The Prophet

In an instant, visors switched to night mode—flickering from green to red as thermal overlays came alive. The room, once lit by pale fire and desecrated candles, now glowed with the heat of moving bodies… and one enormous heat bloom, rising in the corner.

Phillip pivoted first, flashlight mounted to his rifle snapping on in a tight beam. The wall—no, the back wall—was moving.

"Contact rear!" shouted Ghost.

The figure that emerged from the shadows was not human. At least, not anymore.

It had once been a man—twice the size of anyone in the room, muscle straining against the bones of something broken and reforged. Flesh melted with rot. Thick cords of pulsing muscle were strung together with surgical staples. Its face was stretched, mouth sewn into a bloody grin, eyes milky and twitching in all directions.

The Scourged.

But this one… was different.