land?"
"It wasn't about the land."
"Then what was it about?"
Kola was silent.
"What do you think your brother would feel?" David pressed. "His brother..the one he hasn't seen in twenty years..is the reason he can't finish his project. Is the reason workers keep dying. Is the reason this building is a tomb instead of a hotel."
"I don't care what he feels."
"Liar."
Kola's hands curled into fists.
"He was always the favorite," he whispered. "Growing up. Our parents. Our relatives. Everyone. 'Why can't you be more like your brother?' 'Why can't you settle down like your brother?' 'Why can't you..'"
He stopped.
"This is a small price to pay. And besides.." He looked at his hands. Smooth. Unlined. Young. "I'm not going to age. Not until I step outside."
David laughed.
Not a nice laugh. Not a kind one.
"Who said you were stepping out? If you kill the host everything ends so i heard, so…."
Kola's eyes widened.
"Humor me, child," he said, his voice hardening. "Your senior is trapped in that room. No one is coming to save.."
David's fist connected with his chin.
Green light—faint, flickering, but there wreathed his knuckles. The impact was clean, solid, satisfying. Kola's head snapped back. His body lifted off the ground. He flew across the room and hit the far wall with a crack that echoed through the small space.
He slid to the floor.
Then he stood up.
His jaw was crooked. Dislocated. He reached up, grabbed it, and clicked it back into place.
"You hit harder than you look," he said.
David's hand throbbed. His green light had already faded.
"Thanks," he said. "I've been practicing."
David rushed over to kola instantly.
It wasn't elegant.
Kola didn't have a Gift. He didn't have Sanctite weapons. He had the building. The walls obeyed him. The floor shifted under his feet. Rebar tendrils lashed from the ceiling, the walls, the floor—not to kill, but to trap. To slow. To exhaust.
David had his fists. His green light, unreliable and weak. And a plan.
Break the ceiling.
He didn't know how he knew. He just knew. The room was a box. The building was a body. And the ceiling was the thinnest part of the skull.
Kola swung wild, untrained, but fast. David ducked. The rebar behind him took the hit instead, shattering into rust.
"You can't win," Kola snarled. "This is my building. My contract. My…"
"Your brother's land," David said, dodging another swing. "Your brother's hotel. Your brother's legacy. Everything you have is borrowed from him."
Kola roared.
The walls pulsed.
David used the distraction to jump. His fist—green light blazing, just for a second—slammed into the ceiling.
Cracks spread. Dust fell. But it didn't break.
"Again," he told himself.
Kola grabbed him from behind.
They fell together, wrestling on the concrete floor—no grace, no technique, just two desperate men trying to hurt each other more than they got hurt. David's elbow found Kola's ribs. Kola's knee found David's thigh. They rolled, separated, and came up swinging.
"You don't understand," Kola gasped, blood dripping from his nose. "You don't know what it's like to be.."
"Second place?" David spat blood. "Invisible? Forgotten?"
He swung again. Missed.
"I draw monsters for a living," he said. "My parents think I'm wasting my life. My roommates think I'm weird. The only people who've ever taken me seriously are a bunch of cultists with magic weapons."
He kicked. Connected. Kola stumbled.
"So don't tell me I don't understand."
He jumped again.
*CRACK. *
The ceiling broke.
Warm Golden light poured in. Praise's Afterglow. Ivie's silhouette dropped through the opening, a Sanctite short sword in each hand, her expression calm and murderous.
"Took you long enough," David said.
"I had to kill twenty more copies." She landed between David and Kola, blades raised. "And find the stairs."
Kola backed away, his eyes wide.
"No," he said. "No, this is..this is my building.."
"It was never yours," Ivie said.
She moved.
The fight was over in seconds. Ivie didn't play. Didn't monologue. Didn't give him a chance to beg. Her blades found his heart, his throat, his spine..three strikes, clean and final.
Kola crumbled.
Not into cement dust. Into flesh. Old flesh, wrinkled and grey, the twenty years catching up to him all at once. He fell to his knees, then to his face, and didn't move again.
The building groaned.
The walls stopped pulsing. The floor stopped shifting. The hammering—constant, maddening—fell silent.
"It's done," Ivie said.
David collapsed against the wall, his body screaming, his green light gone.
"Good," he said. "Now can we please get out of here? I have a date."
Minute 40