On the other side of the debris, AYA coughed through the dust, clutching her throbbing ankle. Battered, bruised, and trailing a thin line of blood down her shin, she dragged herself up against an overturned table, set her jaw with fierce determination, and limped toward the darkened emergency stairwell—still alive, and still in the fight.
9:55 PM — Second Floor: Medical Records & Archives
The oppressive soundscape in the records wing was different from the rest of the hospital. Here, the warped music-box chime was muffled, buried beneath the faint, rhythmic hum of a dying fluorescent ballast and the steady drip of pipe condensation pooling on water-damaged linoleum.
Towering metal shelving units stretched into the gloom, overflowing with rotting cardboard boxes and thousands of yellowed, forgotten patient charts. The air smelled of damp paper, rust, and decades of dust.
Mark Cross moved deliberately down the narrow central aisle, his torn hospital gown fluttering against his black tights. His eyes darted between the towering rows of shelves, his fists loosely clenched, ready for an ambush.
He stepped over a collapsed stack of ledger books—
*CREAAAK!*
A heavy metal drawer shot open to his right.
Mark spun around just as Veronica Taylor lunged from the shadows between two filing units, her sleek, sinister porcelain monster mask gleaming under the amber emergency bulb!
She drove a stiff, running forearm smash right across Mark’s jaw, the impact snapping his head back and slamming his shoulders against a row of steel file cabinets!
*BANG!*
Mark grunted, shaking off the sting, but Veronica pressed her advantage instantly. She fired a pair of sharp, spiteful knees into his ribs, trapping him against the cabinets. Mark absorbed the blows, stepped into the pocket, and cracked a thunderous European uppercut under her masked chin that staggered her backward into the center aisle.
Veronica snarled behind the mask, quickly regaining her footing. Spotting a rusted stainless-steel rolling records cart loaded with heavy archival binders, she gripped the tubular handle and shoved it with all her strength!
*SCREEECH!*
The rusted casters shrieked against the gritty floor. The cart barreled forward like a battering ram!
Mark braced and caught the front rail with both hands, the heavy metal frame slamming hard into his midsection and skidding him back two feet. Grunting from the impact, Mark redirected the momentum, wrenching the cart sideways and violently flipping it onto its side!
*CRASH!*
Hundreds of thick manila folders, heavy medical binders, and loose papers exploded into the air, fluttering across the corridor like dead leaves.
Before the dust could settle, Veronica charged through the falling paper, leaping with a flying double-axe handle. Mark sidestepped, caught her outstretched arm, and whipped her hard across the aisle. Veronica hit an open metal drawer hip-first, stumbling, but spun back with a sweeping back-elbow strike that grazed Mark’s left eyebrow, opening a shallow, stinging cut that beaded with fresh crimson.
Mark wiped the blood from his brow with the back of his wrist, his gaze narrowing with fierce intensity. He closed the distance, hooked Veronica’s head in a front facelock, and muscled her toward an abandoned wooden sorting desk, looking to plant her with a driving vertical suplex—
*THUD! CRACK!*
High above them, echoing down the concrete stairwell shaft from the third floor, a muffled cry of pain and the violent crash of metal against filing cabinets rang out through the ventilation ducts.
Both competitors froze instantly.
Through the narrow eye slits of her mask, Veronica’s gaze flicked upward toward the stairwell, calculating the shift in the hunt. Taking advantage of the momentary pause, she drove a sharp, desperate back-kick into Mark’s shin, broke his grip, and shoved a towering stack of cardboard record boxes into his chest.
The boxes tumbled over, scattering across Mark's boots. By the time Mark kicked the debris aside, Veronica had already slipped through the swinging double doors of the records annex, vanishing into the pitch-black hallway beyond.
Mark stood amidst the sea of torn medical charts, his chest heaving as he wiped another drop of blood from his eyebrow. He stared after her into the dark, his jaw tight with grim determination. He wasn't finished with her, and they both knew it. He moved out after her into the black mouth of the annex hallway.
10:05 PM — Third Floor: East Ward (The Betrayal)
Danni Anderson moved down the narrow, third-floor surgical ward with quiet, hyper-vigilant caution. Her faded hospital gown was tied neatly over her baby-blue wrestling gear, and her eyes were wide with genuine terror as the warped music-box chimes drifted down from the ceiling.
Every creaking floorboard made her jump, but her jaw remained firmly set.
Up ahead, she heard the harsh scrape of boots against the linoleum, followed by a low, muffled laugh.
Danni sprinted toward the noise, rounding the corner into a wide nurse's triage station.
There, two figures stood waiting in the amber gloom—one in a towering, jagged-horned oni mask, the other in a faded hospital gown. It was Amber Payne in the oni mask, and her sister, Nikki Payne, still in her patient gown.
"Hey!" Danni shouted, her maternal, protective fire instantly overriding her fear. "Two-on-one is coward business!"
Danni charged without hesitation, throwing her entire body into a running crossbody block that knocked Nikki Payne into a rusted filing cabinet. Danni spun around, firing rapid, stinging forearm shivers directly into Amber’s jaw, staggering the older Payne sister across the linoleum.
Nikki scrambled back to her feet, tearing off down the hall, and Danni pursued with relentless determination, catching Nikki near the triage desk and planting her with a furious tornado DDT onto the hard floor!
Danni turned to check on the hallway—
*CRACK!*
Amber Payne struck from behind, smashing an iron bedpost across Danni’s exposed back!
