Chapter XXX: The Hunters
Annie jerked awake, her heart hammering against her ribs. The nightmare clung to her like smoke—Anja's face streaked with blood and something darker, black liquid dripping from her mouth as she whispered, "Help me." Those green eyes, so familiar, swallowed by darkness.
The familiar confines of her room materialized slowly—stone walls, narrow window, shadows shifting in the pre-dawn light. She'd barely made it to her bed last night, collapsing in exhaustion still wearing her uniform.
Her fingers brushed her cheek, coming away wet. She'd cried in her sleep again. Such weakness was dangerous, but she didn't have the strength to care.
No sound pierced the silence except her own uneven breathing. Hitch's bed lay empty across the room, covers thrown back in disarray. She hadn't been there when Annie arrived, apparently hadn't come back yet.
At least there was a certain comfort in the silence.
She sat on her bed, drawing her knees to her chest, staring blankly at the window as the first rays of light shone through. The mission, her purpose, her promise to her father - everything balanced on a knife's edge now. Because she'd hesitated. Because she couldn't bring herself to strike Anja down, and just go after Eren.
"What am I supposed to do now?" She whispered to herself.
She'd missed her chance, made things worse. Her fingers dug into her knees until they ached. The taste of bitter failure was becoming all too familiar.
And Anja... had she even made it out of that place? She could scarcely comprehend what was going on with her, what she'd done... Had the Scouts been experimenting with her? Annie had done what she could—moving her to relative safety while she was unconscious, leaving her where she might be found—but was it enough? The image of Anja's blood-covered face and that terrible darkness in her eyes haunted her.
Was saving her the right choice? Maybe it would have been kinder to end it there. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. Even now, with everything falling apart, she couldn't add Anja's death to the weight she already carried.
But would Anja tell them who she really was? The question gnawed at her, impossible to answer with certainty. She should have gone home when she had the chance after the masquerade. None of this would have happened.
Had the others seen? No... They weren't there but they'll surely find out soon enough. Regardless, failure in their mission meant they'd be disposed of.
What would Marcel have done? At least he used to have plans... She never should have listened to Reiner.
Maybe the information they had collected over the years would be of use, would it be enough to save her head?
At this point she was out of options. She'd had enough, she just wanted to go home.
Dawn's pale fingers crept through the window. She drew a deep breath. She'd figure it out somehow. For now she had no other choice than to continue her act.
Morning formation would be starting soon. Her movements were mechanical as she rose from her bed, each muscle protesting yesterday's strain. Her jacket hung crooked on its hook. As she reached for it—
It was covered in blood, the Wings of Freedom emblazoned on the back barely visible beneath the stain, vivid and fresh.
Annie recoiled, blinking hard. The Military Police unicorn stared back at her instead, pristine as ever. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she fought to push the image aside.
Her fingers found the torn inner pocket as she slipped the jacket on - she still needed to have that repaired. The reminder of the papers she used to keep there hit her like a cold wave. She should take them somewhere safer than her room—things were complicated enough already, and the last thing she needed was more risk.
Annie dropped to her knees, prying up the loose floorboard beneath her bed. Her notebook was exactly where she'd left it. Brandt's papers were folded and tucked underneath. She pulled them out, shaking off some dust then skimming through them—
Her blood soon turned to ice. Pages were missing—impossible. Her breath quickened as her hand reached back into the hiding spot, searching desperately—her fingers brushing only dust.
She searched every hiding place she could think of: underneath the mattress, between the sheets, inside her pillow. With each failed attempt, her heartbeat quickened, dread crawling deeper into her chest.
Finally, she patted her jacket, her fingers catching the torn fabric inside again. A wave of unease hit her.
The alley. Marco. Their scuffle—that's when it got torn. She thought she hadn't lost anything then, but what if she had? What if he had them?
Had he seen the papers? Had he taken them? The implications sent a chill through her core.
It hadn't been long, maybe they were still in that alley—she could get them back before anything else happened—
The sound of footsteps in the hallway growing louder made her freeze. Her breath caught. She hurriedly shoved the remaining documents out of sight, the urgency tightening her chest. Then, without thinking, she pressed herself against the wall beside the door, ready for whoever might enter.
The handle turned slowly.
The door creaked open.
Annie tensed—
"Oh!" Hitch's startled yelp echoed as she and a tall black-haired boy stumbled through the door, both of them freezing when they saw her. She recognized him then; that bowl cut of his was unmistakable: Marlo Freudenberg.
"Annie!" Hitch recovered first, shoving him aside. A deep blush crept across her face. "You're back! I mean—when did you-" She fumbled, straightening her disheveled uniform. "This isn't what it looks like."
