04-18-2025, 11:54 PM
The factory swallowed them whole.
Past the shipping floor and deeper into the heart of the complex, the air turned thicker with moisture and refuge. The beams of their flashlights flickered along walls that wept rust, wires that hung like veins, and long-forgotten tracks leading into black pits. Graffiti marked the crumbling surfaces, though in places the scrawls looked…wrong. Not written, but as if they were marked over. Symbols no one wanted to read.
Zholdin led them down a corridor that curved slightly, the walls close enough to brush shoulders, pipes hissing faintly above like something breathing through the concrete.
Behind him, the men whispered less now. The laughter was long gone. Since Rusik vanished, silence had become sacred. Even Limon kept quiet, and his hands, once restless and full of bravado, now clenched his rifle as if grip alone could fend off the dark.
Alistair walked near the rear, eyes sweeping, steps heavy. “We shouldn’t be in here,” he muttered once. “Whatever’s in this place, it’s hunting us.”
Zholdin didn’t stop. “Let it try.”
But it already had.
They reached an old sorting room, wide and cavernous, littered with conveyor belts seized in time. Grates lined the floor like shark’s teeth. A loading lift hung frozen in one corner, its cables heavy and thick. The men spread out, scanning, weapons ready. Footsteps echoed too long, as if the room were deeper than it should’ve been.
A scrape.
A whisper.
Then…
Gone.
No scream this time. Just absence.
They turned, flashlights arcing back toward the rear of the group. Gregor was gone.
“Where the hell—” Limon stepped forward. “He was just behind me.”
“Gregor!!” Mikov called, voice cracking.
Only silence answered. Deeper now. Hungrier.
“Check that corner,” Zholdin ordered. His tone was steady, but a muscle in his jaw ticked once. Mikov and another man crept toward the lift platform, weapons raised. Alistair paced backward, keeping eyes on the grates.
“He’s not dead,” Mikov called. “No blood. No scuffle.”
Zholdin’s flashlight swept toward a dark hallway branching off the room—an access tunnel, narrow and low. The air from it was colder. Wetter. It smelled of ice.
Zholdin stared into it for a long moment. The others waited.
Then, he spoke. “We’re not chasing a bear.”
The words settled like lead. Everyone froze.
“You’re just figuring that out now?” Limon whispered hoarsely.
Zholdin turned toward him slowly, deliberately, as if he might be the one to slice Limon’s throat for the disrespect. “It moves too clean. It doesn’t kill. It stores.”
Limon shook his head. “What the hell does that mean?” Zholdin didn’t answer. His light swung back toward the tunnel. And that’s when it showed itself.
Not fully. Just a suggestion. A ripple of something, halfway between fluid and muscle, bone and shadow. Eyes gleaming like oil beneath the goggles’ green glow. Its mouth split wide—not jaws, but a maw, ringed with backward-facing teeth, slick and fanged.
One of the gopniks fired. The flash was blinding. The sound ricocheted off the walls like thunder.
When the light cleared, another man was gone. Taken in the blink of a muzzle flash.
The remaining five backed into a loose circle, flashlights trembling. One of them sank to his knees, praying under his breath.
It circled them. Always just outside the beams. Not running. Not charging. Just waiting.
Choosing.
Zholdin’s eyes narrowed. He saw it then—not just the shape, but the intent. A cruel, calculating hunger. The thing wasn’t just hunting. It was managing stock. Picking off the weak. The isolated. Preparing a larder.
Another movement. A flicker at the edge of vision. The praying man, dragged down through a floor vent with an animal yelp. Gone. A scream, cut off mid-breath.
Mikov bellowed something incoherent and ran forward, iron pipe raised like a club. His flashlight bounced wildly—and then he, too, was yanked sideways into the dark like a rag doll. No gunfire. No blood. Just silence.
Only three remained.
Limon was shaking. “We have to get out of here. Boss, we have to go. This ain’t just some animal.”
“It’s not a ghost either,” Alistair said, eyes wide, frantic. “Nothing that fast’s a spirit. It’s—hell, I don’t know what it is!”
“You’re thinking like children,” Zholdin said, voice low. “Things go bump in the night, and suddenly you believe in monsters.”
Limon stepped toward him. “What else can we believe in, huh?! That thing’s playing with us!”
A hiss cut the air.
And Limon was lifted—straight up, screaming, before vanishing into the dark beams above. His scream was strangled halfway through.
Then only two remained.
Zholdin and Alistair.
And Zholdin could feel it now: fear. Real. Cold. Crawling up his spine like frostbite. But he didn’t show it. His face was stone. His teeth ached from clenching. His flashlight steady.
He turned to Alistair—only to find him gone. No sound this time. Not even a breath.
The silence closed in. Heavy. Absolute.
Zholdin stood alone in the center of the room, the beam of his light trembling only slightly as it tracked across the floor, the conveyor, the tunnel beyond.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
The weight in his chest sat like lead. His hand clenched tighter on the grip of his weapon. But still, he did not run.
