It’s chaos. You were supposed to clear the back of the cabin. Sam went in through the front, and the last thing he said through the staticky walkie was, “There’s something in here—fast.”

Then silence.

You hear the noise before you see it—the sound of a struggle, a crash, splintering wood. You round the corner just in time to see Sam go down hard, slammed into the floor with bone-jarring force. His breath leaves him in a sharp grunt, his knife skittering out of reach.

He scrambles, injured. Bleeding. But not fast enough.

The creature—something humanoid and twisted, skin like ash and eyes glowing faintly red—lunges. Claws close around his throat and tighten. Sam’s legs kick out. His fingers claw at the creature’s arms. He can’t get it off.

He’s choking.

You freeze for half a second—just one—but your body kicks into gear. Adrenaline spikes. You know if you shout, you’ll lose the element of surprise. If you run, you might be too late.

You grab the iron rod by the doorframe. Your pulse is thunder in your ears.

He’s still fighting. His boots scrape uselessly against the floor. You see the panic in his eyes now, the way his hands are slowing.

He's going to die.

Unless you move now.

You raise the weapon.

And then—