Smoke curled upward.

  The red glow of the cigarette flickered across John’s gaunt face.

  He frowned at the old control panel, its lights blinking with error warnings.

  A small explosion popped, scattering blue sparks.

  “Damn it. The entire 13th floor, including all shortcuts to the 9th, is sealed off.”

  John yanked the cable from the console.

  He cursed, stomped out his cigarette, then pulled another one from his pocket.

  Smoke spread through the narrow hallway, thick as fog.

  “Do you know what that means, Z-69?” John’s voice rasped.

  Z-69 glanced at the pile of cigarette butts at his feet.

  He counted silently. Twelve. Maybe thirteen.

  “What does it mean?” he asked quietly.

  John sighed, exhaling a thin white cloud.

  “It means we’ll have to go up through the upper floors of the Silent Sanctuary to get out.

  And trust me… tonight’s going to be a long one.”

  Z-69 raised an eyebrow. “I just woke up, so I’m not sure… but what’s up there that makes you look like we’re heading straight into hell?”

  John scratched his chin. “How to put it… the Sanctuary is full of things that aren’t exactly friendly anymore.”

  Z-69 stared. “I’m guessing… you had something to do with that?”

  John gave a dry laugh. “Everything gets blamed on the old man—so unfair. Come on, before the ‘unfriendly ones’ hear us talking behind their backs.”

  They stopped before a rusted internal elevator. The steel doors were locked tight.

  John bent down to the panel, fingers tapping rapidly.

  A cable ran from his neck to the console; the screen flickered to life.

  “Almost… almost… and—”

  Click.

  The light on the panel turned green, but the door didn’t budge.

  John looked up at Z-69, eyes glinting mischievously.

  “Time for you to shine, my advanced bioweapon. Use that divine zombie strength to open it.”

  Z-69 crossed his arms. “Why should I? Open it yourself.”

  “I’d love to,” John shrugged, raising his half-missing mechanical arm, “but I’m a bit… short-handed. Care to lend me yours?”

  His tone was teasing, his smile mocking.

  Z-69 stayed silent, stepped forward.

  He placed both hands on the door edge and strained.

  Muscles bulged, tendons stood out—but the metal only trembled slightly.

  It didn’t move.

  He gasped. Fatigue spread through his body.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  His reaction circuits lagged, his strength nearly gone.

  Something was restraining him.

  “Inhibitor…” he muttered.

  The “welcome gift after three hundred years” John had given him—keeping him sane, at the cost of his power.

  John observed, raising an eyebrow.

  He understood at once.

  “Ah, so that’s it,” he said, rummaging inside his coat.

  He pulled out two things: a dark red cigarette and a piece of charred dried meat.

  Z-69 frowned. “What are you doing?”

  “Psychological therapy,” John replied. He lit the cigarette and shoved it straight into Z-69’s mouth.

  Harsh smoke burned down his throat.

  “Now then…” John dangled the meat before him. “Take a deep breath, and think about eating this. Properly seasoned, classic flavor, slightly burnt on the edge.”

  Z-69 was about to protest, but the rich smell hit his senses.

  Instinct screamed. His stomach clenched.

  He inhaled deeply.

  Red smoke filled his lungs; his heart pounded like a drum.

  BOOM!

  Veins dilated, muscles swelled, electric light raced under his skin.

  “MEAT!” he roared.

  “I WANT MEAT!”

  He bellowed, smashing both hands into the elevator door.

  Metal groaned and cracked.

  Snap!—the door tore free from its hinges.

  Then another crack!—this time, his arm bones.

  Z-69 collapsed, arms twisted backward, smoke rising from his fractured joints.

  His mouth still clenched the piece of dried meat he’d snatched from John as he fell.

  Amid the clattering metal, he mumbled dreamily,

  “This… meat… burned… too much… old man… got another piece?”

  John stood above, exhaling smoke, and switched on an old recorder.

  His hoarse voice echoed through the air heavy with the stench of burning:

  “Power-Boost Cigarette, version 1.0—boosts muscle strength by 100%, duration ten seconds. Side effect: extreme weakness immediately after.”

