Without another thought, he pushed himself to his feet and started walking.

  No—running.

  By the time he stumbled through his front door, his hands were shaking.

  He peeled off his bloodstained shirt and grabbed a bucket of stored water, pouring it over himself in sharp, frenzied motions. The freezing sensation barely registered—he just needed the blood off.

  The water ran red as he scrubbed hard.

  A sharp, metallic beep suddenly pierced the silence.

  Nigel’s head snapped toward the shelf where his radio-transmitter sat, its small screen blinking. An incoming call.

  He stared at it for a second, hand frozen mid-motion.

  Then, with a grimace, he reached for the device—

  But before he could reject it, the call answered itself.

  The speaker crackled to life.

  A voice—low, raspy, and far too calm—filtered through.

  “Good evening, Nigel.”

  His entire body tensed.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  A short chuckle. “Your savior.”

  Nigel’s grip tightened around the transmitter. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I know what you’ve done,” the man continued, as if Nigel hadn’t spoken. “And I know what’s coming.”

  Silence.

  The weight of those words sank deep into Nigel’s gut.

  “…What’s coming?”

  “The Sentinels,” the voice replied smoothly. “And not just a clean-up squad. They’ll burn the whole city down for this.”

  His blood went cold.

  The voice continued, calm and unbothered. “There’s only one way out. You need to escape the Eleventh Ring. And you don’t have much time.”

  Nigel clenched his jaw. “Escape? You say that like I can just walk out.”

  “Oh, you can’t. But there’s a way.” The man’s tone darkened slightly. “Go back. Find the body.”

  A flicker of alarm shot through Nigel’s spine. “What? Why?”

  “The Sentinel had an entry ticket for the Chaos Tournament.”

  A heavy pause.

  Nigel’s breath caught in his throat.

  “How the hell do you know this?” he asked, his voice edged with suspicion.

  The man chuckled again, low and knowing. “I know a lot of things.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “No,” the man admitted. “But we could keep chatting until the Sentinels arrive and kill everyone, including you. Or you can start moving.”

  The words had barely settled when a deafening explosion shook the city.

  Nigel whirled around, his breath catching in his throat.

  Outside, distant screams filled the air.

  Flashes of fire reflected off the sky.

  They were here.

  His time was up.

  Nigel barely heard the raspy voice over the ringing in his ears.

  “Go.”

  He was already out the door, sprinting toward the alley where he had buried the Sentinel. The streets were bathed in flickering firelight, the screams of the dying twisting through the night. Smoke thickened the air, stinging his lungs as he ran.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Then he saw them—Sentinels, their white and gold uniforms stained with blood, marching down the main road like hunters.

  No way through.

  His teeth clenched. He had to take another route.

  His feet moved before he could think, turning sharply down a side street. The nearest path would take him through an old apartment complex—one he had been inside countless times.

  Tom’s building.

  Nigel rushed in, darting through the dimly lit hallways, his breath coming in sharp gasps. But as he passed the second floor, something stopped him cold.

  Tom’s apartment door was blown open, hanging off its hinges like a gaping wound.

  His whole body locked up.

  Go. You don’t have time.

  But his feet refused to move.

  After a moment of hesitation, he stepped inside.

  The first thing he saw was the dining table.

  Tom lay across it, his body broken beyond repair. His arms sprawled limply at his sides, his once-strong hands curled into rigid fists. Deep burns and jagged cuts marred his skin, the wounds looking almost deliberate—cruel in their precision. His face was frozen in an expression of pure agony, eyes hollow and unseeing.

  And across the room, against the wall, was Lilly.

  She was leaning against it, as if she had just slumped down to rest.

  But she wasn’t resting.

  Her clothes were torn, her skin bruised and bloodied, and her wide, lifeless eyes were filled with tears that had never been wiped away.

  Nigel’s throat closed.

  His vision tilted, the room growing smaller, tighter, suffocating.

  His knees buckled, and he gripped the doorway for support. His chest heaved violently, trying to drag in air, but his lungs weren’t working right. His mind was breaking apart, unraveling at the seams.

  He should have accepted their kindness.

  Tom had treated him like a son—always offering him food, help, company. Lilly had taught him how to cook, how to take care of a home. They had wanted him to be part of their family, and he had never let himself accept it.

  And now—this.

