Chapter 52
Run(2)
The fog writhes and flows through the Deadline, covering every inch like a warden watching over its prisoners.It coils and creeps, slinking between the jagged rocks and broken earth like a silent judge, as if to record every mistake made here and seal it in eternity.
The grey clouds up above, unmoving and uninspiring as always, blocking the light and helping to cast the world into a strange grey hue.There is no sun here—no warmth, no promise of a future. Only silence, coldness, and the whisper of death.
And in this deadly place where horrors preside and danger lingers like a rotten stench , a lone truck could be seen.
Racing across the brown sand and being badly driven. Inside was a man—locs crowning his hair but not falling down his forehead, allowing him to see properly, slightly dark caramel skin, with the most eye-catching piece: his deep brown eyes—eyes that once carried curiosity and resolve, almost black, consumed by what they've seen.
It was IAM.
He was shaking. Violently. His legs trembled under the wheel, his teeth clacked as if in the grip of fever. His whole body was fighting to stay solid, to hold onto something—anything—that felt real.
He forced his attention to the screen as he tried to work the map screen to give him directions to the Hold, hands trembling so hard that he kept pressing the wrong options. After fumbling through the flickering interface, he finally managed to get a dot to appear—marking the signal. His eyes locked onto it.
A goal. Something to follow. Something that wasn't a corpse.
He had to turn the wheel to the left. Afterwards, he just had to keep the wheel straight and follow this path.
That was it.
Silence descended.
IAM realized something horrifying as his heartbeat continued its relentless pounding, throbbing through his chest and up his throat.
The silence meant he was alone.
Alone with his thoughts.
Alone with what he'd done.
Alone with what he hadn't done.
Alone with his guilt.
It crept into his stomach like the fog had into the mountains. Filling every crack.
Smothering. Suffocating.
Alone with the disgust twisting and festering in the pit of his stomach.
WHY.
The question rang in his mind. Not once. Over and over again.
WHY did they have to die?
FOR WHAT?
FOR WHO?
For him?
WHY did Kon?
Sweat soaked his back.
He wanted to throw up. But nothing came. Just dry heaving breaths and the violent thrum of his own heartbeat.
Jas… how could she… how could she sacrifice herself for a man she had only met a few days ago?
How could Leovico throw himself in front of the attack?
Smiling as he died. Smiling.
How?
How could they do it?
How could they do something like that?
IAM's stomach turned, bubbling in turmoil as he asked himself a question he didn't want the answer to. A question that stabbed deep into his soul.
Would I have… done the same?
Would I have laid down my life for them?
He could still hear her voice. Screaming for him. Reaching out. Begging.
IAM stared blankly out the windshield. The fog rushed past like a ghost fleeing something worse.
His lips parted. He already knew the answer.
He would not have.
He would not.
He could not.
Even now, after all of it—after Kon, after Mia, after Jas and Leo, even after Bryan—he realized a dark and ugly truth.
If given the same choice a hundred times, he would still choose to run.
Again. And again.
Like a coward.
Even when others needed him.
Even when they screamed his name.
Even when they died because of it.
Mia's bloodied outstretched hand flashed through his mind, frozen in mid-reach.
Kon, kneeling, heart in his hand, giving everything and smiling through the pain.
Jas turning into a blazing spark of light as she melted the Devil's corruption off of Leo, burning away the black filth.
Leo, silent and cold, lips frozen in a smile.
The twisted figure of Bryan, no longer human—wearing a red robe made of blood and a mask of black. A devil in every sense. Slashing and howling.
They were all gone.
And IAM was what was left behind.
He was the leftover.
He had watched them die.
One by one.
He had done nothing.
Just watched.
He had stood still, frozen while horror took over everything.
A fresh, putrid wave of shame surged up from his belly. He tasted vomit but forced it down again.
He remembered the laughter...
At the end.
Not from joy. Not from madness.
But because it was all so wrong.
That hollow, deranged, soul-splitting laugh.
It was emptiness.
The laugh of someone broken beyond repair.
So ugly.
So unreal.
His laughter had sounded like the death rattle of a broken machine.
IAM.
Was he really such a bad person?
For wanting to live?
Did that make him evil?
No. No, everyone wants to live.
Right?
Even rats run from fire.
Even roaches scatter when the light comes.
Raj's words echoed like a ghost: "Don't be afraid to be afraid. That's human. And hey… sometimes it's okay to run."
It wasn't a sin to be scared.
It wasn't evil to be weak.
But then… if that were true…
Why did it feel so wrong?
But then IAM's hands tightened on the wheel.
Because it wasn't just fear that haunted him.
It wasn't just weakness.
There was something else.
Something far worse.
He—
Wait.
What was that?
In the distance.
Piercing through the fog.
Four trucks.
They were moving in his direction.
IAM blinked, hope tugging violently at his heart strings. His breath hitched.
He quickly braked, the tires skidding across the sand as the truck slid to a stop. His heart pounded louder than ever.
The four trucks came to a slow crawl before halting in place.
IAM bundled out of the truck, his knees giving out beneath him as he crashed into the sand. Grit stung his face and blood from his cracked ribs soaked through his hoodie.His ribs screamed. His knee burned. The air felt like fire in his lungs.
His body broken.
His mind worse.
The four trucks opened. Eighteen figures stepped out, weapons drawn, eyes sharp and locked onto IAM.
The leading figure was someone IAM recognized.
It was Hise Grave.
He stopped a few metres from IAM, his extremely bushy moustache twitching, eyes unreadable.
"What is your group number?" he asked, his voice firm and steady.
"What… huh... Oh… 2…4…1…7…2…3," IAM stammered, voice hoarse and raw.
Hise nodded.
He slowly approached IAM, placing a powerful hand on his right shoulder, steady and solid like an anchor.
He looked directly into IAM's eyes.
"Well done… in surviving."
"…What—" IAM began, not understanding.
Hise sighed, deep and heavy.
"The trackers in your hoodies activated," he explained. "Due to the big volume of deaths, we made our way to where the signal was coming from."
"Oh…" IAM whispered.
A pause.
Another sigh, this one slower. Heavier.
"It is truly unfortunate," Hise murmured.
IAM's tired, bloodied face scrunched in confusion.
"It's not just your group," Hise said.
"The other two teams…"
"They've been wiped out."
"You are the only survivor left."
The words hit IAM like a sledgehammer to the chest.
His breath caught in his throat.
The fog around him suddenly felt heavier, pressing down on his skull.
His vision blurred—not from tears, but from exhaustion, confusion, disbelief.
The only survivor.
The only survivor.
He should feel lucky.
Shouldn't he?
Grateful?
But instead, all he could feel was—
Alone.
Disgust.
Guilt.
They all died.
And IAM was all that was left.
And for the first time, he wonders if surviving is really the same thing as living.