Danni cried out, crashing hard to the floor. Before she could recover, Nikki rose from the linoleum with a sadistic sneer, grabbing Danni’s arms and locking her in a full nelson from behind.
"Amber, do it!" Nikki hissed. "Break her!"
Danni thrash-kicked wildly, trying to break Nikki’s grip. "Nikki, stop! We're supposed to be on the same—"
Amber stepped in close, kicking a thick vinyl-covered physical therapy mat beneath them before hooking Danni’s arms. Hoisting Danni high into the air, Amber drove her down flat across the heavy padding with the concussive, breath-stealing force of the Pain Killer!
*THUD!*
The thick vinyl mat absorbed the worst of the impact, but the sheer force knocked the wind completely out of Danni. Slick with sweat and bleeding from a scrape near her temple, Danni lay on the mat dazed and desperately gasping for air, her fingers twitching as she weakly tried to fight up, visibly drained and unable to kick out.
Amber dropped to her knees, hooking both of Danni’s legs tightly.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
The referee signaled the elimination.
Nikki and Amber stood over Danni's motionless form, exchanging a cold, triumphant fist-bump before stepping over her body and disappearing down the east stairwell into the darkness.
Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A patient has been eliminated."
10:20 PM — Second Floor: Medical Records & Archives
The hospital archives were a suffocating labyrinth of towering, rusted metal shelves overflowing with thousands of decaying medical folders and water-logged charts.
Twenty-five minutes later, Veronica Taylor was still in the records wing, working her way through the deep stacks at the far end of the archive, where the aisles ran narrow and the ceiling sagged. She had doubled back twice looking for a clean way out and found only more shelves. She walked slowly down one of the aisles, her cracked porcelain doll mask catching the dim beam of her pocket flashlight. She was examining her reflection in a glass cabinet door when a shadow detached itself from the end of the aisle.
Mark Cross stepped into the light. He had tracked her through the dark the whole way, losing her trail twice among the shelves before he found it again. His hospital gown was torn down the center, his chest bruised and slick with sweat, his eyes burning with intense, veteran focus.
"End of the line, dollface," Mark said, cracking his knuckles.
Veronica didn't flinch. She reached out, grabbed a massive handful of moldy patient records, and hurled them directly into Mark's face!
While Mark shielded his eyes, Veronica lunged forward, driving a sharp European uppercut into his jaw, followed by a vicious running knee into his gut. Mark grunted, stumbling back against a metal shelf. Veronica grabbed his head, setting up for her Implant DDT—
Mark blocked the lift, hooked her hips, and drove her backward across an old oak consultation desk with a thunderous spinebuster that shattered the wooden legs!
Veronica cried out in shock, rolling off the debris onto a thick rubber runner between the shelving rows. Before she could regain her footing, Mark crossed the aisle, rebounded off the metal shelving, and drilled her flush with a brutal, pinpoint Shining Wizard!
*CRACK!*
Veronica’s porcelain mask shattered down the center, the impact opening a bloody cut along her hairline as she slammed back onto the heavy runner. Dazed, glassy-eyed, and clutching at the floor, she lay gasping for air—conscious but thoroughly stunned, unable to answer the referee's quick verbal check or muster the strength to kick out.
Mark dropped into the cover, hooking her leg tightly.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
Mark sat up, breathing heavily. He reached down, pulled the shattered porcelain fragments off Veronica’s face, and tossed them onto the pile of ruined medical charts.
Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A monster has been eliminated."
Mark stood up, wiped sweat from his eyes, and pressed deeper into the facility.
10:22 PM — Third Floor: Psychiatric Wing Corridor
Kimberly Hart was not supposed to be on the third floor. She had taken a wrong stairwell twenty minutes ago and had been paying for it ever since.
The padded corridor ran long and red under the emergency beacons. Halfway down it, a figure stepped out of a side room and filled the hallway.
Max Ironside wore the iron-riveted welder's mask. He did not say anything. He rolled his shoulders once, the way he did before every match he had ever wrestled.
Kimberly Hart: "You're not supposed to be up here either."
Max Ironside: "Doesn't matter now."
They collided in the middle of the corridor. Kimberly was faster. Max was heavier and had twenty years of knowing exactly where to put his weight. He caught her crossbody out of the air and drove her into the padded wall. She came off it with a headbutt that rang the mask, and he staggered half a step and came back in.
She got behind him. He reversed her. She got a choke. He walked her backward into the wall until she had to let go.
Neither could get a grip that held. Kimberly was quicker in the open, but every time she found space, Max was already turning into her, and every time he got his hands on her, she slipped out before he could set his weight. They broke apart, came back together, broke apart again, and the corridor filled with the sound of two people who had been doing this too long to hand each other a clean opening.
Then, from somewhere deep in the hospital's bones, an old fire bell began to clang — slow, iron, indifferent, the kind of alarm no one had answered in years. It rolled down the padded corridor and would not stop.
Max Ironside: "That's not for us."
Kimberly Hart: "No."
They broke apart. Kimberly felt along the wall until she found a doorframe and went through it. Max stood where he was for a count of ten, listening to the bell, then moved off in the other direction, boots fading down the corridor.
10:35 PM — Psychiatric Wing: The Isolation Ward
Down in the sealed Psychiatric Ward, the walls were covered in cracked, yellowing padded leather. Rusted iron bars blocked every window, and a single red emergency beacon spun slowly on the ceiling, bathing the hallway in pulses of crimson light.
