Punishment Halls

Disoriented and unsure of exact time or place, Callista found herself within the familiar confines of hospital walls —though she was lying in bed this time around rather than tending to patients like she was accustomed to. How long she had been awake wasn’t something she could readily answer, but similarly, she couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard she tried.

The air hung thick with the familiar scent of antiseptic she knew all too well, but it was also tainted by the distinct metallic stench of stale blood, potent enough to stir her senses. Not only did it make Callista feel sick to her stomach, but it also brought her intense unease and guilt —serving as a reminder of all the violent choices that now coiled around her heart like a vice.

Echoes of that fateful confrontation haunted her thoughts, blending with the sterile environment of the hospital room, and still feeling the shadows of her stalker looming nearby. The lines between past and present blurred, leaving Callista grasping for a sense of stability amidst all the confusion.

So she sought escape from the suffocating stench, getting up from the hospital bed for her bare feet to meet the sterile coldness of the tiled floor. As she did so, a strange sensation pervaded her body —she felt lighter, smaller, her gaze falling closer to her curling toes than she remembered from this new vantage point.

Dismissing the disquieting feeling, Callista pushed open the door, and immersed herself in the vastness beyond. It was a labyrinth of endless corridors and rooms, filled with blank faces who paid her little mind, consumed by waves of uncertain chatter the young nurse could not decipher, isolating her even more from the surroundings.

The figures of doctors and nurses around her felt larger and taller than normal, strides carrying them forward with indifferent purpose, never truly looking down in her direction; marching oblivious to her loneliness and discomfort.

At least until that same voice, soft-spoken and yet so shudder-inducing, resounded in her head —calling her name in that dreaded, unasked-for intimate manner.

“Callie…” No one, not her parents or her colleagues ever shortened her name in such a manner; so the realization that him was still around to prolong her torment sent Callista into a growing spiral of panic. She pushed aside the faceless creatures that cared not of her plight, and began running blindly without direction or thought.

As she sprinted, her hand grew heavier with each step, and a glance revealed her fingers gripping a pair of scissors as if they were the anchor tethering her life... Those sharp edges she could never forget —the same ones she used to carve a wound in June's face a decade ago.

Nothing had truly changed, had it? Once again Callista found herself fleeing from conflict after her hands had been stained with blood. Was this her inescapable fate, doomed to repeat itself time and time again? Was there truly nobody she could trust out there? Were they all just waiting to harm her when given the chance?

Her flight felt endless, and it was only when her surroundings shifted entirely around her eyes that Callista forced herself to stop. Gone were the hospital corridors of her adulthood, replaced by a courtroom comprised of her beloved companions, mutilated and scattered across the floor —their plush stuffing torn and violated.

In the far corner of the dimly lit room, a broken mirror reflected her distorted image, its shattered glass edges dripping fresh droplets of blood. There, in the mangled crystal, stood her own vulnerable and scared visage, trapped in the body of her fifteen-year-old self, clutching onto the scissors that had sliced apart her childhood happiness.

It didn’t matter that she had finished nursing school. It didn’t matter that she had a job, or the means to fend for herself. It didn’t matter that she had her own home.

She had never outgrown all those deep cutting scars that still haunted her from those days, preventing her from trusting others. Perhaps… She never would.

The voice caught up to her then, disgustingly calling her name once more. It carried along a suffocating presence and a malevolent intent that thickened the very air around her. He was still lurking in the shadows, just beyond the edge of sight, but his twisted whispers continued to caress her ear, the darkness gaining mass as it left delicate, skin-crawling trails on her face —taunting her in a sickening reprisal of the moment she took his life.

But Callista refused to let things remain as they were, and she wouldn’t wait for anyone to stand out for her sake either. No matter how many times it took, she would silence them. She would carve her own path, even if it meant doing so through the flesh of others.

Steadying her resolve, she headed once more into the darkness, wielding the scissors firmly until finally witnessing ‘them’, turned into a grotesque chimera of past faces, mangled beyond recognition by her hand —owning traits of both June and Peter; their macabre countenance holding a monstrous grin while they clutched a tattered plush bear under blood-soaked hands, as if to mock her further.