"I didn't see anything," Annie said flatly, looking away. She forced her body to relax despite the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.
"No, really!" Hitch protested. "We were just—I mean—what is all this?" Her gaze swept over the aftermath of Annie's frantic search before landing back on her. "Actually, where have you been?" Her tone shifted from flustered to accusatory. "You said you'd be back by the afternoon! I had to cover two of your shifts, you know? Then I found your letter and thought..." She trailed off, genuine worry flickering across her usually carefree features.
Annie's stomach dropped. The letter. In the chaos of everything that had happened, she'd completely forgotten. She hadn't planned to come back then—
"So... did you send it?" The question came out more vulnerable than she intended.
"Are you kidding?" Hitch scoffed. "On a Friday? While I had to cover for you? Of course not!"
Relief flickered through Annie, brief but welcome. It was for the best she hadn't sent it to Anja. That connection was already dangerous enough for both of them.
"So, why are you back? Changed your mind?"
Annie frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Well... because of what you wrote." Hitch's voice softened uncharacteristically. "Sounded an awful lot like goodbye. Honestly, I'm offended you didn't leave me one, I mean you even left her a gift."
"You read my letter?"
"What was I supposed to do? You didn't show up, and then you had me worried. Especially after what Marlo told me—" She cut herself off, glancing at the black-haired boy.
Marlo shifted uncomfortably. "Well..." He cleared his throat, his usual composure strained. "Three recruits have gone missing."
Annie's blood ran cold. "What? Who?"
"Two of our friends, Dennis and Boris. And someone Hitch said you knew, Marco Bodt."
The name hit her like a physical blow... Marco? He got caught up in all of this? Then he must have taken those papers. Annie fought to keep her expression neutral. Had he discovered something? Had he told someone before he disappeared?
Or had someone made him disappear?
*
The wagon wheels found every rut in the dirt road, each jolt sending papers sliding across Hange's lap. A full day of interrogation transcripts, and Anja hadn't given them anything useful. Just fragments, half-memories, and pleas for Annie's safety.
"How much further?" she asked the driver.
"Another twenty minutes, Section Commander. Maybe thirty with the road this bad."
Hange nodded, returning to the papers. Smoke drifted across the road ahead. Through the trees, she glimpsed firelight—travelers preparing to make camp for the night.
Two wagons visible in the clearing, maybe three men around the fire. One stood to tend it as they passed, his movements casual, unhurried. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his face, travel-worn clothes mud-splattered from the road. When he noticed their wagon, he touched the brim of his hat in greeting—a gesture so ordinary it barely registered.
Hange returned the nod absently, already looking back at her work. Travelers were common enough on this road, stopping for the night rather than risk the forest paths in darkness. These days the countryside teemed with refugees and bandits alike.
But something nagged at her. The man's posture, perhaps. Too relaxed for someone camping in the countryside, this far from the safety of the walls. Or maybe it was how the other two hadn't looked up at all.
She shook off the feeling. Paranoia was an occupational hazard in her line of work.
The trees pressed closer as they continued, branches forming a canopy that blocked out the dying light. Hange found herself checking the treeline more often than necessary. Once, she could have sworn she saw movement—a figure keeping pace with the wagon—but when she looked directly, there was nothing but shadows between the trunks.
The mill came into view against the darkening sky. As she climbed down from the wagon, a rhythmic thudding reached her ears from below.
*
Water dripped somewhere in the darkness. Each drop impossibly loud, then impossibly distant. The rhythm matched the pounding in Anja's skull—or perhaps it was the other way around. She couldn't tell anymore.
She tasted copper and salt. Blood, she knew, though from where exactly had become unclear. Her tongue felt swollen, catching on the gaps where teeth should be.
Another impact. Stars burst behind her eyelids—no, just one eyelid. The right eye was... covered? Gone? The distinction seemed less important than it should.
She tried to focus through her functioning eye. The cellar swam into partial view—stone walls sweating moisture, her own blood painting abstract patterns on the floor below her suspended feet. And in the corner, sitting cross-legged like he used to during their childhood games, was Heinrik—not Heinrik, she reminded herself.
Not as he'd been at the end, but younger. Fifteen, maybe sixteen, wearing his new cadet uniform. The lamp behind him cast his face in warm gold, and she could almost smell their mother's lavender soap on his clothes.
"Does it hurt less now?" he asked gently.
She wanted to answer, but a fist connected with her ribs again. Something cracked. The pain should have been overwhelming, but it felt strangely distant.
"I'm scared," she whispered, to the young man in the corner.
"It's okay. I've got you." Heinrik's voice was exactly as she remembered—steady, protective. "Just rest now."
