Matthew took the stairs two at a time.
He spared the hallway below only a cursory glance—no janitor's closet, no supplies, nothing useful—before committing fully to the stairwell. His boots hit concrete in a steady, brutal rhythm as he bounded upward, lungs burning, mind racing far faster than his body ever could.
Thousands of hours of video games kicked in all at once.
Not reflex shooters. Not brawlers.
Tactics.
The kind that lived in the back of his brain, shaped by Mega-man boss patterns and that advanced rock-paper-scissors logic where brute force only worked if you understood the system first. He was absolutely certain this was solvable. Just not with fists.
The problem was simple and impossible at the same time: the Hollow was invisible. Imperceptible. A predator he couldn't see, hear, or sense in any meaningful way.
Matthew was a man of brute force by nature—but he wasn't stupid.
You don't punch what you can't perceive.
You change the environment.
He hit the second floor fast, scanning left and right. Still no janitor's closet. Just long-abandoned corridors and the stale smell of dust and rot. His jaw clenched as he moved on—
Then he saw it.
A fire extinguisher mounted crookedly on the wall, red paint flaking, inspection tag yellowed and curled with age. Long out of date—but the pressure gauge still sat just barely in the green.
"Good enough," he muttered.
He ripped it free without hesitation and kept moving, puzzle pieces snapping into place as his boots pounded down the hall. If the Hollow couldn't be seen, then he'd make it visible. If speed was the problem—if Orion couldn't keep up—then the answer was obvious.
Slow it down.
Trade school memories surfaced unbidden. Long nights in maintenance courses. A mentor who'd believed practical knowledge was just applied violence against entropy.
Chemicals. Reactions. Messes.
"There," Matthew breathed.
He found the janitorial closet at last.
Sparse. Neglected. Forgotten when the hospital shut down—of course it was. Medical supplies would've been stripped first. Nobody cared about cleaning chemicals when the building itself was being left to rot.
He yanked the door open and went to work.
Two mop buckets—cracked but intact. Mops so low-grade they offended him on a spiritual level. Every chemical on the shelf went into the buckets in generous, reckless pours.
Degreaser.
Industrial soap.
Bleach.
One lone bottle of ammonia.
He paused at that one, eyes narrowing.
"Nope," he muttered, setting it aside carefully. "Not yet."
He wasn't trying to gas himself. He wasn't that kind of stupid.
Buckets sloshing with chemical slurry, Matthew hauled everything to the top of the stairwell. His movements were fast, deliberate, fueled by adrenaline and certainty. The plan wasn't elegant—but it didn't need to be.
He positioned the buckets just so, fire extinguisher propped nearby, mops laid out like traps. It was crude. Improvised.
And perfect.
As he stepped back, breathing hard, Matthew allowed himself a grim, humorless smile.
Kevin McCallister would've been proud.
"All right," he muttered to the empty stairwell. "Let's see how you hunt when the floor bites back."
He doubled back once more and grabbed a second fire extinguisher—this one lighter, the pressure gauge barely clinging to life. Matthew frowned at it.
"Fifty-fifty," he muttered. "And that's being generous."
Judging by the inspection dates, both extinguishers were old enough to vote. He knew damn well neither of them might work at all, but might was better than nothing, and desperation didn't leave room for purity.
His eyes scanned the hallway again until they landed on a tall metal stand with wheels—one of those things used to hold IV bags.
He stared at it for a second.
"…What the hell are you even called?" he asked no one.
The name refused to come. Pole. Rack. Medical coat hanger from hell. Whatever it was, he yanked it free from its base with a grunt, the wheels skittering across the tile. He tested the weight, gave it a practice swing.
Not steel.
But metal.
It would have to do.
Matthew sighed, already mourning the absence of a proper weapon. A greatsword. A claymore. Something with honest heft. Something that felt right in his hands. He had always been that kind of man—big weapons, big commitments, decisive violence.
"Desperate times," he murmured, setting the IV rack near the top of the stairs, lining it up with the buckets and extinguishers. "David faced Goliath with less."
That wasn't strictly true, but it felt true, and right now that was enough.
