"EVERYONE RUN!"
Screams tore through the corridor like thunder. The group burst apart, scattering like ants under a boot.
Elliot spun around, "No—wait! DON'T SPLIT UP!"
But it was too late.
Chaos had swallowed logic whole.
Ava had already started panicking, her breaths sharp and shallow. She ran toward the corridor, darting behind a cracked wall near the bend—not sitting, just crouched, alert but trembling, trying to make herself invisible in the dim light.
Elliot's heart raced. He pushed through the crowd, dodging someone who had collapsed from sheer terror. He reached Ava just as she pressed her back to the cold wall, eyes wide with panic.
"Ava..." he whispered, crouching beside her. "Hey... look at me... breathe... I'm here, okay? We're okay."
She didn't speak, just gripped his arm tightly like it was the last thing keeping her from unraveling.
But just behind them—
Laughter.
Not from the group.
The Warden.
A deep, breathless wheeze, muffled behind the leather sack.
It wasn't chasing them.
It was watching.
Like a god admiring the destruction it caused.
And something about that terrified Elliot more than the axe.
This thing—it liked the fear.
"STOP!"
Elliot's voice boomed across the hall, loud and sharp enough to cut through the chaos.
"LISTEN TO ME! THIS PHASE—IT'S NOT ABOUT THE ENTITIES!"
People froze mid-run. Breathless. Trembling.
The Warden's steps echoed again. Slow. Deliberate.
"The rulebook," Elliot continued, voice tight but firm. "It didn't warn us about him! It didn't say he was unstoppable! That means he's not!"
His eyes darted across the group.
"The problem in this phase is the exit, not the monsters! We're eighteen people—eighteen! It's one warden!"
The fear was visible in their eyes, but his words struck a chord.
Someone whispered, "He's right…"
From the middle of the group, the small Indian girl, her black hair tied in a tight ponytail, stepped forward hesitantly.
"Maybe… maybe he's right," she said, swallowing. "The book said crawlers and whispers were weak. It didn't say much about the Warden—so maybe he's just a guard"
A tall, red-haired woman, clearly strong and built like a fighter, cracked her knuckles. Her arms were tense, her expression furious.
"Well then," she growled, "we give him a reason to patrol a new realm."
She stepped forward, eyes locked on the dark silhouette.
"I didn't survive four phases just to be chopped up by Leatherface."
The bearded guy beside her—scarred, ragged, tired—sighed, dragging a hand across his face.
"This is the dumbest idea I've heard in weeks…"
He glanced at Elliot.
"But shit, what choice do we got? Better to die swinging than screaming."
From the back, another man stepped out—model-tier handsome, his face calm despite the tension. His posture was flawless, like a trained athlete.
"If we fight together, we stand a chance," he said, voice smooth. "Don't think. Just move with precision. We hit him from all sides. Confuse him. Tire him out."
Their circle tightened.
Weapons gripped tighter.
Boots scraped across the tiled floor as they took position.
But the fear—it never left.
Their arms were steady, but their eyes betrayed them.
The horror was still inside.
And in front of them, the Warden just tilted its head.
Like it was wondering…
"Who dies first?"
The Warden stood in place—still, patient, deliberate.
Its head tilted to the left, as if listening, not to their words… but to their heartbeat.
Chains rattled softly around its neck like wind chimes from Hell, brushing against its torn uniform, still glistening with fresh blood.
And then—
THUMP.
One heavy step forward.
The air grew tighter. The shadows felt closer.
Every breath taken was now a countdown.
The group tensed.
Weapons up.
Eyes wide.
But no one moved.
Not even Elliot.
They stood like statues carved by panic, hearts screaming but bodies locked.
It was like—
Have you ever been in a fight?
With your friends—maybe five, maybe ten of you—
And you're facing a monster of a man?
Someone who clearly knows how to throw hands.
A man who's built like a machine, eyes cold like steel, walking towards you with zero fear—
And you feel it.
That thing in your chest.
The one that says:
"Let someone else throw the first punch."
Just one hit. Just one test.
Just one victim…
So you can judge whether you should fight or run.