But something was wrong. His shadow fell the wrong way, stretching toward the lamplight instead of away from it. And when he smiled, the edges of his mouth extended just a fraction too far.
"You said you'd stay," she mumbled, the words slurring through her swollen lips. Some part of her knew this was wrong—Heinrik was dead, had been dead for years—but the memory felt more real than the chains biting into her wrists.
"I really wish I could." His uniform was pristine, he had just visited them, he'd just been accepted to the military. "But you know I can't stay. Not anymore."
The warm bedroom of her memory flickered, stone walls bleeding through like water through cloth. Her childhood bed became the cold metal digging into her flesh.
"You'll leave again then?"
"Yes." His face shifted subtly, aging and regressing in the span of a blink. "But I'll be back. You'll never get rid of me that easily."
"Promise?"
The word had barely left her lips when everything shattered. The cellar snapped back into focus with brutal clarity. She hung from chains that had rubbed her wrists raw, arms wrenched above her head. Her ribs were indeed broken—she could feel the edges grinding with each breath.
Heinrik still sat in the corner, but now his eyes were wrong. Not green like they should be, but dark. Empty. Like holes cut in the fabric of the world.
"I promise," he said, and something black dripped from between his teeth.
Another wave of pain crashed over her as she was struck again, but before it could overwhelm her, something cold slithered through her thoughts. The agony dimmed, muffled like sounds underwater.
Let me help, the thing wearing her brother's face whispered. I can take it all away. Make it stop. You just have to let me in a little more.
"For the last time," The man before her panted, flexing his bloodied knuckles, "where is she hiding?"
Anja's eye focused with difficulty on the Scout. Some of the blood on his hands was definitely hers, but there were flecks of something darker mixed in. Black droplets that seemed to move of their own accord before dissolving.
She tried to speak but only managed a wet mumble. Her jaw was definitely dislocated. When she ran her tongue along her teeth, counting the gaps became a way to stay grounded in her own body.
"That's enough."
The new voice cut through the haze. Anja knew that voice.
"Section Commander?! But—"
"I said enough, Geller!"
Hange. Recognition brought fresh anguish that had nothing to do with her physical wounds. Hange, who had tried to understand what she was. Who had shown her kindness even when others feared her.
"Go upstairs with the others."
Geller grunted, boots heavy on the stairs. Each step echoed strangely in the confined space, the sound bending and warping as if the cellar itself was rejecting reality.
Hange approached slowly, pulling over a wooden stool. Through her swimming vision, Anja saw exhaustion etched in every line of the Section Commander's face.
"Why, Anja?" Hange's voice held none of its usual enthusiasm. "Why did you do it?"
In the corner, the thing wearing Heinrik's face leaned forward with interest, shadows pooling beneath it like spilled ink.
"You're just making this harder on yourself." Hange sat at eye level with her prisoner. "We know your friend is in Stohess. She can't hide forever. No one else has to get hurt. Just tell me where she is."
The mention of Annie cut through everything. Anja jerked against her chains, feeling something tear in her shoulder. "Please," she gasped. "Don't harm her... Leave her... alone."
"I'm afraid we're way past that. But if she cooperates, I'll do my best to see she's not harmed unnecessarily. Just tell me where she is, Anja."
"I don't know." The words tore from her throat. "But I know her, Hange. She'll get scared. More people will die. You have to... trust me."
"Trust you?" Hange stood abruptly. "After everything you've done?"
"Please... You have to..."
"We'll handle this." Hange turned toward the stairs. "As for you, I suggest you cooperate. I'll send someone for you once it's done. Take this time to think."
"Hange... Please wait!" Anja strained forward. "HANGE!"
But the cellar door was already closing. The lock turned.
Darkness rushed in—not mere absence of light, but something actively hungry. The thing in the corner unfolded itself.
"She left you," it said with Heinrik's mouth. "They all leave, in the end. But I'm still here. I'll always be here."
Tears burned down Anja's face. It was her fault. All of it.
"Shh." Cold fingers stroked her hair. "Don't cry. Big brother's here. I'll make it all better."
The touch brought numbness, seeping into her bones like winter. But something in Anja recoiled. She'd felt this before, in the forest. Its hunger. Its patience. How it had been using his memory as bait.
"No." The word came out stronger than she expected.
The fingers paused in her hair. "No?"
"You're not him." She forced her eye to focus on the thing in the corner. "You're just wearing his face. Using his voice. But you're not Heinrik."
The smile widened slightly. "What are you saying silly? Who do you think this is? The pain still stops when I help, don't you want that? All memories fade eventually, you'll see. Soon you won't even remember why you're fighting."