Then he turned and ran back down the stairwell.
Two steps at a time again. Faster now. Anxiety clawing at his ribs. Every second felt stolen. Every heartbeat—a gamble.
Don't be dead, he thought grimly. Don't you dare.
The words invisible panther tentacle demon replayed in his mind, and the absurdity of the phrase almost tripped him up. Almost. He latched onto the last detail Orion had given him—the one that didn't matter but somehow mattered the most.
Apparently female.
Matthew's mouth twisted as something dark and petty clicked into place.
"Oh," he muttered. "I can work with that."
The stairwell door burst open as he emerged onto the first floor—and his stomach dropped.
Down the hallway, Orion was pinned to the wall.
Some kind of hardened green slime held him fast, spread like a grotesque parody of a spider's web. Blood soaked through his shirt from a wound in his chest, streaking down his torso in uneven lines. And despite all of that—despite the pain, the danger, the very real possibility of death—
Orion had that look on his face.
That stupid, infuriating expression.
The one he wore when he was deliberately saying the wrong thing just to mess with people. Matthew had seen it a hundred times over the years. When Orion "taught" his kids life lessons by confidently explaining nonsense. When he loudly debated the ethics of fat-shaming Barbie dolls in public. When he insisted Russians contaminated germs with napalm. When he declared, with absolute conviction, that if something fell on the floor it had become a bomb and the store was now compromised.
That look said: I know this is bad, but wouldn't it be funny if—
Matthew felt a flash of pure, visceral horror.
"Oh, you absolute idiot," he breathed.
Pinned. Bleeding. Facing down an invisible nightmare—and still running his mouth.
Relief and dread tangled in his chest as he tightened his grip on the fire extinguisher.
Hold on, he thought fiercely. I'm here.
"Hey!"
Matthew's voice boomed down the corridor—that voice.
The one he only ever used when people needed to be held accountable. The one that had stopped fights cold, silenced rooms, and made grown men straighten their backs without understanding why.
He didn't know if it would work here.
But the trap was set, and fortune favored the bold.
His heart hammered in his chest, anxiety clamping down like a vise made of ice. He welcomed it. Fear was the precursor, the warning light that told him he was doing something that mattered.
"Oh wow," he called out, letting contempt drip into every syllable, "this is what you turned into?"
He spread his arms slightly, as if inviting judgment.
"All those tentacles and you're still insecure?"
Silence.
But the air changed.
Matthew felt it immediately—an oppressive awareness, like predatory eyes sliding onto him. Every instinct screamed that he had her attention now.
Good.
He doubled down without hesitation.
"I mean seriously," he continued, pacing just enough to look careless, "you look like a midlife crisis with claws. Is this the form you wanted, or did you settle because therapy was too expensive?"
That one had to land.
Matthew didn't make a habit of mistreating women. Quite the opposite. And he wasn't a man who relied on taunts when action was available. But a weapon was a weapon, and today he was outmatched. If he had to fight dirty to keep his friend alive, so be it.
Today I fight like Orion, he thought grimly.
And he'll fight like me.
The irony almost made him laugh.
Sweat soaked beneath his black leather jacket, unnoticed. Despite his resolve, this was—by far—the most terrifying thing he had ever done. And he'd stared down grown men with real weapons before.
"And don't think I didn't notice," he added sharply, pointing down the hallway. "You attack guys who can't even see you? What's wrong—afraid someone might actually look at you?"
He smirked, cruel and deliberate.
"Judging from Orion's reaction, you can't be much. His standards are rock bottom."
"Matt—she's pissed!" Orion choked out from down the hall.
Matthew grinned, sharp and feral.
"Yeah?" he shot back. "Cool. Try and keep up, Tentacle Monster."
Then he turned and ran.
Up the stairwell, three steps at a time, boots hammering against concrete. Adrenaline carried him faster than he had any right to be, his body moving with the reckless agility of a goat hopped up on energy drinks.
Behind him—
Something moved.
And Matthew didn't dare look back.
Matthew felt it before he heard it.
