27 - Expeditious (Part 1)

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Warning: Violence


Wellington ran.

Further than his spindly legs could take him; further than his shallow breath could handle. Down his parched throat, he rammed the brewing cries of pain - constituting both the sting in his muscles and of his crumbling pride - as he frantically swatted away all thoughts of stopping.

He could not afford a second to lose, with the ravenous creature hot on his trails.

He could not afford to die at his hands.

The bespectacled man jerked his body to the left and right, making sharp turns into different corridors. His movements might have seemed haphazard from an outside perspective, made on impulse from the primal urge to flee, but Wellington was not that kind of person. His body and mind were wired to save his life with minimal risk, including the risk of relying on one's subconscious instincts; the impractical gut feeling.

No, with every step he was crafting a plan for his getaway. The gears in his brain were firing at speeds only made possible by the surge of adrenaline in his system.

In his head was the map of the building that he had long since memorised. He visualised himself as a red dot on the map and Asher as a purple dot, the distance between the two estimated by how loud Asher's breathing and steps were behind him. A white cross denoted his destination. While there was a much quicker route to the place, Wellington took advantage of the building's complicated infrastructure and took a convoluted detour, hoping it would elude his pursuant.

'Good thing I listened to that lousy bastard,' he thought.

It had surprised him when Misha suggested this particular building complex - in fact, it was shocking to hear his opinions on anything for once. How that man gained knowledge of this property, Wellington did not know. Nor did he care. All that mattered was that somehow or another, he had information regarding this town that hardly any of his other goons were able to fetch.

That was the reason he hired him in the first place.

With one hand, he dug his phone out of his pocket and, with the other, he pushed down a pile of cardboard boxes lying on the side of the passage, adding more obstacles in Asher's path. But, with a glance over his shoulder, he saw that the young boy jumped over them effortlessly.

"Tch!" After tapping a certain number, he sandwiched the phone between his shoulder and ear. He heard ringing before the crackle of the phone being picked up. "Oi, Stinker! Get you, and as many thugs as you can, to room 43." He hung up.

'Let's see if he's all talk or not.' Wellington smirked and took another sharp right.

After a couple more stretched hallways, the older man made a final left and located his destination. He skidded to a stop and jumped right through the door before slamming it closed and locking it.

A moment of silence passed.

The handle juddered. Once, then twice more. A breath later and it rattled viciously. Shaken side-to-side, up-and-down, until it hung only by a single nail. The door quaked along with the tremors of the doorknob, as the savage outside thumped on the wood.

Trembling, Stinker - one of the more useful ruffians under Wellington's control - sidled to him.

"Um, Boss? What's the thing outside?" he queried. "Is it a dog? Or is it–"

"–A boy. It's...it's the Asher boy," Wellington answered between laboured pants. "The very sa...same you'll be...taking down in any mo...ment."

Stinker's jaw dropped. He glimpsed at the gathering of about 30 crooks behind him. Worry chalked his face as he grew paler with every absonant blow.

"B-Boss, don't you think–"

The door burst open. Its hinges emitted a shrill cry as one of the bolts popped off. The handle dropped to the floor with a thunk, bouncing once before cumbersomely rolling forward. It stopped at Wellington's shoe.

Asher stepped inside, dusting off his hands. He closed his eyes and raked his fingers through his hair, then shook his head to dislodge any straggling particles. Face slightly tilted back, he opened one eye and grinned.

"Brought your little army, I see."

Wellington wore a smirk of his own, though he was still catching his breath. "You ain't get...getting to me 'less...you deal with these brats. Stinker, you know what to do."

With that, he dashed into the horde and escaped through a small hidden hatch in the far corner.

"Coward," Asher snickered. He cracked his knuckles and the joints in his neck and back, all while surveying his opponents. Scrutinising every single pathetic expression. Not a single one of them lacked an obvious fear.

The tall, bulky man directly in front of him - Stinker, Asher deduced - bent forward into a fighting stance, taking out his knife.

"Don't underestimate us, Lavender Boy. We may not look like it but–"

Stinker gasped.

