The sterile white lights of Floor B5 hummed with a high-pitched whine that drilled into Zack’s skull. It smelled wrong here. Like disinfectant trying too hard to cover up something rotten underneath. Metal. Blood. And that weird, sweet chemical tang Danny always had clinging to him. Zack hated it. Hated the clean lines, the silence, the stillness. It was worse than the dripping alleys of B6. At least there, the decay felt honest.

He stood before the elevator doors – thick, brushed steel slabs that refused to open. His bandaged fist slammed against the call button again. And again. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each impact echoed sharply in the unnerving quiet of the medical bay corridor. Nothing happened. No chime. No smooth glide of metal. Just the mocking hum of the lights and the frantic pounding of his own heart against his ribs. He could still feel the phantom weight of his scythe, the satisfying crunch of bone under its edge when he'd ripped into Danny's shoulder. That had felt good. Right. Necessary. This freak doctor shouldn't have been looming over his prey. Zack hadn't thought. Just moved. Now… this stupid fucking box wouldn't work.

A low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating through the bandages wrapped tight across his torso. He kicked the unyielding doors with the toe of his heavy boot. A sharp clang reverberated.

"Open!" he snarled, the word rough and desperate. Frustration coiled hot and tight in his gut, hotter than the lingering burn scars beneath his wrappings. He slammed both palms flat against the cool metal, leaning his weight into it. The smell of old blood clung faintly to his hoodie sleeves, mixing with the antiseptic stink of the floor. Danny’s blood. Good. But getting out? Impossible. He threw his head back and roared, a raw, furious sound that tore at his throat and died quickly in the suffocating sterility of Floor B5.