Mark Cross leaned in with a warm, steady veteran grin, clapping a supportive hand on Danni’s shoulder.

Mark Cross: "Mate, Amber can try whatever tricks she fancy, but Danni has already proven she belongs right at the very top of the mountain. You've got the skill, you've got the fire, and you took it right to 'em out there today. Amber's dangerous, sure, but she's not unbeatable. You go out there and handle business just like you always do."

Danni beamed, bumping fists with GT and Mark.

Danni Anderson: "Thanks, guys. Love and justice always find a way. Amber, you just name the time and place—because I'm ready!"

Before Jazmin could ask a follow-up, a Splat! Wrestling production assistant with a headset jogged into frame, gesturing urgently toward the hallway.

Production Assistant: "Anderson! Cross! Artuno! We gotta wrap this up right now! The equipment trucks are almost packed and the transport vans are loading on the dock—Madoka wants everyone on the road to Vicksburg in five minutes!"

Mark gave a quick nod to the crew member. Danni and GT slung their gear bags over their shoulders, exchanging one final, determined look with Jazmin before heading briskly down the corridor toward the loading exit.

1:45 PM — Jackson Loading Dock

The house lights came up inside the arena as the matinee audience filed out into the bright afternoon sunshine, carrying bags of Halloween candy and autographed merchandise.

Behind the curtain, however, the cheerful atmosphere vanished instantly.

The arena corridors were bustling with road agents, stagehands, and technicians moving with urgent, military-like precision. Giant black road cases stamped with the Splat! Wrestling logo were being rolled down the concrete loading ramp and hoisted into the backs of three heavy transport trucks.

Outside on the loading dock, the autumn wind was picking up, blowing dry leaves across the pavement. The clock read 1:45 p.m.

Madoka Kawada stood by the lead transport vehicle with a clipboard in hand, speaking in hushed, serious tones with the head of security and the cinematic production crew. Beside them, three large passenger vans idle on the asphalt, their engines humming low.

A large digital highway sign by the arena exit blinked with directional route text:

I-20 WESTBOUND — VICKSBURG — 45 MILES

The fun and games of Halloween morning were officially over. The production was packing up, the convoy was preparing to roll, and the decaying, abandoned corridors of Our Lady of Mercy Hospital were waiting.

CODE BLACK

Saturday, October 31st, 2026 — 8:15 PM

[OUR LADY OF MERCY HOSPITAL — VICKSBURG, MISSISSIPPI]

Night fell over the bluffs of Vicksburg like a shroud.

A thick, low-crawling river fog drifted through the overgrown pines, swallowing the cracked asphalt of the winding access road. At the top of the hill stood Our Lady of Mercy Hospital—a towering, four-story monolith of stained brick, shattered windows, and rusted iron fire escapes. A crooked stone cross crowned the roofline, silhouetted against the dark Mississippi sky.

Through the fog, the headlights of the transport bus cut two pale yellow beams across the decaying facade.

The bus lurched to a halt with a heavy, wheezing hiss of its air brakes.

The folding doors creaked open. One by one, the Splat! Wrestling roster stepped down into the biting October chill, their boots crunching against broken glass and dead weeds. No one spoke. The usual post-show chatter from the Jackson matinee had evaporated entirely on the forty-mile drive west.

Ahead of them, the hospital’s entrance loomed: a pair of tarnished brass double doors with reinforced chicken-wire glass, framed by peeling warning signs and rusted biohazard placards.

Mark Cross stepped forward, his breath misting in the cold air, and pushed the left door inward. It let out a long, metallic screech that echoed deep into the building’s hollow belly.

The roster filed into the hospital lobby.

The interior was a graveyard of abandoned medicine. The air was frigid, thick with the stench of black mold, damp plaster, and ancient antiseptic. Overhead, a single fluorescent light fixture flickered erratically, casting a sickly green strobe across the room. Overturned vinyl waiting chairs lay scattered across the linoleum. Decaying patient charts, yellowed and water-logged, were strewn across the floor like dead leaves. In the corner, an old wooden admissions desk sat covered in peeling varnish, its glass partition spider-webbed with cracks.

Ashley Ellis pulled her phone from her jacket pocket, tapping the screen frantically.

Ashley Ellis: "Are you kidding me? Zero bars. Not even SOS mode. How am I supposed to stream my aura in this mold dungeon?"

A few feet away, Veronica Taylor carefully stepped around a rusted, wheel-less gurney, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve with absolute disgust.

Veronica Taylor: "If this toxic ventilation ruins my skin, management is getting an invoice from my Beverly Hills dermatologist."

Across the lobby, Charlie Foxtrot stood near a water-stained support pillar, his leather jacket zipped tight. He rolled his shoulders and rolled his neck, his jaw set in a hard, determined line. He looked around the rotting lobby with an uneasy, watchful gaze, his eyes darting toward the dark corridors above, but he took a slow, grounding breath and forced a brave, focused expression onto his face.

On the other side of the room, Eddie Boom leaned against the rusted admissions counter, tapping his fingers against the wood in a manic, syncopated rhythm. His eyes were wide, gleaming in the flickering strobe light as he took in the cracked tiles and shadowed doorframes with a twisted, sadistic grin.

GT stood near the outer doorway, leaning casually with his hands resting easily at his sides. He tilted his head back, taking in the decaying architecture with an appreciative, entertained smirk, looking right at home in the dark.