Asher was fast. Too fast for the thug to notice him brandishing a knife of his own and sprinting forward. To notice him delivering the impact until Stinker keeled over.

"Y...you..."

Asher pulled out the knife. Crimson spurted out in frenetic streams, high-pressure from the severed arteries, and splattered all over the young man's black vest. His lips curled in disgust as he felt it soak into his white undershirt as well.

'Shit, Y/N wouldn't want to see this' was his first thought. He scanned the room for someone with a similar build to his, finally spotting a man in his far-right. Asher committed his face and attire to memory.

Stinker finally tumbled to the ground, red quickly pooling under him. Asher stepped away before it could taint his shoes

A numb silence filled the room.

Shock befell the other ruffians; all eyes glued onto the corpse before them. But it was brief as they all exploded into a unanimous rage, charging towards the culprit.

Asher rolled his shoulders back and twirled his pocket knife. A tumult of feelings and sensations washed over him, each a different hue and vibrancy. But one - the same one he was most familiar with - reigned supreme.

Compulsion.

An urge, shrouding his cognisance as it tugged on the strings fastened to his limbs. Electrifying his senses. Making a cumulative pressure build up in his chest until his fingers tingled, in a way he knew all too well.

There was only one way to release it.

Asher lunged forward, aiming at the closest attacker, and swung his knife.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

It was an understatement to say that you were tired of running.

But you couldn't afford to think about complaining, let alone take a break in one of the passing alcoves. Your cheeks were becoming warm and bright red, as they puffed and deflated to the rhythm of your hasty breaths.

Truthfully, you were still reeling from your conversation with Wellington. Discovering the truth of Cyril's bankruptcy and that your parents' lives were possibly in danger, not to mention that they all apparently disappeared - or, at least, escaped from the loan sharks - had sent your mind racing.

'Are they okay?', 'Are they safe now?' and 'Did they get captured again?' were the most persistent thoughts amongst the fog of panicked voices you were desperately trying to wave away.

Your internal debate must have manifested on your face as Bob, running beside you, queried, "Are you alright, Y/N?"

"Huh? Oh, um, yeah...I just– Argh!"

You rubbed your temples, wrinkling your nose from the growing headache. Was it from stress? Dehydration? Perhaps the latter, for you hadn't seen a glass of water since your meeting with Gael hours ago, and even then you had taken only a few small sips.

Seeing the concern in Bob's face, you cracked a small smile. "It's nothing to worry about."

"Okay..." he trailed, glancing around him. "We're in Sector 2 now, but I'll check the map just in case." He dug into his right back pocket, only to stop and blink. He patted the pocket before checking the left one and both of his front pockets. "What the– Where is it?"

"You lost the map?"

"No, no I–I swear I had it with me."

"Maybe you dropped it?"

"No." He paused. "Although, when we stopped after bumping into Wellington, I did feel something...tugging back there..."

It dawned upon you two.

"Asher!" both Bob and you stated at the same time.

'That slimy son of a bitch,' you thought. At least now you didn't have to worry about him getting lost.

Bob sighed. "It's okay. I've memorised the majority of it. This way."

You followed him and took two more lefts and a right. It was some time before you noticed Bob gradually coming to a halt at an intersection. He looked down the left path, just as you arrived at the junction yourself and faced the same way.

A shiver shot down your spine.

The corridors you had run through up until now were all the same - obtusely lit by flickering sconces on either wall, and inoculated with the fetor of barratry and still water. Dust would sometimes flare up from the shuffling of your boots and tickle your nostrils, and you would silence your sneeze only for Bob to give a soft warning anyway. There was also a constant dripping in the background, smothered by your hurried footfalls but barely audible in the split-second silence between each step.

But this corridor was empty. Barren of dust swirls, of the vague dripping sound, and of light itself. How far it stretched on for, or how wide it was, you could not tell. For the darkness consumed the walls, edges and the floor of their tangible substance. The longer you searched for the end of the hallway, the more brittle the ground felt beneath your feet - as if it would shatter any moment and you would commence an eternity of falling.