Charlie Foxtrot moved down the hall with his fists up, his eyes darting frantically between the padded cells. He was breathing heavily, his faded hospital gown damp with nervous sweat.
"Okay... okay... Ghostbusters rule number one," Charlie muttered to himself, trying desperately to stay brave. "It's just an old hospital. No ghosts. Just weirdos in bad costumes. You've fought worse than this, Kingston... way worse..."
From the end of the hall, the sound of manic, breathless cackling echoed through the padding.
The double doors swung open violently.
Eddie Boom stepped into the crimson light. He wore a grotesque, grinning jester mask with bulging, bloodshot eyes and rusted wire stitching across the mouth. In his hands, he spun the rusted metal crutch, its bent aluminum frame catching the crimson light.
Eddie’s eyes through the mask locked onto Charlie with pure, sadistic hunger. "Found you, Charlie boy!" Eddie screamed, his voice distorted and manic. "Time for your medicine!"
Eddie charged with frantic speed, swinging the steel crutch directly at Charlie's head!
Charlie ducked beneath the whistling steel, stepped in close, and fired a furious barrage of right hands into Eddie's ribs. Eddie wheezed, dropping the crutch, but grabbed Charlie by the hair, dragging his face hard across the rough, padded wall.
Charlie’s forehead grazed against exposed rusted wire, tearing open a gash above his eyebrow. Blood trickled down his temple, but Charlie fought back with sheer heart, throwing a crisp belly-to-back suplex that planted Eddie onto the hard floor!
Charlie scrambled to his feet, setting up for Relic—
Eddie caught Charlie low with a desperate back-kick, hooked Charlie's arms behind his back, hoisted him into the air, and drilled his spine directly into the concrete floor with The Final Bow!
*THUD!*
Charlie's head snapped back against the floor, his vision swimming as his body went limp.
Eddie dropped into the cover, laughing hysterically into Charlie’s face.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A patient has been eliminated."
Eddie stood up, kicking Charlie’s prone leg with a mocking laugh, before turning and wandering down the adjacent stairwell, his cackling fading into the dark.
Charlie lay groaning on the floor, his hand clutching his bleeding forehead as he tried to pull himself up against the padded wall.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached from the shadows.
Clayton Halliburton stepped into the crimson glow of the emergency beacon, his bone-white skull plate catching the light. He stared down at the eliminated Rising Star Champion with cold, calculated disgust.
Charlie looked up through blurry, bloodied eyes. "Clayton... the match is over... I'm out..."
Clayton didn't care.
Without a word, Clayton dropped his full weight onto Charlie's chest, mounting him, and unleashed a cold, measured, brutal barrage of closed-fist strikes directly into Charlie's face!
*SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!*
Charlie covered his head in agony as Clayton’s knuckles tore open a second cut near his cheekbone.
Two referees and Splat! road agents burst through the fire doors, shouting at the top of their lungs: "Clayton, back off! He’s eliminated! GET OFF HIM!"
The referees physically tackled Clayton, wrapping their arms around his chest and pulling him off Charlie with immense effort. Clayton didn't resist; he simply stood up, adjusted his white skull plate, and cast one final, dismissive look at Charlie before calmly walking away into the gloom.
Medics rushed to Charlie's side with clean towels and ice packs, lifting the battered champion to his feet and supporting his weight as they helped him out through the side door.
10:45 PM — Isolation Wing: West Service Corridor
The heavy iron fire door latched shut with a dull, hollow thud, cutting off the muffled voices of the medical staff as they helped Charlie Foxtrot out through the side door.
Silence rushed back into the isolation wing, cold and suffocating.
Clayton Halliburton stood motionless in the narrow hallway. Plaster dust drifted down through the red emergency glow, settling across the broad shoulders of his dark ring gear. Behind the bone-white ballistic skull plate, his breathing remained slow, deep, and measured—not winded, but simmering with venomous, calculating discontent. Charlie was supposed to be his statement to make, yet another predator had stolen the pinfall before Clayton could dismantle the Rising Star Champion on his own terms.
From deep within the ventilation shafts two corridors away, a manic, high-pitched cackle bounced through the rusted iron grating.
*HEHEHEHEH... AHAHAHA!*
Eddie Boom’s taunting, theatrical laughter echoed down the concrete hallway, warped and distant.
Clayton’s masked head snapped toward the noise. He turned and stalked down the hallway, his boots stepping silently over pulverized drywall and peeled linoleum. He moved with cold predatory precision, tracking the sound past an overturned intake partition and into the darkened elevator junction.
Near the threshold of the service shaft, something caught the dim amber beam of a dying exit sign.
Lying on the grimy floor was the battered metal crutch Eddie had carried all night, knocked from his hands when the Rising Star Champion fought back.
Clayton stopped. He stared down at the discarded prop with utter, unblinking contempt.
He raised his heavy combat boot and brought it crashing down with immense force.
*CRUNCH!*
The aluminum frame buckled and snapped beneath his heel. Clayton ground his sole into the wreckage, crushing the bent tubing against the bare concrete until nothing remained but twisted metal and shattered rubber.
Above his head, the warped music-box lullaby drifting through the ceiling horns abruptly groaned, pitch-shifting downward into a hollow, grinding mechanical drone. The amber emergency light flickered twice and died, plunging the hallway into suffocating blackness.