Near the central lobby staircase, Danni Anderson kept her distance, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist as a shiver ran through her. Her eyes were wide with genuine apprehension as she took in the oppressive shadows, but as she looked toward the dark hallway ahead, her expression tightened with quiet, unbreakable resolve.

In the center of the lobby, Nikki and Amber Payne stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their eyes scanning the exits, while Morrigan Ravenshade stood perfectly motionless near a shattered reception window, her eyes closed, inhaling the damp chill as if it were incense in a cathedral.

Suddenly, a sharp burst of high-pitched electronic feedback shrieked through the ceiling speakers.

Everyone froze.

A rusted intercom horn above the admissions desk crackled to life with a heavy burst of static. Then, a voice cut clearly through the decaying lobby—cool, steady, and echoing through every floor of the hospital.

Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "Attention, competitors. Welcome to Our Lady of Mercy Hospital. Your check-in process begins now. When your name is called, proceed immediately down your designated corridor. Do not deviate. Do not turn back."

A beat of static hummed over the line.

Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "The following individuals will proceed down the RIGHT CORRIDOR immediately:

Aaron Snyder.

Amber Payne.

Binka Moab.

Clayton Halliburton.

Eddie Boom.

GT.

Keylla Munoz-Atherton.

Max Ironside.

Morrigan Ravenshade.

Veronica Taylor."

Another brief burst of feedback clicked through the speaker.

Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "The following individuals will proceed down the LEFT CORRIDOR immediately:

Ashley Ellis.

AYA.

Charlie Foxtrot.

Danni Anderson.

Felicia Atherton.

JoeStar Stanton.

Kimberly Hart.

Mark Cross.

Nikki Payne.

Poema Tua.

Taylor Landry."

The intercom clicked off with a dead, hollow pop.

Silence dropped back over the lobby, heavier than before.

Amber Payne turned to her sister, her brow furrowing as she realized they had been separated.

Amber Payne: "Wait—they're splitting us up?"

Nikki Payne adjusted her jacket, her eyes narrowing as she looked toward the dark left hallway.

Nikki Payne: "Doesn't matter what door they send us through. Just make sure nobody gets in our way. Stick to the plan."

A few paces away, Felicia Atherton shot a sharp look at her wife as Keylla adjusted her jacket.

Felicia Atherton: "Don't do anything stupid down there, Keylla. Stick to the plan."

Keylla Munoz-Atherton: "Relax, babe. Whatever is down that hallway better have good lighting."

Clayton Halliburton didn't say a word. Without glancing at anyone, his eyes cold and singularly focused, he turned on his heel and marched directly toward the right corridor, his heavy boots echoing down the dark passage.

Eddie Boom pushed off the counter with a twitching grin, trailing behind Clayton with eager, erratic steps. GT followed at an easy, unbothered pace, strolling into the right hallway with a low whistle.

On the opposite side, Charlie Foxtrot tapped his knuckles together, exhaled through his teeth, and moved firmly into the left corridor. Danni Anderson stayed close behind Mark Cross and AYA, keeping her eyes fixed forward, stepping across the threshold into the dark.

The Left Wing: Patient Ward

The left corridor ended in what had once been the hospital's acute psychiatric ward.

Dim emergency lights cast long, skeletal shadows across rows of rusted lockers, overturned privacy screens, and stripped metal exam tables. Hanging from a rolling steel rack in the center of the room were eleven faded, threadbare hospital gowns—pale blue, washed-out grey, stamped with faded institutional numbers across the chest.

Taylor Landry picked one up by two fingers, inspecting the frayed hem with an arched eyebrow.

Taylor Landry: "A hospital gown? Over my custom gear? You've got to be kidding me. Cotton-poly blend is a crime against humanity."

Kimberly Hart: "Put it on, Taylor. It means we're targets."

Kimberly grabbed a gown, slipped her arms through the oversized sleeves, and tied the strings behind her neck with sharp, aggressive focus.

Across the room, Charlie Foxtrot pulled his gown over his ring attire, adjusting the faded fabric over his shoulders as he paced the floor, keeping his breathing steady and his mind locked in. Danni Anderson pulled hers on, smoothing down the front with a tight swallow, her eyes darting toward the dark swinging doors leading deeper into the ward.

The Right Wing: Pathology & Morgue Prep

Down the right corridor, the air was noticeably colder.

The hallway opened into an old basement prep room. Stained stainless-steel surgical tables sat under dead surgical lamps. Arranged neatly along the cold metal counters were ten distinct, terrifying horror masks—weathered leather, cracked porcelain, stitched burlap, and distorted, grotesque surgical visages, each caked in artificial grime and distressing.

Clayton Halliburton walked straight to the table. He picked up a bone-white, featureless ballistic skull plate, strapped it tightly over his face without hesitation, and cracked his neck.

Eddie Boom let out a low, raspy chuckle as he lifted a cracked, grotesque porcelain jester mask with a wide, razor-toothed painted smile. He ran his thumb along the edge of the porcelain before pulling it over his head, his wide, crazed eyes peering out through the dark cutouts.

Morrigan Ravenshade lifted a bone-carved raven skull mask, sliding it over her features with deliberate, ritualistic grace.

GT picked up his mask, turning it over in his hands with an amused shake of his head before fastening the straps behind his dark hair, ready for the hunt.

