Mike slammed his fists against the metal door, over and over, roaring through his teeth.
"What happened to her!?"

Each strike dented the reinforced steel further. Blood smeared across his knuckles, mixing with the blaring sirens and the flicker of red warning lights. The room around him was wrecked—glass shattered, restraints in pieces.

The door finally buckled. Hinges snapped. With one last slam, it tore free and crashed to the floor, crushing the tiles beneath it.
Mike stepped out, his eyes burning a deeper red-yellow than before, glowing like coals beneath cracked stone. His breath came out heavy. Furious. Controlled only by rage.

At the far end of the hallway, a figure walked toward him—calm, collected, clapping slowly.
A tall, slender man in an all-white suit.
Golden hair. Golden eyes that shimmered unnaturally.
That smug, deliberate smile never left his face.

"Well done, Mr. Reed," the man said. "Even for a lowly beast, you've shown potential after your trial."

He stopped halfway down the corridor, standing beneath the flickering emergency lights.

"My name is Lance. I am the chosen champion of the angel Barachiel. I've come to bless the beast… so that you may serve those in power against the coming threats."
His voice was smooth. Condescending.

Mike's hands curled into fists again.
His voice came out low—barely human.
"What happened to my wife?"

Lance gave a soft laugh. "Earthly matters are no longer your concern, Mr. Reed. You now exist to serve us—glorious beings chosen by the angels."

Mike's vision narrowed. That same gravelled guttural voice roared louder than ever in his skull:
"I serve no one. Kill the feathered bat."

His pupils shifted—vertical slits, glowing brighter. His breathing slowed, deepened. The floor beneath his feet cracked outward in all directions.
The air grew heavy.

Across the hall, Lance's smile faded. Goosebumps rose across his arms. A chill gripped his spine.

Then—a voice inside his mind. Melodic. Terrified.
"Lance. That is not a beast to tame. You need to run."

It was Barachiel.
But not calm. Not composed.
Barachiel was screaming.
For the first time in his life, Lance felt fear.

Too late.

In a flash of motion, Mike appeared in front of him—faster than Lance could register. Teeth sank into Lance's throat. His feet lifted off the ground as blood erupted in a hot spray across the white hallway.

"Nooo!" Barachiel screamed inside his mind.

Lance crashed to the floor. His vision flickered. His limbs convulsed.
Above him, Mike spat out a chunk of his flesh and stared down at him with burning eyes.

No words. Just rage.

Lance's vision went dark. His last sight was the creature's face—fierce, monstrous, victorious.

And then—nothing.

Colonel Gaines burst into his office, heart pounding, lungs burning. He lunged toward the wall-mounted safe, yanked it open, and grabbed the pistol inside.

"Fuck what the council said," he spat, hands shaking. "I'll kill that monster before it kills me. Not even Lance could stop it."

He chambered a round, turned, and bolted back into the hallway.

Halfway down the corridor, he froze.
A silhouette stood beneath the flickering red lights.

A figure with glowing, reptilian eyes—red and yellow, rimmed with fury. The sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed closer.

Panic gripped Gaines.
He raised the pistol.

Bang.
Bang.
Bang.

Every round fired toward the oncoming nightmare.

Mike flinched as the first shot hit his shoulder—searing heat tearing into flesh. Another struck near his ribs. Pain blossomed across his side, but it barely slowed him.
He leapt to the side of the hallway, sprinting along the wall like a predator mid-hunt. In an instant, he was in front of Gaines.

His hand lashed out—crack. The arm holding the pistol bent unnaturally, bone shattered. With his other hand, Mike slammed Gaines into the wall.
Spit and blood sprayed from Gaines' mouth. The air left his lungs in a broken gasp. His legs gave out. Hands scrambling at the slick tile, he looked up—and saw those eyes.

Rage. No mercy. No escape.
Terror overtook him. His bladder let go.
The scent of piss filled the corridor.

Mike grabbed the front of his uniform and lifted him off the ground.
"What happened to her?" he growled, voice low and sharp.

Still choking on blood, urine dripping from his pant leg, Gaines stammered.
"I—I don't know… they told me… demons killed her… please don't—"

"Cack"
Mike smashed Gaines' head against the wall. The skull shattered. Blood and brain matter fell down to the tile like spilled paint.
Gaine's headless body smashing against the floor.

Mike turned and continued down the corridor, moving through the facility.
Searching for an exit.

He passed a shattered window, saw another hallway, then paused at a door.
Inside, crouched against the wall, was Debbie—shaking. Crying. Covered in dust and fear.
She looked up.

He stood there, towering. Covered in blood. Hands slick. Flesh torn. Lance's blood still fresh around his mouth, dripping from his chin.

"Hello, Debbie," he said, softly. "You were kind to me. You helped me. I won't harm you."

A small, broken smile touched his face—the first in ages.
But all Debbie saw was the monster. The killer. The blood.

She screamed. "Please don't hurt me!"
Mike paused, confused for a moment. The pressure starting to creep up his spine.

Mike blinks. The warmth in his face vanishing.
He turned and walked on.

He found the exit at the end of the hall—a reinforced steel door, now powerless to stop him.

Sunlight poured in.
The wind hit his face. Warm. Free.
He stepped into the light.
"I will find the demons…"
He growled as the door closed behind him.
"…and kill them all."

The voice echo’s in agreement:
“All filthy bats must die.”