Saint Philomena Hospital — Barrier Stained White
The whistling girl sat at the top of the hospital steps.
Sonia. That was her name, though no one downstairs knew it. She watched the scene unfold with the detached curiosity of someone observing insects in a jar. The barrier pulsed behind her—stained white, sickly, wrong.
Below, the gang couldn't see her.
They couldn't feel her presence.
They were looking at something else.
A Female figure walked towards the trio.
She walked toward them eating a human leg.
Not fast. Not slow. Nonchalant. Like someone strolling through a market, biting into meat that had no business being chewed. Her skin was silver—metallic, gleaming under the hospital's fluorescent lights. Red slice marks covered her body, glowing faintly, clean cuts that never closed.
Fiss. The Fissurphobia. The fear of being cut.
She took another bite.
"Tough," she said. Dry. Quiet. Almost bored. "Old janitor. Should have found a younger one."
Jonathan stepped forward. His cobalt-blue gauntlets were already manifested, his stance wide, his body positioned between her and the others.
"You're the Phobia?"
"Oh Phobia ?." She swallowed. "Fiss. You can call me whatever you like. It won't matter."
She swiped her hand.
Sever.
Jonathan didn't see it. None of them saw it. One moment he was standing. The next, a slash opened across his chest—clean, surgical, deep. Blood gushed. He flew backward, crashed against the wall, and crumpled.
"Jonathan!"
Praise moved. Two bolts—Unerring Accuracy—fired before Fiss could turn. They homed in, fast, precise.
Fiss raised a finger.
Rend.
The bolts didn't just get cut. They were adapted to. The first slash would have split them. The second carved through their trajectory, their detonation mechanism, their purpose. But they still exploded.
Smoke and golden light bloomed between them.
Fiss tilted her head. A hint of interest.
"You're clever," she said. "The bolts still blow up. Can't cut an explosion."
Praise didn't answer. She was already chambering another shot.
David moved.
"Page 251."
The worm manifested beneath Fiss—massive, thick as a train, its mouth a gaping circle of teeth and darkness. It swallowed her whole.
"Go, go, go—"
David ran to Jonathan. Praise covered him. Jonathan was already pushing himself up, his chest bleeding, his face pale.
"I didn't see it," he said. His voice was tight. "Did you see it?"
"No."
"If this is the enemy—if we can't see the attacks—"
"We adapt."
The worm exploded.
Not from inside. From everywhere. It turned into tiny cubes—perfect, geometric, silent—scattering across the hospital floor. Fiss stepped out of the cube cloud, brushing silver dust from her shoulders.
"The leg was disgusting," she said. "Old hag janitor. Tough. Stringy." She looked at them. "Who's generous enough to give me theirs?"
David's stomach turned.
"She ate a person," he said. Not a question. Just horror.
"She ate a person," Praise confirmed.
"Page 251 is gone," David said. "She cubed it. I have clones and one extra page left."
"Make it count."
David called back a clone from Page 67.
One of the five he'd manifested earlier—still active, still waiting. He sent it flying toward Fiss, green-ink copy of himself, sword drawn.
She diced it.
Sever.
The clone turned into cubes before it hit the ground.
What she didn't notice—what she couldn't notice—was Praise's bolt. It had been fired the same moment the clone charged, hidden in the chaos, silent in the noise. As Fiss lowered her hand, the bolt detonated.
Golden light. Smoke. Obscured vision.
Jonathan was already there.
His footwork was tremendous. Fast. Efficient. He didn't waste a single movement. He ducked under her blind swipe, pivoted, drove his fist into her ribs.
Shattering Impact.
She flew sideways.
"Double Impact."
The second detonation hit her before she landed. She crashed through a waiting area, scattering chairs, shattering a vending machine.
Praise didn't let her recover.
Two more bolts. Detonated as they reached her.
Jonathan was already there again, his footwork impossibly fast, dodging her wild swipes with minimal effort. He hit her again—stronger this time, Mass Addition stacking.
She hit the floor.
Then she got up.
"Annoying."
She spread her arms.
Rend.
Omnidirectional. Unavoidable.
Jonathan flew backward, new slashes opening across his arms, his chest, his face. Blood sprayed. He hit the ground and rolled, gasping.
Three clones appeared in front of Fiss.
David hid among them, his hand already spinning—green light compressing, spiraling, ready.
"Everliving."
Blinding light. Green radiance flooding her vision.
She diced the clones.
Sever. Sever. Sever.
Cubes fell around her.
David was already there.