That was this moment.
They were eighteen, yet they felt like prey.
Each person stood with stiff arms, eyes flicking to the others, waiting—praying—for someone else to throw the first blow.
To be the canary in the coal mine.
But no one moved.
The Warden stepped again.
Closer.
A trail of red wet footprints marked its path, each one steaming faintly.
Its breathing was slow, almost… amused.
It wasn't charging.
It wasn't roaring.
It was watching.
Calculating.
As if trying to decide:
"Which one of you will scream the prettiest?"
And just like that—
It raised its axe.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just enough to show that this was the moment.
This was real.
This was death coming.
And still—
No one struck first.
The Warden stopped.
Right in front of the bearded man.
The two stood face-to-face—
Except only one of them had a soul still intact.
The Warden's grotesque presence loomed over him, axe raised to the heavens, its blade glinting under the faint corridor light—still wet with yesterday's flesh.
The bearded man's knees buckled slightly.
He wanted to move.
He wanted to scream.
To run.
To beg.
But his body…
Betrayed him.
His eyes widened, lips trembling, sweat crawling down his forehead like icy fingertips. His heart thundered, but his limbs were cemented to the floor.
He was too afraid to move.
Too human to survive.
Just behind him, the red-haired woman—strong, built, once fearless—saw it happening.Her eyes widened in horror as she instinctively stepped back, her voice cracking through the thick tension:
"HEY! ARE YOU OKAY?!"
Her tone, once commanding—now brittle.
Elliot, who had just started to rush forward, stopped—
His voice cracked with desperate urgency:
"MOVE! YOU HAVE TO MOVE OR YOU'LL DIE!"
But the man couldn't.
His lips parted—no words, no breath.
Just a single tear.
A drop of salt and fear rolling down his cheek…
…and then—
CLANK!
The axe split his skull down the center—
Not clean. Not smooth.
Jagged. Brutal. Cruel.
The top of his head cracked open like a watermelon dropped on concrete, halfway cleaved—
The bone caved inward, his brain splitting apart, and his eyeballs bulged out—still tethered to the inside of his shattered skull by thin strings of nerve and pulp.
Blood exploded like a fire hydrant, spraying up and outward, coating the Warden's leather mask in a curtain of deep red.
The Warden didn't flinch.
It didn't roar.
It didn't gloat.
It just stood there…
Admiring its work.
The man's twitching corpse, still impaled by the axe, hung loosely—
And the Warden lifted its weapon once more, bringing the body with it—
The bearded man's limbs dangling like meat from a butcher's hook.
And then—
SLAM!
The Warden smashed the axe—with the body still stuck—into the corridor wall with monstrous strength.
Bone cracked. Skull shattered.
His entire head split like rotted fruit, the eyes launching out, one bouncing across the ground like a dislodged marble—
The wall painted red, chunks of flesh and pieces of cranium sliding down like wet paint.
The group screamed.
Some collapsed.
Some turned to vomit.
Some fell to their knees.
But no one moved forward.
The first one had died.
And now…
The Warden was hungry for seconds.
The red-haired woman—still shaking from what she'd just witnessed—did what anyone would do.
She turned to run.
Or tried to.
But before her heel even twisted from the ground—
SHKKK!
The Warden's massive hand—its knuckles torn and thick, fingers wrapped in rusted, blood-stained chains—gripped a fistful of her hair.
"A-AAH—!"
She didn't even get to scream fully—her body lifted off the ground like she weighed nothing.
Like a ragdoll in a child's tantrum.
And then—
CRACK.
Her neck snapped sideways from the violent yank, a wet pop echoing from between her spine and skull.
Her eyes widened, jaw unhinged mid-scream, face frozen in a contortion of agony and terror.
She was alive, but only just—
Arms twitching.
Mouth gaping.
Paralyzed.
Her body flailed helplessly in the Warden's grip, feet kicking against the air in a silent cry for help.
Then—
"RAAAHH!"
A guy from the side—lean, athletic, his eyes burning with anger and desperation—charged in with a crowbar, teeth clenched, aiming to strike the Warden's side.
