Huff. Huff.
Heavy breathing echoed like thunder against the jagged rock. Each inhale scraped his throat, shallow and painful. Each exhale was a sob, though no tears had formed yet. IAM ran—if it could even be called that—his legs staggering beneath him as he squeezed his broken body through the jagged exit. The pointed stones tore at his skin, slicing open his arms, catching on the torn cloth of his hoodie, and drawing blood from his sides. His breath caught in his throat as the pain flared, but he didn't stop.
He didn't dare stop.
His hand clutched his left side where his ribs throbbed with each step, the dull pain sharpening with every movement. He half-fell, half-slid through the narrow crack in the rock, his shoes scraping against gravel as he emerged on the other side. He stumbled, shoes skidding, and spun toward the descending cliff path. He didn't look back.
He couldn't.
His legs moved awkwardly, more instinct than intention, carrying him down the uneven slope. Every jagged stone he stepped on sent a bolt of pain up through his left knee, already swollen and battered. He reached the first sharp drop, and without hesitation, began climbing down—sliding, falling, scrambling.
His hand scraped against the rough wall as he heard it again.
What are you doing?
Turn around.
That voice. It wasn't real—it couldn't be. But it was loud. It was persistent.
Mia.
Her voice, weak and broken. Her arm stretched toward him. Her eyes pleading. The sound of her screaming. That final cry. That final desperate plea.
She is begging for help.
Are you so cruel, IAM?
So despicable.
That you would abandon her.
His foot slipped.
His body crashed violently against the cold stone, knocking the air from his lungs. He screamed—more in guilt than pain—and tumbled down the slope, rolling helplessly as jagged rock tore his skin. Blood smeared across the stone. His body bounced and cracked, his elbow slamming into an outcrop with a wet thud. Something inside him cracked.
He slammed to a stop, barely conscious, at the cliff's edge.
As gravity tugged him down, his arms shot out wildly. His fingers scraped across the edge, catching. The stone bit deep into his palms, the friction skinning his flesh down to raw meat. He groaned, every muscle in his body screaming in protest as he clung to the ledge, his feet kicking in the void below. His eyes wide, wild.
Desperation. Terror. Shame.
Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself up inch by inch, gasping as torn skin peeled against the rock. He collapsed over the edge, panting, coughing, his face streaked with tears, sweat, and blood. He lay still, chest heaving.
You left her.
Knowing she needed you.
Turn around.
Save her.
SAVE HER, IAM.
His eyes squeezed shut, trying to drown it out. But the thoughts didn't stop. They screamed louder.
He forced himself upright and ran.
Or limped. Hopped. Stumbled.
He moved down the mountain, away from the place that had become a grave for 241723.
He moved—because if he stopped, he might go mad.
Behind him, the wailing began again.
The spawnling.
Its distorted, high-pitched cries echoed through the cavern, bouncing off the walls, crawling inside his mind. IAM's vision blurred. The sound drilled into his ears, carved into his soul. A twisted lullaby of the dead.
He wiped at his eyes and pressed on, navigating downward through the huge slabs of stone, each one feeling like a corpse beneath his feet. Some of them probably were.
His foot landed on solid ground at last, but his left leg buckled under him. His knee screamed in agony. He limped, one hand out for balance, the other still pressed to his ribs. His heart pounded in his chest. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest.
But he kept moving.
His wide eyes scanned the foggy terrain. The fog still thick. The air still sickeningly sweet. His shadow danced against the rocks.
After she sacrificed herself... Is this how you repay her?
Turn around.
Save her.
"SHUT UP!" IAM screamed, the words ripping from his throat. He stopped, eyes wide in horror at the sound he'd made.
It echoed.
And then silence.
He held his breath, listening. Waiting. Hoping nothing heard him.
Are you going to let her die?
His lips trembled. "She's already dead," he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. "Yeah... there was nothing I could do... I'm barely even a novice. How was I supposed to help anyone?"
After everyone's sacrifice... Is that all you have to say?
He turned sharply, heart leaping into his throat. Out the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker—just a shadow—but it was gone. He whimpered. His breath hitched. He began to run again, pushing through the pain, limping in a broken, desperate run.
He stumbled into the clearing.
The truck. It stood there like a false promise of salvation. Drenched in fog. Silent. Waiting.
He sprinted for it—slammed his fists against the hardened window.
Fuck.
He didn't know how to drive.
His forehead thudded against the glass in frustration. Of course. Of course he didn't. He wasn't trained. He was never meant to be the last one left.
But he couldn't just stop.
He yanked at the door handle. It opened. The truck wasn't locked. There was no need in this hellhole. In the Deadline, if you needed to flee, you ran. You didn't fumble with keys.
IAM climbed into the seat.
The driver's seat.
Mia's seat.
The memory of her hand gripping the wheel. Her voice. Her blood. Her sacrifice.
His throat tightened. Sick crawled his throat.
He forced it down. Swallowed hard. Slammed the red button on the console. The engine roared to life, trembling with sound.
But the silence in the cab was louder.
He looked down. Two pedals. Left for brake. Right for acceleration.
He grabbed the gear selector.
Park. Reverse. Neutral. Drive.
He chose Reverse, barely thinking. His foot slammed onto the left pedal. The truck lurched back—
And crashed.
Hard.
Into a stone behind it.
"FUCK!"
He hissed in pain as his head snapped forward. He selected drive, clutched the wheel, gritted his teeth, and jerked it to the right. His foot stomped the right pedal, and the truck sped off—away from the mountain, from the graves, from the cries, from the Devil.
IAM didn't look back.
He didn't know where he was going.
He only knew one thing—
He had to run.