  His fingers dug into the wood of the doorway, nails splintering against it. His body trembled violently. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out.

  Everything inside him collapsed inward.

  Then—

  "Give it to me."

  The voice.

  "Let me take control."

  His breathing slowed and the trembling stopped. He had let go.

  For the first time since stepping into this nightmare, his body felt light.

  And just like that, Nigel was gone.

  The figure in the doorway straightened, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off a long, deep slumber. His muscles tense to an almost inhuman point.

  He breathed in, slow and deep, tasting the air for the first time in far too long.

  Then, he smiled.

  Not Nigel’s usual smirk.

  No—this was something wide, twisted, and hungry.

  His eyes flicked to the broken corpses. The smile faded.

  For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring.

  Tom had been a good man. A rare thing in this world.

  And Lilly—she had been kind. A warmth Nigel had never let himself accept.

  They didn’t deserve this.

  With slow, deliberate movements, he walked toward the dining table and gently adjusted Tom’s arms, crossing them over his chest. He smoothed out his bloodied clothes as best he could, positioning him like he was only resting.

  Then he turned to Lilly.

  Carefully, he fixed her torn dress, making sure she was covered. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, wiping away the dried tears on her cheek with an unusual gentleness. He lifted her up and placed her alongside Tom, and despite everything, they would be resting together now.

  It was the best he could do for them.

  A silent moment passed.

  Then, the smile returned.

  His fingers curled into fists.

  Now, the ones responsible would pay.

  He turned from the bodies, stepping through the wrecked doorway and out into the burning city.

  The night was waiting.

  And he was ready to paint it red.

  The city was burning, and outside, standing in the main road, a squadron of Sentinels laughed as they ripped through what was left of the district, setting homes ablaze, gunning down helpless civilians, enjoying themselves.

  The smile split into a full, wretched grin.

  “How delightful!”

  The first Sentinel barely had time to react.

  One moment, he was laughing. The next, a hand was inside his throat.

  A wet, choking sound escaped him as the figure tore through flesh and muscle, ripping his larynx free in a single motion. The body hit the ground, twitching.

  The others turned—too slow.

  The next man’s ribs caved in as a boot slammed into his chest, sending his heart bursting through his back like shattered fruit. He was dead before he hit the cobblestone.

  Two of them tried to raise their weapons.

  The figure was already in the air.

  He landed between them, bare hands splitting skulls open like melons. Bone fragments showered the ground as what remained of their heads caved in under his grip.

  Another Sentinel screamed, turning to flee—his mistake.

  The figure caught him by the ankle and swung him like a club, slamming him into the side of a building. Bones snapped like dry twigs. The body slid to the ground in an unrecognizable heap.

  “Not so though now, right?” he said, as he smashed the skull of the already dead Sentinel.

  And all he could do was grin.

  He laughed—a wild, unhinged sound, letting the chaos of battle consume him.

  More.

  He needed more.

  By the time he reached the burial site, the figure’s hands were soaked in viscera, his clothes soaked in gore.

  He dropped to his knees, hands plunging into the dirt with reckless abandon.

  Faster. Faster.

  The body was still there.

  He yanked it free, digging through the corpse’s pockets with desperate hunger. His fingers brushed against something metallic.

  The ticket.

  There it was.

  The grin faded slightly, and strength drained away.

  "Tch. I suppose that’s my cue."

  His fingers curled around the metal slip, but the body was no longer his.

  Nigel gasped as his consciousness snapped back.

  His hands were trembling. His chest was heaving. The stench of death surrounded him, thick and suffocating.

  And then he heard it.

  The mechanical click of heat-plasma guns being loaded.

  He looked up.

  Dozens of Sentinels had him surrounded, weapons aimed at his head.

  “Hands where we can see them!” one of them barked.

  Nigel’s grip tightened around the entry ticket.

  He had no choice.

  Instinct kicked in, and he slammed the ticket against his chest.

  Immediately, the metal melted into his skin, spreading like veins of light across his body.

  The Sentinels opened fire, but it was too late.

  A multicolored vortex exploded outward, swallowing Nigel whole.

  For an instant, he felt like he was being ripped apart and rebuilt all at once. The weight of reality twisted, folded, shattered—

  And then, silence.

  The Eleventh Ring was gone.

  Nigel was no longer there.