Callista’s mind recoiled with fear, but her feet refused to retreat. Instead, they pushed her forward, condemning her to repeat the same tragedy once more. The scissors transformed into the kitchen knife, as she plunged it deep into the demon’s chest.

Instead of gushing blood from their wound, her attack was met with blinding rays of light assaulting her from every angle, searing her eyes as it eradicated the vast blackness —causing her personal tormentors to dissipate like smoke in the air.

Now illuminated, her world unveiled an army of faceless figures, trampling over the cotton graveyard without regard while chanting her name in mindless, diffuse voices. They swarmed her, suffocating tides of flesh and warmth invading her space.

She didn’t want them near —she wanted them as far away as possible; but they paid no heed to her pleas, relentlessly drowning Callista as if she were their unwilling salvation.

Only the bloodied, torn mirror kept its place in the distance, reflecting her overwhelmed figure. But it was no longer Callista that saw themselves on the other side of the glass —neither girl nor woman. She had transformed into a monstrous creature, one just as horrid as June and Peter had become.

Every hand that touched her melted and amalgamated her form further, forging an abomination that lacked even the eyes to cry with…

… Or a mouth to scream.

Upon finally waking, Callista was drenched in a cold sweat, her body shaking uncontrollably. The ghostly sensations of a thousand fingers trying to get inside her flesh lingered, but she desperately tried to push the disturbing feeling aside as she sat up in bed, covering her face under trembling palms.

It wasn’t a hospital room that welcomed her this time, but simply her bedroom, the orange light filtering in from the outside world world telling her it was already well past noon.

As much as she would have liked for the entire ordeal to have been just an ill-conceived nightmare, the sight of the broken glass shards and bloodstains splattered across her floor told her there would be no such respite —walking across the abandoned battlefield after rising from her restless slumber, devoid of any remaining willpower.

Tears welled up once more at the borders of her swollen eyes, but Callista did her best to fight them back. Reality was so barren, so painfully hard that it invaded her heart with a profound sense of desolation, leaving her unsure of what to do next or how to even begin regaining some semblance of normality.

Fortunately, a small ember of joy swiftly came to greet her, forming a weak smile on her lips as she confirmed that Choccy was still safe and sound, despite all odds —happily bouncing around her feet, wagging his tail in resounding obliviousness of Callista’s plight.

Perhaps she needed him by her side more than she should admit, giving the dog a nudge filled with meaning before resuming her examination on the aftermath of that dreadful triple metre dance that transpired in her house the night before.

Despite having committed murder just a handful of hours ago, there seemed to be no traces of activity of any sort in her home, every piece of evidence remaining virtually untouched, save for a message written on the back of a police report form.

“I hope you had a proper rest, considering the circumstances.” It began —left behind by Officer Konradsson, she presumed. “Please, try not to worry too much, I’ll do my best keeping everything under wraps to the best of my abilities. There are too many questions left unresolved to burden you even further with police questioning or investigation procedures.”

>> “And you’ve gone through far too much already.”

>> “I care about you, Cal. We’ll make sense of it all, I promise.”

Right… Last night had been so tumultuous that she hadn’t had the chance to properly ascertain the police officer’s claims of their shared past. That his name was Alain, and that the two of them had attended high school together? She was a little too embarrassed to confess out loud that she had no recollections of him. Sincerely, she wanted to keep him at an arm’s length too, if possible.

But alongside the note’s passages there was a phone number also jotted down, an indication of his intent to maintain contact on her own terms. It appeared that Alain was trying to let her dictate the pace of their exchanges, just as he was giving her control over how the world would treat Kimball’s passing in her home —to the point of even giving her the chance to disregard consequences altogether.

A bit out of line, and certainly diverting from police professionalism… Yet in her own hesitant manner, she found herself appreciating it.

“I’m going to investigate everything I can on my own, but you’re the only one I can talk to about what happened without sounding crazy. So please, reach out when you feel ready.” Were the last words written by the police officer, leaving a bitter taste in Callista’s mouth as she set the paper aside.