The Announcement

The heavy metal doors of both preparation rooms suddenly slammed shut with a thunderous, hydraulic boom that rattled the pipes in the walls.

Instantly, the ceiling intercom horns across the entire hospital roared to life once more, Mia Rivera's voice cutting through the damp darkness with absolute authority.

Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "Attention all personnel. Your roles are now assigned.

Those in the left wing: You are THE PATIENTS.

Those in the right wing: You are THE MONSTERS.

Here are the official parameters for CODE BLACK:

There is NO TIME LIMIT.

There are NO DISQUALIFICATIONS.

There are NO COUNT-OUTS.

Eliminations may occur ANYWHERE on hospital grounds by THREE-COUNT PINFALL, SUBMISSION, or REFEREE STOPPAGE.

Once an entire side has been completely eliminated, the surviving members of the victorious team will split the $100,000 CASH BOUNTY.

Referees are stationed throughout the facility."

Through the wire-reinforced glass panels and narrow observation windows of both preparation rooms, the competitors watched in silence as a grim-faced crew of maintenance workers in dark work clothes moved methodically into position. In full view of the wrestlers inside, the crew dragged heavy iron chains that clattered and scraped harshly against the cracked linoleum. At every visible corridor juncture, exterior doorway, and emergency exit, the workers looped the thick links tightly through the handles and crash bars, yanking them taut before securing them with massive, industrial padlocks. The cold, metallic snaps of the locks echoed straight through the glass, making the reality unmistakably serious: the entire facility had been completely sealed from the outside world. No one was escaping the grounds, and those chains would only come off when a winning team was decided.

Overhead, Mia's voice crackled through the intercom for the final directive, signaling that while the outside world was shut out, the barriers within were opening.

Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "The interior doors are now unlocked.

Let CODE BLACK begin."

*CLICK.*

The speakers went dead.

A deep, electrical hum surged through the hospital walls. Down every corridor, the magnetic locks on the heavy interior fire doors disengaged with a synchronized, echoing snap.

Then, from the ventilation grates and overhead audio feeds throughout the facility, a creepy, wordless music track began to play. It was a slow, haunting soundscape of warped chimes, low discordant strings, and faint, spectral drones that drifted through the damp hallways in unsettling waves—an eerie auditory presence now woven directly into the hospital's environment, ready to rise and fall in chilling pulses as the night unfolded.

The building settled beneath the suffocating, atmospheric dread.

The lights buzzed low. The shadows lengthened.

The hunt was officially underway.

The Hunt — Hour One: The Descent

8:30 PM — First Floor: Radiology & Diagnostics

The air in the eastern corridor tasted of damp drywall and pulverized plaster. Down the long hallway, flickering green emergency exit signs cast long, skeletal shadows across rows of rusted lockers.

From the rusted vents overhead, the slow, haunting soundscape pulsed like a dying heartbeat—warped music-box chimes twisting over low, discordant cello drones.

Keylla Munoz-Atherton moved with her back pressed flat against the wall, a grotesque porcelain mask strapped tight over her face, her bright Colombian ring gear dark with grime. Her eyes darted between every shattered doorframe, and she held a heavy plastic clipboard tightly against her chest like a shield.

Ahead of her, the heavy double doors of the Radiology Wing hung half off their hinges.

A sharp metallic scrape echoed from the darkness inside.

Keylla froze. "Hello?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Is someone there?"

Silence answered, followed by the slow, rhythmic squeak of an ungreased wheel.

Emerging from the pitch-black imaging room was a figure draped in shadows. It was Ashley Ellis, her faded hospital gown hanging loose over her metallic pink gear, both smeared with dark soot and grease. In her hands, she pushed a rusted, three-wheeled gurney with deliberate, agonizing slowness.

Keylla gasped, backing away. "Ashley? Look, you don't have to do this, okay? We're both—"

Ashley didn't speak. She suddenly shoved the heavy gurney forward with explosive force!

The steel frame tore down the hallway. Keylla dove sideways, crashing hard onto the linoleum as the gurney slammed violently into a bank of lockers with a deafening crash. Before Keylla could scramble to her feet, Ashley charged, driving a vicious running boot directly into Keylla’s exposed ribs.

Keylla cried out in pain, clutching her side as Ashley dragged her up by the collar of her gear and hurled her through the doorway into the X-ray suite.

Inside, the room was bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a single hanging work light. Ashley grabbed a lead-lined protective apron from a wall hook, wrapping it around her forearm before swinging a brutal lariat toward Keylla’s head.

Keylla ducked beneath the swing. Relying on sheer survival instinct, Keylla drove her shoulder into Ashley's midsection, backing her hard against the edge of a heavy concrete X-ray table. Ashley groaned, firing wild clubbing forearms across Keylla's back, but Keylla refused to let go.

Spotting an overturned metal chart tray on the floor, Keylla grabbed Ashley by the hair, scrambled up onto the second tier of the imaging table, and threw her weight backward, spiking Ashley into the floor with a desperate, lunging tornado DDT!

*CRACK!*

Ashley's head struck the padded edge of the imaging table as Keylla redirected the fall. Ashley lay stunned on the dusty tile, conscious but unable to gather herself before the referee began the count.