When the red backup beacon pulsed to life three seconds later, the corridor was completely empty. Clayton had already vanished into the shadows, descending toward the lower wards.
The Hunt — Hour Three: The Final Reckoning
10:55 PM — First Floor: Emergency Room Trauma Bay
Eddie Boom jogged into the wide, tiled Emergency Room bay, still riding the sadistic adrenaline of his victory over Charlie. He kicked over a plastic trash bin, spinning in a circle with open arms. "Who's next?! Come get some!"
From the darkened ambulance intake bay, Mark Cross charged like an enraged bull!
Mark tackled Eddie across an overturned stainless-steel crash cart, sending medical supplies scattering in every direction. Mark hauled Eddie up by his jester mask, firing a blistering flurry of stiff European uppercuts that backed Eddie across the room.
Eddie swung an IV stand in desperation, but Mark blocked it with his forearm, hoisted Eddie onto his shoulders, and drove him down onto a folded vinyl medical crash pad with a thunderous Go 2 Sleep!
*CRACK!*
The knee strike caught Eddie flush against the jester mask, sending him crashing down onto the heavy padding. Eddie lay flat on the mat, conscious but dazed and clutching his jaw, completely winded and unable to kick out.
The roving referee slid into position to verify the pin as Mark hooked the leg immediately.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
Mark tore the grotesque jester mask off Eddie’s face, tossing it in disgust onto the floor.
Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A monster has been eliminated."
10:58 PM — First Floor: Central Stairwell Shaft
The heavy swinging doors of the Emergency Room trauma bay wheezed shut behind Mark Cross.
He moved through the shadowed triage corridor, wiping a streak of sweat and pulverized plaster from his forehead. His tattered pale blue patient gown was soaked, his chest heaving after the violent collision with Eddie Boom. Through the reinforced concrete ceiling above, the muffled, frantic scrape of rubber soles echoed down the ventilation shafts—a patient, isolated and running for their life along the upper floor.
Mark quickened his pace toward the central stairwell, his boots gripping the grimy linoleum.
He rounded the reinforced concrete archway at the base of the stairs—
A broad-shouldered shadow lunged from the recess beneath the landing!
Mark reacted on pure instinct, throwing his forearm up to block a vicious, clubbing lariat from Clayton Halliburton. The ballistic white skull plate of Clayton’s monster mask loomed inches away in the amber gloom.
Clayton drove his shoulder hard into Mark’s midsection, ramming him backward against the reinforced cinderblock wall!
*THUD!*
Mark absorbed the impact, snarled, and fired two stiff, piston-like European uppercuts straight into Clayton’s ribs, pivoting his hips to reverse their momentum and shove Clayton toward the iron banister. Clayton dug his boots into the grit, countered the leverage, and snapped Mark down with a heavy, driving front-chancery knee lift that knocked the wind from the veteran's lungs.
Clayton reached to trap Mark's arm for a grounded hammerlock, but Mark countered with sharp veteran technique, snapping off an explosive arm drag that sent Clayton skidding across the concrete landing!
Clayton rolled through and sprang back up into a low, coiled grappling crouch. Mark reset his stance, fists raised, his eyes locked onto the cold slits of Clayton's visor.
Clayton held Mark's gaze for one long, chilling second, then slowly backed away into the pitch-black corridor leading toward the south mechanical corridors. Mark stepped back from the barricade, turned on his heel, and took the exterior service ramp leading upward toward the west wing.
11:00 PM — Second Floor: Surgical Wing
Every shadow stretched unnaturally across the peeling linoleum of the surgical wing. Kimberly Hart moved down the corridor with her fists up, her hospital gown torn at the shoulder, her breathing tight and controlled.
*RATTLE!*
A rusted stainless-steel IV stand wobbled at the end of the dark corridor.
Kimberly spun around, her fists coming up in a defensive guard. Out of the pitch-black alcove of the decontamination room, Binka Moab charged—her grotesque, elongated plague-doctor mask catching the sickly amber glow of an emergency ballast!
Binka lunged with a running double-axe handle, driving Kimberly back against a row of dented instrument cabinets!
*CRASH-BAM!*
The metal groaned under the impact. Binka fired two stiff forearms directly into Kimberly’s ribs, attempting to seize Kimberly’s right wrist to isolate the joint. But Kimberly reacted with desperate fury—she snapped a vicious headbutt into Binka’s masked brow, followed by a sharp palm strike to the throat that forced the monster to stumble backward.
Seizing the opening, Kimberly charged. She drove Binka spine-first onto an abandoned gurney, snapped her up by the arm, and planted her flat onto the gritty tile with a crisp, driving snap suplex!
Binka gasped as the air left her lungs. Kimberly dropped straight into a lateral press, hooking the far leg!
The roving floor referee materialized out of the gloom, sliding to the floor to count!
ONE!
TWO!
Binka thrashed her shoulder up with a desperate heave, digging her fingers into Kimberly’s eyes through the eyeholes of her mask to break the pin!
Kimberly recoiled, blinking away stinging tears. She shook her head, pushed herself up, and stalked Binka as the monster scrambled toward the double doors of the surgical block.
Kimberly measured her distance, cocking her leg to unleash her signature spinning heel kick—setting up Shattered Dreams to end it right there!
