The scrape came again—this time from the roof.
It was louder now, sharper, like a giant blade being drawn slowly across the metal. Lian's heart pounded so hard it hurt his chest. He gripped the wrench tighter, his knuckles white. Harlan's faded blue eyes were locked on the ceiling, full of a fear Lian had never seen before.
"Something's up there," Lian whispered, voice barely coming out.
Harlan tried to shift in his bed, but his broken legs kept him pinned like dead weight. "Lian… get to the door. Run if you can."
Lian shook his head, stepping closer to the bed. "I'm not leaving you."
The scrape stopped. Silence hung heavy, broken only by the storm wind whistling through small cracks in the walls. Then, a low hum started—vibrating through the pod like a machine powering up.
Suddenly, a bright flash of sparks erupted from the center of the roof. A perfect line cut straight down the middle, slicing through metal as if it was paper. The cut ran from one end to the other, sparks flying like fireworks in the dim room. The air filled with the smell of burned iron.
The two halves of the roof groaned, bent inward, and then collapsed with a deafening crash.
Huge pieces slammed to the floor, shaking the whole pod. Dust and debris exploded everywhere. A chunk missed Harlan's bed by inches. Another knocked the workbench over, tools clattering across the ground.
Red light from the storm outside flooded in through the gaping hole. Dust swirled thick in the air, making Lian cough.
When it started to clear, a figure stepped into the broken opening.
An old man.
He was tall and thin, wrapped in a long black coat dusted with red sand. His white hair hung long and straight, unmoving even in the wind. His face was pale, sharp, like it had been carved from bone. He walked in silently and slowly, his boots making no noise on the twisted metal shards.
Lian blinked dust from his eyes and looked up—and his breath caught.
Above the old man, hanging from the jagged edge of the ruined roof like a nightmare spider, was a shadow. It was massive, twisted, with long arms that ended in claws. Two red eyes glowed bright and hungry in the darkness. They fixed on Lian, unblinking.
The shadow breathed.
Slow. Deep. Rasping.
Each breath sucked the air from the room. Lian felt it—like invisible hands pressing on his chest, making every inhale a fight. His lungs burned. His vision blurred at the edges.
The old man kept moving, calm as if he was taking a walk. He stepped over a fallen roof beam and sat down on a large piece of crumpled metal right in front of Harlan's bed. He crossed his legs, hands folded in his lap, like he was about to tell a bedtime story.
Harlan's thin face was as white as his hair. He gripped the blanket so hard his knuckles cracked. "You… you shouldn't be here," he whispered.
The old man tilted his head slightly. His voice came out soft and dry, like wind through dead leaves. "Continue the story, Harlan Voss. Or should I tell the boy? I'm sure you won't tell him everything."
Harlan shook his head weakly. "He's innocent. Leave him out of this. Please."
The old man's lips curved into a small, cold smile. He turned his gaze to Lian. "Such a loyal child. Standing there with that silly tool. As if it could stop what's coming."
Lian tried to shout, to swing the wrench, but the shadow's breathing pressed harder. The air felt thick, heavy. He could barely pull in enough to stay standing.
The old man leaned forward a little, still seated. Then he opened his eyes wide.
They were pure white.
No black centers. No color at all. Just shining white, like machine lights glowing from inside his skull. Cold. Mechanical. Not alive.
The moment Lian met that gaze, everything froze.
His body locked up. Legs rooted to the floor. Arms stuck in place, wrench still raised but useless. He couldn't blink. Couldn't scream. Couldn't even twitch a finger.
Inside, his mind screamed. Move! Fight! But nothing happened.
Terror crashed over him like a wave. He was trapped in his own body, a prisoner watching from behind his eyes.
The old man stood up slowly, unfolding like a shadow himself. He stepped closer to Harlan's bed.
The shadow above dropped down behind him, landing without a sound. Its red eyes burned brighter, claws twitching. It loomed over the old man, waiting.
Harlan looked at Lian, tears in his faded blue eyes. "I'm sorry, boy. I love you. Remember that."
The old man nodded to the shadow. "Begin."
The shadow moved fast—too fast for something so big. Its claws flashed out, long and sharp like black knives.
It grabbed Harlan's shirt and ripped it open with one pull.
Harlan gasped, but he couldn't fight back. His broken legs kept him still.
Lian watched—forced to watch—as the claws dug into Harlan's chest. Slow at first, cutting skin like paper. Blood welled up, dark and shiny in the red light.
Harlan screamed—a raw, broken sound that echoed in Lian's frozen ears.
The shadow tore deeper. Ribs cracked like dry sticks. The old man stood there, watching with his white eyes, a small smile on his face.
He made Lian watch every second.
The shadow reached inside Harlan's chest. It pulled, twisted. A wet ripping sound filled the room.
Harlan's scream turned to a gurgle.
The shadow yanked out his heart—still beating weakly, blood dripping from torn veins.
Harlan's body jerked once, then went limp. His faded blue eyes stared blank at the open sky.
But it wasn't over.
The shadow leaned down, claws gentle now. It sliced around Harlan's eyes, precise cuts. Popped them out like grapes from a vine. The sockets left empty, dark holes in his face.
Then it started cutting more. Slicing Harlan's arms, legs, torso. Not random—methodical. Cutting him to pieces. Limbs separated. Skin peeled in places. Blood pooled on the bed, soaking the blanket.
Lian's heart shattered inside him. Pain like fire burned in his chest—not from injury, but from loss. Harlan. His uncle. The only family. The man who raised him, told stories, laughed at his jokes.
Gone. Butchered like meat.
Tears welled up in Lian's eyes. They rolled down his cheeks, hot and silent. He couldn't wipe them. Couldn't sob. Couldn't scream. Just watch and cry inside, his soul breaking into pieces.
Why? Why Harlan? Why like this?
The old man turned back to Lian, white eyes glowing. "You see now? This is the price of secrets."
He reached down and picked up the jade pendant from Harlan's neck—now covered in blood. He pocketed it.
The shadow finished its work. Harlan's body was a ruined mess, cut apart, heart and eyes gone. Taken like trophies.
The old man nodded. "Done."
Then the shadow moved again. It pulled a long, dark sword from its back—black metal that seemed to suck in the light.
It sliced the sword toward Lian—not touching him, but sending something out.
A wave of sword Qi. Invisible energy flowed from the blade like a gust of wind, sharp and cold.
It hit Lian square in the chest.
Pain exploded. Like a hammer smashing his ribs. Air rushed out of him.
The freeze broke.
Lian collapsed to the floor, gasping, clutching his chest. Blood trickled from his mouth. His body shook.
The old man watched for a moment, then turned. He walked back to the broken roof, silent and slow. The shadow followed, climbing up like smoke.
They vanished into the storm.
Lian lay there, staring at what was left of Harlan.
Tears flowed free now. Sobs ripped from his throat.
Everything was gone.
But deep inside the pain, a spark lit.
Vengeance.
He would find them.
He would make them pay.
The storm raged on outside.