((Alistair moded with permission))
Past the shipping floor and deeper into the heart of the complex, the air turned thicker with moisture and refuge. The beams of their flashlights flickered along walls that wept rust, wires that hung like veins, and long-forgotten tracks leading into black pits. Graffiti marked the crumbling surfaces, though in places the scrawls looked…wrong. Not written, but as if they were marked over. Symbols no one wanted to read.
Zholdin led them down a corridor that curved slightly, the walls close enough to brush shoulders, pipes hissing faintly above like something breathing through the concrete.
Behind him, the men whispered less now. The laughter was long gone. Since Rusik vanished, silence had become sacred. Even Limon kept quiet, and his hands, once restless and full of bravado, now clenched his rifle as if grip alone could fend off the dark.
Alistair walked near the rear, eyes sweeping, steps heavy. “We shouldn’t be in here,” he muttered once. “Whatever’s in this place, it’s hunting us.”
Zholdin didn’t stop. “Let it try.”
But it already had.
They reached an old sorting room, wide and cavernous, littered with conveyor belts seized in time. Grates lined the floor like shark’s teeth. A loading lift hung frozen in one corner, its cables heavy and thick. The men spread out, scanning, weapons ready. Footsteps echoed too long, as if the room were deeper than it should’ve been.
A scrape.
A whisper.
Then…
Gone.
No scream this time. Just absence.
They turned, flashlights arcing back toward the rear of the group. Gregor was gone.
“Where the hell—” Limon stepped forward. “He was just behind me.”
“Gregor!!” Mikov called, voice cracking.
Only silence answered. Deeper now. Hungrier.
“Check that corner,” Zholdin ordered. His tone was steady, but a muscle in his jaw ticked once. Mikov and another man crept toward the lift platform, weapons raised. Alistair paced backward, keeping eyes on the grates.
“He’s not dead,” Mikov called. “No blood. No scuffle.”
Zholdin’s flashlight swept toward a dark hallway branching off the room—an access tunnel, narrow and low. The air from it was colder. Wetter. It smelled of ice.
Zholdin stared into it for a long moment. The others waited.
Then, he spoke. “We’re not chasing a bear.”
The words settled like lead. Everyone froze.
“You’re just figuring that out now?” Limon whispered hoarsely.
Zholdin turned toward him slowly, deliberately, as if he might be the one to slice Limon’s throat for the disrespect. “It moves too clean. It doesn’t kill. It stores.”
Limon shook his head. “What the hell does that mean?” Zholdin didn’t answer. His light swung back toward the tunnel. And that’s when it showed itself.
Not fully. Just a suggestion. A ripple of something, halfway between fluid and muscle, bone and shadow. Eyes gleaming like oil beneath the goggles’ green glow. Its mouth split wide—not jaws, but a maw, ringed with backward-facing teeth, slick and fanged.
One of the gopniks fired. The flash was blinding. The sound ricocheted off the walls like thunder.
When the light cleared, another man was gone. Taken in the blink of a muzzle flash.
The remaining five backed into a loose circle, flashlights trembling. One of them sank to his knees, praying under his breath.
It circled them. Always just outside the beams. Not running. Not charging. Just waiting.
Choosing.
Zholdin’s eyes narrowed. He saw it then—not just the shape, but the intent. A cruel, calculating hunger. The thing wasn’t just hunting. It was managing stock. Picking off the weak. The isolated. Preparing a larder.
Another movement. A flicker at the edge of vision. The praying man, dragged down through a floor vent with an animal yelp. Gone. A scream, cut off mid-breath.
Mikov bellowed something incoherent and ran forward, iron pipe raised like a club. His flashlight bounced wildly—and then he, too, was yanked sideways into the dark like a rag doll. No gunfire. No blood. Just silence.
Only three remained.
Limon was shaking. “We have to get out of here. Boss, we have to go. This ain’t just some animal.”
“It’s not a ghost either,” Alistair said, eyes wide, frantic. “Nothing that fast’s a spirit. It’s—hell, I don’t know what it is!”
“You’re thinking like children,” Zholdin said, voice low. “Things go bump in the night, and suddenly you believe in monsters.”
Limon stepped toward him. “What else can we believe in, huh?! That thing’s playing with us!”
A hiss cut the air.
And Limon was lifted—straight up, screaming, before vanishing into the dark beams above. His scream was strangled halfway through.
Then only two remained.
Zholdin and Alistair.
And Zholdin could feel it now: fear. Real. Cold. Crawling up his spine like frostbite. But he didn’t show it. His face was stone. His teeth ached from clenching. His flashlight steady.
He turned to Alistair—only to find him gone. No sound this time. Not even a breath.
The silence closed in. Heavy. Absolute.
Zholdin stood alone in the center of the room, the beam of his light trembling only slightly as it tracked across the floor, the conveyor, the tunnel beyond.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
The weight in his chest sat like lead. His hand clenched tighter on the grip of his weapon. But still, he did not run.
((Alistair moded with permission))
There is nothing false in the words of demons