Charles didn't slow down.
He tore through the air like a silver cot, wings tucked in tight, velocity stacking second by second. The air around him scread with pressure. But now—now ca the rocks.
**THNK—KRSH—THMP**
Stone began to hamr into him from all angles. Small fragnts first—then larger, jagged ones, broken loose from the crumbling ceiling.
It was like flying through a storm of thrown bricks. He didn't flinch. Didn't deviate. His path remained steady, eyes locked on the figure below.
Don watched from below, breathing heavy, eyes sharp.
Charles's speed hadn't changed.
But sothing else had.
Don could see it—the wings.
Feathers were peeling off, one by one, not scattered, but falling in exact lines like expelled shrapnel. The structure held, but the surface was thinning. Each feather that fell cut the air like a thrown blade—fsh-fsh-fsh—vanishing into the chaos around him.
Then Don saw it.
The rock.
A massive chunk—thick, wide, dense—was falling directly along Charles's descent path. It hadn't shifted yet. Charles hadn't flinched. It would hit him. There was no way it wouldn't.
Even Don wouldn't risk taking that impact head-on.
And yet, Charles didn't adjust course.
Don didn't hesitate longer.
He moved.
Both hands raised—VMMM—telekinesis surged through him, blood still drying under his nose. He yanked his arms down—fast.
The rock caught in midair.
Then—
**BOOOM**
It didn't just drop. It plumted. Like sothing had tripled gravity's pull. It smashed into the cavern floor with a ground-shaking impact—sending a wave of force and debris outward.
Dust exploded upward and outward in a thick cloud—FWHOOM—filling half the cavern in a sandstorm of dirt, stone and blood-tinged air. Don instinctively shielded his face, raising his gaiter over his mouth and squinting into the swirling cloud.
Charles vanished inside.
Then ca silence.
Not long. Just long enough to make it worse.
Then—VOOOOSH
A rush of wind blasted outward from the heart of the dust cloud—violent, focused. It cleared the air in an instant, as if sothing had pushed the dust away with sheer force.
Don's eyes shot open.
Charles stood just a few feet away from Father John. His feet grounded. His wings fully extended—wider than Don had ever seen them.
But they weren't shining now.
They dripped.
Streaks of blood traced down the feathers in narrow lines, so dark, so bright. It wasn't clear how much was his and how much wasn't.
But Charles didn't falter.
Don barely had ti to process what he was seeing before sothing else happened.
Charles moved.
Not a full step. Just his hand.
His right arm extended forward, fast and smooth. For a mont, Don thought he was reaching for sothing.
Then—**SCHKKT**
Two blades shot out from his knuckles—tallic, impossibly fast. They tore through the glove in a blink, catching Father John completely off guard.
One blade punched straight through the mouth.
The other—between the eyes.
Father John didn't even have ti to scream.
His body twitched violently. Legs buckled. His arms jerked up as if to cast sothing, to scream sothing—but nothing ca.
Charles's left hand rose next.
**SNKKT**
A third blade extended—this one longer, thicker, with a brutal edge that curved just slightly at the tip.
He moved cleanly, stepping to the side and slashing once—FWMP—across Father John's neck.
The head ca free with a suddenness that didn't even look real. The body collapsed seconds after, limp and shuddering.
Charles took a breath.
Stepped back.
Father John's head remained skewered on the two blades of his right hand, hanging lifeless, blood still running down the edges in thin drips.
The blade on Charles's left arm reflected what little moonlight still reached them.
And he didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
The mont after it ended felt louder than the battle itself.
Dust drifted in lazy coils, carried by faint wind filtering down from the ruined ceiling above. The light from the moon cut a pale wedge through the cavern, illuminating the head still impaled on Charles's outstretched hand.
Don didn't move at first.
Neither did Agent Hathaway.
The agent was slumped hard against the floor, coated in a thick film of dust. Blood from his crushed foot had soaked through what was left of the boot, darkening the stone beneath him. His chest rose and fell, slow but heavy, as if the weight of survival had only now decided to settle in.
His gaze was locked on Charles—and on the severed head that continued to twitch like a puppet refusing to accept its strings had been cut.
"Jesus Christ…" Hathaway muttered, too quiet for anyone to hear properly.
Don, anwhile, took slow steps forward. His own breath hadn't returned to normal yet. The pounding in his chest was steady, his legs aching, his nose still tingling from where blood had dried beneath one nostril.
He looked toward Charles, toward the blade on the left hand that had vanished as seamlessly as they appeared. Don still didn't understand what they were. Biological? chanical? So kind of mutation? The mystery scraped at the back of his thoughts, but not enough to reach the surface.
Not yet.
He stepped closer—and that's when he noticed it.
The head.
Father John's head, still skewered between Charles's blades, twitched. Not just from residual nerve firing. No. This was more… deliberate. The mouth moved, lips trembling like they were still trying to form words. And the eyes—bloodshot, staring—remained locked in a hateful glare.
They didn't blink.
They just stared.
Don slowed, eyes narrowing.
Charles's voice broke the silence first, low and dry. "Thanks."
He wasn't smiling. Not quite. But sothing faint tugged at the corner of his mouth. Tired. Human. Real.
Don kept his eyes on the twitching head. "Right back at you. I was worried there for a mont."
Charles raised the head a little, turning it so both could see the grim expression locked in place. "Sa. This bastard nearly buried us."
Don exhaled, slowly. "Did the parasite already escape?"
Charles tilted his head slightly as he looked at it. His wings were mostly folded now, though still heavy with blood. His fingers flexed once, subtly shifting the angle of the skewered head.
"I didn't see it leave," he said. "And with the way he's still twitching… could be it's still inside. Maybe I skewered it too."
The calm with which he said that wasn't comforting.
Don studied Charles's face.
Was that luck? Precision? Did Charles really an to catch it like that? Or did it just happen?
Don didn't know.
He doubted Charles would answer even if he asked.
But his mind was tired. Too tired to press further.
The danger had passed.
For now. And that was enough.
"Let's hope so," he said.
A groan echoed behind them, followed by a dry cough.
"Hey!" Hathaway called out, raising one hand while the other braced against his knee. "If you two are done playing anatomy class—how about we get out of here before sothing else tries to kills us?"
Don turned halfway, exhaling a breath through his nose. He glanced back toward Charles, who just lowered the skewered head and flicked so blood from his hand like it was routine.
Neither of them replied right away.
But they both turned to move.
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