A roving referee in a black polo and flashlight slid into the room from the observation booth, dropping to his knees to count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Keylla collapsed against the base of the table, clutching her bruised ribs and gasping for air. Ashley lay motionless on the dusty tile, staring blankly at the ceiling in defeat.

Overhead, the P.A. speaker crackled to life with a blast of static.

Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A patient has been eliminated."

Keylla wiped cold sweat from her forehead, staggered to her feet, and vanished back into the corridor darkness.

8:40 PM — First Floor: Admissions Office & West Corridor

The adrenaline from Keylla’s victory over Ashley was already fading into a dull, throbbing ache along her ribs.

Keylla moved along the western corridor, her breath hitching in the cold, stagnant air. Her porcelain mask was smeared with gray drywall dust and rust. It had taken her the better part of ten minutes to reach this side of the building; the old admissions office sat clear across the ground floor from radiology, and she had crossed the whole of it one corridor at a time, pressed flat to the walls, stopping at every junction to listen before she moved on. Overhead, the faint, tinny nursery lullaby continued its warped loop through the ceiling grates, skipping every few seconds like a scratched record.

As her boots crunched softly on the gritty linoleum, something caught her eye beneath the amber glow of a dying exit sign.

A dark, glistening trail of fresh blood was smeared across the floor tiles, leading past a row of broken gurneys and directly into the half-open doorway of the old admissions office.

Keylla hesitated, her guard instantly shooting back up. She pressed her back flat against the cinderblock wall, inching toward the doorframe. Peering around the jamb, she scanned the room.

The office was a graveyard of bureaucracy. Overturned metal desks, shattered laminate dividers, and moldering intake files were strewn across the floor. The blood trail trailed across the threshold and vanished beneath the shadow of a heavy oak reception counter.

There was no body. No eliminated patient. No stalking monster.

*KZZZZT... CLICK.*

A sharp burst of static sliced through the room.

Keylla froze. On the corner of the reception desk, the red power light of an old desktop intercom box flickered to life on its own.

Static hissed through the small, perforated metal speaker. Then, slowly, the static gave way to sound.

It wasn’t Mia Rivera’s voice. It wasn’t the eerie music box.

It was breathing. Heavy, wet, ragged breathing, exhaling slow and deliberate directly into the open microphone on the other end of the line.

Keylla felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. "Who's there?" she whispered, backing away toward the center aisle.

The breathing over the speaker paused for half a second—then inhaled sharply, as if whoever held the microphone had just smiled.

*BAM-CRASH!*

In the corridor directly outside the office's rear records annex, the deafening screech of a steel file cabinet being hurled violently onto the concrete floor shattered the silence!

Keylla didn't hesitate. Survival instinct overriding every shred of curiosity, she spun on her heel, bolted through the front doorway, and sprinted blindly down the adjoining service corridor before whatever lurked in the records room could step into the light.

8:44 PM — First Floor: East Stairwell Junction

The east stairwell junction had gone dark except for a single emergency bulb strobing at the base of the iron steps. JoeStar Stanton moved through it with his shoulder low, sweeping the beam of a dead flashlight he had given up on two corridors ago.

A scrape of boot leather on concrete came from behind him.

He turned. Morrigan Ravenshade stood at the mouth of the stairwell in her bone-carved raven skull mask, black shroud hanging still in air that should have moved it.

JoeStar Stanton: "You're one of the monsters."

Morrigan Ravenshade: "I am something the building made."

She came at him without hurry. JoeStar met her with a shoulder thrust that should have moved her and didn't. She turned his wrist, walked him into the wall, and drove a forearm across his throat.

JoeStar broke it with a knee and a right hand that landed clean. Morrigan took the shot, blinked once, and smiled behind the mask.

He grabbed her by the shroud and threw her into the stairwell rail. The iron clanged. She came off it already reaching for him.

Then Morrigan stopped. Not the way a fighter stops, backing off to reset, but the way a person stops listening to a song they have heard before. She let her hands fall to her sides.

She tilted her masked head, considering him for a long, unhurried moment, as though she had found whatever she had come to the stairwell to find. Then she stepped backward into the black of the stairwell and was gone.

JoeStar stood alone in the strobing light, breathing hard, knuckles split, and did not follow her.

8:48 PM — First Floor: West Corridor

Keylla Munoz-Atherton had stopped checking her reflection in the dark windows. Her mask was still on. She moved down the west corridor with her shoulders up around her ears, which was not a posture Miss Magnifica had ever been photographed in.

A figure detached itself from the shadow of a linen cart ahead of her.

AYA stood in the middle of the corridor in her torn patient gown, fists wrapped, saying nothing.

Keylla Munoz-Atherton: "You. Of course it's you."

AYA didn't answer. She walked forward.

Keylla grabbed a rusted IV stand off the wall and swung it in a wide arc. AYA ducked under it, tore the stand out of her grip, and tossed it clattering down the hall. Keylla backpedaled, threw a spinning back kick, and AYA took it on the forearm and kept walking.

AYA: "You talk too much to fight."

Keylla threw a second kick. AYA slipped it, drove a palm into Keylla's sternum, and had her pinned against the corridor wall with a forearm across her collarbone before Keylla could draw another breath.

Behind the porcelain mask, Keylla's eyes went wide.

Then, from somewhere far off in the building — three floors up, or the far wing, the sound carrying down through the dead ventilation shafts — a scream tore through the silence. Long. Human. Cut off.