He raised the metal bar—
But the Warden was faster.
In a chilling move, it tossed the axe upward slightly, letting the blade spin mid-air—And then, with inhuman reflexes, it caught the sharp blade in its bare palm— Letting the blood drip from its hand, gripping it backward by the blade…
And with a bone-breaking swing, it whipped the handle of the axe into the side of the charging man's head.
THAMP.
A sickening, echoing crack rattled through the corridor—
Like steel slamming into a watermelon.
The man's head jerked sideways violently, a stream of blood instantly painting the wall,his body flying off to the right, crashing into the stone with a thud so heavy it silenced everyone for a second.
His crowbar clattered to the floor…
A crimson pool beginning to spread beneath him.
Everyone's breath caught in their throat.
The Warden, unbothered, still held the red-haired girl—her body now limp, her eyes still blinking slowly…
And as it turned its head back toward the rest of the group, you could hear it.
The chains dragging behind it.
The silence before a storm.
And the message was clear:
"Who's next?"
The group stood frozen—shocked. Blood still painted the wall, dripping from the crushed remains of the bearded man's skull. The air was thick with horror, a silence filled only by the wheeze of panic.
Elliot's mind raced, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. He looked at the Warden, who now held the red-haired girl by her hair—her body limp, paralyzed from the sudden whip-like force of his grip. Her expression was frozen in fear and agony.
"He didn't kill her yet..."
"Why? Why isn't he killing her?"
The Warden stared at them. Motionless. Waiting.
"Is he... keeping her as bait?"
"A hostage?"
"He wants us to try and save her."
The realization made Elliot's gut churn.
"This isn't just brute force. He's thinking. Playing."
He turned to look at Ava, hidden near the corridor wall, her wide eyes locked onto his. She was trembling—frozen—not just in fear, but because she knew what was happening too. Their eyes met.
And that was the moment Elliot made a choice.
"No… no, I won't risk her."
"She's the only one I can't lose."
"I'm sorry... but she's the only one that matters now."
A steely coldness hardened in his chest. Compassion dulled, replaced by survival. His jaw clenched.
He turned to the group and screamed, voice breaking through the chaos.
"GUYS! EVERYONE ATTACK IN GROUP—NOW!"
There was hesitation. Fear. Panic. But instinct took over. Some got into stance. Two guys, hearts pounding in desperation, sprinted toward the Warden—toward the girl being held like a ragdoll.
Elliot didn't wait. He grabbed Ava's hand, pulling her further into the corridor, pressing her to the wall.
"Stay here. No matter what you hear. No matter what happens. Stay hidden."
As Elliot turned to leave, Ava reached out and grabbed his wrist with trembling fingers.
Her eyes shimmered under the flickering prison lights, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Please be safe, baby… I love you."
Her words cracked, fragile and scared.
Elliot froze.
He turned back to her, and for a moment, the world—blood, screams, chaos—faded into silence.
He stepped closer, cupping her face with both hands, thumbs gently brushing against her cheeks.
"I love you too," he said softly, forehead resting against hers.
"You're the only thing keeping me grounded right now."
Ava closed her eyes, her breath shaky.
"Don't do anything stupid."
Elliot smiled gently, trying to hide his own fear.
"No promises… but I'll come back to you. That I swear on everything."
"You better."
She said, trying to sound brave, even though her voice cracked again.
Elliot leaned in, kissed her forehead with deep tenderness, then whispered—
"When this is over, it's just you and me. Nothing else."
Ava nodded, tears starting to fall, her hands still holding onto his like she never wanted to let go.
But she did.
And he ran.
Straight into the dark.
Straight into the storm.
Meanwhile—just ahead in the corridor's choking shadows—the two men who had rushed toward the Warden reached him. Their hearts thundered, fear choking their instincts, but they pushed through.
CLANG!
One of them slammed a rusted metal pipe across the Warden's head.
It didn't even flinch.
With a sickening twist, the Warden's hand snapped upward, grabbing the attacker's skull in its monstrous grip.
CRRK-KCHHH.