The weight of the Hollow thundered up the stairwell behind him, each impact of claw on concrete sending vibrations through the bones of the building. Old tile shattered. Cracks spider-webbed through walls that had already given up on staying whole decades ago. Whatever that thing was, subtlety had been abandoned the moment it committed to the chase.
He had a head start.
It felt like a lie.
The stairwell was narrow—thank God for that—barely wide enough for two people to pass without brushing shoulders. For something that big, something built like a panther with too many sins attached, it was a liability. Matthew leaned into it, lungs burning, legs screaming, fear gnawing at his spine.
The anxiety was gut-wrenching.
And somehow—clarifying.
At the top of the third-floor stairs, Matthew pivoted sharply, sidestepping the mop buckets with inches to spare, boots skidding slightly on dust and grit. Without slowing, he kicked both buckets hard.
They tumbled end over end down the stairwell.
Plastic cracked. Liquid exploded outward.
The stench hit first—bleach, industrial soap, degreaser—sharp and choking, the kind of smell that meant danger even before you understood why. The mixture flooded the landing below, cascading down steps and pooling at the halfway point to the previous floor.
Contrary to popular belief, degreaser wasn't just harsh.
It was slick.
More dangerous than oil.
Matthew heard it then—the sudden, furious loss of traction. A heavy impact. A scrape that turned into a skid. The Hollow snarled, the sound sharp and alien, claws screeching uselessly as it fought gravity, chemicals, and its own momentum.
He couldn't see it.
But he felt the disruption.
"Yeah," Matthew muttered under his breath, already moving. "Didn't like that, did you?"
He grabbed the fire extinguisher he'd staged against the wall, fingers wrapping around cold metal. The pressure gauge flickered in the green—but only barely. It was a gamble. Everything about this was a gamble.
Matthew yanked the pin, like a hand grenade.
For one heartbeat, nothing happened.
His stomach dropped.
Then—
WHOOOOSH.
White suppressant blasted out in a violent cloud, filling the stairwell with choking powder. Matthew aimed downward, sweeping the spray wide, coating steps, walls, railing—anything that might give the Hollow purchase or concealment.
"Come on," he growled through clenched teeth, squeezing the handle harder. "Try hiding now!"
The extinguisher bucked in his hands as the charge bled out faster than he liked. The cloud thickened, swirling with the chemical runoff below, turning the stairwell into a blinding, stinging haze.
He couldn't see the Hollow.
But now—
Neither could it hide.
Matthew waited.
Not frozen—coiled.
His eyes strained through the white haze, every instinct stretched to its breaking point. He listened past the ringing in his ears, past his own breath, searching for the smallest tell: a shift in air, a scrape of claw, the predatory rhythm of something deciding when to strike.
Then he saw it.
Movement—subtle, wrong—disturbing the cloud of extinguisher plume like a ripple under ice.
That was enough.
Matthew didn't hesitate. Hesitation was for people who overthought themselves into graves.
With a sharp exhale, he hurled the empty fire extinguisher with startling force. For a lean man, the throw was brutal—years of bottled strength and controlled aggression translating into raw momentum. The metal cylinder vanished into the haze and struck something solid with a hollow, satisfying clang.
A snarl answered it.
Already moving, Matthew snatched up the IV rack with one hand, ripping it free from where he'd braced it. The metal frame bent slightly under his grip. Not a sword. Not even close.
But it was metal.
With his other hand, he grabbed the uncapped bottle of ammonia.
He didn't overthink this either.
Matthew hurled it into the cloud, aiming for where the movement had been, where the Hollow should be. The bottle shattered on impact, liquid splashing across bleach-soaked steps and powder-choked air.
He didn't know if demons could be poisoned.
He didn't know if the rumors were true.
But he did know two things:
—People said you never mixed ammonia and bleach.
—And when people said never, it usually meant something very bad happened when you did.
At worst, nothing would happen. He simply didn't know, he was never stupid enough to mix chemicals.
He tightened his grip on the IV rack, feet planted, jaw set.
At best, he'd just turned the stairwell into hell.
Toxic. Slick. Blinding.
The reaction was immediate.