"I will, I'll remember them. I'll remember her. I'll remember what I have to do."
"Will you?" It circled her slowly, leaving no footprints in the blood. "How many names have you already forgotten? How many faces have become strangers? Let me carry it all, little sister. Let me take the weight."
Anja closed her eye, focusing on the pain instead of the offered numbness. Each throb of her broken body was proof she was still herself. Despite everything.
"I said no."
"You are only hurting yourself. We'll see how long that lasts."
*
Gray clouds filtered the afternoon light across Stohess's winding streets as Annie walked between Hitch and Marlo. Their boots echoed against cobblestones in a rhythm that should have been comforting—just another patrol, just another day. But Annie's fingers kept finding the torn lining of her jacket pocket, the absence of those papers like a missing tooth her tongue couldn't stop probing.
"Don't be such a baby, Marlo. No one will notice." Hitch's voice carried that careless confidence Annie had once envied. Now it just made her nervous.
"This isn't the route I was assigned." Marlo's hand twitched toward his rifle strap.
"Relax, me and Annie do this all the time. Besides, the higher-ups are all worried about that prisoner being transferred here from the Scouts."
Annie's step faltered slightly. A Scout prisoner? The timing seemed too convenient, coming so soon after the failed expedition.
"So, nothing to worry about," Hitch continued. "We just have to be back once our 'patrol' is over. Easy peasy."
"If you say so... But we could have left this to more experienced soldiers."
"You know how it is. Someone files a missing person report and it gets passed around for months." Hitch stepped around a puddle. "Besides, Annie is quite experienced in finding missing—I mean, I am."
"Hitch, I already know you gave her Carly Stratmann's case. That was supposed to be yours."
"I, no, actually—"
"Would you two just shut up and pay attention?" Annie's voice came out sharper than intended.
She'd been scanning the street, noting exits and blind spots—old habits that had intensified since finding those papers missing. A woman hanging laundry from a third-floor window. Two men arguing over a cart blocking an alley. Normal city life, but any of them could be watching.
"Hey, it's her, not me," Marlo protested.
"Why do you think I brought you two for?" Hitch shot back. "You're the ones who like to play detective, not me."
Annie thought of Brandt's investigation notes, how Dennis and Boris's names had appeared in the margins. Just patrol assignments, routine stuff. But Brandt was dead now, and they were missing. She'd assumed it was coincidence—Hitch and Marlo were mentioned too, and they were fine. Still, the unease sat heavy in her stomach.
"Didn't you say you were worried about Boris and Dennis?" Marlo asked.
"I was, but after Annie came back, I wasn't that worried." Hitch shrugged. "Knowing those two, they probably ended up at some party and haven't shown up to work. It's only been a couple of days."
"That wouldn't be the case for Marco." Marlo's expression tightened. "He's serious about his work, unlike you."
Marco. Annie's chest constricted. He'd taken those papers—she was almost certain now. The way he'd looked at her in that alley, blood streaming from his nose, determination mixing with fear...
"So he's another one with a stick up his ass like you. Figures." Hitch's teasing tone didn't quite mask her concern.
"MPs really should stop taking in people like you..."
"Oh, this"—Hitch gestured to herself with a flourish—"is what a prime specimen of the MPs looks like. Just a few years and I'll be ordering you around. You'll see."
"If you're done, we're here." Annie nodded toward the intersection ahead.
The neighborhood was one of Stohess's quieter districts—Rows of modest shops and apartments, their facades worn but clean. The kind of place where people minded their own business.
Perfect for hiding things.
"Dennis's last assigned patrol," Hitch said, consulting a crumpled note.
"I wonder why he was even placed here." Marlo frowned at the empty streets. "The parade didn't even come close to this area."
"Lucky him. Bet he could slack off the entire time."
"It's a quiet area. Safe too." Marlo pointed down a side street. "That's why the Military Police keeps a warehouse around here."
"Let's ask around." Hitch started forward.
Annie caught movement from the corner of her eye. A brown haired soldier stood across the street, speaking earnestly with a middle-aged woman who kept shaking her head.
"Hey, isn't that..." Hitch started.
"Jean," Annie finished.
Her mind raced. What was he doing here? Last she'd heard, he was firmly committed to the comfortable life of an interior MP. This neighborhood was far from his usual post.
Jean must have sensed their attention. His eyes widened slightly when he spotted them—no, when he spotted Annie specifically. He finished his conversation with visible haste, the woman hurrying away as he crossed toward them.
"What are you three doing here?" His tone aimed for casual but missed.
"We're looking for our friends," Hitch interjected. "One of them was on patrol here. Dennis Webber. Know him?"
