The Boogeyman twirled in the dim corridor as if performing a twisted dance of anticipation for the carnage to come. His movements were fluid and almost balletic, each spin radiating a dark excitement.

  “Let us embark, my dear comrades—let us massacre these dogs,” he declared with a chilling laugh that echoed off the cold, metal walls.

  Hummingbird replied coolly, “As you wish.”

  The Boogeyman’s voice dropped to a low, menacing murmur as he leaned toward Hummingbird. “I must say, I like you,” he purred, his tone both seductive and lethal. “You’re smart enough to know that if you ever dared to order me around, I’d kill you and every one of your little friends. Good doggie. It’s good that you know your place.”

  Each caress on Hummingbird’s head was a reminder of the Boogeyman’s overwhelming power and his absolute dominance. Then, with a conspiratorial whisper that sent shivers down Hummingbird’s spine, he leaned in closer, his breath icy against their ear.

  “Just so you know,” he hissed, “I know your secret. Keep that in the back of your mind for the rest of the day.”

  With that, the Boogeyman released Hummingbird and strode away, his laughter slithering down the corridor like a funeral dirge. It was not the laugh of a man—it was the guttural, distorted cackle of something ancient, something hungry.

  The moment the agents of A.E.G.I.S. recognized him, it was already too late.

  The first guard barely had time to react before the Boogeyman’s clawed hand clamped around his face. With a sickening rip, he tore the man’s jaw clean off, the wet snap of bone and sinew reverberating through the hall. The guard collapsed in a gurgling heap, his eyes wide in horror as his body spasmed on the blood-slick floor.

  The second guard lunged at him, fist flying forward in a desperate attempt to strike. But before the punch could land, the Boogeyman’s throat contorted and split open, morphing into a grotesque, gaping maw filled with rows of jagged teeth. The monstrous mouth caught the guard’s arm mid-swing, biting down with a crunch that sent bone shards spraying. The guard shrieked, stumbling back in sheer panic—only for the Boogeyman to seize him by the head.

  In one smooth, inhuman motion, he ripped off the man’s ears, leaving gaping, pulsing holes where they once were. Then, with slow, deliberate cruelty, he plunged his fingers into the wounds, stirring them like spoons in a bowl of soup. The guard convulsed violently before collapsing in a lifeless heap, his body twitching as though it had been puppeteered by the very thing that had ended him.

  The next agent turned on his heels and ran, instinct screaming at him to flee. But the Boogeyman’s arm stretched, elongating unnaturally, his claws latching onto the man’s shoulder from meters away. With a brutal yank, he ripped the man’s arm from its socket, sending a geyser of blood cascading against the cold steel walls.

  Before the guard could even process the pain, something moved in front of him.

  His own severed arm twitched, then convulsed. Flesh and sinew twisted and contorted, sprouting a second figure—another Boogeyman—formed entirely from the torn limb. The doppelg?nger grinned with razor-sharp teeth and snatched the agent in its grasp.

  With eerie synchronization, the clone ripped off the remaining arm just as effortlessly as the first. The agent’s scream was cut short as the clone swung one of the severed arms like a club, caving in his skull with a single, wet, crack.

  The remaining guards hesitated for only a moment before instinct overtook them.

  They ran.

  They ran as though their lives depended on it. Because they did.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Their panicked footsteps echoed down the corridor, but the Boogeyman did not chase. He didn’t need to. His laughter twisted and warped, bleeding into the very air itself. And then—one by one—each fleeing guard was plucked from the darkness by unseen hands.

  A clawed hand emerged from the shadows behind one, yanking him into the abyss. A grotesque, grinning face split open in the walls themselves, biting down on another’s throat as he screamed. Another guard turned a corner, only to find himself running straight into an identical version of himself—before the doppelg?nger’s mouth peeled open far beyond human limits and swallowed him whole.

  One by one, they were erased.

  Slaughtered.

  Mutilated.

  Until only silence remained.

  The Boogeyman stood in the crimson-stained corridor, his grin widening as he wiped the blood from his fingers, licking it off like a child savoring the last traces of honey from a spoon. His crimson eyes glowed with delight as he surveyed the carnage he had painted into existence.

  “Ahh~” he exhaled, a satisfied sigh. “This is what I live for.”

  Then, without urgency, without care, he continued his march forward, stepping over the remains of the fallen, his footsteps light, playful.

  There were more to kill.

  And he was just getting started.

  Meanwhile, in Wallace’s office, grim determination reigned. Wallace stood before a mirror, methodically preparing for the coming battle. He had traded his lab coat for a sleek black jacket lined with fur; the purple gems on its cuffs pulsed as he infused them with his aura. Beside him, a small portal swirled into existence, its arcane power flickering on the edge of reality. From it, he retrieved two pistols and a ring bearing a playful rabbit motif—a meager but cherished artifact.