“I don’t doubt he’s a good person…” She muttered, eyes downcast and weary. “… But he’s demanding too much of me. How could I possibly be of aid in all this nightmare?”

Just a few days ago, the most outlandish phenomena she had to deal with were the whispered urban legends that spread like haunts across hospital hallways; open secrets about a mad surgeon who spirited away corpses from the morgue before being discharged a long time ago —or other ridiculous tales she had no intentions of entertaining.

Yet now, her reality was...

“I wonder… Is he also being chased by one of you… Things?” Callista’s exhausted gaze drifted over her shoulder, settling upon the unnerving phantom lingering behind her.

She had sensed the shift in the atmosphere before even laying eyes on the figure, making her think that prolonged exposure to them had granted her a faint perception over those previously unseen horrors.

Likewise, Callista had already deduced that it had been one of those creatures that attacked her and Officer Konradsson in defense of Peter Kimball. But… were they also responsible for his descent into madness?

Her mental preparation was one of the main reasons why she didn’t panic at the sight. Another one was that her heart was simply too drained to muster stark reactions any longer.

Studying the creature’s countenance meticulously despite her shallow breaths, Callista attempted to compare its features to what she had perceived through touch alone during the previous night’s violent confrontation. While it possessed an unmistakably feminine form, its body lacked anything that resembled either plastic or fabric —leading the nurse to infer that this particular apparition was a different one from Kimball’s.

It could only be described as a monstrous and mechanical mermaid-like figure, highly reminiscent of antique machinery left to rot beneath the sea. The twisting coils of metal that shaped her frame were corroded and discolored from water damage, giving off an illusory scent of wet iron. But on closer inspection, Callista realized that she lacked any true odor —instead, she heard a faint ticking emanating from within her husk, like a dormant bomb waiting to detonate.

The spectral mermaid floated above her head with joined metal legs dissipating into the air before reaching the floor, her face obscured by a cracked and expressionless iron mask. White saltwater trails seeped from the fractures and darkened eye-holes, like teardrops rolling down hollow cheeks.

Despite the hints of something more terrifying lurking beneath the iron containment, with its surface littered by haphazardly distributed steel plates and jagged metallic ridges struggling to hold the structure together, Callista felt a strong reluctance to approach and peek beneath the mask. Some secrets were better left undisturbed.

“So I’m just… Stuck with you? Until the day I also die?” She spoke in a small voice to the towering, silent figure. Something about her exuded a very different and distinct presence from Kimball’s specter; the one and only comparable experience she had. “You won’t try to hurt me, will you?”

No response from the phantom, her intentions kept unclear like murky waters.

Yet… Beyond Callista’s understanding, the entity’s name seemed to coalesce within her mind of its own volition. She didn’t understand the true nature of the bond they now shared, but it felt as if a form of communication transcending mere words was taking root between them.

“Your name is… Siren?” Her question came out hesitantly, unsettled by the notion that her thoughts may no longer be solely her own.

Upon hearing her name uttered aloud, Siren lifted two of her six arms towards Callista, while the other four she had remaining shackled behind her back —bound by chains terminating in solid iron convict balls the size of her clenched fists.

The hands continued their inexorable path until they enveloped Callista’s, the coarse and rusted texture of her fingers sliding across the still open wound marring the nurse’s right palm.

A numb, vacuum-like pain surged through her cut until it reached the height of her wrist, as Siren’s fingers stopped on the laceration. It birthed an unsettling discomfort that was quickly usurped by a humid sensation that seemed to seep from within her own body, drawn magnetically toward the phantom’s metallic grip as it surrounded her injury.

Callista watched in a trance as the ethereal moisture wicked across her wound, knitting and sculpting the torn skin as it was reshaped before her very eyes, new tissue blossoming in the wake of Siren’s unnatural healing.

Coaxing the injury to slowly close itself, the humidity felt viscous on her fresh skin stretching taut as if newly formed. A faint hissing resonance accompanied the process, like the escape of pressurized steam.

When at last the haunting regeneration completed its work, Callista’s hand bore no mark of the glass shard cut —flesh rendered unblemished and whole once more; albeit she still didn’t feel completely comforted by the morbid miracle.