No matter how much you gulped, the ball of dread would not slide down your throat.

"Y/N, are you–"

"I'm fine, I'm fine."

Bob was unconvinced but didn't voice his concern. He pointed to a spot on the left wall where, when you squinted, you could see the faint outline of a door.

"This is room twenty. Nine more rooms, and a bit more of a walk, then we're there. So we don't need to run for now. It'd be too dark for that anyway. Okay?" he spoke in a soft tone. When he didn't receive a reply from you, he gently took your hand. "If the dark scares you, feel free to keep looking at the ground or close your eyes. I'll lead the way. I'm going to count the doors as we walk, so focus on that."

You nodded but decided to keep your head up. No point in staring at the same ground you had become all too familiar with in the last twenty or so minutes.

The two of you took some steps forward, in which you learned that the deeper you walked into the hallway, the more the pitch-black seemed to lighten. Sure enough, there were small sconces that threw just enough flimsy light rays to save you from utter darkness. You looked at Bob and it looked like new information to him too.

Clearing his throat, Bob began the count.

"Room twenty...twenty-one..."

Each door had a golden crest denoting "20" and "21" respectively. The shimmer that flicked off each number plate was oddly disproportionate to the utter lack of light within your surroundings. Your best bet was that it was made of the town's beguiling gold. Yet, not a single one of the plethora of doors you passed before had such embellishments.

"...twenty-two...twenty-three..."

The air was stagnant and only now, as you two were walking, you noticed the thick coats of dust glazing the floor and walls, tightly adhered to the surfaces. More importantly, you observed how the layers were unbroken and arranged in the same direction until the pair of you stepped through them. As if they had all the time in the world to accumulate without interruption.

A wedge of the grey fluff peeled itself off the ground around your left boot and broke into smaller, airborne specks. This time you couldn't hold back your sneeze.

"Achoo!"

"Shh!"

You wiped your coat sleeve against your nose and sniffled. "You didn't walk through this passage before, did you? In fact, I presume no one did for at least a good couple of years before us."

Bob's forefinger was still at his lips when he stiffened, only to relax soon after and deflate slightly. He stopped his gait. "You caught me. But I know it'll lead to the exit."

"How so?"

"You won't believe me."

You let your silence speak for itself.

"...Alright. I, uh, discovered it on accident. One night, I was studying the map when I tipped a candle onto it. As you could imagine, I was panicking since Wellington had only two copies - one with him, the other with me. I would've become mush if I even so much as tore it slightly, let alone burn it to a crisp."

He took a breath. "But here's the thing...it didn't. It didn't burn at all."

"Go on."

"The candle's flame died out for a few seconds, then it flickered from a hot red to...to–to flaring a bright green then settling on a blue-black! How does that happen?!"

Gauging your intrigued expression, he continued.

"In...in any case, from the spot where the candle's wax dripped onto the map, a..." Bob faltered, adopting an increasingly questioning tone. "...a thin line seemed to draw itself, like–like a ghost drawing with an invisible pen or...something. Ten numbers starting from 20 appeared along the way, presumably labelling the rooms, although it skipped one number. What was it? I...can't remember. Once it finished at where the main foyer was signified, the flame returned to a normal red-orange. The line itself also faded out, so I had to commit to memory where it was." He paused. "I–I thought I was seeing things, so I decided to check it out for myself and...and...I saw the mouth of this hallway. But I couldn't gather the courage to go through it."

A flare of anger rose in your chest. "So you don't know if this actually leads to the exit? The line, or whatever it was, could be a trap for all we know."

"It...it could be. But I'm certain it's not a lie! I can't explain it, trust me. It's a gut feeling....which I know doesn't sound convincing but–" He cut himself off and his lips compressed together. "Besides, I want to escape just as much as you do, and for the same reason: my life is on the line!"

You opened your mouth to retort, but he spoke first. "I know what you're going to say. 'Why didn't we just take the same route as before?' That's because that route is filled with Wellington's men. Also, I assure you that no one knows about this secret passage other than me."

