Chapter 12 - Fog
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound was distant at first, muffled, as if coming from underwater. Emma felt herself surface from the haze, pain rushing in all at once. Her body ached. Her head throbbed. The taste of dust and blood clung to her tongue.
She forced her eyes open. Everything was blurry—shattered glass, broken wood, the distant flicker of a failing light. The world swayed as she tried to move.
Her hands pressed against the cold, debris-covered floor, pushing herself up with effort. Her breath was ragged. Every muscle in her body protested, but she ignored the pain.
Then, a thought cut through the fog in her mind.
Alex.
She turned, her heart hammering.
"Alex?" Her voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
No response.
She tried again, her voice louder this time, panic creeping in. "Alex!"
Still nothing.
Her eyes scanned the wreckage, and then she saw him.
A few feet away, half-buried under broken furniture and shattered concrete, Alex lay motionless. Blood seeped through his clothes, pooling beneath him. His face was too pale.
Emma's breath hitched.
She crawled toward him, ignoring the sharp sting of glass cutting into her hands and knees. "Alex," she pleaded, shaking him weakly. "Come on, say something."
A faint groan.
Relief flooded her, but it was short-lived. His injuries were bad. Too bad. He needed help now.
Before she could react, footsteps pounded against the ruined floor.
Two officers burst into the scene, the same ones Alex had secretly stationed at the center to watch Cain. Their expressions hardened when they saw Alex's condition.
One of them crouched down, checking his pulse. "He's alive, but barely. We need to move him now."
The other officer grabbed Emma by the arm, helping her up. "Come on, we have to get out of here before more backup arrives. This whole damn place is a death trap."
Emma could barely stand, her legs shaking beneath her. But she nodded.
They hauled Alex up as carefully as they could and carried him outside. A car was already waiting, engine running.
They drove fast, reckless, but there was no time for caution. Halfway through, they spotted an ambulance and forced it to stop. The paramedics barely had time to react before Alex was transferred onto a stretcher and rushed inside.
Emma climbed in after him, her vision swimming. The paramedics were shouting things, blood loss, internal damage, stabilizing vitals, but the words barely registered.
She just sat there, gripping Alex's hand, watching the machines beep and flicker.
He was alive.
But for how long?
She didn't know how much time passed after that.
At some point, they arrived at the hospital. The fluorescent lights were too bright, the smell of antiseptic too strong.
Doctors rushed Alex away. Emma was left standing there, dazed, covered in dust and blood that wasn't even hers.
She sat in the waiting area for what felt like hours, unmoving, numb. People passed by, nurses, officers, strangers, but she barely noticed them.
At some point, she realized she was crying. Silent, exhausted tears.
Eventually, she needed air.
She stumbled outside, the cold night air hitting her like a slap.
And that's when she saw it.
Written on the back window of a police car, traced into the layer of dust-
LUCKYYYY.
Her blood ran cold.
She stared at the word, her pulse pounding in her ears.
Lucky.
Like Alex surviving when he shouldn't have.
Lucky.
Like she was the only other one to make it out alive.
Lucky.
Like someone was watching.
And laughing.
A shiver crawled up her spine.
She looked around, scanning the dark parking lot.
But there was no one there.
At least, no one she could see...
...
...
...
A sound of steps was heard at the juvenile center.
The air was thick with the stench of smoke and blood. The building, now a ruin of collapsed walls and shattered glass, stood eerily silent. The chaos had long since settled, leaving only the dead and the echoes of what had transpired.
Through the destruction, a figure moved. Unhurried. Unbothered. The flickering emergency lights cast long shadows as he stepped over debris, past lifeless bodies, and through the scorched remains of what was once a hallway.
He stopped where the explosion had left nothing but blackened walls and blood splattered across the floor. The spot where the boy had stood, the boy who had smiled, the boy who had counted down.
Tic. Tic. Tic.
The figure crouched, running his fingers across the charred ground as if searching for something. Or perhaps acknowledging what remained.
Then, he whispered.
"You did well."
No one was there to hear it. No one was there to respond.
And yet, it felt as if the words did not go unheard.
With that, the figure rose, dusted off his coat, and disappeared into the smoke leaving nothing but the ruins behind him.