  A beep sounded as he continued his notes:

  “Note: Effectiveness scales with body intensity. May cause severe injury if the user is too weak.”

  Recording done, John nodded, picked up the remaining half of the meat, dusted it off, and tucked it into his pocket.

  Z-69 looked up, half-awake, voice grinding like rusty gears:

  “You… took my meat. I want more meat.”

  John smirked, cigarette ember reflecting in his metallic eyes.

  “I only brought one piece. We need to ration—” he paused, exhaling slowly—

  “so we’ll have some left when we really need it.”

  A while later.

  Z-69 sat leaning against the elevator wall, dim light reflecting off the crystal in his chest.

  A strange sensation spread through him.

  Though both arms were broken, he felt no pain.

  Instead, a warm current flowed from the crystal downward, like artificial blood stitching his bones together.

  He watched his hands—the regeneration unfolding silently, mesmerizing yet grotesque.

  But the energy inside him was drained dry.

  As if every drop of life had been wrung out.

  John stood before the control panel.

  The old screen glowed faintly, displaying five destination levels:

  [1 – ACCESS HALL]

  [2 – CONTAINMENT RING A]

  [3 – CONTAINMENT RING B]

  [4 – NULL VOID]

  [5 – CHAMBER Z] (current)

  His finger hovered over Level 4.

  He didn’t touch it.

  Half his face hidden behind smoke.

  “Not Level 4,” John said, voice low and uncharacteristically serious.

  “Not because we’re weak. Because that floor… doesn’t follow basic rules.”

  Z-69 looked at him.

  “You’re afraid?”

  “No,” John replied firmly. “I just know how to respect the boundaries of reality. And that floor has none.”

  He pressed Level 2.

  “Skip Level 3 too. Class-A anomaly—living weapon. We’re not crazy enough yet to try.”

  The elevator shuddered.

  Gears screeched like tortured metal.

  [LEVEL 2 – CONTAINMENT RING A]

  CLANK!

  A violent jolt made Z-69 spring up.

  Lights flickered—then everything went dark.

  “Damn it,” John growled. “Backup power’s not responding. We’re stuck.”

  “How long to fix it?” Z-69 asked, eyes already adjusted to the dark.

  “Depends on who—or what—has hijacked the technical line.”

  John closed the panel and jerked his chin toward the door.

  “Let’s take the stairs.”

  Z-69 nodded.

  They stepped into the corridor.

  Red lights flashed slowly, like the heartbeat of a dying man.

  The space stretched in a ring shape, each section marked by symbols:

  [B] – Bio-mutations

  [N] – Neural disturbances

  [U] – Uncontrolled anomalies

  Some chambers remained sealed.

  Some doors hung open, blood trails leading into shadowed corners.

  John whispered,

  “Take the side route. Avoid red codes. Unless you want—”

  “La…”

  A faint sound echoed.

  A voice… singing. Wordless. Rhythm-less. Melody-less.

  “La… la…”

  Z-69 froze.

  “Someone’s… singing?”

  John gripped his electric gun tight, his voice dry: “That’s bad.”

  “An anomaly?”

  “Not one you can negotiate with.”

  A tall, thin figure appeared at the end of the hall.

  Skin patched together from others’ skin.

  No eyes.

  Only a mouth stretched to its ears.

  [Anomaly U-022: The Eyeless Singer]

  It stopped.

  A gentle, chilling voice slipped from its cracked lips:

  “You… laughed, didn’t you?”

  Z-69 stepped back.

  His claws tensed; instinct screamed danger.

  John murmured, each word careful:

  “Don’t speak. Don’t breathe loud. It can’t see—only hear.

  Any sound… is an invitation to die.”

  U-022 tilted its head, neck cracking.

  Then it began to sing.

  “Smile now… come on, smile…”

  Z-69 looked at John.

  “What now?”

  John inhaled smoke, exhaled lightly.

  “I suggest… we run.”