"I think I've heard the name, but no... I'm, uh..." Jean's gaze kept flickering to Annie, something unspoken in his expression. She recognized that look—the same one Marco had worn in the alley. Did he know something?
"Looking for Marco?" Hitch guessed.
His shoulders tensed. "How did you—"
"Not a hard guess." Hitch smirked. "You were all in the same training corps, right? And you two were always looking at Annie like you'd lost something."
Color rose in Jean's cheeks. "That's not—it's... Whatever." Jean's jaw tightened. "I don't care about her. I'm just looking for my friend."
Despite his words, Annie caught the hurt that flashed across his face.
"Why here?" Marlo pulled out his notebook. "Marco was reported missing from his room."
"He's my roommate." Jean's seriousness slipped back into place. "He'd been jumpy all that day. Turns out he snuck out during the night. I asked around—I don't know if it was him, but someone noticed odd movements around the archives that night—people loading a wagon.
The archives? What would he even look for? She remembered the papers referred to an investigation file, but it was a dead end. Annie kept her expression neutral while her mind raced.
"I traced it all the way to this area," Jean continued, "but so far I've had no luck. No one saw anything."
Three people missing, two led to the same quiet neighborhood. Annie didn't believe in coincidences anymore.
"We should try the warehouse then," Marlo said. "There's no other place they'd go around here."
"A warehouse?" Jean's interest sharpened. "Let's go then."
With no better option, the group followed Marlo's lead through increasingly empty streets. Annie noted how the foot traffic thinned the closer they got to their destination. Even for a quiet neighborhood, it felt too deserted. Windows that should have shown signs of life stared back empty. A cat skittered across their path, the only movement besides their own.
The warehouse squatted at the end of a dead-end street, surrounded by a tall fence. A loading area for wagons dominated one side, though no vehicles were present. The building itself looked unremarkable—weathered brick and small windows, the kind of structure that blended into the background.
"Hello! Is anyone in there?" Jean rattled the gate, the sound sharp in the stillness.
"Shout louder so the whole neighborhood can hear," Hitch muttered, though she was already peering through the fence gaps.
"Looks like a dump." Hitch peered through the fence. "Cigarette butts everywhere."
Annie examined the loading area. Fresh wheel ruts marked the dirt—deep grooves from heavy loads. The cigarette butts weren't weathered either. Someone had been here recently.
She watched Jean prop his rifle against the fence and begin to climb.
"What are you doing?" Marlo sounded scandalized.
"What does it look like?"
"But wait... we can't just—"
Annie was already following, her hands finding purchase on the fence links. The torn pocket of her jacket caught briefly.
"Come on," Jean said as he dropped down on the other side. "I doubt anyone will see us if we're quick."
Annie landed beside him, knees bending to absorb the impact. Behind them, she heard Hitch encouraging a reluctant Marlo to follow.
The warehouse loomed before them. Annie's instincts screamed warnings—too quiet, too empty.
Jean reached for the door handle testing it, his eyes widened as it turned. "It's unlocked."
He looked at Annie as if waiting for confirmation. She nodded.
The hinges whispered, recently oiled. Inside, afternoon light struggled through grimy windows, casting rectangles across concrete. Dust motes hung suspended, undisturbed.
They stepped inside.
*
Water dripped.
Anja counted the drops. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Sometimes they came fast, sometimes slow, like a clock losing time. The sound echoed wrong in the cellar, bouncing off stone in uneven patterns.
Her wrists had gone numb a long time ago. Blood had dried in rusty rings around the shackles, pulling at her skin when she shifted.
In the corner, the thing wearing Heinrik's face hadn't moved for... how long? It sat still, not even mimicking breath. Watching.
Twenty-nine. Thirty.
A new sound threaded through the dripping—distant thunder. Anja's head lifted slightly, neck muscles protesting. Through the small barred window high on the wall, she could see the sky had darkened. Storm coming.
The entity's eyes tracked her movement. "Listening for them?"
She didn't answer. Her throat was too raw, and words felt dangerous here. Like they might summon what she feared.
"They're efficient, your Scout friends." Its voice carried no emotion, just observation. "Quick. Clean. She won't feel much."
Thirty-one. Thirty-two.
*
The warehouse held its breath around them.
Annie's boots made soft sounds on concrete as she moved deeper inside. Crates towered on either side, stenciled with inventory numbers and dates. Recent dates. The dust here had been disturbed—footprints crossing and recrossing, the casual traffic of people who belonged.
Hitch's voice seemed too loud when she spoke. "Look at all this stuff… Shouldn't there be guards?"
"Normally, but I told you this area is safe," Marlo replied.