“All right, I get it. You’re not my enemy… Necessarily.”

But what exactly was Siren, and for how long would she be forced to deal with this unasked-for companionship? Both of them questions that Callista doubted she’d be able to answer on her own.

What options did she truly have, though? Reaching out to Alain, who was likely just as lost as she was? Track down the mysterious man with the baby, despite having no idea who he was or where he might be?

Neither of those choices sounded remotely appealing to the utterly depleted young nurse. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was being pulled further and further into a never-ending rabbit hole, like a thin reed adrift on a dark ocean.

The last few days had certainly been complex for Officer Alain Konradsson.

To begin with, there was the matter of reporting the events that had taken place during the 10-32 dispatch of that fateful night, and containing the resulting fallout. Perhaps he had been a bit too hasty in overlooking his duties as a member of the police, but his primary objective never strayed from making things as easy as possible for Callista, hoping that by doing so she might see him in a more favorable light —a goal he doubted to achieve by being the one to take her into custody.

Additionally, the things he experienced firsthand in there far exceeded the limits of his understanding of reality; and his own personal sense of justice wouldn’t allow him to place any blame on Callista for doing whatever it took to defend herself from the otherworldly forces that assaulted them.

Telling a series of lies to his superiors ended up being a necessity in order to protect her, claiming that a nasty fall while pursuing the stalker was the cause of his injuries.

He became the laughingstock among his colleagues as a result, but for Alain, it was a small price to pay if it meant ensuring her well-being.

Yet despite his attempts to be supportive and non-intrusive, for Callista to seek his aid out of her own volition and see him as someone she could trust… He surely had expected her to contact him more promptly than that —and not the agonizing silence that stretched from dawn till dusk as he stared expectantly at his silent phone.

But all of that was really, just the mere surface of his deep-seated anxieties, regrets and inner-turmoils. Another presence demanded immediate attention.

At first, it manifested itself as a darkened silhouette flickering at the periphery of his vision. A fleeting shade that could be dismissed as a trick of the fading light. By the fourth night, however, the entity that was now chasing him had become entirely too vivid, in all its morbid decadence.

Alain didn’t know exactly what he was, or what it wanted from him; but a name manifested in his head as if it had always been there —Bane.

Bane was monstrously large, standing well over him with an intimidating height of approximately nine feet. His physique was imposingly muscular, with veins that appeared on his flesh like thickened cords of tar strung across his bulging arms and barrel chest. Open sores sporadically burst forth across his body, oozing a viscous black substance akin to oil or old, cankerous blood.

Patches of rough, cracked concrete overlaid stretches of his rotten flesh in a blasphemous parody of skin, constantly peeling away in flaky layers to reveal the raw exposed tissue beneath that never appeared to heal.

His head was devoid of any recognizable features, and gruesomely covered by disorganized tangles of barbed wire coiled around where a face should be, particularly around his mouth, resembling an agonizing muffler —save for just enough space left vacant for two deep-set orbs glowing in subdued gray tones to shine through where eyes typically rested.

The specter’s very presence seemed to leech the warmth away from the air around him, an ominous chill pervading the space around the towering, grotesque apparition. It was as if his immense mass defied the natural laws that governed corporeality itself, bringing a permeating foreboding sensation in his wake like a miasma of anguish.

Alain’s convictions, however, refused to be devoured by Bane’s gaping maw of terror.

Maybe it was mere stubbornness that prevented him from submitting to torment without a fight —or perhaps, simply sheer stupidity. Regardless of reason, the young police officer was determined to unravel the inscrutable purpose behind Bane's existence, and if possible, a means to banish the malevolent creature entirely.

It couldn’t all be a meaningless ordeal, his heart wouldn’t allow it. There had to be a reason, a rationale to cling to.

So his first instinct was to search for any similar cases that might shed some light onto his paranormal circumstances. Trying to pinpoint a relevant lead by searching blindly was not much different from hunting for a needle in a haystack of files, so Alain saw no better recourse than to directly petition his highest superior at the CPD.

