Mikael stays low, moving quickly and quietly. It’s no easy task, considering the amount of rubble and debris that litter the city streets, but his years of rigorous training gave him more fine-tuned control and awareness of his body and movements than anyone else he’s ever met. The weight of his combat boots, aramid vest, and the rest of his gear make little difference.

Therese was right about the area having such minimal activity for a place where the mist becomes more like a fog in its density; he only spots one other phantom on his way to the department store’s rear. It stands motionless in one of the alleyways as swaths of the red particles twist and turn around its body, inert, so long as he and the others keep their distance. He gives it a wide berth.

The department store’s cadaverous remains aren’t hard to get into. Most of the windows have long since been shattered and several of the loading dock’s doors around the back side have been left either partially or entirely open. Adjacent to one of them, he drops into a crouch as he presses himself up against the side of the building and strains his ears to listen.

Other than the sound of the wind, there’s nothing. Not yet.

He smoothly vaults himself through the opening in the door and into the darkened interior. Staying crouched, he pauses again, but still hears nothing. He then allows himself to straighten, shouldering the pump-action shotgun that was holstered on his back and flicking on the light attached to its underside. An even sweep around the room with it reveals nothing other than smashed-up containers, rotting food, and other irrelevant junk scattered on the shelves and flooring.

Of course. It would be too easy if the person they were supposed to rescue hid in the first place he looked, and nothing is ever easy.

The sense of dread from earlier has only magnified in its intensity since he left the apartment and arrived here. As much as he hates to admit it, it’s starting to get to him more than he’s let anything get to him in a while. He’s itching to shoot something to release some of the tension, to make it go away, but he knows better than to reduce any situation to something that simple.

He also knows there’s no going back if any lapse in his self-control leads to the reckless endangerment - or worse - of the very person they’re trying to save.

Mikael shakes the thoughts from his mind. He can’t allow himself to become distracted from the task at hand. This isn’t how he operates in the field. No, he’s gotten where he is now by turning off most conscious thought when in combat situations. All he needs are the reflexes, precision, and decisiveness he’s honed to a fine point. He’s not reckless and illogical, he has a flow. A practiced rhythm. It’s what gets things done.

He weaves his way around the refuse and to a pair of swinging doors. This time when he stops, he hears it: that distinctive, low thrum that sets most people’s teeth on edge even if they aren’t fully aware the sound was present. Not him, though. Not for a long time.

Knowing at least one is nearby now, he starts to go low again in order to push through the doors undetected–

--before a startled shout cuts through the air, accompanied by a loud crash and the cacophony of countless objects clattering to the floor. All of it is close. Too close.

Adrenaline takes over. Mikael kicks the doors open and dashes through to the sales floor, gun held at the ready. With the place lit by windows and caved-in sections of ceiling, and most of the once-tall shelving left in broken heaps, he gets a clear view of the scene playing out before him.

Ten or so yards away, a figure sits helplessly sprawled atop a collapsed bit of shelving as a phantom advances on them. It’s too close to its target to superposition itself, so instead it stalks slowly towards them, head lurching forward and arms twitching at its sides as its fingers warp into sharpened points.

The figure throws their arms up in front of them in a futile attempt at self-defense. It wouldn’t do a thing. Caught and cornered, exactly where it wants them.

Quick flashes of light in the distance and the rhythmic sound of bullets catch his attention. Somewhere at the other end of the store, Rani and Lionel must be engaging the other phantom Therese mentioned. However, the disturbance doesn’t deter the first from closing in on its prey.

Mikael's movements are automatic. Pumping his shotgun and hurdling over the remains of shelves and other detritus, he closes the distance between the phantom and himself. It notices him and stops in its tracks, which buys him a few extra seconds. He dives out of the way in a roll as it targets him instead.

A rush of air blows past his ears when its claws swipe over his head. He snaps back upright into a kneeling position at its flank, aims upward, and pulls the trigger.

The phantom’s head explodes, sending chunks of scarlet gunk in every direction. The rest of its body convulses violently, before finally swaying backward and crumpling to the floor.

Silence fills the area again, including the distant gunfire.

Mikael gets back to his feet as the creature’s remains start to melt and rapidly evaporate, releasing clouds of mist that add to what was already in the atmosphere of the room. Any trace of it will be gone in a matter of seconds, as if it had never been there in the first place.

The thrum in the air is gone, although the dread remains. The threat dealt with, he turns his attention to their ‘survivor,’ and pauses.

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If they were entirely still, he would have mistaken the person sitting atop the pile of dusty store products for a corpse. Skin drained of almost all color. Pale eyes, gaunt features, and a short, disheveled head of hair that is somehow even lighter in shade than the rest of them. Twig-like arms and legs that he assumes shake not only from the terror of what just happened but from difficulty supporting the weight of their body. An ill-fitting shirt and pair of shorts, both made of threadbare cotton that was once the color white, are their only apparel.

The person stares at him with wide eyes, bordered by deep rings of purple, full of panic and only a small hint of relief. They don't speak or move a muscle, other than their chest heaving for air and the persistent tremble of their limbs. With so much of them smeared in dirt and dust, it wouldn't surprise him if it turns out they just dug themselves out of their own grave. He questions how someone in their state managed to evade the phantoms at all.

His mind begins to clear as the adrenaline starts to leave him, and then, it clicks.

