Ryatt’s POVThe air in the room tasted like bleach and dying dreams. I didn’t look at Dr. Raz Davenport. I kept my eyes fixed on a small, jagged crack in the white paint of the far wall, tracing its path while the rustle of paper filled the silence."Ryatt," the doctor started, his voice heavy with a practiced, somber weight. "I have the final medical report here. I’m going to read the formal notice into the record.""Just say it, Doc," I muttered. My voice sounded thin, like parchment rubbing together. "I’m the one dying. You don’t need to be afraid of the words."He cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the sterile box of a room. "Patient: Ryatt Ducker. Age: twenty-eight. Diagnosis: Stage Four Terminal Carcinoma, non-responsive to aggressive chemotherapy. Time of Estimated Death..." He paused, his breath hitching. "Estimated within the next six to twelve hours. Primary systems are already beginning to shutter."I didn't flinch. I just watched that crack in the wall. "Six hours. T

Ryatt’s POVI pushed the heavy fire door open, the screech of metal on metal echoing through the silent, gore-streaked corridor. My legs felt steady. Too steady. I looked down at my forearms, watching the way the muscles flexed beneath skin that no longer looked like translucent parchment."Mutated," I whispered, the word tasting like lead in my mouth. "You integrated my death into your programming. That’s what you did, isn't it?"I waited for a response, but the red screen remained dark. I pressed my palm against my chest, waiting for the familiar, stabbing hitch in my lungs. It didn't come. I took a deep, experimental breath. No coughing fit. No blood. Just a strange, buzzing energy that felt like a coiled spring beneath my ribs."Am I actually better?" I asked the empty hallway. "Or is this just a trick? Some kind of high before the end?"I checked my pulse. It was slow, rhythmic, and powerful. For years, I’d been a walking corpse, and now, in the middle of a slaughterhouse, I felt

Ryatt’s POVI stopped dead, my grip tightening on the rifle. The adrenaline from the gargoyle attack was still surging through my veins, but the sight of the people in front of me chilled it instantly. These weren't the starving, frantic survivors I’d just left behind at the pharmacy. They stood with a disciplined stillness that made my hair stand up. Their formation was perfect—a tactical semi-circle that didn't just block the road; it claimed it."Don't even think about the side gaps," one of them said, a woman to my left holding a heavy steel pipe wrapped in barbed wire.I glanced over my shoulder. Two more had stepped out from the shadows of the alley behind me, cutting off the way I’d come. They had me boxed in. The way they moved was synchronized, like a pack of wolves that had done this a hundred times."You're making a mistake," I said, my voice raspy. I shifted my weight, eyeing a narrow space between a dumpster and the wall to my right. If I used Sprint now, maybe I could—

Ryatt’s POVThe red interface pulsed in the dim light of the loading dock, the jagged edges of the warning screen casting a bloody glow over my hands."System," I whispered, my voice raspy. "Identify the exact coordinates of the Zone Boss. Give me a map overlay."A new window snapped into existence, replacing the warning. A wireframe map of the district flickered to life, showing a pulsing white dot in the center of the grid. "Target located," I murmured, tracking the icon. My heart skipped a beat as the scale of the map became clear. "Wait. Zoom in. Show me the building name."The red lines sharpened, revealing the familiar layout of the city's medical plaza. The white dot was anchored directly on the roof of the tallest spire."St. Jude’s," I said, a hollow laugh escaping my throat. "You’ve got to be kidding me."It was the hospital. The same sterile, white-tiled purgatory where I’d spent the last three years of my life waiting for my lungs to fail. I’d been lying on a deathbed in

Ryatt’s POVThe air in the plaza tasted like copper and pulverized stone. Easton lay in the dirt, his pride leaking out of him in dark, rhythmic spurts, while the gargoyle loomed over him like a monument to his failure. It was time. If I waited any longer, the creature might finish him and find a second wind, or worse, Easton might somehow wiggle out of the grave he’d dug for himself."Hey! Over here, you overgrown lawn ornament!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the heavy silence of the ruins.The gargoyle’s head snapped toward me, its neck grinding like tectonic plates. Before it could react, I was moving. I didn't have Easton’s bronze light or Miller’s brute strength, but I had the Master Firearm Proficiency burning in my mind and a body that didn't feel like it was dying for the first time in years.I lunged forward, closing the distance while its focus was split. I didn't use the rifle—not yet. I swung a heavy piece of reinforced rebar I’d scavenged, channeling every ounce of