A shriek tore through the stairwell—not the feral roar of a beast, but something sharper, angrier, offended. The sound cut through Matthew's bones like glass dragged across steel. The haze churned violently as something thrashed inside it, claws screeching against concrete, footing suddenly uncertain.
The Hollow had slipped.
Not fully—nothing that dangerous ever fell cleanly—but enough.
There was a palpable shift in the air itself, shift from predator to problem. The chemical slurry coating the steps clung to the creature's movements, robbing it of the effortless grace it had relied on. Its invisibility faltered—not gone, but distorted—its outline rippling like heat haze over asphalt as particles didn't quite cling to its form.. Tentacles lashed blindly, slapping against walls and railings with wet, furious impacts.
A crimson blast of energy erupted from below leaving a clean hole in a nearby wall three feet from where he stood.
"Yeah," Matthew muttered under his breath, teeth bared in something between a grin and a grimace. "That did something."
The toxic fumes burned his eyes and lungs. He turned his head slightly, breathing shallow, jacket sleeve pulled up over his mouth. This wasn't a clean plan. It was ugly. Desperate.
But again, he thought—desperate times.
The Hollow lunged up the stairs, misjudging its step. One claw skidded, gouging concrete instead of flesh. Matthew didn't wait for it to recover.
He swung with the same overhead motion he practiced 10,000 times before, both sparring with Orion and training as a way to work through complex problems in his room.
The IV rack came down like a greatsword, metal frame slamming into the distorted mass with a jarring crunch. The impact reverberated up his arms, numbing his hands, but it connected. The Hollow recoiled, screeching again—this time in pain.
The rack bent from the force into an awkward curve.
"Stay," Matthew snarled, driving the rack forward again, pinning it against the railing for half a second that felt like a miracle.
Tentacles whipped back, one cracking across his shoulder like a living cable. Pain exploded down his arm and nearly tore the weapon from his grip. Matthew staggered, but didn't fall—boots squealing against the floor as he was pushed out into the third floor hallway, he fought for balance.
He stumbled from the force and slammed into a wall with some force that near knocked the wind out of him and made his earlier injuries from the car accident flair up.
Pain flashed through his body and vision.
Below, somewhere in the building, thunder cracked.
Not literal thunder.
Lightning.
Orion.
Matthew felt a surge of grim relief. Good. He's moving.
The Hollow sensed it too. Its head snapped toward the sound, mask twisting, rage sharpening into something colder—calculating. It wrenched itself back towards the stairs in a blur of slipping claws and snapping tentacles, retreating just long enough to reset the hunt.
"No you don't," Matthew growled.
He ripped the IV rack free from the railing, breath ragged, lungs burning, and hurled it down the stairwell after the creature. The metal frame clanged and bounced, forcing the Hollow to dodge again, disrupting its escape.
Just then he lost track of it,
Matthew didn't chase.
That wasn't the plan.
He dropped into a defensive stance, eyes sweeping the ruined hallway, searching for anything—a distortion in the dust, a shift in the air—that might betray the Hollow's position. Matthew wasn't stupid. He knew retreat could just as easily become a death sentence, but even his sharp instincts weren't enough.
Too slow.
The Hollow reappeared behind him—silent, unseen—and that made all the difference.
A tentacle lashed out and struck him hard, flinging him down the corridor. He hit the ground shoulder-first and tumbled end over end, the world blurring into cracked tile and scattered debris. His black leather jacket spared his skin from being shredded by the rubble, though it did nothing to soften the impact. Whatever had happened to this hospital before they arrived, it had left the place half-ruined—and now it was finishing the job on him.
Pain flared white-hot through his side.
He heard it before he felt it fully—a sickening crack that could only be ribs giving way.
Matthew lay still for half a heartbeat, breath knocked clean out of him. Then he rolled hard to the left, refusing to stay down. A split second later, his instincts proved right—glob of corrosive goo screamed past, followed by a crimson energy blast that exploded where he'd been lying.
That was when it truly sank in.
He was fighting an enemy he couldn't see, couldn't hear, and could barely predict.
For the first time, the question crept in uninvited: Am I actually going to make it out of this?
The thought felt obscene, but honest. This wasn't a fight—it was a boss battle, and he was painfully under-leveled and catastrophically under-equipped.