Mikael whips his shotgun back up, pumps another bullet into the chamber, and aims the barrel directly at the stranger’s head. He wants to kick himself for not noticing it sooner, but there’s no helping that now. “Don’t move.”

The person's parted lips snap shut in an instant. The shaking stops, but the fear in their eyes, as it locks on the gun, increases tenfold.

“Mikael, everything alright?”

Rani’s voice. He sees her come into view as she exits from one of the deteriorated aisles of shelving. The situation in front of her registers far more quickly than it did for Mikael and all emotion leaves her eyes as she comes to a halt. Her gun is still in her hands, but she does not move to do anything with it.

“Jeez guys, what, were we too late or something?” Lionel follows behind her, before stopping as well once his gaze rests on the person they’ve rescued. “...oh.”

Mikael returns his focus to the stranger, who doesn't seem to have looked away from the gun even for a second. The unease in the air is as suffocatingly thick as the mist around them. For a long, drawn-out minute, no one moves or says anything.

This just got a lot more complicated.

—

Sira’s thoughts are a mess of disjointed words and signals from their nervous system. It’s been that way since the creature gave chase in the forest, since they crossed from the dead forest in which they found themselves and into the limits of the city, but somehow this is worse.

Gun. Danger. Move. Run.

None of it has an effect anymore. Their body has frozen over. Consequently, they can’t bring themselves to look fully away from the barrel of the shotgun shoved in their face, but they’re still able to make out the masked trio that surrounds them. All donning black armored clothing, all with guns in their hands, and all staring at Sira like they just sprouted a pair of wings - or, judging by their exact reactions, they’ve done something worse than that.

As far as Sira can tell, though, none of the group are physically different from them in any way. Just normal people. The armor and masks they wear obscure most defining features, but nothing suggests another one of the monsters hiding beneath. The masks have a clear pane over the upper portion of the face, permitting the wearer to see, and some kind of breathing apparatus takes up the rest. 'Respirator' is the word that pops into Sira's mind, like 'casket' did before.

“What the fuck.” The one who came into view last, shorter than the others, drops his gun to the floor to instead clasp the sides of his head with both hands. “What the fuck.”

“Who are you?” The second one who entered asks, a woman with a thick build and dark hair tied back from her face. The tone is almost accusatory.

Sira wants to speak, wants to ask what just happened, what is going on, and why there’s a gun pointed at them, but it’s as if the part of their brain responsible for those things decided to shut down. They continue to sit in motionless silence, doing as the man with the gun instructed them. They don’t have much choice in the matter.

The same man also remains silent, his gun still level with their head. He’s taller, with more bulk to him than the rest, and the one eye that’s visible from behind his mask has a piercing quality to it. He would be intimidating even if he didn’t have a weapon aimed directly at them.

A long moment passes. No one moves or says a thing, until the woman exchanges glances with the short guy, who drops his hands from his head. She takes a cautious step towards Sira. More gently this time, she asks: “Can you…talk?”

They still can’t get the words out. Without turning their head, Sira meets eyes with her and hopes the expression on their face is frightened and confused enough to get the point across in the absence of speech.

“Mikael,” the woman says, her voice becoming firm again, “lower it.”

The man with the gun jerks his head sideways to look at her. “Are you serious?”

“They’re likely in shock and that’s not going to make it any better. If they were going to turn, it would’ve happened way before now.”

Turn?

Mikael returns his attention to Sira, wordlessly observing them for a few more seconds. Then, he takes a step back and does as he is told, rather reluctantly, but keeps his firearm ready in his hands. Most of his face might be hidden, but Sira feels his glare on their skin like a nasty burn.

They audibly gulp. Swallowing causes more pain than it’s worth, especially after running as much as they did to get where they are now.

"Hang on." The shorter man's voice is as unsteady as his walk when he also elects to take a step toward Sira. "Let me check—"

“Lionel,” the woman warns.

“Hey, I got this. Listen,” ‘Lionel’ continues to slowly approach Sira, hands held up like they might lunge at him at any second. “I’m a doctor. Just wanna take a look at you real quick to make sure you’re okay. That should be fine, right?”

“He is not a doctor,” Mikael states dryly.

“Look, I’d be a doctor if the university system were still a thing. My point is, I’m the person here with the most medical expertise.” His hands start to lower as he gets close to them, his posture becoming more confident. “I’m not going to touch you or anything, just need to get closer to make sure you’re okay.”

Sira can do little to stop him as they still can't manage to move or speak, which he takes as enough confirmation to proceed. There's only a slight flinch of their legs as Lionel crouches in front of them, close enough for them to see the pair of bright eyes behind his mask. He has a much more easygoing air about him than the other man.

He tilts himself forward and Sira instinctively tilts away, the only voluntary movement they can manage. He doesn’t react to it. His eyes scan over them several times, giving a cursory examination of their arms, legs, and their facial features. It doesn’t give off perverse intent in any way, instead seeming like genuine intrigue, but it’s still uncomfortable and Sira can’t help but feel exposed. Then, his eyes stare into theirs for what seems like a solid minute.

“...nothing.” Lionel gets back to his feet with a shake of his head, turning to face his two companions. “No weird veins on the skin. Not a trace of discharge from the nose, eyes, or ears. Eyes are bloodshot but if it was from infection, it’d look a lot different. They’re totally clean...externally, anyway.”

The woman’s wide-eyed stare swaps between Sira and Lionel. “That’s impossible.”