Kimberly swung the kick with full momentum—
Binka ducked underneath the strike at the final microsecond! Kimberly’s boot cut empty air, and Binka used the missed rotation to shove Kimberly violently into the wall before sprinting through the swinging double doors into the darkened amphitheater ahead.
Kimberly pushed off the cinderblocks, ready to pursue—
*SNAP!*
A ballast exploded above in a shower of dead sparks.
The entire corridor instantly plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
Dead silence fell over the hallway, broken only by Kimberly’s heavy, ragged panting and the distant, dissonant chime of the music box winding down in the vents.
Seconds later, the emergency backup lights buzzed weakly back to life, bathing the hallway in deep, blood-red luminescence.
The corridor was empty. The swinging doors of Operating Room Two creaked gently on their hinges, swaying in the draft.
Kimberly wiped a smear of sweat from her forehead, took a slow, steadying breath, and pushed through the heavy doors into the theater.
11:05 PM — Operating Room Two
In the circular amphitheater of OR 2, the massive overhead surgical lamp hung crookedly, casting harsh shadows over the rusted central operating table.
Kimberly Hart backed across the room, her hospital gown torn at the shoulder, facing off against Binka Moab, who wore the elongated plague-doctor mask over her dark hair.
Kimberly lunged with a desperate side kick, attempting Shattered Dreams, but Binka sidestepped with surgical precision, tripped Kimberly’s plant leg, and dragged her arm across the base of the surgical table, locking in the agonizing, hyper-technical torque of the Architeuthis!
Kimberly screamed in agony, her shoulder torqued at a terrifying angle. With nowhere to go, Kimberly tapped out frantically against the steel base!
*TAP! TAP! TAP!*
Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A patient has been eliminated."
11:10 PM — Surgical Scrub Bay & Hallway Junction
The heavy pneumatic doors of Operating Room Two hissed as Binka Moab backed out into the dim hallway. She adjusted the leather straps of her plague-doctor mask, her breathing fast and shallow, her dark ring gear damp with sweat.
Behind her, the muffled groans of Kimberly Hart faded as medical staff tended to the eliminated patient.
Binka paused at the tiled scrub bay, resting one hand against a row of rusted stainless-steel sinks.
The tinny, distorted nursery chime drifted down the vents, followed by a sudden, metallic scrape from the blind corner fifteen yards down the hall.
*SCRAPE... CLACK.*
Binka froze. She pressed her back against the tiled partition, scanning the corridor. The red emergency bulb at the junction buzzed erratically, throwing long, skeletal shadows across the floor.
She never saw the shadow detach itself from the decontamination alcove.
Felicia Atherton exploded out of the dark, driving her shoulder into Binka’s midsection and slamming her against the tiled wall!
*BANG!*
Before the monster could gather herself, Felicia hooked Binka’s arm, spun behind her, and locked in a wrenching, double-wristlock Bratty Lock Kimura! Binka thrashed against the wall, her plague-doctor mask scraping the tile, but Felicia cranked back with cold, vengeful leverage until Binka slapped the wall three times in submission!
*TAP! TAP! TAP!*
Felicia released the hold and stepped back, her chest heaving. Overhead, the speakers buzzed.
Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A monster has been eliminated."
Felicia didn’t linger. From the far end of the intersecting hallway, the sound of slow, heavy velvet rustling scraped against the floorboards, accompanied by the distinct, rhythmic tap of boots walking unhurriedly through the dark. A freezing draft swept past the corner, carrying the faint scent of incense and damp wood. She spun around, breaking into a sprint down the north corridor toward the arched double doors of the hospital chapel.
11:15 PM — The Hospital Chapel
Felicia strutted into the dark hospital chapel, her faded hospital gown pale beneath the shattered stained-glass windows.
Standing at the ruined wooden altar was Morrigan Ravenshade, draped in a pitch-black shroud and wearing a bone-carved raven skull mask.
Felicia stopped cold, attempting to back out of the chapel doors, but Morrigan was already moving. Morrigan vaulted over a shattered pew, caught Felicia in mid-stride, and planted her with Raven's Descent directly onto the wooden floorboards!
Before Felicia could recover, Morrigan dropped over her back, fish-hooked Felicia’s jaw, and applied the agonizing, inescapable torque of Last Rites!
Felicia tapped out instantly in sheer panic!
Morrigan released the hold, calmly rose, and stood over Felicia’s motionless form, her bone-carved raven skull mask expressionless in the dim light.
Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A patient has been eliminated."
11:18 PM — North Vestry & Sub-Level Corridor
A draft of freezing autumn air swept through the chapel’s ruined transept, carrying the scent of damp earth and pulverized plaster.
Morrigan Ravenshade stepped over the splintered communion rail, her bone-carved raven skull mask stark against the velvet black shroud draped over her shoulders. She moved silently through the arched vestry doorway, her boots making no sound against the cold terrazzo tiles of the north corridor.
*CRASH!*
Just beyond the heavy firebreak doors ten yards ahead, the violent shudder of wood splintering against cinderblock shattered the quiet.
Morrigan froze, pressing her back against the shadowed alcove of a recessed confessional.
Out of her direct sightline, in the pitch-black junction leading down to the lower mechanical levels, Mark Cross and Max Ironside collided in a furious, close-quarters brawl. Mark drove stiff European uppercuts into the iron-riveted welder's mask concealing Max’s face, but Max absorbed the blows with veteran grit, shooting a double-leg takedown and driving Mark spine-first through the rotting plywood door of an old utility office!
