"W-Who?" the trembling voice of a nurse echoed in the darkness.

  From the shadowed corridor, seven figures slowly stepped into the dim glow of the emergency lights. Their footsteps were heavy, their presence suffocating.

  One of them, a lanky man with a twisted grin—Rushin—snickered, "Oh… they really look quite cute even though it's dark here. Boss, can't we just keep them alive and enjoy the night with them later?"

  The nurses' hearts pounded. Fear crawled across their faces.

  But the man at the center, the boss, spoke coldly. His tone cut through the silence like a knife.

  "We don't have time for these games. We need to finish the job quickly. Kill them all. I'll go on ahead—you deal with them."

  Without another glance, the boss turned and began to leave.

  Rushin groaned in disappointment. "Ah, what a shame. I really wanted to taste them, though…"

  One of the younger nurses, barely twenty-two, clutched the sleeve of the older nurse beside her, voice shaking.

  "W-What should we do now, Miss Tahira?"

  Tahira, calm despite the fear in her eyes, tried to comfort her. "Don't be afraid. We'll be fine. The security will come any moment."

  But one of the intruders, Rakib, sneered as the group advanced.

  "Oh, are you waiting for security? Hehehe… Sorry to crush your hopes, but no one's coming."

  The nurses' brief glimmer of hope shattered. Their bodies trembled.

  Rushin licked his lips, chuckling. "Well, the boss isn't here now… so why don't we have some fun with these beauties?"

  "Hahaha, yeah. Let's do it," another man joined in.

  Just as their sinister laughter filled the air—

  A voice broke through the darkness.

  "Ahhh… why is it so dark? I can't even see properly…"

  Footsteps approached. A figure was coming closer from the corridor.

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  Johan.

  He stepped into the edge of the dim light, scratching his head with a confused look.

  "Did I come to the right place now?"

  The intruders turned, frowning. The nurses widened their eyes.

  But the darkness was still too heavy. None of them could see Johan's face clearly.

  Meanwhile—

  On the third floor, in the hospital’s VIP wing, Room No. 354 was quiet except for the soft hiss of the oxygen machine. An older man lay propped against plush pillows, skin pale beneath the lamp’s muted glow. He was Robiul Arzali, fifty-two, eyes rimmed in worry but voice steady as he peered at the young man standing by the bedside.

  “Ah, Fahim. What’s wrong? It’s already been around 10 minutes the electricity is gone. Is there any problem?”

  Fahim Zafreen, thirty-four, dressed in a black suit that swallowed his posture, bowed once and answered politely, “I’ll check sir.”

  He stepped out of the room and into the corridor. Four bodyguards waited by the door, hulking silhouettes in the dim emergency light. Fahim pointed at one and commanded quietly, “Hey, go to the first floor and check what’s wrong with the electricity.”

  “Ok, sir.” the guard answered.

  Fahim turned his attention to the remaining three. “And you three don’t let anyone in no matter what.”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied in low, synchronous tones, shoulders squareing with duty.

  The guard who’d been ordered to check—Mojahid—strode toward the stairwell. He reached the first step when suddenly everything exploded into motion.

  THUD! CRACK!

  Mojahid was slammed backwards, flying into the stair landing and striking the wall with a sickening thump. The sound echoed down the corridor like a gunshot. Alarms in nearby wards began to stutter as staff hurried out of doors.

  Fahim and the others spun toward the stairwell. “What just happened?” one of them barked, breath sharp with sudden alarm.

  They rushed to the landing. Mojahid lay sprawled, blood spreading dark across the pale tiles, breaths shallow. Panic and disbelief flared across Fahim’s face.

  From the shadows of the stairwell a figure stepped into the emergency light—calm, composed, and terrifyingly controlled. He moved like a man who had been born to command the space around him. The air seemed to thicken in his presence; even the buzzing emergency lights dimmed as if unwilling to challenge him.

  This was the boss of the gangsters on the lower floor. Shahryel Kadir—the name felt like a promise and a threat. Around him hung an aura that tasted of power: not the bluster of a bully, but the cold, absolute certainty of someone awakened. It pressed against the guards’ chests and left them a fraction slower to react.

  Shahryel surveyed the scene with a lazy, almost bored glance. He took in the bodyguards, the fallen man, the white-faced patient in Room 354, and gave a small, dry chuckle.

  “Ah, man. I’ve to kill even more people now.”

  The words slipped out casual as a note of music—and as final.

  Meanwhile on the lower floor:

  Rushin squinted through the darkness, his tone sharp with suspicion.

  “Hey… Who the hell are you? How did you get here?”

  Johan stopped a few paces away, his figure faint in the blackout gloom. His voice was calm, almost careless.

  “That’s my line. Who are you guys? You don’t seem like patients or doctors, though.”

  The air thickened. Suddenly—

  [Ding!]

  A system panel burst to life before Johan’s eyes. But unlike the familiar calming blue, this one glowed a violent red, pulsing ominously.

  [Warning: Presence of high-threat awakened detected.]

  Johan’s eyes widened as he saw the notification.