Traversing the precinct with Bane hovering behind him always proved to be a challenge. More than once, Alain found himself actively avoiding his colleagues’ proximity, including his partner Manfred. He dismissed his evasive demeanor with forced indignation over the continued jokes played at his expense —like he was trying not to stumble and fall once again, or other improvised antics he came up with on the fly.

As a result, he was understandably apprehensive about having a private conversation with Chief Malvirta. While the veteran commander enjoyed widespread respect and admiration from his subordinates due to his easygoing nature and his approachable leadership, it was also true that at times, he was remarkably insightful to an almost uncanny degree.

It would take Alain considerable effort just attempting to hide how on edge he felt by having other people around Bane —even when no one appeared to see him.

So when Alain was finally allowed inside the office after knocking on the door, a shiver ran down his spine as the Chief’s keen and sagacious brown eyes glanced towards the space Bane’s grotesque form occupied in the distance, lingering there for a brief but strained moment before fixing directly on his own increasingly anxious gaze.

“I’m sorry, my boy.” Malvirta’s voice cut through the silence, directing him a faint, apologetic smile. “Can you remind me your name again? It appears to have slipped my mind.”

>> “You know how it is. Memory isn't what it used to be thanks to old age."

The casual words brought an incredible wave of relief crashing over Alain, though he quickly cleared his throat, steadying his voice before responding.

“Sir! I’m Officer Alain Konradsson!” The rookie straightened his posture, offering his superior the most formal salute his addled mental state could muster. “I joined the forces around six months ago.”

Luckily, the old man seemed to have no reactions to Bane’s presence either, and was simply trying to gather his recollections around him. Not that he had achieved anything of substantial merit yet, but being forgotten so easily still stung —especially when despite his claims, Malvirta appeared as lucid as ever.

“Ah, yes. You’re the one who took that nasty fall during service a while back, weren’t you?” Malvirta’s question was punctuated by a brief chuckle that exacerbated Alain’s chagrin. “Are you sure everything is alright up there, tough guy? You never reported to the infirmary, did you?

Despite his advancing years, Vigo Malvirta carried himself with an undeniable aura of regal authority. His facial features were ruggedly chiseled and sharp under his slightly wild yet still strong gray mane; and while Alain and Manfred had discussed before whether or not they could beat the Chief of Police in a fistfight, having that burly physique up close now had the rookie officer second-guessing such bravado.

He was certainly no feeble or senile ornament of the department resting on laurels behind a desk all day. In more ways than one, Alain had come to admire him as well —even if they had never shared any truly meaningful dialogue like this one was shaping up to be.

“No, sir, it’s not necessary. I’m doing fine, really.” Alain resumed with a small sigh, bobbing his head in a differential nod.

He knew that he had to focus on the matter at hand and leave his insecurities behind, but it was easier said than done with Bane’s presence looming in the background.

“Are you sure? You look more than a little tense to me. Perhaps a little vacation would do you wonders.” The veteran was quick to interrupt him, his tone adopting a friendly, albeit scrutinizing mien as he leaned forward over his desk, holding Alain’s gaze as if studying him. “I’ve always considered proper rest and exercise an integral part of becoming an exemplar enforcer of the law.”

>> “I want you to look and feel your best, young man, so that mishaps like the last one don’t ever repeat themselves.”

“Yes… Thank you for the advice, Chief.” Even when delivered on tranquil terms, the words carried a subtle undercurrent of paternal admonishment that Alain couldn’t ignore. But it wasn’t enough to deter him from his quest. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

>> “Has there ever been a case left unresolved under very strange conditions?” Alain continued, struggling to identify just how much to tell Malvirta without sounding deranged. “Do you think perhaps I may be granted access to skim through the archives?

“Strange conditions? That’s an oddly vague way of phrasing things.” The old man quipped back at him with a raised eyebrow. “What? Did having your head shaken up make you consider chasing a career as a detective?”

>> “Or is it simply a youthful desire to dive into mysteries?”

