The Bureau's European branch basement was worse than any nightmare.
Ethan and Andrei followed a stiff-faced research director down to Level -3. The moment the elevator doors opened, air rushed in—corpse-cold, soaked in disinfectant and the stench of burned protein.
"Welcome," the director intoned, "to Soul Inferno."
"Charming name." Ethan muttered. "Why not call it 'Hell's Gym'? At least then you could sell memberships."
The director ignored him, pressing a palm to the scanner. The heavy doors groaned open.
Inside: rows of glass chambers. Each chamber contained what once had been a person.
Eyes hollow. Lips smeared black. Bodies pierced with tubes, twitching like they were fighting invisible enemies. Above their heads, black tendrils of nightmare hung like parasitic lampshades, dripping sticky fog.
"These are…" Andrei's voice cracked.
"Volunteers," the director said smoothly. "They offered their souls for humanity's future."
Ethan tapped the glass. The figure inside convulsed violently, eyes locking on him with feral hunger."See? Even the volunteers are thrilled to greet me. Warmer welcome than my own family."
They moved past another row. Andrei whispered, horrified: "You're harvesting nightmare energy?"
The director nodded. "The Director believes souls are the most stable containers. We cycle their consciousness between nightmare and reality. Every rupture releases pure energy."
"Sounds like running people through a blender," Ethan said, shrugging. "Only difference is no one's drinking the smoothie."
The director's cold glance lingered—calculating whether to stuff Ethan into an empty chamber.
At the far end, a giant monitor pulsed with a jagged waveform. It resembled a heart monitor, except every spike came with a tortured scream piped through speakers.
"This is soul frequency," the director explained. "When the line flatlines, the subject has fully merged with the nightmare."
Ethan leaned closer, listening. "Pattern's about thirty seconds apart. More regular than my college relationships."
Andrei hissed, "Can you take this seriously?"
"I am," Ethan deadpanned. "This is just my serious face."
They stopped at a chamber labeled Subject-0. Inside dangled a withered husk of a man—color drained, body half-dead, yet eyes still rolling with raw terror.
His lips croaked, barely audible: "Help… me…"
Ethan and Andrei exchanged a glance. The silence was heavier than stone.
Ethan cleared his throat. "Sorry, I'm just an agent. Rescue work isn't in my job description. Try the Director's hotline."
The director remained stone-faced. "Zero's soul output has exceeded stability. He proves the Director's theory: Soul Inferno is mankind's only hope against the Great Nightmare."
"Right," Ethan said lightly, voice cutting. "Hope powered by human pulp. About as sustainable as nuclear waste."
Andrei's fists trembled, veins bulging. "How many more sacrifices before it's 'enough'?"
The director finally smiled—thin, exhausted, cruel. "As many as it takes."
As they walked out, Ethan muttered near Andrei's ear: "Now I get why it's called Soul Inferno. Step inside, and your soul's already on the grill. Only question is—are you the meat, or the audience?"
Andrei said nothing. His gaze cracked like the waveform on the wall—skewed, unraveling.
Ethan gave a hollow chuckle. "If this is the future… maybe the Nightmare should hurry up. At least it doesn't pretend to be a savior."