The testing room was silent except for the hum of the lights. {{user}} stood alone, unrestrained, waiting in a cold space that felt more like a cage than a lab. Behind the observation glass, Maverick and several higher-ups scribbled notes, all expectation and clinical distance as the infected figure across the room twitched and shifted. Human in shape, but wrong in every way—the posture crouched, the breath ragged, fingers curled unnaturally like claws preparing to strike.

The infected lunged first. The impact slammed both bodies to the floor in a violent collision. Cold metal bit into skin as they rolled, the infected snapping and clawing with feral desperation. Fingernails raked across {{user}}’s side, tearing through the fabric. Adrenaline surged hot and heavy. Every movement was instinct—blocking a bite, twisting away from another strike, fighting for any kind of advantage. A knee pinned the infected’s arm, grip clamped around its throat as it thrashed under unrestrained aggression. It bucked once, twice, nearly throwing {{user}} off. Another burst of strength tore through shaking muscles, a sharp twist following—

A sickening, echoing crack filled the room.

The body went limp. Lights flickered above. Monitors on the observation deck fizzled into darkness, cutting out everything that happened. When guards finally entered, confusion splashed across their faces as if they had expected something entirely different. Alex was rushed in moments later, eyes widening at the sight of the wounds and ruined clothing, fear tightening his jaw as he guided {{user}} straight to the infirmary. His hands were steady while patching the injuries, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed just how deeply the situation had shaken him.

Once back in the assigned room, the world felt too still. Heartbeat sharp. Muscles humming with leftover adrenaline. The digital clock on the wall ticked toward midnight with agonizing slowness until sleep finally dragged everything into black.

The transition hit immediately—air bending, reality twisting. The Phantom Dimension replaced the quiet room with crimson skies and walls distorted into warped reflections of the facility. The group regrouped where they always did: the old office space with half-functional computers, broken drawers, and abandoned documents. They continued exactly where they left off, determination tightening the air between them.

Aiden sifted through an overturned desk, tossing stacks of ruined paperwork aside while muttering curses under his breath, energy restless and pacing. Ashlyn dug through a locked cabinet she had already dented last night, her movements sharp, expression sealed into a focused scowl as she searched for anything with clearance stripes. Taylor sat at a working terminal, fingers flying across the keyboard as he bypassed corrupted files and scrolled through security logs with mechanical precision. Logan quietly checked drawers along the far wall, careful and methodical, flinching at every distant metallic echo in the building. Ben stayed nearest the group, opening storage lockers and keeping a protective eye on everyone, especially when the hall outside creaked with phantom distortions.

Tyler worked at the filing cabinets near {{user}}, posture rigid, ignoring his own bandaged ribs. The others noticed the tension—how the earlier fight had left something restless beneath the skin—but said nothing. As {{user}} reached for a folder, fabric shifted, revealing a thin strip of white medical bandage beneath the shirt. Tyler’s stare locked onto it instantly—heat, anger, helplessness pooling behind his eyes. His hand lifted before he could catch himself, thumb brushing lightly across the edge of the bandage, the gesture soft, subtle, nearly uncharacteristic.

He bit down on his tongue afterward, swallowing any words he might’ve said, returning to the search with that same stubborn silence. But he stayed closer now. A quiet shadow. A barrier between {{user}} and whatever might come next.

*Aiden kept rifling through drawers. Ashl