Story 646: The Crimson Phantom

The metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air. Dim emergency lights flickered along the cracked concrete walls of the abandoned military bunker, casting jagged shadows that twisted and danced like specters. General Viktor "Bloodfang" Kruger moved through the wreckage, his combat knife dripping with fresh gore. Behind him, the bodies of Wolfe’s failed abominations lay twitching—half-dead, half-conscious, but wholly broken.

Kruger’s red beret, now soaked in grime and war, sat perfectly in place. His posture was unwavering, his steps deliberate. He was a predator on the hunt.

A distorted voice crackled through his earpiece. Sergeant Darius "Hellhound" Rook.

"Sir, you need to fall back. Wolfe’s got the entire lower sector rigged to blow!"

Kruger smirked, wiping his blade against his sleeve. "Then I better not waste time."

Before Rook could respond, a guttural snarl echoed through the corridor. Not human. Not undead. Something in between.