The wall behind him detonated.
The energy blast and the corrosive payload mixed into a concussive explosion that slammed into his back like a sledgehammer. The shockwave rattled through his bones, stole the air from his lungs, and left his ears ringing violently as he staggered to his feet.
Matthew forced himself upright, vision swimming, heart pounding.
Where the hell is Orion?
Matthew staggered upright, boots scraping against shattered tile as the ringing in his ears swallowed the world whole. Sound came back in pieces—his own ragged breathing first, then the distant groan of the building settling, then the wet, deliberate click of claws somewhere nearby.
Invisible.
Still invisible.
His ribs screamed every time he drew breath. Not a clean pain—something wrong, something sharp and unstable. He didn't need a doctor to tell him at least one was cracked. Maybe more. He filed it away with the rest of the damage. Pain was information, not a stop sign.
"Okay," he muttered hoarsely, rolling his shoulder and spitting blood onto the floor. "That's… bad."
The hallway was a wreck. Walls cratered, pipes exposed, long dead emergency lights swinging overhead like pendulums. Dust hung thick in the air, catching the light just enough to tease movement that wasn't there. Or maybe was.
Matthew forced himself to slow his breathing. Panic would get him killed faster than the Hollow ever could.
Think. Board state. What do I have?
No weapon. No sightline. Enemy with reach, mobility, ranged attacks, invisibility, and a sadistic streak.
Classic bullshit boss.
He shifted his stance, lowering his center of gravity, eyes tracking the drifting dust instead of the empty space where the Hollow should be. He remembered Orion's voice—half joking, half deadly serious—about tells. Everything left a tell.
The air moved.
Not much. Just a pressure change. A subtle displacement where dust refused to settle.
Matthew lunged sideways on instinct just as a claw raked through the space where his head had been.
Grazed and bleeding this time from his left arm.
The force alone sent him skidding across the floor again, shoulder slamming into a wall hard enough to make his vision spark.
"Son of a—"
He rolled, barely avoiding another strike, and came up on one knee, one hand braced against the ground. His breath hitched. The Hollow was close now. Playing with him. Enjoying the imbalance.
"You like this?" he growled into the empty air, forcing steel into his voice despite the fear gnawing at his gut. "Picking on people who can't see you? That's not hunting—that's cowardice."
The response was immediate.
Something hit him—harder than before. A tentacle wrapped around his leg and yanked, slamming him into the floor and dragging him several feet before he managed to jam his heel into a crack in the tile. The impact knocked the air from his lungs in a raw, choking burst.
The Hollow leaned in close.
He couldn't see her—but he could feel her now. The pressure. The heat. The intent.
A voice slid into his ear, smooth and venomous, carried on breath that smelled of ozone and rot.
"You're loud," she purred. "Brave. Breakable."
His blood ran cold, was he really hearing this thing?
Matthew laughed.
It came out broken, wet, but genuine.
"Yeah," he rasped. "So's your ego."
The tentacle tightened. Pain flared white-hot up his spine, and for a terrifying second his vision dimmed at the edges. He clenched his teeth, refusing to scream.
Orion, he thought grimly. Any time now would be great.
As if summoned by desperation itself, lightning cracked somewhere below—closer this time. Not random. Directed.
The Hollow hissed, head snapping toward the sound, her grip loosening just enough for Matthew to wrench his leg free and roll away. He came up hard against a doorframe, using it to haul himself upright, chest heaving.
"There you are," he muttered, blood running freely now. "You hear that? That's my friend."
The Hollow turned back toward him, rage rolling off her in waves. The air shimmered as her outline flickered into partial visibility—chemical residue, dust, something finally betraying her shape.
Matthew squared his shoulders despite the pain, planting his feet.
"I don't need to win," he said quietly, eyes locked on the distortion in the air. "I just need to keep you busy."
Matthew reached for a piece of rebar in the periphery of his vision, it was attached to some small chunks of concrete.
It wasn't a real weapon, but this had weight and for him at that moment, that was good enough.
Lightning thundered again—closer still.
And for the first time since this started, the Hollow hesitated.