*BANG!*
The two veterans crashed onto the floor amidst collapsing metal shelving. Max threw heavy, short-range hammerfists into Mark's ribs, trying to isolate an arm for a grounded crossface, but Mark rolled through the debris, planting an elbow into Max’s jaw and driving him backward against an exposed water main.
*SCREEECH—TONK...*
Then the air in the room changed. A cold draft moved through the broken doorway, carrying with it the faint, unmistakable smell of incense and damp earth, and the sense — sudden and absolute — that the two of them were no longer alone.
Both men broke the clinch at once. Neither could see anyone in the dark of the junction, and neither wanted to be the one still grappling when whoever it was stepped into the light. They scrambled to their feet and disengaged. Heavy footsteps echoed down the south ramp as one figure retreated toward the service stairs, while the other slipped out through an emergency maintenance hatch leading deep into the basement.
Morrigan stepped out from the confessional archway, stalking cautiously toward the shattered utility office doorway.
Dust hung suspended in the dim amber beam of a flickering exit sign. The room was empty, the combatants already vanished into the lower labyrinths.
At her feet, half-buried under crushed acoustic tiles and splintered wood, lay a discarded, cracked mask—its painted features torn and caked in grit, impossible to recognize in the gloom.
Morrigan looked down at the ruined shell, her masked head tilting in quiet contemplation, before turning toward the cold draft flowing upward from the sub-level stairwell.
11:22 PM — Basement Boiler Room
Deep beneath the hospital, steam hissed from rusted overhead pipes as Max Ironside—wearing a brutal, iron-riveted welder’s mask—squared off with Mark Cross.
The two veterans traded punishing blows amidst the heat and gloom. Max went for Han-decapitation, but Mark reversed the momentum, hoisted Max into the air, and drilled him into a pile of heavy canvas laundry sacks with the Ketteiteki Desaki (Tiger Driver '91)!
Mark covered:
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
Mark removed Max's iron mask with a respectful nod, helping his longtime peer sit up before heading back up the stairwell.
Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A monster has been eliminated."
11:23 PM — Second Floor: Medical Records & Archives
The distorted music box melody hummed faintly through the ceiling vents, warped by static.
Nikki Payne crept through the row of rusted metal filing cabinets in the records archive, her faded patient gown ghostly in the dying yellow light of an emergency tube. Hearing the heavy crunch of boots on pulverized plaster, she quickened her pace, rounding the bent frame of the office doorway just as Amber Payne stepped out of the shadows of the adjoining ward.
"Took you long enough," Nikki hissed in a harsh whisper, stepping directly into Amber's path. "You're burning energy hunting solo when we should be clearing the floor together."
Amber adjusted the strap of her full-face crimson oni mask, her breathing ragged behind the mesh. "We took Danni out earlier because we had to take her out of the equation—and you nearly blew our cover hesitating before I made the pin."
"I didn't hesitate," Nikki snapped, stepping closer, her gloved fingers clenching into fists. "I made sure she was broken in half first so you didn't botch the finish. Don't act like you're running this team."
*CRASH!*
Before Amber could fire back, the rusted door of an adjacent utility closet burst open!
A tall, masked silhouette lunged out of the pitch-black void, swinging the heavy lid of a galvanized trash bin straight at Nikki's head!
Nikki ducked by inches, the whistling metal passing just over her head. Operating on pure reflex, Amber surged forward, driving a vicious double-forearm smash directly into the attacker's midsection! The figure—GT, his jagged vampire mask gleaming in the dim emergency light—stumbled back against the drywall, but recovered instantly, swinging a wild backhand chop that clipped Amber's shoulder.
Nikki drove her boot hard into his gut, hooking one arm while Amber seized the other. Together, the Payne sisters used their synchronized momentum to violently launch GT spine-first into a bank of steel lockers!
*CLANG-BANG!*
The lockers dented with a deafening rattle. Nikki fired a brutal knee lift to his ribs while Amber cocked an overhand right—but GT dropped low, swept Nikki's lead ankle, and shoved a heavy, wheeled supply cart straight between them!
The cart crashed into Amber's shins, forcing her back. For a split second, GT's masked gaze flicked between the two sisters closing in from either side, reading the trap for exactly what it was—two-on-one, with no exit but the fire door behind him. He didn't wait to find out how it ended. By the time Nikki scrambled back to her feet, GT had already kicked open the swinging fire door at the end of the aisle, vanishing into the pitch-black service corridor.
Nikki wiped a streak of drywall dust from her brow, her chest heaving as the door slowly swung shut on its rusted hinge.
"This floor is crawling," Amber muttered, resetting her footing and casting a wary glance toward the darkened north hallway. "We separate. Cover more ground."
"Just don't get in my way," Nikki spat, adjusting her gown and turning sharply toward the east stairwell that led up toward the roof.
11:26 PM — First Floor: East Service Corridor
Faint, discordant music-box melodies drifted through the ventilation ducts, warping into a hollow metallic rattle.
Poema Tua moved along the narrow service corridor, keeping her back pressed against the stained cinderblock wall. Her hospital gown was frayed and flecked with dust, her breathing ragged. At the intersection of the linen chutes, she stopped, catching the rhythmic, deliberate scrape of heavy boots against gritty linoleum.