Alain was unsure how to answer his queries without letting the entire lid open… But he had to refrain from confessing. Callista’s safety may well depend on his word choices here —so he took a considerable pause, as he tried to weigh his response properly. It was a gap large enough for Malvirta to interject once more.

“Well, now that you mention it, there was a very strange incident indeed, several years ago.” Perhaps as an attempt to alleviate his escalating awkwardness, the old man’s gaze drifted upwards in a pensive manner. It had an immediate effect on Alain, whose heart rate quickened considerably. “I’m not against youngsters offering their help in giving fresh new perspectives to old cold cases, you know?”

>> “Might even help clear that head of yours from all the action you must be seeing daily.”

>> “So how about that, do you feel up for the challenge?” Malvirta asked, offering him an earnest smile.

“Yes, sir!” Alain was quick to answer with renewed vigor and a spirited grin, as Vigo procured the permits and directions he needed for his own investigation to start, sliding them across the desk and finally into his reach.

He was unsure if it was something he imagined or actually experienced, but Alain could have sworn that he heard something akin to a fly buzzing faintly around his ear —strange considering their closed environment and the current season, but not something that warranted his immediate attention at that point in time.

“And get some rest while you’re at it, son.” As he pivoted on his heel to depart, Malvirta’s voice issued one final piece of fatherly advice. There was a knowing smile in his face, one that left a strange sensation in Alain’s gut feelings. “You’ve got the look of a man being haunted.”

… If only he knew how accurate that assessment truly was.

Leaving the chief's office, Alain couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement. Venturing into uncharted territory or not, he was making progress, bit by bit. Even when Bane continued to follow him, always present, he refused to let fear control him. Now, all that he had left to do was unearth a substantial clue regarding what those creatures were —something he could perhaps tell Callista to instigate a reunion between the two of them.

Isolating himself in an unused archival room within the precinct, Alain gathered the physical documents pertaining to the case file HT-455; it appeared to be on a strict need-to-know basis, the records even kept separate from the digital database —a peculiarity that left Alain wondering why exactly had Malvirta entrusted him with the information in the first place.

The case dated back seven years, and was centered around a grisly double homicide discovered in an abandoned house, located within the notoriously violent Cretierfield slums by the northern edges —Midwich Valley.

While Alain himself had written reports that began just like that before, any parallelism that he could draw with any of his prior cases ended there.

Two unidentified females were the victims, their identities proving impossible to uncover despite exhaustive DNA sampling and cross-reference efforts. It was as if neither woman had even existed before their mangled corpses turned up abandoned in the city.

Turning through the pages, scribbled notes in an unfamiliar yet meticulously ornate handwriting littered the documents. Some proposed deductions Alain could recognize, like human trafficking or illegal immigration; but one cryptic scrawl in particular left in his chest a lingering disquiet —‘Work of a Punisher?’

Punisher? Alain couldn’t help but wonder if the name referred to an entity similar to Bane. It was too coincidental for those very same words to have been uttered by the shady glasses guy that appeared after the Stalker’s death.

Was the detective leaving those notes behind also aware of the creatures that operated beyond normal perception? Is that what they’re called, Punishers?

The elegantly scribbled annotations accompanied grim descriptions of the abandoned house’s condition upon discovery, as well as the mutilated state of the two victims. While the numerous sets of footprints found indicated the involvement of at least five other individuals, every single forensic trace had gone utterly cold —all of the potential perpetrators vanishing without a trace never to be heard or seen again, and any evidence that could lead to their identification lost to the annals of time.

Turning the page one final time, what Alain then stumbled upon turned his heart into lead in his chest. The crime scene photographs of the victims as they were found, an atrocity committed by means and cruelty outside the bounds of human depravity… What could even leave a body like that?

Well, now he understood why the deduction that Punishers were involved had been scrawled by the detective whose precise signature adorned the reports —one C. Cavendish.

But no sooner his mind began to actually process that record of perversity, something seemed to shift in the atmosphere behind him. Bane, who had been standing silently in a corner of the room, suddenly cracked his bones while his body contorted in a grotesque fashion, twisting as his concrete flesh moved aside for an absurdly long appendage to protrude from his back.