Jean had found a path through the crates, following something only he could see. Annie watched him pause at an intersection of aisles, head tilted, listening. The warehouse wasn't silent—wood creaked as temperature changed, pigeons rustled in the rafters, wind worried at loose roof tiles. But underneath those normal sounds was an absence. The particular quality of a space recently vacated.
Marlo had gravitated toward a desk shoved against one wall, its surface covered in papers held down by an empty tea cup.
Annie crouched beside the loading area. Crates were stacked haphazardly here as well—some split, others damp-stained at the base. The acrid smell of lamp oil hung in the air, seeping from seams in the wood. The concrete beneath her was stained in patches: grease, oil, and something darker that had dried in irregular swirls.
In a corner where the light didn't quite reach, something metallic caught her eye. She reached for it—heavy, cylindrical, about the length of her forearm. Brass, with precise threading and a sealed rear end that reminded her vaguely of a pressure valve or ignition pin. It looked like it could be part of a weapon, maybe even the firing component itself. But she'd never seen anything like it. Not standard issue. Not anything they'd been trained on.
Maybe it fell—or was dropped in haste.
"Annie." Hitch's voice was taut, uncertain.
"You need to see this."
*
Anja tested the chains again. The same result—iron bit into flesh, sent fresh blood trickling down her arms. The pain was there but muted, like hearing a voice through water.
Those chains were never meant for someone like you." It said. Why pretend to be what you're not?"
She forced her eye to focus on it. The resemblance to Heinrik was perfect and wrong—the way his hair fell, the angle of his shoulders, but also the stillness between movements, the way shadows gathered where they shouldn't.
"Look what they did to you. Look what your loyalty earned you." It stood, finally, moving with too-fluid grace. " I can give you what they never could—freedom."
Thunder rolled closer. The first drops of rain struck the window, running down stone in dark threads.
*
The manifest spread across the desk like an accusation. Routes marked in red ink, delivery schedules noted in margins. Annie traced the lines with growing unease. From inside Wall Sina to Stohess, two weeks ago. Stohess to Karanes, just two days past. And today—
"The capital," Hitch read. "Final delivery to Central Command?"
But it was the cargo descriptions that made Annie's blood chill. Written in the careful euphemisms of bureaucracy: "Human resources requiring relocation." "Subjects - research classification." "Live specimens - priority handling protocols."
Jean's voice carried from deeper in the warehouse—a sharp intake of breath, metal scraping on concrete. They found him standing before what appeared to be a solid wall of stacked supply crates. But the dust patterns were wrong. These crates had been moved recently, repeatedly.
"Help me," Jean said, already pushing against one section. The crates weren't stacked—they were mounted on a hidden track system. As they slid aside, they revealed a section of floor where the concrete had been carefully cut and replaced. The seams were nearly invisible, filled with matching mortar, but fresh scratches around the edges betrayed recent use.
Jean found the hidden latch disguised as a drainage grate. The section lifted on silent hinges— Below, wooden steps descended into darkness that breathed with the scent of chemicals and worse.
*
"May I?"
It gestured to her wrists. Its fingers weren't quite right—too many joints, or perhaps too few. Details kept shifting when she tried to focus.
Anja held still. There were no good choices here, only necessary ones.
Its touch was winter given form. Where skin met skin, sensation simply ceased. Not numb—absent. As if that part of her had never existed. She watched her right hand begin to pull against the shackle, steady pressure building.
"Just a bag of meat and bone," it murmured.
Her thumb bent backward silently, a wet snap of tearing ligaments barely registering as her bones shifted and cracked. Distantly, like furniture rearranging in another room, she felt the structure of her hand collapse until finally, her wrist slipped free—bloodied, mangled, but free.
She was steadying herself, breath ragged, when thunder crashed directly overhead—dust showering from the shaking beams. Underneath the fading echo, wagon wheels ground sharply through gravel outside.
Someone's here.
*
The first basement room was almost mundane. Almost. Storage shelves lined the walls, boxes of paperwork gathering dust. But the chair in the center didn't belong. Heavy wood, leather straps at arms and legs, dark stains soaked deep into grain.
Jean's breathing had gone shallow. Behind Annie, Hitch made a small sound—short of a gasp.
The tools hung on the far wall in neat rows. Some medical—scalpels, forceps, things that belonged in hospitals. Others had no legitimate purpose.
"We should go," Marlo whispered. "We should go right now."
But Jean was already moving toward the second doorway. The chemical smell was stronger here, but underneath it—no distinct odor.
