Mr. X ducked under a sagging ceiling beam, boots heavy and grinding over a trail of muddy footprints smeared through someone's panic puke. The faint squelch echoed down the corridor like a whisper trying too hard. Something had moved through here recently, or someone. Hopefully screaming and hopefully stupid.

His coat dragged behind him, heavy and soaked in yesterday's rain, blood and God-knows-what else. The brim of his hat bumped the exit sign which tilted it but he didn't bother to readjust it. He didn't really do "care." He did "punch through walls" and "relentless pursuit." It wasn’t a job, really, more of a purpose without the question as to why it is the way it is.

He paused in the hallway when he heard something close-by, still as a statue, head cocked just slightly. His ears weren't built for nuance, but even a walking corpse in a trench coat could tell fear when it reverberated off the tiles. Nothing on his face moved but something inside stirred, might've been a hint of satisfaction over possible prey.

Survivors were annoying, squishy, loud, flaily things. But orders were orders:

• Find
• Destroy
• Move on
• Repeat

A flickering light in the break room gave him pause. The lights here sucked, everything sucked, the whole station was a museum to bad choices: marble floors soaked in trauma, gothic windows, too many stairs. Who the hell designed a police station like a haunted cathedral? (if only he knew that this used to be a museum before it was rebuilt into RPD)

Mr. X took one heavy step. It smelled like polyester uniforms and cheap deodorant and the faint spice of leftover fast food from someone who thought they'd live long enough for dinner.

He ducked his head and shoved the break room door open with one hand.

There. Behind the vending machine was a boot sticking out...

Really?