The clock was ticking.

  All the signs were pointing to it, at least on the physiological level. His heart raced, pumping blood through his failing body at a worrying rate. His arms felt like they were about to fall off. His blood trickled from his nose at the constant power use as they trudged their way through the trap rooms. His legs were beginning to turn to dust.

  That last part wasn’t a metaphor. The musculature in Finn’s thighs was literally starting to decay and lose its consistency, the structural makeup falling apart into flaky red powder. It was too small for the naked eye to see for now, less than a thousandth of the total amount, but it would start to escalate to life-threatening levels and immobilize him if it continued like this.

  Except, he knew it wouldn’t. The only reason it was progressing so slowly in the first place was because of Radi’s stabilizing agent. And even if he wasn’t partially phasing in and out of reality anymore, thus not affecting the formula before it ran its course, he had a few hours left if he was being optimistic.

  Finn would just have to be optimistic, then.

  He clenched his core as a jolt of pain ran through his body with a step up a set of stairs. Body slightly bent forwards, his hand twitched to start nursing it, but he kept it firm at his side the moment he realized what he was about to do. And that wasn't the only physical ache he wanted to soothe, yet he could not afford to look weak. They were almost there, after all. Just a bit longer, like Gunther said…

  Speaking of the other man, Finn observed him get a look of growing anticipation on his face. His aura, similarly, reflected the eagerness he was feeling to get to the end of their journey. Knowing that was impossible to fake, Finn could at least rest assured that Gunther wasn't going to be wasting time.

  What he did need to be cautious of was the continuous deterioration causing pain so debilitating it was becoming unbearable to keep moving. It had gotten to a point where he was gritting his teeth whenever he braced himself to make another move forward. If he didn't do that, he was sure he would be screaming at the top of his lungs right now.

  Everything, every part of his body felt like it was being torn apart and replaced with liquid fire. Like needles stinging his skin in each bit of skin, coated in acid. If he'd had to endure this amount of pain a few months ago, he honestly had no idea whether he would've been able to do it.

  The worst part wasn't even that, however. No, the worst of it was how he could observe in gruesome detail the way his internal organs were on the verge of failing. If he wasn't immobilized soon due to lack of strength in his limbs, he would succumb to this. He could acknowledge that much at least. An admission of his own fading vitality.

  No matter how much he tried to push the thought down, worry rose unbidden in his mind. What if he didn't make it? What would happen to his friends, what would happen to Mom? He didn't know how much they knew about that explosion; maybe they knew where he was and simply couldn't get to him. Or alternatively, they thought he had genuinely died in the explosion.

  For the first time in a long while, Finn found himself begging in his own head. He wasn't sure what for exactly. A lot of things. For everyone to be safe, for him to be able to make it back in time, for the chance to see them again, for an opportunity to say everything he hadn't gotten the chance to. The closer he came to death, the more pressing each of these thoughts.

  What did it mean that the pain of that uncertainty, regret, and all other associated emotions was worse than the pain of physically dying. He found himself reminiscing on his journey. If he ever made it back, the first thing he would do was make sure he never took those moments for granted again.

  Then another stab of agony from his striding foot brought him back to reality and he dug his gloved fingers into his palm, centering himself. When did he get so ridiculously sentimental? There was no time for any of that, he had to make it out of here. He hated how uncertain he was beginning to sound, even to himself.

  Just what would it take to ensure that, though? He realized he was more or less following someone else's lead here, and he had to wonder if that was the best course of action. Of course, he felt like it was too late to back out now; he lacked the energy to start on a new route. Despite that, the nagging itch in the back of his mind told him he was missing something.

  This was the worst situation he could find himself in. Too weak to overcome his predicament with strength, too ignorant to navigate his way through it with knowledge. Which left him with nothing.

  No. He dismissed the thoughts in a sudden bout of clarity. Negativity and complaints weren't going to help him. Focusing on being one hundred percent efficient was hard when you were hours away from an excruciating death, but he needed to tighten his concentration. Even if he was just walking at the moment. Soon, he would have to do something else, whatever it was.

  He surveyed the area they were in with his senses. The rooms were getting smaller bit by bit. Currently, he had started sensing the sterile spaces almost end to end. That meant every door they stepped through still gave way to a space bigger than a radius of multiple city blocks, yet it was shrinking. Less distance to cover, less time for his body to fail him. Good.

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  “How far?” he asked. He hated how impatient it sounded. The question came out before he could stop it. Impulsive behavior, a trait he despised in this scenario.

  Instead of telling him to stay calm or some other vague nonsense, Gunther replied with a succinct, “Thirty more minutes at this pace.”

  Finn blinked under his mask, not having expected such a concrete answer. If that was true—and nothing in the aura suggested that it wasn't—then he could manage to reach the finish line. Yeah, half an hour was within his ability to complete. Until that moment, he would keep his broken body moving. Step by step.