A crematorium occupied the far wall, its mouth sealed behind heavy iron doors. What struck Annie was the sophistication of it. A proper chimney system snaked up through the ceiling, with multiple chambers for filtering smoke. Ventilation grates drew air from the surface. Someone had spent considerable money making this facility functional.
But it was the adjacent alcove that made Annie's stomach turn. Drainage tables with segmented channels—designed not just for disposal, but for systematic processing. Bone saws hung in precise arrangements, their blades worn smooth from use. This wasn't just about making people disappear—it was about reducing them to manageable components first. And underneath, tucked almost out of sight—
"Don't touch it," Annie said, but Jean was already reaching.
The owl mask came up in his shaking hands. Gold paint flaked away at his touch, revealing darker stains beneath. The same mask she'd seen at the masquerade.
Dr. Weiss's mask.
Now she knew why he'd been so afraid.
*
The second hand came easier, her body repeating the horror without hesitation. Flesh tore, bones compressed, and then she was completely free—arms hanging useless but finally unchained.
She could barely walk, but she could still crawl.
"Listen," it said.
Footsteps above. Boots on wood, multiple sets. Voices raised in confusion then alarm.
"The window."
Anja looked at the barred window, then at her ruined hands. The bars were set perhaps six inches apart. A child might fit through. A small child.
"Through," it whispered.
Lightning illuminated the cellar again. In that flash, she saw herself reflected in the entity's black eyes—not as she was, but as she could be. Changed. Wrong.
But alive.
The first gunshot cracked through the storm like judgment.
*
They climbed from the basement in silence. The warehouse felt different now—not empty but abandoned. The kind of abandonment that came from sudden flight, from plans interrupted.
Annie's mind raced. The Interior Squad had been using this place. Dr. Weiss had been here, questioned here. Probably died here. And the deliveries—people processed like cargo? shipped to locations unknown?
"We need to leave," her voice came out steady, controlled. "Now. If anyone finds us here..."
She didn't need to finish. They all understood. This wasn't just trespassing—this was discovering something people killed to keep secret.
Thunder rolled across the sky as they emerged into the main warehouse. The storm had arrived while they were underground, turning the grimy windows into sheets of running water. Rain drummed against the roof with increasing intensity.
They moved quickly toward the exit, no longer caring about stealth. Behind them, forgotten on the basement floor, the owl mask stared at nothing with empty eyes.
*
The window bars bent outward with sounds like breaking teeth. Anja's body moved in ways bodies shouldn't move, guided by instinct rather than thought. She felt her ribs compressed, organs pushing against her chest, bones ground against each other in symphony of wrongness.
But she fit. Inch by impossible inch, she fit.
The rain hit her like a blessing, washing away blood and worse. She fell into mud, body trying to remember its proper shape. Everything hurt now—its gift receding, leaving only damage and determination.
Through the rain, she saw them. Black shapes moving in the night. A Scout lay face-down in the mud, rain pooling in the hole where his head used to be.
A horse stood tethered nearby, sides heaving with nervousness. It shied when she approached, smelling blood and wrongness, but she managed to grip the reins with fingers that barely worked.
Behind her, screams from the mill. Gunshots. The thud of bodies falling.
She didn't look back.
The horse needed no urging. It ran from that place of death like it understood, hooves throwing up mud and water. Anja clung to its neck, broken hands tangled in the mane, body screaming protests she couldn't afford to hear.
The mill fell away into darkness and rain.
*
Mina pressed her spine against the mill's damp wall, trying to become part of the stone. Her legs had given out somewhere between the third gunshot and the fifth.
Through the doorway, she could see them. The Scouts who'd brought Anja here—she'd seen them from afar in Karanes, still alive just one day ago.
One still moved, dragging himself toward the exit with his one working arm. His legs left red trails across the floorboards. The sound he made wasn't breathing, wasn't crying. Just wet and desperate, like a punctured lung trying to pray.
"S-stop..." The word bubbled from another's lips. "We surrender."
He was kneeling, hands raised above his head.
The man in the wide-brimmed hat paused mid-cleaning his pistol, glancing down with the bored curiosity of someone watching an insect crawl.
"Where's the girl?"
"She's in the basement!" The Scout's voice came fast, stumbling over itself. "Here—the key—"
His shaking hand fumbled at his belt.
The gunshot came with a flick of the wrist—barely aimed, yet final. The Scout's words died mid-syllable, replaced by the dull wet sound of impact. Another body collapsed.
"Fuck you!" The second Scout—the one crawling—propped himself up on his elbows. Blood ran from his mouth, but his eyes blazed with desperate fury. "You said if we surrendered—"
Another shot. His head snapped back. The fury in his eyes went out like a snuffed candle.