"...A gut feeling, huh?"

You chewed on your lip to suppress a laugh. Go figure. Ever since you started this suicide mission, you had bumped shoulders with the very same feeling more frequently than you had for all your 23 years of life. The fickle concept one resorts to when logic could not form an explanation. The fallible ideology one is expected to have faith in for a decision that could potentially risk one's life.

You had that same sensation when you first learned of Asher's interactions with a 'Boris'; the consequences of ignoring it culminating to your current dilemma.

But it was also a 'gut feeling' that led you to falsely accuse a business tycoon in an article a couple of years back, soiling his reputation and character before he met an untimely death. And, a year later, to paint a young male socialite in a sympathetic light, after he suffered from supposed online slander, when it was later discovered that the atrocities he was exposed for were all true.

The latter event was your final straw to stop trusting your own 'gut feeling', which seemed defective compared to everyone else's. At least for you, analysing and reasoning with all the information you could gain was the way to go. To reach an outcome as close to the absolute truth as humanly possible. To minimise the risk of screwing up. Of ruining the lives of others.

But did you have a choice now?

"...Okay. I trust you, Bob."

"Thank you."

He held out his hand again which, after some hesitation, you took.

"Alright then...Room twenty-four...twenty-five..."

Something made your nose itch. You sniffed the air and instantly clipped your nostrils with your free hand. What was that stench? You looked around for the source but could not pinpoint one. You tried to think of a word to describe it, but could not come up with that either. It was more than damp and musty, as if it had an added layer of cold expiry. Like meat left in a refrigerator for years after its 'best before' date.

Like it should not have existed in the first place.

"Do you smell that?" you asked in a nasal voice.

"No...?"

Were you imagining it then? Was it an olfactory hallucination; perhaps a side effect of the negative-energy mechanism, which you assumed would still be active here? Or were you overthinking it?

And, if so, were you overthinking it to the point of getting a headache yet again?

Scrunching your brows together, you let go of Bob's bulky hand and returned to massaging your temples. When that didn't work, you performed a carotid massage on yourself. But that didn't work either, like it usually did.

Because this wasn't akin to any headache you had before.

It felt as if needle-like tendrils spread out across your scalp, like a hand, and clawed into the flesh of your hairline, slowly dragging back to the nape of your neck. Leaving behind trails of searing pain that lingered until the barbs returned to their starting positions and begun again, piercing deeper with each round. As if the invisible force wished to form permanent troughs on your head until it tore into your brain.

Bob came to an abrupt stop. "Let's take a break."

"No, Bob!" Tears prickled the corners of your eyes as you spoke through grit teeth. "I'll soldier through un–until we're out of here and I can get to a hospital."

"Alright, if you say so..." He held your wrist in a firmer grip. "We just passed Room twenty-five. So we're up to...room twenty-six...twenty-seven...twenty–"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"

It happened so quickly.

The flashing lights. The violent ringing. The excruciating barrage of pain.

The burst of hazy images – of people you never met, places you didn't know, symbols you'd never seen before.

The "Y/N!" shouted by a dark, fuzzy outline of a chubby figure; its voice garbled, like you were plunged underwater.

And the final storm of black, dissolving your vision and your entire being.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

With a final flick of his wrist, the last of the loose crimson droplets flew from Asher's blade.

Hazel eyes slid over the cold bodies. They were haphazardly scattered across the spacious floor, twisted in a way that spoke of their agonising demise. Some were sat up against the wall, and others had their arms outstretched towards another in a pathetic cry for help.

That was all of them, Asher mused, except for one.

His gaze snapped to a certain man in the corner, who had been watching the purple-haired boy the whole time and who flinched upon making eye contact. It wasn't Wellington - to Asher's disappointment - but instead the thug he spared, whose build was similar to his, thus whose clothes he planned on taking. Earlier, he ordered him to take off his white shirt and black pants, leaving him in his boxers, and fold them. He was told to sit in the corner and hide them behind his back, protecting the

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