The room was silent—thick with blood, smoke, and tension.
Six corpses now stood upright.
Lifeless eyes. Cracked necks. Twitching fingers.
Jonas's voice cut through the stillness.
"What the hell…? We killed them."
Then he noticed—
Their shadows weren't aligned with the light.
They moved on their own.
From the corridor, a presence slid into the room.
The hooded figure. Calm. Controlled. Almost casual.
"You did kill them," he said.
His voice was low—distorted—like something else was whispering behind his words.
"But death is just the beginning. At least… for my kind."
Krane stepped forward, slow and calculating.
"Your kind? What are you?"
The figure tilted his head.
The hood masked his face, but a faint red glyph pulsed beneath the fabric—brief, like a warning heartbeat.
"A reminder," he said, almost smiling.
"Of what you tried to bury."
Krane's jaw tightened.
His posture shifted—he recognized something.
Jonas caught the change.
Subtle hand signal to Dave: watch the shadows.
Dave:
"Why raise your men just to watch them drop again?"
The figure shrugged, movements too fluid to be natural.
"Because they're not for you."
He turned toward the monitor—Mira frozen mid-cast, glyphs still glowing.
"They're for her."
Jonas's coin stopped spinning. Midair.
Dropped.
"You're after Mira."
The figure didn't deny it.
"She's unfinished.
She remembers just enough to be dangerous…
But not enough to stop what's coming."
Krane's voice dropped, dark and certain.
"You're one of them. One of the Banished."
The hooded figure smiled.
"I'm what's left of them."
Then—
Faster than anyone could react—
He vanished.
The lights flickered.
The undead crumpled like puppets with their strings cut.
Only the scent of smoke and salt remained.
Jonas exhaled hard.
"What in the actual hell was that?"
Dave didn't answer. Still staring at the doorway like it might breathe again.
Krane turned slowly back to the screen.
Mira's image flickered.
Frozen in power.
"He's not here for us," Krane said quietly.
"He's here for her."
He said nothing else.
But inside, something shifted.
A memory. A name.
And for the first time in years—Krane felt unease