The man in the hat—when had she started thinking of him as a man and not a monster?—laughed. A brittle sound, like glass breaking in a crypt.
"Ha! You see that, Caven?" He nudged the second body with his boot. "He totally shat himself."
"Yes. Very funny, sir."
The woman's deadpan voice made Mina flinch deeper into her corner. She walked through the aftermath like it wasn't there, stepping over bodies like puddles. Her uniform was spotless despite the carnage, as if blood knew better than to touch her.
"Right then." The man ejected the spent canister from his pistol, letting it clatter softly onto a corpse below. From beneath his coat, he drew a fresh one and locked it into place with the smooth efficiency of long practice.
"You know what to do, fellas. The girl is mine."
He strode toward the basement door, and Mina's paralyzed mind finally understood.
They'd come for Anja.And she had led them here. It was her fault all these people were dead…
She'd told them where to find her, telling herself they'd just capture her. That justice would be done. She never expected they'd go this far.
The basement door exploded inward under his boot. Wood splintered, hinges screamed.
Mina heard his boots on the stairs—each step deliberate, unhurried, as if he already knew what he would find.
Then, muffled by stone:
"The fuck? She's not here."
The boots came back up—faster now.
When he emerged, his face had shed its casual amusement. His eyes swept the room like a predator seeking heat, and found her.
"Well, well." His voice was soft now. Gentle, almost. "I spy with my little eye... a little rat."
Mina tried to press herself deeper into the wall, but walls were solid things. They didn't care about guilt, or fear.
She didn't scream. She didn't even run. She just froze. Somewhere in her head, her body had started remembering Trost. The blood, the smoke, the noise that never stopped. Except now, it was all inverted—this time she had brought the monsters.
He crossed the room in three strides. His hand tangled in her braid before she could even raise her arms.
"No, please, I helped you, I—"
He dragged her like luggage. She scrambled uselessly, her feet slipping across the blood-slick floor. Her hands clawed at his grip, but it was like trying to tear through steel.
Down the stairs. Her shins slammed against each step, every impact jolting through her spine. She tried to scream, but it caught behind her teeth.
The smell hit her first—blood, thick and warm. And beneath it, the deeper stench of rot and death. Chains hung from the ceiling, ends dark with blood. Fresh puddles spread across the floor.
And the window—
The bars were bent outward, twisted like taffy. Strips of flesh clung to the metal where someone had forced themselves through an impossible gap. Rain howled through the opening, mixing with blood into long pink streams that spidered across the stone.
"Didn't you say your friend was here?" His voice was quiet now. Too quiet.
"I—I followed them to this place," she blurted. "They took her here, I saw it—I watched them—"
He kept her hair twisted in his grip, forcing her to meet his eyes. Pale gray. Flat. The color of dead sky.
"Please." She hated herself for the word, but it kept spilling out. "Give me more time. I can find her. I swear I can—"
The gun. She hadn't even seen it rise. One moment it wasn't there, the next, the barrel was a perfect black circle.
Recognition flared—then vanished.
Nothing.
"Useless." Kenny Ackermann let her body drop, then frowned at the blood flecking his boots like it was a personal insult. He wiped them clean on the girl's hair, taking his time. Making sure to get every spot.
"Well. Had to get rid of you anyway."
He paused, looking back toward the window where twisted bars marked his quarry's escape. A slow smile spread across his weathered features—not cruel, but genuinely impressed. In his decades of hunting, he'd seen desperate people do desperate things, but crushing your own bones to slip through prison bars? That took a special kind of steel.
"Clever girl," he murmured with something approaching fondness. Must've wanted out real bad.
He climbed back up the stairs, whistling a chirpy tune between his teeth. The others had already begun their work—lamp oil splashing across walls, soaking into wood, pooling beneath the dead.
"What now, sir?" Caven asked.
"You know the drill." Kenny paused, picturing the bent bars below. A flicker of professional appreciation passed through his expression.
"I want this place torched. Caven—take two of your best. Look for her. Can't have gone far."
The first flames caught despite the storm, hungry tongues of fire racing along oil-slick walls. Smoke billowed thick and fast, clinging low to the rafters. The mill began its slow transformation—from crime scene to pyre.
Outside, the storm had reached its peak. Rain fell in sheets, turning the world into a gray blur.
Perfect weather for disappearing. Perfect weather for a hunt.
Kenny pulled his hat low against the rain and smiled.
He did love a challenge. Especially when it ran.
Behind them, the mill burned like a beacon. Smoke curled upward, swallowed by the storm.
And somewhere out there, in that rain-soaked dark—
Their prey.
Wagon wheels cut deep grooves into the mud as they rolled forward, patient as death itself.