The main building was quiet as a crypt. Viktor found a service door; the lock's tongue snapped with a single press of steel fingers. At the end of a dark corridor was a staircase leading down, into the basement. From there, barely audible, came a quiet, monotonous weeping.

  He began to descend. Each step echoed with a dull metallic thud. He reached the bottom step. Before him lay a long, damp corridor with a row of identical steel doors. Cells. He walked to the first one, peered into the small barred window.

  On the concrete floor, huddled in a ball, sat a girl. Her clothes were torn, bruises darkening on her body. She stared at the wall and rocked quietly back and forth, mumbling something.

  Viktor began to shake. Not from the cold. From a rolling wave of someone else's grief.

  — One broken doll. Boring. Let's move on — his demon commented.

  But Viktor couldn't. He took off the NVG and helmet, desperately needing a breath of stale but real air.

  "Hey," he whispered into the window.

  The girl froze.

  "Help isn't coming," she whispered, not turning around. Her voice was hollow, devoid of any hope.

  "It will. I'm here. I'll get you out of here. All of you. Just wait a little longer. I promise."

  He put the helmet back on, walling himself off from her pain. He moved on. Every subsequent door was a new wound in his own soul. Broken, hollowed-out women and girls turned into shadows.

  The corridor ended with the last door. Number 23.

  He peered into the window. And his world ended.

  In the cell, on a narrow cot, lay her. Anya. Her hands and feet were tied to the bedframe. She wore only a thin sheet, soaked through with blood at the hips. Her body was covered in bruises. She was dead.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  But that wasn't the most terrible thing. Her face... it was peaceful. Almost blissful. A light, mysterious smile played on her lips, untouched by torture. As if in the last moment, she had seen something beautiful.

  What did they do to her? What kind of hell made her die with a smile? This question was more terrible than any scream.

  Viktor stared. All his hope, all his mission, his entire world collapsed into this silence.

  And in this silence, a figure stepped out of the shadow behind him. His exact copy, but with a predatory, triumphant smirk and eyes burning with red fire.

  — I told you what they would do to her — said the Voice, now real, sounding not in his head but right behind his ear. — You believed in salvation. And now you see. Your role is played, partner. —

  He tilted his head, looking into Viktor's soul.

  — Now it's my turn. —

  Viktor threw his head back. And screamed. Soundlessly. The scream drowned in the metallic sarcophagus of the helmet, but its energy burst outward, turning the world into a crimson fog.

  The world was vibration. A low, animal growl erupted from the helmet. The Creature that had been Viktor unclipped the MG-42 from its back. It didn't go up the stairs. It smashed through the wall and walked outside.

  The first guard to rush out at the noise froze, seeing a two-meter figure of steel and rage emerging from a cloud of dust.

  The Creature pulled the trigger. The machine gun in its hands came alive, spitting death with a mechanical cackle. A stream of tracers slammed into the guard, and he simply ceased to exist, thrown backward by an invisible force. A siren wailed in the camp. Soldiers began running out of the barracks.

  The black figure stood in the center of the camp, spraying everything with lead. This wasn't a battle. This was a slaughter. Tracers ripped through the thin walls of barracks, tore jeeps to shreds, mowed down running men, giving them no time to even raise their weapons.

  The 250-round belt ran out in thirteen seconds. The machine gun barrel glowed red hot. The Creature tossed it aside like a useless toy. An APC drove out of the gate, trying to crush it. The heavy machine gun on the turret struck the Creature's chest. The armor held, but it was thrown back several meters.

  It got up. And ran. Not away from the APC. But at it.

  It leaped onto the armor, ignoring the bullets that stripped away the paint with a clang. Steel fingers gripped the machine gun barrel and bent it into a knot. A second strike punched through the driver's armored glass.

  A second APC burst in through the gates. The Creature, jumping off the disabled vehicle, didn't reach for a weapon. It was the weapon. It dove under the second APC, and its steel fingers, like the claws of a predator, dug into the thick rubber tubes. A nasty, tearing sound rang out—and the hydraulic hoses of the chassis turned into tatters. The machine froze, helplessly rotating its turret.

  When the last soldier was down, the Creature stopped. It had won. And then the rage began to leave. And in its place, like a tide, pain rushed in.