"Fuck…" Stellan cursed under his ragged breath. It had been a tedious ordeal ever since he'd passed through the stairs with each floor a new gimmick . His bleeding had stopped momentarily, as he felt his wounds closing quicker than natural, yet the sharp sting from the laceration on his cheeks reminded him what would happen if he decided to stop.

  So he ran and ran until his breath begged him desperately to rest.

  But he couldn't stop, not because he was exasperated, but because the path he'd threaded from his earlier memory was nonexistent now, sprouting an underlying issue in the form of a phenomenon.

  The structures of the floors of the decrepit building turned different from his memory, as if reality itself was warping.

  Shots blasted behind him bouncing off the concrete. Threats rang through the air as his pursuers were right at his tail, relentless, not giving him an ounce of time to recollect himself. It was fortunate that despite the concrete jungle he was wading through, every twist and turn that he made was sufficient enough for the gunshots not to reach him. But he couldn't continue to rely on his fortune, since as everything is in life, it was bound to run out eventually.

  He dashed when the voices went nearer, passing through tables impossibly attached to walls and chairs hanging from the ceiling. At some point, he crossed a long corridor with dozens of doors attached to the wall, though he never attempted to open one. He would question this phenomenon if he had the luxury of time to think, but since he didn't have an ounce to spare, he continued to gain distance from the chase. Which found its own form of success in the meantime by staying ahead.

  Stellan then climbed up another floor with his legs pumping. The building only had eight floors based on Terry's description… Well, he'd only counted up to the eighth floor, at most.

  But starting from the ground floor to where he was now, he'd counted that he'd already climbed seven floors, yet there was still no sign of any item that held familiarity. Not even a single thing that he recognized.

  Never in his entire life would he have thought that he would search for corpse marks;the very ones from the overweight man which he and Terry had disposed of sloppily earlier. By his calculation, another floor and he would be at the level where the execution had happened, where his deranged coworker had pulled the trigger.

  Despite the obvious contrast, this made him hope to see the very spot where Terry had murdered a miserable man in cold blood. He hoped that some of the blood that had splattered would still remain untouched on the floor, marking the location.

  But when he reached the next floor, it was still riddled with strangeness. A winding, long, and almost endless room lay in front of him, stretching impossibly far. Instead of tables or doors, now there were refrigerators and toilet bowls of all shapes and sizes attached to every part of the interior. Lined up like one could see in a secondhand car sale, where his eyes could not see the end of it, a daunting infinite row. And what's worse, he couldn't see a way out, since the stairway that led to the next floor refused to be seen.

  Soon, the shouting and clamor of heavy boots rumbled where he stood, vibrating through the floor. The threats of his pursuers became more evident the more time he lingered, so he had no choice but to move, survival instinct kicking in. But to where? The place was a junkyard of amenities, marvels of invention that could not serve any purpose in his situation.

  So Stellan had to improvise, but it was more of an act of desperation, searching frantically for a suitable place to hide. Before deciding that the only thing that could save him was his legs, dashing as far as he could from the entrance, putting distance between himself and death.

  Before long his pursuers arrived, huffing and puffing from the endless running they'd had to endure. Stellan crouched low behind an eight-foot meat freezer that was slanting to the side, tilted at a dubious angle. His pursuers were yet to catch their breath before one of them, until the dual pistol-wielding vagrant was the first to comment on the sight.

  "Am I the only one seeing this?" he asked, waving his carry around, pertaining to the stacks of toiletries and fridges that were attached to every nook and cranny of the endless room.

  The rifleman responded first after a heavy heave of breath, after a subtle chest rising and falling, who shared the same confusion. "Wait, are we still in the same building?" he asked with a voice uncertain, inching closer to one of the toilets that were placed near the room's entrance. Before being stopped by the sniper, who'd regained his breath shortly, raising a finger.

  "It's an illusion… you dolt," the sniper remarked with a sharp voice, prompting the rifleman to stop his intent of touching one of the paraphernalia. His hand froze mid-reach.

  "Damn… that means one of them is a 'Manifestor,'" the sniper added, a sense of worry creeping into his voice.

  "Should we go back to the boss?" the rifleman inquired, looking uncertain, glancing toward the exit.

  The sniper considered the words, and soon made a decision. "Yeah… this place gives me the creeps," heaving his long rifle to his shoulder while scanning the room with narrowed eyes. "Circle round and see if our 'friend' is hiding. Can't let him slip under our nose now," his voice firm.

  The command was understood clearly, as everyone exchanged an affirming nod before continuing their search. Carefully, slowly and precisely, while their weapons remained raised in front, fingers near triggers, waiting for a reason to fire.

  The room was vast and sprawling, which was incomprehensible since due to the building's design this shouldn't be possible. What once was a floor filled with junk and scrap now appeared like a large junkyard which only took toilets and refrigerators; the two types lined up unceremoniously in endless rows.

  While Stellan traced the three pursuers' movements through the small spaces his eyes could see through the gaps in cover, crouched behind a large refrigerator that was rusted and bent. Beside another refrigerator that was horizontally placed. He crouched behind them, making himself small. His eyes could not track every single one of his pursuers, his vision was limited, so he relied on sound instead, straining his ears. Not that it helped much, so he closed his eyes, believing that it would sharpen his hearing if he did.

  "There you are…" the dual-wielding thug claimed suddenly, shooting in intervals with his two handhelds that reverberated loudly in the interior. Echoes bouncing off metal and porcelain.

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  It took three more shots till it ended, before one of his comrades, that being the rifleman, rushed to his side to join him with rapid boots pounding against the dusty floor.

  "You got him?!" he asked frantically, voice high, searching desperately for a corpse. Head swiveling around.