AYA's head came up. For a moment she went utterly still, reading the direction of it. Then she released the hold, stepped back, and turned toward the sound, dismissing Keylla entirely. Keylla did not wait to find out why. She shoved off the wall and ran, her boots slapping the linoleum all the way to the far stairwell.

AYA watched her go for half a second, then walked the other way into the dark, toward the scream.

8:52 PM — First Floor: Physical Therapy & Rehabilitation Ward

Deep in the west wing, the physical therapy room stretched into oppressive gloom. Parallel bars, rusted exercise bikes, and torn leather examination tables lay scattered across the open floor like ancient torture devices.

JoeStar Stanton stepped cautiously through the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the faded hospital gown. His sneakers crunched over broken glass as he swept his flashlight across the shadows.

"Anyone in here?" JoeStar called out, his deep voice echoing flatly off the damp ceiling. "Come on out. Let's get this over with."

The ambient music swelled—a low, grinding drone accompanied by the faint sound of distant, echoing footsteps.

From behind a towering stack of rotting vinyl gymnastics mats, a figure lunged into the beam of his flashlight. It was Binka Moab, disguised beneath a grotesque, elongated plague-doctor mask with cracked glass lenses and heavy leather straps.

Without a sound, Binka swung a heavy aluminum walker straight into JoeStar’s knee!

*CLANG!*

JoeStar grunted in agony, dropping to one knee as the metal brace buckled his joint. Binka capitalized instantly, dropping her full weight across his shoulders with a driving forearm smash that drove his face into the damp floor.

JoeStar roared, fighting back from his stomach. He pushed up with sheer upper-body power, muscling Binka off him and scrambling to his feet. Binka lunged again, but JoeStar caught her around the waist, hoisting her high into the air for the Factory Slam.

He held her aloft for three grueling seconds, his muscles shaking—but his injured knee suddenly gave out beneath him!

JoeStar collapsed, and Binka slipped smoothly down his back. In one fluid, hyper-technical transition, Binka trapped JoeStar’s arm and shoulder, firmly controlled his upper back, and cranked back with heavy leverage, locking in the agonizing torque of the Architeuthis!

JoeStar thrash-kicked against the floor, gritting his teeth as the pressure clamped down across his shoulder. Fully conscious but trapped with no leverage and no rope breaks to save him, JoeStar realized he could not escape and desperately slapped his open palm against the linoleum three times!

*TAP! TAP! TAP!*

The referee stepped in immediately, waving his hands and shining his light between them. Binka released the hold immediately with chilling calculation, rising to her feet and adjusting her leather mask without uttering a single word.

The speakers overhead buzzed.

Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A patient has been eliminated."

Binka melted back into the shadowed doorway, leaving JoeStar clutching his shoulder on the rehabilitation floor.

9:00 PM — Second Floor: Maternity Ward

Peeling pastel wallpaper hung in long strips from the water-damaged walls, and a row of rusted, empty infant cribs lined the corridor. Taylor Landry moved down the hallway in her faded hospital gown, her breathing shallow and controlled.

"A haunted hospital. Of course," she muttered under her breath. "Because my life wasn't dramatic enough already."

A sharp metallic scrape answered her from the shadows of the nurses' station. Taylor spun around, fists up. Stepping out of the dark was Keylla Munoz-Atherton, her grotesque porcelain mask smeared with gray dust, her bright Colombian ring gear dark with grime.

"Oh, good," Taylor said flatly. "A face I don't have to look at."

Keylla didn't answer. She lunged, swinging a heavy plastic clipboard like a club. Taylor ducked under it, caught Keylla's wrist, and drove a stiff knee into her midsection. Keylla doubled over, but fired back with a desperate elbow that clipped Taylor's jaw and sent her stumbling into a rusted crib.

Keylla pressed the attack, dragging Taylor up by the collar of her gown and hurling her toward the wall. Taylor hit the plaster with a grunt, but as Keylla charged, she planted her boot on the wall, pushed off, and launched herself into an explosive springboard spinning heel kick!

*CRACK!*

The kick caught Keylla flush across the mask, snapping her head back and sending her crashing to the linoleum. Keylla lay on the tile, dazed and clutching her jaw, unable to gather herself before the roving referee began his count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Taylor rose, wiping sweat from her brow. Overhead, the P.A. speaker crackled.

Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A monster has been eliminated."

Taylor stepped over Keylla's motionless form and slipped into the shadows of the ward.

9:10 PM — Second Floor: Pediatric & Maternity Ward

Further down the second floor, faded pastel murals along the walls had warped into grotesque smears under the flickering fluorescent tubes. A nurses' station stood strewn with rotting paperwork.

Taylor Landry hurried down the hallway, her breathing shallow and ragged. She had torn the sleeves off her hospital gown to give her arms full range of motion. "This place is completely unhinged," she muttered under her breath, pausing near an abandoned nurse's station. "Who even signs off on booking this?"

A quiet, rhythmic click echoed from the corner.

Taylor snapped her head toward the sound.

Standing at the end of the nursery corridor was Veronica Taylor, wearing a cracked, blood-streaked porcelain doll mask over her platinum hair. Her dark, form-fitting gear was immaculate, and she held a heavy, three-panel privacy screen with casual menace.

Taylor’s eyes narrowed. "Veronica? Oh, please. You really think a little ceramic face is going to scare me?"

