Chapter 2

I searched the body. He was dressed casually — long boots, leather gloves.
His skin had taken on shades of purple and green, like veins crawling across his entire body.
Sticking out from one of his pant pockets was a folded piece of paper.
Inside, a number:
"701"
Next to a large bloodstain.



I returned to the foyer and climbed the stairs.
This isn't the first time I've found myself in a place this sinister — but that thing downstairs had left me breathless. Its shape. The stench. Those hollow, soulless eyes.
I moved through the upper level of the mansion.
From what I remembered during mission prep, somewhere up here there should be a keycard — one that grants access to a room with an elevator. Miss Olsen was being held approximately two sublevels down.
There was something else I had to watch out for: Truman. Wanted by Interpol since 1985, accused of killing every resident in an apartment building. He worked alone. Experts believed he was simply one of those serial killers who murder for pleasure — until recent intelligence placed him alongside the leader of this organization. Apparently, he'd been hired.
Curious. Does money outrank pleasure for a man like that? Or does he just enjoy being rewarded for doing what he loves?
Either way — with someone like Truman in your ranks, rival factions don't come knocking. For any family that crossed this organization, it would be a death sentence.



Without warning, I heard it — the sound of heavy chains being dragged across the floor. Coming from the third door on my left.
I turned the handle slowly and eased the door open.
A woman lay in the center of the room, her entire face concealed beneath an iron mask. She wore a white dress, and her gloves were soaked in blood that had flooded the room with the smell of iron.
She didn't seem to notice me. Her movements were erratic — she wasn't restrained, but she had no idea where to go, stumbling into everything around her, letting out a shriek each time she made contact. Like an animal.
On the nightstand a few feet away, I spotted something glinting. A keycard.
I assumed that was what I was looking for.
I moved forward with extreme caution — I wanted to avoid a confrontation. My feet barely grazed the floor, but my boots were heavy, and even the faintest sounds made her tense. She hissed with every step I took, as if she could sense exactly how close I was getting.
I was nearly within reach when I tripped over a stack of books on the floor.
Her roar raised every hair on my body. I grabbed the card and tried to run — but she launched herself at me, sending me sideways. I pushed through it and kept moving toward the door.
I heard something shatter.
Something was coming fast.
The woman — her iron mask gone now — was charging straight at me.
I bolted into the hallway and flew down the stairs. She was right on my heels. I spun around and squeezed the trigger.
Five shots. Useless. She kept coming.
Then she raised her arms.
The chain extending from her cracked against me like a whip — catching me square on the hand holding my pistol. The gun went flying across the room.
I drew my knife and dropped into a stance. I tried to close the distance.
My suit was made from cut-resistant material, so the scratches weren't a concern — but it was becoming clear this woman had been infected with something. Same as the man downstairs.
I thrust forward. She dodged it cleanly. I drove my left fist into her ribs, breaking her balance — and drove the knife into her chest.
The scream was so loud it left me deaf for a moment.
I stood there, watching her die.
Then I heard her whisper something.
"Forgive me…"