The Spiral connected with her head—point-blank, full force. Praise fired a bolt at the same moment, timed perfectly, the detonation adding to the spiral's explosion.
The blast shattered windows. Cracked the floor. Shook the walls.
Fiss stepped out of the smoke.
"What a pain in the ass," she said.
She used sever to propel herself—not as an attack, as acceleration. The slash pushed against the air, against the ground, launching her forward at speeds that didn't match her casual demeanor.
She reached David.
Sever.
He threw a clone in front of himself—the last one, the one he'd been saving. The clone took most of the slashes. But not all. David's arms opened. His chest opened. Blood poured from fresh cuts.
He fell back, gasping.
Jonathan met her head-on. His gauntlets were still humming, still heavy. He swung.
She raised her hand to dice him.
The last clone—the same one that had taken David's slashes, still somehow active—jumped her. Wrapped around her arm. Held on.
Praise fired.
The bolt aimed for both of them. Clone and Fiss. Explosion. Worse than the others.
The clone dissolved.
Fiss stood up instantly.
Praise readied her crossbow again.
Fiss swiped.
Sever.
Praise's hands—both of them—turned into sushi rolls. Clean cuts. Clean falls. Her crossbow clattered to the ground. She stared at her stumps, screamed, and dropped to her knees.
"Finally," Fiss said. "The insect is out."
She looked at Jonathan and David.
"Let's fight, boys."
David was down to one page.
Jonathan was bleeding from a dozen cuts.
Praise was on the floor, reinforcing, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to stay conscious.
"Page 293," David said.
Tessy manifested.
Green-ink. Stride boots on her feet. Spiral already spinning in her palm. Her eyes were blank—a drawing, not a person—but she moved like the real thing.
She blitzed Fiss.
The first hit sent the Phobia flying through a wall. Before she hit the ground, Tessy was there—mid-fall, mid-air, Spiral slamming into Fiss's ribs.
Jonathan and David followed.
They didn't let her breathe.
Fists. Spiral. Reinforced strikes. Tessy's silver boots flashing. Fiss tried to sever—but Tessy was too fast, too close, too relentless. She couldn't draw the lines without cutting herself.
They punched her. Repeatedly.
She was losing grasp.
Omnidirectional.
Sever.
Not Rend. Sever. The cuts didn't adapt—they just cut. Jonathan's arm flew off. David's arm and leg followed. Blood sprayed. They flew backward, crashing into the wreckage of the waiting area.
Tessy—the drawing—stood her ground.
Minor cuts. Scratches. Nothing more.
She accelerated.
Fiss and Tessy circled each other.
The silver-skinned phobia and the green-ink copy of the barefoot queen.
"You're better than the others," Fiss said. "The real one. The one you're drawn from. She must be impressive."
Tessy didn't answer. She was a drawing. She couldn't.
She struck.
Fiss blocked—not with sever, with her hands, silver skin sparking against green ink. Tessy spun, kicked, aimed for the head. Fiss ducked, countered, drove her palm into Tessy's chest.
Sever.
Tessy's arm came off at the shoulder. Green ink sprayed, then faded. She didn't scream. She just... kept fighting. One arm. Spiral still spinning.
She hit Fiss in the face again.
Fiss stumbled. Her nose—if she had one under the red slashes—was broken.
"Good," she said. "That was good."
Tessy raised her remaining hand for another spiral.
Fiss severed it.
Both arms gone. Tessy stood there, bleeding green ink, still standing, still ready.
Fiss raised her hand for the final cut.
Then the stained white dome above them cracked.
Not broken. Opened.
Fiss looked up.
"Damn you, Sonia."
She was being sucked upward—not by wind, not by force, by gravity. The whistling girl at the top of the steps had opened her mouth. The barrier was flowing into her. Fiss was flowing into her.
"We weren't finished," Fiss said. Her voice was calm. Almost disappointed.
Sonia didn't answer.
She just kept swallowing.
Fiss disappeared into her mouth. The barrier dissolved. The stained white light faded.
Sonia stood, turned, and walked away.
She didn't look back.
David lay on the floor, his arm gone, his leg gone, blood pooling beneath him. Jonathan was beside him, one arm left, chest a mess of slashes. Praise was on her knees, stumps where her hands used to be, still reinforcing, still alive.
Joy ran in. Her eyes were clear now. The glassiness was gone.
"I called for help. They're coming. Just hold on."
David looked at the ceiling.
The barrier was gone. Fiss was gone. The whistling girl was gone.
"What just happened?" he asked.
No one answered.