From behind a row of collapsed aluminum privacy screens, Amber Payne stepped into the amber glow of a flickering emergency fixture, the curled horns of her crimson oni mask catching the dim light.
Without a word, Amber charged.
Poema braced and met her head-on. The two collided with a sickening thud, trading fierce, close-quarter forearm strikes that echoed down the enclosed corridor. Amber shoved Poema backward, grabbing the footboard of an abandoned, rusted rolling hospital bed and hurling it forward like a battering ram!
*SCREEECH!*
The rusted casters shrieked against the tile. Poema sidestepped just in time, allowing the heavy iron bed to smash into the wall, gouging a deep trench of plaster. As Amber lunged forward to capitalize, Poema ducked underneath a wild right hook, captured Amber’s outstretched arm, and dropped flat to the floor, instantly snaring Amber in a lightning-fast flying cross armbar!
Amber cried out in muffled rage behind her mask, her boots thrashing wildly against the baseboard as Poema hyperextended the elbow, wrenching back with all her remaining strength. For several agonizing seconds, Amber appeared on the verge of tapping, her free hand hovering over the floor.
Refusing to break, Amber used her sheer lower-body power to hoist Poema slightly off the floor, violently driving Poema’s spine into the jagged steel wheel-lock of the hospital bed!
The impact broke Poema's grip.
Poema gasped, clutching her back as she rolled free, a shallow scrape along her brow beading with fresh crimson. Amber scrambled to her feet, panting heavily, clutching her wrenched shoulder. She kicked the privacy screen between them aside with a violent clatter, ready to close in for the kill.
Then, without warning, the creepy music abruptly cut off.
Absolute, dead silence swallowed the hospital.
*SLAM!*
High above them, a heavy steel fire door violently slammed shut, sending a concussive shockwave through the corridor walls, followed by the distant, hollow dragging sound of iron against concrete.
Both women instantly froze.
Amber lowered her guard a fraction, her eyes narrowing behind the black mesh of her oni mask as she stared down the corridor toward the noise. She took two measured steps backward, keeping her eyes fixed on Poema, before slipping into the darkened service stairwell and vanishing up the stairs.
Poema pushed herself up against the battered bedframe, wiping the blood from her forehead. She took one deep, unsteady breath, held her aching ribs, and stalked toward the opposite stairwell.
11:30 PM — Second Floor Hallway
Poema Tua staggered down the second-floor corridor, exhausted, only to be ambushed by Amber Payne in her horned oni mask.
Poema mounted a fiery comeback, hitting the Tropical Twist, but Amber blindsided her with a metal privacy screen, drove her through an office doorway with a brutal spear, and spiked her into an overturned desk with the Pain Killer!
Amber covered for the three-count.
Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A patient has been eliminated."
11:38 PM — Rooftop Stairwell Landing
Nikki Payne retreated onto the wide rooftop stairwell landing, searching desperately for an exit door, when a tall figure stepped out from the shadowy access hallway ahead, blocking her escape—GT, his jagged vampire mask catching the dim red glow, his long trench coat hanging loose. It was the same masked figure who had ambushed her and Amber in the records archive, back to finish the job—and this time, there was no sister at her side to even the odds.
Nikki threw a frantic forearm strike, but GT blocked the shot, backed her against the heavy steel safety rail, and fired back with a stinging flurry of open-hand chops. Desperate to break away, Nikki raked at his eyes, spun him toward the doorway, and attempted a snap swinging neckbreaker. GT countered with theatrical ease, stopping her mid-rotation, hoisting her up, and planting her flat across the thick rubber utility matting with a thunderous slam!
GT dropped down and hooked the far leg: ONE! TWO! THREE!
GT rose, adjusting his vampire mask, and gave a slow, mocking bow to the empty landing as the roving referee signaled the elimination. Nikki lay on the heavy rubber flooring, bloodied, battered, and utterly exhausted, staring up at the monster with fury.
Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A patient has been eliminated."
11:41 PM — Rooftop Access Landing & Upper Stairwell
A cold, damp draft whistled through the cracked steel frame of the rooftop access door, carrying the faint, distorted notes of the hospital’s nursery lullaby.
Amber Payne stepped onto the upper concrete landing, her boots crunching over loose gravel and flaking paint. The crimson oni mask hid her face, but her posture was tense, coiled like a spring.
She scanned the empty landing, her breath fogging behind the mask. There was no sign of Nikki anywhere. A cold certainty settled in her gut. Nikki was out.
*SCRATCH...*
A faint, deliberate scrape behind her made Amber freeze. She rose in one fluid motion, spinning around and dropping into a defensive stance.
The landing was empty, but the shadows cast by the flickering red emergency beacon seemed to stretch and shift against the rusted drywall.
From the adjoining corridor, a silhouette moved fast.
AYA stepped into the stairwell light, her tattered pale blue patient gown stained with dust, her fists wrapped and raised in a tight combat stance.
There was no hesitation. Amber lunged forward, throwing a heavy overhand right. AYA slipped beneath the blow, fired a rapid two-piece combination of open-palm strikes to Amber’s ribs, and drove a vicious low kick into Amber’s lead thigh! Amber grunted behind her mask, absorbed the impact, and surged straight into AYA, using her raw power to drive her backward into the heavy iron banister!