  “Sadly, this is all the equipment I have,” Wallace muttered under his breath, regret tinting his words. “I wasn’t expecting to need much more—but at least I have one of my main artifacts.”

  Iris stepped forward, eyes alight with resolve. “Wallace, let me help. We can fight this together.”

  Charles nodded, his voice firm. “We’re strong. You’ve seen what we can do”

  Wallace turned to face them, his expression somber as he surveyed the makeshift armory. “Stay inside. I’ll hold the door. The attackers are targeting every powerful member here—the Slayer, your teacher, even me. With Jonathan and my brother absent, we’re the last line of defense for this facility.”

  With that, Wallace turned and left the office, closing the door behind him. He stood outside, the weight of the facility’s safety resting on his shoulders.

  It didn’t take long for the attackers to arrive. Mockingbird and Frost appeared at the end of the hallway, their eyes locked on Wallace as they approached with lethal intent.

  Wallace stood before them, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding, the dim hallway now a battlefield in the making. His sharp eyes flicked between Mockingbird and Frost, analyzing their stance, their weapons, their intent. The weight of the facility’s safety pressed down on him, but he had carried heavier burdens before.

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  The air itself seemed to tremble as his opponents stepped forward. Mockingbird, ever the theatrical one, tilted his head, his white half-mask catching the dull light of the flickering hallway. His fingers idly played with the jack-in-the-box, the dark wood seeming to pulse as if alive.

  “What the fuck? Why weren’t you poisoned?” Mockingbird snapped, his usual lazy drawl edged with genuine frustration. His gloved fingers tightened around the crank of his artifact, irritation flickering in his deep blue eyes. “Well, good news, Frost. Looks like you get to have some fun after all.”

  Frost’s lips curled into a slow, predatory smile. The temperature in the hallway plummeted with each graceful step she took, frost blooming across the walls, creeping up the metal panels like ghostly veins. The once-warm air grew heavy with moisture, crystallizing into delicate flakes of snow that drifted lazily to the ground.

  Wallace exhaled sharply, his breath already visible in the cold. He smirked, rolling his shoulders as if loosening up before a casual spar. “Two against one, all for someone with a non-combat ability? That hardly seems fair,” he quipped, his tone dripping with mockery.

  Mockingbird’s expression shifted from frustration to amusement. He let out a chuckle as he spun the jack-in-the-box in his hands, watching Wallace with lazy amusement. “Who said we were ever planning to fight fair? That’s an awfully naive perspective, Doctor Valentine.” He waved the artifact slightly, the eerie carvings along its polished wood seeming to shimmer as though shifting under the dim lights. The rusted crank emitted a faint, rhythmic creak as it turned ever so slightly under Mockingbird’s fingers.

  “This little trinket? We even brought it specifically to hunt you down.”

  Wallace’s smirk didn’t waver, but his gaze locked onto the cursed toy with an intensity that betrayed his wariness. “Artifact 0-87, Lullaby,” he mused, his voice carefully neutral. “An interesting choice. A sound-based artifact, capable of forcing its victims into a deep sleep—permanently. You must be quite confident to assume you’ll even get a chance to wind it up.”

  Mockingbird simply grinned. “Oh, I plan to.”

  Wallace then turned his attention to Frost, his gaze falling upon the suitcase in her grasp. With slow, deliberate movements, she unlatched it and lifted the lid. The moment it opened, an ethereal purple glow spilled into the hallway, illuminating the frozen air swirling around them.

  Then, from the depths of the case, she drew a blade of pure, glacial ice.

  It was breathtaking in its craftsmanship—Glacier’s Edge. The translucent blade gleamed like carved crystal, razor-thin yet unbreakable. Frigid mist curled off its surface, and where its frozen light touched the floor, the tiles groaned and cracked beneath the sudden drop in temperature. The hilt, in stark contrast, was forged from an abyssal black metal that seemed to drink in the surrounding light, swallowing it whole. At its core, embedded within the grip, pulsed a brilliant blue gem—the heart of the artifact’s power, radiating waves of unnatural cold.

  Wallace let out a low whistle. “Artifact 1-199, Glacier’s Edge,” he said smoothly, as if Frost hadn’t just pulled out a weapon capable of freezing an entire battlefield solid. “A beautiful piece, really. Efficient, deadly, and with just the right amount of theatrics to suit your taste.”

  Frost tilted her head slightly, amusement flashing in her golden eyes. “I do enjoy a little elegance when I kill,” she purred, tracing one gloved finger along the flat of the blade. Ice crackled in response, sending another sharp chill into the air.

  Wallace exhaled, stretching his fingers as he flexed his aura. “I recognize them both,” he continued, his voice calm despite the visible danger before him. “I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t bring any surprises—no unknown Grade 0 artifacts like the ones Nikolai used on us. That would’ve made things slightly more complicated.”

