Somewhere, deep in the void where the dead drift, his soul lingers. Waiting. Probably pissed.
I don’t look for it. I don’t reach out.
I don’t care.
Because I know what kind of man he was. I know what he did. And for the first time in a long time, I wonder—
If I had been given a choice, would I have killed him too?
The abandoned hospital has more to offer than just the charming ambiance of the morgue with its built-in body toaster and the basement generator that sounds one flicker away from summoning a demon. As I wander its silent, sterile halls, I realize just how much of its original function still clings to the bones of this place. A lot.
Past the morgue, beyond the rusted doors and the bodies burned to ash, there are entire wings left untouched. Operating rooms with overhead lights still dangling, their bulbs shattered but the metal fixtures gleaming under the dim fluorescents. Long hallways lined with examination rooms. Gurneys left abandoned in corners. IV stands still dangling dried-up tubes.
And then there’s the research ward.
The guys don't even try to hide it. They let me walk freely into the rooms where stainless steel tables sit empty, where surgical trays still hold the echoes of past experiments. Some of the rooms are lined with thick glass, observation windows where men in white coats once stood and watched whatever horrors unfolded inside.
After soaking it all in, I eventually wander back to the main part of the building, where Talon is more than happy to show me where he actually lives.
Apparently, their rooms are “somewhat separate” for “safety reasons.” A precaution in case one of them gets caught and takesthe fall for all their crimes—leaving the rest with ample time to yeet themselves into the night.
Brotherhood at its finest.
Applaudable. Somewhat.
Now, Talon leads me through a series of winding hallways and stops at a heavy metal door, similar to the ones in the morgue but reinforced, with a simple keypad lock instead of a handle. He punches in the code and the lock disengages with a quiet click.
“You don't need to sleep, do you?” he asks me as I step inside.
I cock a brow at him, but scan his room anyway.
“Just asking,” he adds casually. “See, I'd offer you a place to crash here with me, but it's quite a shame. Not gonna lie.”
This again.
“What a tragedy,” I deadpan.
His room is… suspiciously normal. Given everything else I’ve seen so far, I half-expected blood-smeared walls and a pentagram drawn next to a rug.
Instead, I get concrete walls—bare, but not in a creepy unfinished basement way. A few framed prints lean against them, like he once thought about decorating but gave up halfway through. There’s a rug on the floor—dark, worn, but clean. A massive bed shoved into the corner.
A wooden bookshelf stands near the bed, and to my actual shock, it’s full of books. Some are old and leather-bound, the kind that probably contain forbidden knowledge, while others are newer, stacked haphazardly, like he genuinely reads them instead of just collecting them.
There’s even a low, beat-up couch across from a small TV, hooked up to an ancient DVD player—and next to it? A stack of movies. Actual, normal movies. And just beside the bookshelf, leaning casually against the wall like it belongs there, is a guitar.
That’s the part that makes my brain short-circuit.
“What, no bloodstained altars?” I tease him. “No jars of human teeth?”
Talon grins. “Those are in Cassian's room.”
I don’t doubt that.
Talon flops onto the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “So? Impressed?”
“Not really.”
“Liar. You expected a dungeon. Admit it.”
