He followed the spoor, moving faster now, shoes slapping against wet stone. The dark pressed in from every side, but his vision cut through it, sharp and feral. Corridors branched and fused again, a labyrinth carved into the city’s bones. The deeper he went, the thicker the air grew, rank with rot. And beneath it all, that faint electric trace of Ash: skin, sweat, fear.
He rounded a bend. Overhead, a train roared past, its rumble distant through the stone, a ghost of motion and thunder. Dust rained down from the arched ceiling. Rick pressed on, heart hammering with a hunter’s focus.
Then—a sound. A faint scrape, the drag of feet, a whisper of movement too slow to belong to the living. His body tensed, instincts bristling. The house above had only been the threshold. Whatever Gordon had awakened, whatever evil power he’d been feeding on, waited down here in the dark.
The sound grew louder: a shuffling rhythm that multiplied, echoing along the tunnels like the heartbeat of the grave. Rick turned toward it, Colt ready, eyes slicing through the gloom. Shapes stirred ahead. Dozens of them.
He fired.
The first shot cracked the silence wide open. A skull burst in a spray of dust and bone. The second shot took another between the eyes, half its face collapsing inward. He kept shooting, everypull of the trigger clean, precise, aiming for the heads. Bodies staggered and fell, but more swarmed forward, filling the gaps, white eyes blind but seeing, jaws drooping.
When he fired again, the hammer clicked empty. “Son of a bitch.”
The corpses kept coming, crawling over the fallen, reaching with rotten hands.
Rick tossed the gun aside. Human weapons wouldn’t cut it. Not anymore. Breath steamed from his mouth as he tore off his coat, jacket, and hat, muscles tightening, blood surging. The wolf inside him had been stirring for hours, pacing behind his ribs. Now it slammed against its cage, howling.
He let it loose.
The change hit like fire under his skin. Nails lengthened into claws; fangs grew past his lips; fur erupted across his arms and chest; muscles swelled, splitting fabric. His shirt ripped down the spine, his shoes burst apart as his feet reshaped. The world sharpened, every sound, every scent, every pulse of decay flaring into painful clarity.
The first ghoul lunged. Rick met it head-on.
He slashed, claws cleaving through flesh and bone. The next sprang from the left; he spun, caught it by the neck, and crushed until vertebrae splintered. His jaws closed around the third one’s throat, hacking through rancid tissue. The taste of death filled his mouth. He tore through them with brutal efficiency, half man, half beast, snarling, unstoppable. One corpse was crushed underfoot; another he ripped apart from sternum to spine. The shaft became a blur of gore and motion, filled with the wet percussion of shredding meat.
When the last one fell twitching at his feet, he stood over the heap and roared, chest heaving, fur slick with black ichor. The stench was unbearable.
Silence fell. Only his breath remained, harsh and uneven.
He caught the wind again, faint but clear.Ash.Mate. Near.
He ran.
The maze stretched on, a fever dream of stone and shadow, his pulse roaring in his ears. He followed the trail relentlessly, turning left, then right, retracing, circling, each time catching it again. When it faded, rage boiled up, driving him faster.
He snarled, the sound echoing off the stone, filling the tunnels with a beast’s rage and hunger. Every nerve strained toward that scent, that pulse of life. He could almost taste it, electric on his tongue, bright against the corruption. He pressed on, faster, shoulders brushing the walls, head ducked low. Rats scattered from his path, their tiny heartbeats fluttering like drumbeats in his skull.
He tore down another corridor, splashing through muck and mud, the air humming with something deep and unnatural, a subterranean resonance that made his fur bristle. A shift in the current brought the whiff of Ash again, rolling over him in a hot wave. He slowed as the passage opened into a chamber, low-ceilinged and circular. Ash’s smell was everywhere, coating the stones, the floor, the air itself. Overpowering. Intoxicating.
Rick prowled forward, half-crouched, muscles coiled, every sense sharpened to a blade. The beast trembled with the primal need to find and protect. Then he froze. Discarded clothes lay in a heap at the far wall. Rick closed the distance in two low strides, the scent hitting him before he even crouched: sweat, heat, Ash’s skin. He bent closer, nostrils flaring—
—and his foot brushed a thin, unseen wire.
A click sounded above a split-second before the silver net dropped.
It slammed into him like a falling star, the lattice biting instantly through fur and skin. He roared as he hit the ground, vision jerking sideways, the chamber lurching in broken frames. The net wrapped tight, searing every nerve. A sickening,chemical torment flooded his veins and stripped strength out of him in twisting waves. Nausea punched up his throat. Every breath came ragged, poisoned. His claws scraped uselessly at the mesh as the sickness spread, numbing, hollowing, drowning out thought. The more he struggled, the more the silver leeched into him, turning his strength to sludge.
Another deafening roar tore out of him, his agony thundering through the shafts. Once the silence drowned its echoes, he became aware of another sound: slow footsteps drawing closer.
After a few moments, Gordon appeared in the doorway, flashlight cutting a narrow cone through the dim. He kept his distance, watching Rick’s attempts at movement with mild curiosity. In his other hand rested a pistol, held with the easy steadiness of someone who had prepared for this moment.
“Hello, Detective Slade,” he said, words measured, almost conversational. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Rick growled and tried to lunge. His muscles answered with a twitch, nothing more.
Gordon regarded him, head tilting with a faint, distant amusement—no gloating, simply the satisfaction of a man observing a result he had predicted. He stepped into the chamber, and the light caught the gleam in his eyes. “You understand,” he said, almost apologetic, “why this couldn’t be avoided. It’s not personal. But you’re resilient creatures. I can’t have you spoiling my work.” A grin flickered across his face. “You’ll serve a purpose, once you’re dead.”
The pistol tilted a fraction, the muzzle settling on Rick’s chest.