  Mockingbird’s grin widened. “Aww, is that confidence I hear? How cute. You think you still have a chance.”

  Mockingbird’s smirk faltered, his fingers twitching slightly against the cursed jack-in-the-box. “What bullshit are you spouting, Wallace?” he sneered, but there was a nervous edge to his voice now. “You may be strong, but you can’t win. You’re outmatched, through and through.”

  Wallace’s gaze darkened, an icy chill creeping into his tone. “Calum Nocturne—role: non-combat debuff. Ability: illusion creation. Threat level compared to me?” His lips curled into a smirk. “Nonexistent.”

  Calum’s cocky expression wavered.

  Wallace turned his attention to the woman beside him. “Sofia Elliot—role: non-combat, terrain manipulator. Ability: cryokinesis. Threat level compared to me?” He let the words hang for a beat before delivering the verdict with razor-sharp finality. “Also nonexistent. Let’s not delude ourselves. You’re nothing more than toddlers who were handed shotguns.”

  Calum’s face twisted with anger as his aura surged to life. In an instant, the hallway filled with movement—his body splitting into a dozen, then two dozen, then thirty identical clones. They moved with impossible agility, vaulting off walls, flipping through the air in dizzying acrobatics, surrounding Wallace in a chaotic, shifting blur.

  Simultaneously, Sofia snapped her fingers. The floor beneath Wallace froze over, ice creeping up his boots, locking his legs in place. The air thickened with a flurry of snow, the cold biting into his skin. The sheer density of the blizzard masked their movements, blinding him, concealing which of the clones—if any—were real.

  Still, Wallace remained unimpressed.

  Without hesitation, he raised the weapon and fired.

  A gunshot rang out, cracking through the haze of ice and illusions. One of the Calums staggered back, clutching his shoulder as blood bloomed against his sweater vest. The illusion wavered—then shattered. Every clone flickered and vanished in an instant, leaving the real Calum standing alone, his face pale, his hand trembling over his wound.

  Wallace lowered his gun, tilting his head with a look of cold amusement. “Your teamwork is lacking,” he stated matter-of-factly. “The snow gave you away, Sofia. It clung to the real Calum—your illusions weren’t affected. Sloppy.”

  With an effortless flex of his aura, the ice imprisoning his legs cracked and shattered, the frozen shards scattering across the floor.

  Frost’s expression hardened in frustration. Without hesitation, she reached into her suitcase and retrieved a flask filled with a faintly glowing green liquid. Its glass container was unassuming, the kind found in any mundane laboratory, but the substance inside pulsed with something far from ordinary.

  She tossed it to Calum. He caught it, his fingers fumbling slightly before he uncorked the flask and downed the contents in one gulp. His wound stitched itself closed within seconds, the blood already drying. Yet despite the rapid recovery, the fear in his eyes remained.

  Wallace watched the exchange with thinly veiled disdain, his lips curling in a condescending smirk. “A crude, man-made storage artifact. How primitive,” he remarked, shaking his head. “Your reliance on such outdated trinkets is almost embarrassing.”

  He gestured to the radiant gems embedded in his coat. “These are leagues beyond that clunky piece of trash. But I suppose when you lack true talent, you compensate with borrowed power.”

  Calum’s grip on the empty flask tightened. The condescension in Wallace’s voice was suffocating, an undeniable reminder of the vast difference between them.

  He clenched his fists, his aura flaring violently. “Shut up,” he growled.

  The lights flickered once—and then darkness swallowed the hallway whole.

  An all-consuming void wrapped around Wallace like a suffocating shroud. Light, sound—everything was stolen in an instant. A perfect, seamless abyss.

  But amidst the unnatural black, something flickered.

  At first, it was a mere whisper of an image, just beyond his reach. Then, slowly, the shadows peeled away, revealing a horrifyingly familiar sight.

  A woman lay sprawled across the cold floor, her long brown hair fanning around her head in soft waves. Her freckled skin, once kissed by the sun, was pale, lifeless. A delicate yellow dress adorned with floral patterns draped over her unmoving body, an echo of warmth in an otherwise frozen scene. On her left hand, a gold wedding band glinted faintly in the dim light.

  But Wallace’s gaze was drawn to the center of her forehead.

  A single bullet hole.

  His breath hitched. His body locked in place.

  “Emma…?”

  His voice barely escaped, a fragile whisper that trembled under the weight of recognition.

  A single tear traced a slow path down his cheek, the cold indifference he had wielded moments before crumbling like brittle glass. His fingers twitched as though reaching out to her, the urge to deny reality clawing at him.

  This was an illusion. He knew it.

  But it felt real.

  Too real.

  Calum grinned in the darkness, his own breathing ragged as he struggled to maintain the overwhelming illusion. His ability had never been this potent before—but he had pierced something deep inside Wallace. A wound that was far more lethal than any physical injury.

  And he intended to make him bleed.