The limb was similar to a large black spider leg covered in barbwire, and it moved in a slow and rhythmic way behind him, echoing the beat of some ghastly war drum before Alain’s eyes were drawn to the abyssal glimmer of Bane’s gray empty sockets.

A growing sentiment of dread took hold of him, unable to shake the feeling that a terrible condition had been met; but before he could brace for its consequences, Alain Konradsson’s conscience had already been violently wrenched outside his body.

Sensations akin to being ripped apart coursed through him, his mind being torn asunder from the familiar confine of physical form. The archive room was no longer, melting away in a vertiginous vortex.

And then he found himself in that abandoned house in Midwich Valley.

The sound of footsteps approaching. The creaking of the old wooden floorboards under the weight of many intruders. The sense of panic rising in his chest. And the inability to either move or speak.

Those senses, that body —neither were his own.

Terror. Pain. Helplessness. His own past anguish came back in full force. No, he couldn’t be here again. He wasn’t a child anymore. It wasn’t supossed to be like this anymore, he had become a police officer to prevent nightmares like that from happening before him.

Then why? Why was such cruel impunity allowed in the world? Why was he forced to feel this… Powerless? It was just like when he ended up being violently handled by the malevolent force shielding Callista’s stalker —failing at protecting the woman he loved when it mattered the most.

Alain desperately prayed for a way out, to be spared from this nightmare; but he remained mute and helpless, an unwilling passenger on a tide of torment as the attackers descended upon him.

Blood splattered the walls as flashes of visceral brutality and profane atrocities played out in unchecked frenzy. The sickening sounds of flesh being torn apart, and the pleasure contained within the laughs that ruptured in his head like a maelstrom, rejoicing in the torture while clashing against the backdrop of a suffering so intense that it threatened to consume him entirely.

All that despair… It was simply far too much. A waking avulsion to experience the pinnacle of human anguish.

Was this supposed to be his penance for trying to delve too deep inside the abyss? Or was it merely a cruel curse for all the crimes he had failed to prevent? Was this agonizing communion what it truly meant to have a Punisher by his side?

A sudden, discordant trill pierced through the overwhelming onslaught; the melodious ring of his phone, wrenching him back to reality as the vision abruptly dissipated like a burst bubble —He was once more within the safe confines of the archive room.

His heart was racing wildly, and cold sweat drenched his body, as Alain looked around wild-eyed, half-expecting Bane’s grotesque visage to have shifted into something even more horrid… But for a change, there was nothing. Only empty stillness, except for the vibrations of his phone, which continued to go off unattended.

Alain willed himself to draw a shuddering breath, then another —his trembling hands fumbling towards the source of the noise in his pockets. He couldn’t allow fear to gain control, not now; but the gap between repeating that mantra inside his head and stopping his quaking fingers was a large one.

Be it coping mechanism or genuine hopefulness, the fact that he was receiving an incoming call from a previously unknown number proved sufficient to dispel many of the demons trying to take hold of his psyche in one swift, decisive motion.

“Callista!” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded desperate and shaky —a reflection of his currently unstable mental state. He didn’t have the certainty if it truly was her on the other end of the line… But perhaps, and more than he cared to admit, he may also just needed to hear the sound of her voice again.

“Yes! Officer Konradsson!” Alain’s eyes slipped shut as allowed himself to be embraced by the cadence, her flinching visage playing behind the lids and creating a fleeting smile on his lips. In these turbulent, nightmare-shrouded times, this girl was the only thing he had that offered sanctuary. “I’m sorry… Am I calling at a bad time?”

Despite Callista being the reason for his descent into this paranormal madness, he could never bring himself to resent her even one tiny bit. No, he would walk this path over and over again if it meant still being graced by the sound of her voice.

“No, really… You have perfect timing.” He was probably sounding far too unhinged if he still held any expectation of impressing her, but Alain was likewise too far gone to retain any proper handle on his feelings. “I’ve just been having… Some hellish last few hours.”

“You’re seeing one too, right?” The fleeting respite her call granted him evaporated like a cruelly tantalizing mirage as she said those words. Back on his senses, the gravity of the subjects brought to the conversation pulled Alain back to reality. “One of those… Punishers?”