Veronica tilted her head, then charged forward, driving the metal frame of the privacy screen directly into Taylor's chest!

The impact drove Taylor backward into a concrete support pillar. Before she could recover, Veronica folded the heavy screen around Taylor's body, trapping her against the wall, and delivered a series of punishing European uppercuts through the fabric.

Taylor fought back with furious defiance, throwing a stiff back elbow that caught Veronica through the mask, knocking her a step backward. Taylor burst out of the privacy screen, hit the opposite wall for momentum, and launched herself into an explosive springboard spinning heel kick.

Veronica ducked.

Grabbing Taylor’s gown by the collar, Veronica yanked her violently down onto a padded vinyl examination mat, trapped Taylor’s head with her boot, and drove her heel down with vicious, concussive force—the Beauty Improvement Pass!

*THUD!*

Taylor’s head snapped into the mat, and her eyes rolled back into her head as she went completely limp.

The referee dropped down, checked Taylor’s responsiveness, and immediately called for the bell, waving off the contest due to referee stoppage.

Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A patient has been eliminated."

Veronica adjusted her cracked porcelain mask in a shattered wall mirror, stepped over Taylor’s unconscious form, and strutted silently down the stairwell.

9:18 PM — Second Floor: Maternity Ward Annex

The annex off the maternity ward had been a classroom once, before the hospital got it. Faded alphabet posters curled off the walls. Desks were stacked in the corner under a tarp.

Poema Tua moved through it looking for a stairwell down, and found Aaron "Scarface" Snyder standing in the doorway she had come through.

The executioner's hood made him a shape more than a man. He dragged the chrome IV pole behind him in a slow, grinding line across the tile.

Aaron Snyder: "Wrong floor."

Poema Tua: "Then move."

He swung the pole. Poema ducked it, caught the shaft on the rebound, and yanked. Aaron let it go rather than lose his footing, which told her more about him than the last three minutes had.

He closed the distance and took her down with a waistlock into the stacked desks. The tarp came off. Desks scattered. Poema rolled out from under him, came up with a chair leg in her hand, and cracked it across his shoulder before he could rise.

Aaron grunted and caught her wrist. For a long second they stood locked in the middle of the room, neither giving, the IV pole rolling slowly to a stop against the baseboard.

Then, overhead, a corroded pipe joint gave way with a shriek of stressed metal, and a sheet of black water burst through the classroom ceiling and crashed across the floor between them, cold and stinking.

Aaron's masked head turned toward the door.

Poema used the half-second to break his grip and put a desk between them, the water spreading in a dark sheet around her boots.

Neither of them moved for a long moment. Then Aaron stepped back through the doorway, dragging the pole with him, and was gone down the stairwell.

Poema stood in the wreck of the classroom, breathing hard, and took the other exit.

9:25 PM — Second Floor: Intensive Care Unit

The ICU was an open, suffocating maze of rusted curtain tracks, shattered cardiac monitors, and tangled rubber tubing.

Aaron "Scarface" Snyder prowled through the ward like a caged predator. Over his head, he wore a brutal, heavily stitched leather executioner’s hood that left only his cold, scarred eyes visible. He carried a heavy chrome IV pole, dragging its weighted base across the floor in a steady, nerve-shredding screech.

Suddenly, a shadow dropped from atop a nurses' counter.

AYA landed silently on the tile behind him, her hospital gown tied tightly at the waist, her bare fists wrapped in tight athletic tape.

Without a word, AYA fired a lightning-fast combination of shootboxing palm strikes and low leg kicks, the sharp slaps echoing off the tile. Aaron grunted, swinging the IV pole in a wide, whistling arc, but AYA ducked underneath, drove a crushing spinning back kick into his solar plexus, and followed with a stiff Mach Punch directly to his masked jaw!

Aaron staggered back into a bank of dead cardiac monitors, the glass shattering behind him. Blood trickled from beneath the stitched leather of his mask. Enraged, the veteran powerhouse lunged forward, locking his arms around AYA’s torso and driving her into an overturned hospital bed with a bone-jarring powerslam.

The steel springs shrieked under the impact. Aaron raised his fist to strike, but AYA trapped his wrist in mid-descent, twisted her hips with blinding speed, and slipped behind him, locking in the Skull End Choke!

Aaron thrashed against the mattress, using his immense strength to try and muscle out of the hold, but AYA cinched the submission tighter, wrapping her legs into a secure body-triangle as the roving referee hovered close to monitor the hold.

Aaron fought hard to break the grip, but with the pressure locked in tight and no leverage to roll free, the veteran realized he had no way out.

Aaron reached down and slapped his open palm firmly against the linoleum three times in submission! The referee immediately called for the bell, and AYA released the hold without hesitation.

Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A monster has been eliminated."

Breathing heavily, AYA reached down and tore the heavy leather executioner hood from Aaron’s head, revealing his sweat-soaked, bloodied face. She gave him a cold nod of respect, climbed out of the shattered bed frame, and disappeared into the shadows of the west corridor.

9:30 PM — Second Floor: Intensive Care Unit & Observation Ward

The damp chill of the west corridor deepened as AYA pushed through the battered swing doors of the Intensive Care Unit. Rows of rusted partition frames stood like ribcages in the gloom, their faded curtains long rotted away. Broken IV stands and shattered monitor glass littered the floor, crunching softly beneath her boots.

