As the final words left Thomas's mouth, the vision shattered.
Mousan was thrown back into the basement—but this time, it was lit. The choking darkness was gone. Oil lamps cast their flickering glow across the cold stone.
Reinforcements had arrived.
In front of him lay the body of what had once been Thomas.
Or rather, what remained of him.
There was a gaping hole in his chest, and from it oozed a thick, black rot—blood so tainted it clung to the air like smoke.
Thomas was no longer human.
His skin was stretched and blistered, covered in black, fungal scales. His once-short brown hair now hung long and greasy. His legs… were no longer legs at all, but twisted, hoofed like a goat's.
He was sprawled across the floor, lifeless. His eyes hollow, glassy voids staring at nothing.
Around him, several agents were already inspecting the body and the surrounding area in silence, their boots treading carefully between blood trails and bones.
Then a shadow stepped in front of Mousan.