So Callista was just like him? As happy as he was to know they shared circumstances… His gut still twisted with worry over the prospect that being paired with one of these godforsaken monsters ended up being more than she could handle.

But with that being said…

“You’re calling them Punishers as well?” He questioned, his voice adopting a sharper edge than intended. “Where did you learn that word?”

Her hesitation stretched out in unbearable silence, each fleeting second feeling eternal to Alain. He wasn’t casting on the fact that in the week they’d been apart, it was likely that Callista had begun her own investigation —but the prospect of the potential dangers she might encounter while at it into made his marrow run cold.

“Yes, it was taught to me by Vincent Genessier… Of all people.” Callista’s tone as she replied was remarkably nonchalant, as if trying to downplay something hard to believe. Mostly though, she sounded as if grappling with the fact that he, too, had been exposed to the term.

Vincent… Genessier? Despite the name ringing a distant bell inside his head for a reason he couldn’t quite narrow down, the murky waters of memory were swiftly overshadowed by a surge of emotion far more immediate and potent.

Jealousy.

“And who is this Vincent exactly?” Despite trying his best to maintain an even tone, a feeling of disgruntlement was hard to keep in check, seeping through the cracks of his composure.

“Ah… I guess you haven’t heard of him.” Her voice carried a hint of disappointment, as if this guy’s name should be widely known. “Well, who he is doesn’t really matter.”

>> “The important part, is that he claimed to know about what all of this means... And how I should move forward.”

So there were others like them, burdened by the presence of these spectral tormentors? Even if they could share experiences, the rookie officer felt a pang of unease at the prospect of associating with such dubious characters —especially since the events leading to their current state were far from a peaceful walk in the park.

“Did this Vincent guy reach out to you somehow? How did he know that you had a Punisher?” His questions were driven by more than just jealousy now. They were laced with genuine concern. Even if his feelings remained unrequited, his desire to keep Callista safe was far stronger than any wounded pride. “You haven’t met with him, have you?”

Well, perhaps it was jealousy too.

“Yes… It’s about that. He called me out of nowhere, and I have no idea how he managed to get his hands on my phone number or any of my information. He claims to hold all the answers, but I don’t trust him enough to go to the Atrium Towers alone...”

Yes. That was the sensible choice. Fuck this Genessier clown, the sooner he was out of their picture, the better.

“So I was thinking… Would you consider accompanying me, Alain?” She inquired, her voice hesitant —as if she needed to ask at all.

“Absolutely!” The response came to him in a fraction of a second, without any real thought. His mind was now a whirlwind of simple, impulsive reactions, driven by the fact that this was the first time she had used his first name since their unlikely reunion.

Callista took a moment to respond, probably taken aback by his overzealous reaction… But it truly was no exaggeration. He was willing to follow her anywhere, be it another state or even country, to these so-called Atrium Towers.

“He requested my presence tomorrow morning at 10. Shall we meet there then?” She finally added, igniting a burst of ecstatic joy to bubble within him.

“Understood I’ll be there waiting for you.” Alain finally replied, dialing back on his intensity to be replaced by a renewed sense of purpose. “And hey… Thank you for trusting me, Cal. I won’t let you down.”

Vincent Genessier, huh. He’d sing praises to him if he even knew who the guy was. A mysterious figure for sure, yet one whose intervention had yielded an unexpected boon —the final bridge between him and Callista. Though veiled in open-ended questions, Alain could not deny a swell of gratitude towards this stranger, for he had inadvertently played a substantial role in bringing them together.

As the call ended, Alain’s exuberance settled into a steady resolve. He glanced at the photos strewn over the desk one final time before closing the files and taking them with him, a fierce determination now taking root within him.

Sure, while thoughts of Callista inevitably crept in, as they so often did since their reunion, the two victims were not forgotten. This was just another step towards unraveling all of the enigmas.

Alain vowed to ensure that no further tragedies ever repeated themselves, not if he possessed the power to intervene.

A debt was owed to those poor women…

And to the justice that still needed to be served.