  "Nah man…" the dual wielder lowered his guns. "I just thought he would be hiding in one of them fridges," he added, shrugging. "IT WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA!" the dual wielder shouted , mocking the notion og his own design..

  "You idiot…" the rifle wielder reprimanded with an irritation clear in his voice. "Stop wasting bullets. Save them when it matters," shaking his head in disgust.

  But this only passed through deaf ears. "What's the trouble…" the dual-wielding ruffian answered dismissively, kicking a toilet down hard that made rusted metal clang loudly. The crash echoed through the vast room. "It's just one guy… besides, I'm pretty sure the boss has already taken care of the other," he stated confidently.

  The rifleman shook his head, not bothering to reply before he went his own way. He turned a corner, rifle gripped firmly in hand while searching for any discrepancies that would give him a reason to open fire.

  His eyes scanning methodically.

  "What the hell are you guys playing at!?" roared the sniper, who was jogging nearer to where the blast had resounded.

  "Just testing if these babies still worked!" claimed the dual wielder, raising both of his pistols high in the air triumphantly. Motioning that everything was alright.

  The sniper clicked his tongue in annoyance, raising his sniper rifle back to his shoulder, who didn't even attempt to reprimand his comrade's reckless action.

  The three then continued their search, spreading out. All ended in failure, finding nothing.

  One was riddled with boredom, going through the motions.

  The other was tensing in anticipation, ready to shoot.

  While the sniper proceeded with caution, professional, scanning the corners of the arrays of furniture that didn't make sense.

  "Where is this fucker…" whispered the sniper under his breath, forming a pattern of sweat on his temple from the tension of the silence.

  He turned to his left shoulder, imagining a rustle behind a vintage refrigerator. He then approached it slowly, aiming his sniper rifle as he moved nearer with measured steps, slow and precise as he proceeded with caution.

  A step further, and he lunged to check the corner quickly, weapon ready. Only to see nothing but the arrays of endless fridges in all shapes and sizes. He clicked his tongue in frustration, his nerves tensed but he felt relieved that it was nothing to worry about. Soon he then heard a clang, something rolling behind him, which alerted him to hurriedly aim through his scope. Whipping around fast. Only to see a dirty toilet paper roll coming to rest at his boot. His nerves softened from the lack of an enemy, exhaling once more to ease his tenseness.

  But by the time his breath left his lungs, the sniper felt an eerie sensation, a cold one that pressed firmly behind his skull. "Don't move…" stated the voice from behind, faltering despite the attempt at threatening. "Please don't…" he added, almost pleading.

  This was yet another first moment for Stellan, holding someone at gunpoint for real. Knowing that he held the decision whether his hostage would live or not, his life and death in his hands. He tried to mask the shivering in his voice by deepening it artificially, although it helped little. Stellan couldn't hide the fear that he was experiencing, try as he might, he couldn't suppress it. There were no proper words to describe it, but his body translated it well. His legs shook uncontrollably, his nerves rattled like live wires, and even with his familiar grip on the revolver, his hands couldn't help but shake visibly. Which was noted by the sniper, who grinned from this fact.

  "A rookie," the sniper started, concealing a chuckle.

  The man was a mercenary in the original world and an accomplished one at that, decorated with countless missions. Through his time exchanging his services for money, he'd experienced several scenarios that would pale this moment in comparison. Yet there was one lesson that he'd learned throughout the years of his work that was carved into his mind.

  And that was to 'Never trust a shaky arm', the very same arm that described his current captor.

  "You smell fresh kid. Still a virgin?" the sniper mocked, his crude mohawk swaying from the subtle movement of his cheeks.

  "Shut up and drop your weapon," Stellan ordered, trying to sound firm, sloppily unlocking the safety of his revolver with a click as a sign of his determination.

  "No matter how this goes down… you'll still die," the sniper answered with a threat, his voice cold and certain.

  Stellan paused, catching his breath.

  His heart beat faster the more seconds passed, pounding in his ears, time stretching. He knew that his hostage's threat was firm, he knew it in his bones. Making him realize that the only reason why shots weren't being fired was because he'd chosen it so.

  Any other scenario, and the first order of business was to shoot first and ask questions later, a lesson that he realized a moment too late.

  Still, he never released his finger from the trigger. The weight of the revolver still reminded him that he was still at an advantage, however slight, though he was unsure whether the two bullets inside the nine-round revolver were waiting their turn.

  He cursed silently in his racing thoughts. I should have loaded properly, he thought, kicking himself mentally. There was a two out of nine chance that the revolver would fire, a gamble that only he knew. The odds were stacked against him, so he did what he could only do.

  "You think I led you to this place just to die?" Stellan responded with a threatening bluff, voice steadier now, even though he didn't know who was responsible for the shifting of the building's interior. But with that knowledge, he was also certain that his pursuers didn't know either, banking on their ignorance. He saw that the sniper considered his words for a moment, processing, before answering.

  "Bullshit… A greenhorn like you couldn't have…"

  "Think what you want," Stellan answered firmly, gritting his teeth hard in the hopes that his lie wouldn't be exposed.

  Stellan couldn't discern what face the sniper would make, couldn't see his expression, seeing that he was standing behind him. But he saw the sniper's shoulder shift downward, a sign of relaxation that made him worry.

  Was my threat not enough? Stellan anxiously thought, concluding that his words were yet to pierce the sniper's mind.

  Without warning, a shout erupted from across the room.

  "We're done over here! Let's get back!" declared the dual wielder, who in his rear was the rifleman who'd also finished his rounds.

  The sudden shout surprised Stellan, startling him, making him turn his neck instinctively toward where the voice came from.

  That served as one of his biggest mistakes, when his hostage took this opportunity immediately to take back the revolver, turning suddenly with surprising speed, aiming to disarm Stellan.

  Immediately.

  A single shot was fired.