*CLANG!*
The metal railing groaned under their weight. Amber fired a sharp forearm smash across AYA’s collarbone, trying to hook her head for a snap suplex against the concrete floor. AYA fought the grip with razor-sharp technique, driving her elbow into Amber’s temple, pivoting on her heel, and snapping Amber over with an explosive arm drag that sent the monster skidding across the grit!
Amber scrambled back to her feet instantly, her chest heaving, fists raised to re-engage. AYA reset her footing, her stoic gaze locked dead on her opponent.
*CLOMP... CLOMP... CLOMP...*
From two flights below, the unmistakable sound of heavy combat boots struck the iron stairs, echoing upward in a slow, deliberate cadence. Amber’s masked head snapped toward the central stairwell shaft. She leaned over the railing for half a second, staring down into the pitch-black void where the approaching steps were steadily climbing. AYA didn’t drop her guard, but she took a measured step backward toward the descending service ramp, reading the danger instantly. A prolonged brawl on an open landing with another predator closing in meant suicide.
Without a word, Amber backed through the heavy fire door toward the east wing, melting into the shadows. AYA watched the doorway seal shut, then turned and slipped swiftly down the opposite corridor, cutting across the second-floor catwalk toward the lower courtyard.
11:45 PM — The Solarium & Overgrown Courtyard
Down in the shattered glass solarium, AYA confronted Morrigan Ravenshade. The two skilled fighters traded stiff strikes under the moonlight. Morrigan attempted her Last Rites, but AYA reversed the leverage, swept Morrigan’s legs out, and locked in the Scissors Texas Clover Clutch with agonizing force! Morrigan held out for five grueling seconds before tapping the glass-strewn floor! AYA reached down, removed Morrigan’s raven-skull mask, and took a deep breath of night air.
Mia Rivera (over P.A.): "A monster has been eliminated."
11:46 PM — East Service Stairwell
The heavy, decaying silence of the solarium was broken only by the distant, discordant music box cycling endlessly through the hospital’s speaker system.
AYA dropped the cracked raven mask onto the shattered floorboards. She wiped a bead of sweat from her brow, her breathing steady, her guard remaining completely high.
Above her head, through the rusted metal grating of the ceiling, came the sharp, unmistakable scrape of combat boots on iron treads.
She moved immediately. Slipping through the bent fire door at the rear of the courtyard, AYA entered the pitch-black shaft of the east service stairwell. A solitary red emergency bulb buzzed weakly on the second-floor landing, casting long, skeletal shadows up the concrete walls. She ascended in total silence, taking the stairs two at a time—
A silhouette surged downward around the corner! In the blinding dark, pure survival instinct took over. AYA threw a lightning-fast spinning back kick toward the shadow’s midsection. The charging figure caught her shin on his forearm, absorbed the blow with a grunt, and used the forward momentum to drive AYA hard against the iron handrail!
*CLANG!*
AYA snapped an open-palm strike straight up into her attacker's chin, followed by a stiff knee to the ribs to break the clinch. She pivoted, ready to lock in a standing guillotine—when the faint red emergency light caught the tattered pale blue fabric of a hospital gown and the unmistakable, beard-stubbled face of Mark Cross.
Mark’s hands flew up in an instant defensive parry. "Whoa—hold it!" he breathed, his voice raw and raspy from three hours of brutal combat.
AYA lowered her strike an inch, her eyes narrowing as she recognized her fellow patient. Both fighters were drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, their knuckles split and their gowns torn to shreds.
Before either could speak another word, something heavy came down hard on the floor above — a body, or something like one — and a length of metal clattered after it across the concrete.
Mark’s gaze snapped upward. His jaw set with fierce determination. He glanced back at AYA, gave one sharp nod toward the stairs, and broke away—sprinting silently up the next flight to hunt down the noise before it could flank them.
AYA stood alone on the mid-landing as Mark's footsteps faded into the upper corridor. The creepy, warped lullaby drifted down the stairwell shaft once more, cold and mocking. AYA reached out to steady herself against the rusted banister—and pulled her hand back as her fingertips pressed into a fresh, warm smear of blood glistening across the iron rail. She stared into the ascending darkness, raised her fists, and stepped forward.
11:48 PM — Second Floor: Surgical Prep Corridor
High above the central wards, the droning ambient soundscape mutated. The discordant music-box chimes dissolved into a low, rumbling brass drone that vibrated straight through the floorboards like an idling engine. Water dripped steadily into an empty stainless-steel basin.
Mark Cross moved swiftly down the narrow prep corridor, his chest heaving, his knuckles bruised and swollen. He kept one hand pressed against the tiled wall to steady his pace, his eyes scanning every shadowed doorway for movement.
A sudden rush of air came from his blind spot. Clayton Halliburton exploded out of a darkened scrub room, driving his shoulder directly into Mark’s midsection and slamming him hard against a row of rusted supply lockers!
*BANG!*
The metal lockers rattled violently. Mark grunted, instantly wrapping an arm around Clayton’s neck to attempt a guillotine choke, but Clayton drove his legs forward with ruthless power, muscling Mark down the corridor and planting him onto the floor with a heavy, driving double-leg takedown.
The two grappled furiously across the damp tile. Clayton fired a pair of stiff, close-range forearms across Mark’s jaw, attempting to isolate an arm for his signature crossface. Mark kicked his legs free, bridged his hips, and snapped a sharp up-kick against the side of Clayton’s white ballistic skull plate. The strike created just enough separation for Mark to scramble to his feet.