Suddenly, the tinny, warped music-box lullaby cycling over the intercom gave a mechanical sputter and cut out entirely.

The silence that rushed into the ward was absolute—suffocating, cold, and heavy.

AYA froze in the center aisle, her breath misting faintly in the dead air. Her combat instincts flared, senses dialed to a razor's edge.

*THUD—SCRAPE!*

Two doors down, in an isolated recovery suite, came the unmistakable sound of a violent scuffle: rubber soles screeching against linoleum, followed by a body being slammed hard into a hollow cinderblock wall. A muffled gasp of pain cut short, swallowed by the darkness.

Slipping into a low, balanced shootboxing stance, AYA moved with lethal silence. She reached the doorframe of Room 4 and pivoted inside, fists raised to strike.

The room was already empty.

In the center of the bay, a torn, mildewed vinyl privacy curtain swung slowly back and forth on rusted ceiling tracks, disturbed only moments before. Beneath it, a fresh smear of dark blood glistened wetly across the chipped white tile, trailing toward a shattered service exit in the back corner.

Half-buried in the plaster dust near the foot of an overturned gurney lay a torn plastic patient wristband, snapped clean at the clasp.

A prickle of cold static ran down the back of AYA’s neck.

She didn't turn her head immediately. Instead, her eyes flicked upward toward the reinforced wire-mesh glass of the elevated nurse observation booth overlooking the ward.

Behind the smudged, unlit pane, barely visible in the dark, stood a motionless silhouette. A pair of cold, reflective eyes stared down from behind a distorted mask, watching her every breath with predatory calculation.

AYA squared her hips toward the observation window, locking her jaw, refusing to give an inch of ground.

*BZZZZT—FLICKER!*

The emergency ballast in the ceiling groaned. The overhead fluorescent tubes surged back to life in a violent, buzzing stutter of harsh yellow light, washing out the shadows.

When AYA’s vision cleared, the observation booth above was completely vacant. Nothing remained behind the glass except dust and peeling paint.

Down the hallway, the warped nursery melody ground back to life over the speakers, pitch-bent and mocking. AYA exhaled a measured breath, stepped over the broken wristband, and moved silently back into the main corridor, continuing her hunt.

9:35 PM — Second Floor: West Wing Pediatric Hallway

Faded, water-damaged cartoon murals peeled from the cracked plaster walls, their cheerful colors warped into grotesque smudges under the dying yellow glare of a flickering ceiling bulb.

From deep inside the ventilation shafts, the eerie music-box melody droned on, accompanied by the distant, hollow hum of the hospital’s failing generator.

Charlie Foxtrot crept down the narrow hallway, his worn sneakers squeaking faintly against the damp linoleum. His faded hospital gown was tied loosely over his wrestling trunks. He kept his back close to the wall, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. Every creak of the floorboards made his pulse spike, but he shook his head, forced his shoulders back, and clenched his taped fists in front of his chest.

"Okay. Okay, just a standard abandoned ward," Charlie muttered under his breath, his voice wavering with forced bravado. "Nothing to worry about. We came, we saw, we kick its ass. Standard operating procedure. Totally normal Saturday night..."

He stepped past an overturned plastic highchair—

*TINK. TINK. TINK.*

A rhythmic, metallic tapping echoed from the pitch-black intersection forty feet ahead.

Charlie froze mid-stride.

Slowly, stepping out from the shadows of an old playroom doorway, a lean, jagged silhouette emerged into the amber light.

It was Eddie Boom.

Over his face sat a cracked, grotesque porcelain jester mask, its wide, razor-toothed painted smile glistening under the grime. Eddie tilted his head all the way to his left shoulder with a sharp, unnatural jerk. In his gloved right hand, he casually dragged a rusted metal crutch against the radiator pipes, sending a series of sharp, metallic sparks dancing across the floor.

Behind the narrow eye-slits of the mask, Eddie’s eyes were wide, bloodshot, and locked dead onto Charlie.

Charlie’s throat went bone-dry. He took an involuntary half-step backward, the hairs on his arms standing on end. But seeing the monster advance, Charlie gritted his teeth, dropped into an amateur wrestling crouch, and raised his hands into a defensive guard.

"Hey! Hey, pal," Charlie called out, his voice cracking slightly before settling into defiant resolve. "Nice mask. Very festive. But if you’re looking for a warm-up, I suggest you take it somewhere else. I'm not in the mood for parlor tricks."

Eddie didn't speak. A muffled, wet giggle hissed through the mouth perforations of the jester mask.

Eddie dropped the rusted crutch with a loud *CLATTER*, crouched low on the balls of his feet, and began stalking forward—slowly at first, rolling his shoulders with twitchy, sadistic glee, before his boots began accelerating into a dead sprint straight down the corridor!

Charlie planted his back foot, preparing to absorb the full-speed charge and counter with a desperation hip toss—

*SNAP-CRACKLE!*

The overhead fluorescent ballast blew out in a violent flash of blue sparks, plunging the entire pediatric wing into absolute, suffocating blackness.

*BANG! CLANG!*

A heavy, industrial magnetic fire door released from the ceiling halfway down the hallway, slamming shut against the concrete floor with the concussive force of an explosion!

A second later, the dull red emergency backlights hummed to life, bathing the corridor in a sinister crimson haze.