  Ahead, he scouted more traps, and he flexed his power to indicate the safe path.

  A mistake.

  Blood spurted from his nose, filling his ruined mask with coppery red liquid, seeping into his mouth and making him cough. He doubled over, nearly falling to the ground but managed to hold a hand out to the wall so he could steady himself, peeling the facial covering partially off so he could spit it out. His body protested each movement, from the bending of his arm to the reinforced fabric roughly scraping against his burned skin. He'd barely even realized how bad he looked after the fiery wave of force hit him back home. It didn't matter. He spat the crimson drops out, along with saliva and a wad of brown phlegm that came from his barely functional lungs.

  “Don't strain yourself, kid. Stop using your power,” Gunther said, the look on his face betraying nothing of his thoughts while Finn blinked away the black spots amidst the worst headache known to man.

  Once he collected himself and stood up straight, he lowered his mask again. He looked at Gunther's aura and saw not full-blown anxiousness, but definitely a kind of tension. A yellow so pale it was almost mistakable for white. This was his first time seeing it. More practice was required before he could reliably tell what someone was feeling at any given point.

  More concerning was how bad that reaction had been. Throughout their trip, the strain of his power had been noticeable, yes, but nothing to this extent. Nor had he been using it liberally. Sparse usage, only enough to make the walk go by faster.

  He looked inward to see if he was still bleeding, and froze. Many areas were damaged, but one of them stood out. The first time he had tried to sense it manually, he ended up on his knees because the sheer complexity was beyond his ability to comprehend. Now, he could always sense it passively, but it was filtered out, in a sense. In the way your eyes could see your nose time but you didn't consciously register it all the time. It was always there, within his range, but only now did he fully internalize it. The severity of the damage to his brain, that was.

  It… He wanted to hurl. He told himself he was prepared for anything, and here he was, nerves rushing through him at what he was observing. Viperia's poison was affecting his brain. He could have slapped himself. Why wouldn't it? It was circulating in his bloodstream, so it went without saying that his brain wouldn't stay clear of its destructive influence.

  To be unable to think? That was a step too far. Obviously, since cerebral activity was essential for power use, this was the reason for his sudden failure to affect the colors in the environment. Under normal circumstances, that would be the most distressing part of his situation. Here, it somehow wasn't. It was his prospective inability to think. If this went on for a little longer, would his mind even be his own anymore?

  With a shudder, he shook himself. He had to think of what he could still do. It would be a while before the damage became noticeable in other ways, it was still light for now, but they had to hurry. He increased his pace, ignoring the fact that his bones felt like they'd been thrown in a woodchipper.

  Strangely, that was when Gunther decided to get chatty. “Most people’d be out cold in your state. You know that?”

  Finn didn't turn to look. “I'm not most people.”

  A low chuckle rumbled out of him. “That much is obvious. But I’ve gotta say, it’s not every day you see abilities that leave scars like those.” He gestured loosely at Finn’s battered form. “What’s the story there?”

  “It's not important.”

  “Poison,” Gunther pressed, like he was putting pieces together aloud. “If it wasn’t for that shot you took earlier, you’d already be a corpse. Makes sense. World’s a nasty place.”

  In response, Finn grunted.

  “Come on, kid,” Gunther said, his voice laced with sardonic amusement. “What kind of fight leaves you crawling in here like this?”

  “...A gang leader.”

  Gunther snorted. “That’s all you’re giving me? What, was he your local dealer?”

  “We were raiding her bases, and later surrounded her. Then she unbound her power,” Finn forced out with labored breaths, shrugging to make his attitude seem casual.

  Gunther grinned, his voice dropping a note lower. “Now we’re talking. Keep going. What’d she do to you?”

  “Poison me. Decide to explode in my face. The usual, you know how it goes,” Finn responded dryly.

  “Ha!” the raven-haired juggernaut barked. “Exploded in your face, huh? That’s classic. Nothing like someone willing to burn their own house down to take you with them.”

  Finn didn’t reply, just kept trudging onward, eyes straight ahead, breathing uneven.

  Gunther’s tone shifted, the amusement giving way to something weightier, more deliberate. “Let me tell you something, kid. People who fight like that? They’re the real deal. They don’t care about winning pretty or keeping score—they just care about taking the other guy out. And that kind of person, they’ll make you stronger if you survive. Every time you meet one, it’s like the world’s way of saying, ‘evolve or die.’”

  “Sounds like you’ve done some evolving of your own,” answered Finn.

  “You could say that.” A jagged spike in the aura accompanied that statement, bright green in color.

  Though with that, the conversation came to an end, and they resumed their walk, eventually stopping when Gunther held up a hand. “We’re here.”

  And so they were.

  In front of the final room.

  They marched on, and the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

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