Charlie blinked through the sudden gloom. Standing three feet away from him, separated by the reinforced steel fire door, was Eddie.

Eddie’s masked face was pressed flush against the square, wire-mesh glass window. His gloved palms clawed at the glass, leaving greasy smears as his chest heaved with manic, contained laughter. Slowly, Eddie brought a single finger up to the glass and dragged it across his own throat.

Charlie exhaled a long, trembling breath, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He wiped a streak of cold sweat from his forehead with his forearm, gave the masked psychopath on the other side of the glass a tight, nervous nod, and took two steps back.

"Yeah. Rain check, buddy," Charlie whispered.

Without waiting for Eddie to find a way around, Charlie spun on his heel and disappeared into the shadows of the adjacent stairwell.

9:42 PM — Second Floor: Pediatric Ward

Danni Anderson had been running on fear and adrenaline for over an hour, and she had decided somewhere around the second stairwell that she was done with the fear.

She heard the footsteps coming and she did not hide. She stepped out into the middle of the pediatric hallway with her fists up and her gown knotted at the waist.

Veronica Taylor came around the corner in her cracked porcelain doll mask, immaculate from the shoulders down, and stopped.

Veronica Taylor: "Oh. The little cheerleader."

Danni Anderson: "Come find out."

Veronica came. Danni met her with a forearm that snapped the masked head sideways, then a second, then a knee. Veronica gave ground, regrouped, and drove her into the mural wall with a shoulder, and the plaster cracked behind Danni's back.

Danni didn't stay there. She ducked the follow-up, hooked Veronica's leg, and dumped her onto the linoleum. She got on top and landed three clean right hands through the eyeholes of the mask before Veronica threw her off with a boot to the chest.

Both women came up at the same time. Danni was bleeding from the mouth and grinning.

Danni Anderson: "That all you've got?"

Veronica tilted her head, and for the first time the doll mask looked less like a costume and more like a face.

Then the lights went out. Not the slow brown-out of a dying bulb — all at once, the whole ward dropping into absolute black, every mural and doorframe swallowed in the same breath.

Danni froze, blinking, her fists still up. Somewhere to her left, a door opened and shut.

Veronica Taylor: (from the dark, unhurried) "Another time."

By the time Danni's eyes adjusted, the side room was empty and the hallway was hers again. She stood alone in the black, chest heaving, listening to the ward settle.

She wiped her mouth on her forearm and kept moving.

The Hunt — Hour Two: The Darkening Corridors

9:45 PM — Basement: The Abandoned Cafeteria

The basement cafeteria was a vast graveyard of overturned stainless-steel tables, smashed plastic trays, and rotting institutional food service counters. Over the broken ceiling speakers, the distorted music-box melody warped into a slow, discordant drone that seemed to vibrate through the rusting floor drains.

AYA crept into the cavernous room, her pale blue patient gown torn at the shoulder from her earlier clash with Aaron. She moved cautiously past overturned tables, her guard up, scanning the shadows. She reached for an industrial sink, desperately checking the faucet, but only brown rust and dry air hissed from the pipe.

Behind her, the heavy kitchen service doors swung open with a dull thud.

Standing in the doorway was Clayton Halliburton. He wore a bone-white, featureless ballistic skull plate strapped over his head. His eyes through the black mesh were dead, focused, and utterly devoid of emotion.

AYA backed away, her heart hammering against her ribs. She dropped into a defensive stance, fists raised. “Come on, then.”

Clayton didn’t reply. He stepped into the room with terrifying, measured precision, his movements cold and methodical.

AYA grabbed a heavy stainless-steel serving tray from a prep counter and hurled it directly at his face! Clayton caught the tray in mid-air with one hand, tossed it aside without breaking stride, and closed the distance in an instant.

AYA threw a sharp front kick, but Clayton blocked it with effortless technical perfection. He grabbed her leg, swept her standing base, and drove her backward across a steel prep table. AYA fought desperately, firing elbows at the mesh of his mask, drawing a streak of blood from across his temple where the strap bit into his skin, but Clayton hoisted her cleanly off the counter and drove her spine into the concrete with an unforgiving overhead belly-to-belly suplex!

*BOOM!*

AYA gasped as the air exploded from her lungs. Before she could roll over, Clayton trapped her left leg, stepped through, and torqued her knee, locking in a vicious, bone-bending Ankle Lock with an aggressive grapevine.

AYA cried out in agony, clawing at the slick floor as Clayton wrenched the joint back—

*CRACK-HISS!*

An overhead industrial steam pipe ruptured above the prep line in a deafening blast of white-hot vapor and scalding condensate! The sudden shockwave dislodged a rusted ceiling grid, sending a heavy steel ventilation duct crashing down between them with the force of an avalanche!

*CRASH! BANG!*

Clayton broke the hold and rolled backward just as tons of mangled ductwork and jagged drywall smashed into the concrete where they had been grappling. Thick clouds of scalding steam and blinding dust engulfed the room, triggering a piercing, rhythmic emergency klaxon. Through the dense haze, Clayton peered through the mesh of his skull plate. The wreckage blocked his path, and distant heavy footsteps echoed from the service corridor behind him. Without wasting motion, Clayton gave the barrier a cold appraisal, turned on his heel, and stalked away into the shadowed kitchen exit.