The sound was like dry wood snapping under pressure—bones crushed between unforgiving fingers.
The man didn't even have time to scream. Just a sudden jerking jolt, his arms twitching, legs giving way.
The second man—trying to tackle from behind—barely had a second to realize what was happening before the Warden's massive boot slammed into his gut.
THUMP!
He flew backward like a ragdoll, blood spurting from his mouth mid-air before crashing into the stone floor.
Then—
CRACK!
The Warden, still holding the crushed skull like a discarded toy, hurled the broken man with inhuman force toward the corridor wall.
He collided directly into the red-haired woman, who was still paralyzed.
The impact was catastrophic.
The sound of her spine snapping echoed like a whip crack.
She let out a twisted gasp—sharp, agonizing, but brief. Her body went limp, legs unresponsive. Her mouth moved, but no words came out.
The man who had been thrown into her choked on his own blood, coughing violently, pink and red bubbling past his lips as he clung to consciousness—barely.
They both slid down the wall together like broken puppets, smeared in blood, motionless… still alive—but only just.
And above them…
The Warden stood tall.
Unmoved.
Unbothered.
Ready for the next.
The red-haired woman lay there—twitching, blood pooling beneath her. Her spine felt like glass shards inside her back. She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe without feeling knives twist in her body.
Tears streamed down her face.
Her voice, cracked and full of unbearable pain, barely made it out:
"Please... please just kill me... just end it... please... please—"
She gasped between sobs, her hand trembling as it reached for anyone—anything.
"I don't want to feel this anymore... I can't... I can't..."
Nearby, the man who had been kicked lay coughing violently. Blood poured from his mouth as he clutched his stomach, his ribs shattered, organs likely ruptured. The other man—the one with the broken skull—was barely breathing. His eye swelled, his breathing a sick gargle.
Suddenly—
THUD.
The Warden moved again.
Without warning, it lifted a heavy boot and slammed it onto the girl's lower back—
CRACK!
The sound of her spine completely giving out echoed like gunfire.
Her body launched from the pressure, flung into the group behind her, knocking down three others like bowling pins.
One of them—a young boy, maybe just out of college—gripped her body instinctively, only to find her eyes wide, mouth open… unable to even scream anymore.
A scream erupted.
"RUN! RUN!"
A guy shouted, panicked, bolting toward the far corridor.
But before they could react—
STOMP.
The Warden slammed its boot down on the head of a boy trying to crawl away.
CRUNCH.
The sickening pressure made his skull crack in layers.
His eye popped out slowly, sliding along the floor like a marble coated in red.
The boy screamed, his voice high and desperate:
"NO—NO, PLEASE! STOP—SOMEBODY—HELP ME—"
His hand reached out into the air… trembling…
But there were no hands waiting to grab it.
SNAP.
The Warden's foot pressed harder—until his skull caved inward like shattered pottery. A final breath escaped him—wet, gurgled, unfinished.
Silence followed.
But it wasn't peace.
It was the kind of silence that waited—as if the Warden was only getting started.
The survivors scrambled—tripping over each other, screams tearing through the halls like sirens.
But the Warden moved too fast.
WHOOSH—CLANK.
The axe swung in a savage arc, catching a boy in the ribs. The thick blade dug halfway through his side, slicing through bone like butter. His scream was immediate and inhuman, blood spraying from his mouth as he looked down to see his organs twitching through the cleave.
But the Warden didn't let the blade linger.
It kicked the boy—a full-bodied, violent stomp to the stomach, forcing the embedded axe out of his torso with a wet SCHLICK, tearing bits of flesh and ribs with it. The boy collapsed in a heap, wheezing and twitching, his side a gaping hole, as if something had taken a bite out of him.
Then—the chain.
From its shoulder, the Warden unraveled a rusted chain, and with a single flick of its wrist, it wrapped tight around a screaming girl's ankle.
Before she could even react—
WHIP—SMASH.
She was yanked off the ground, dragged violently across the jagged tiles, her body twisting unnaturally.The chain spun her like a pendulum before the Warden hurled her against the corridor wall.
CRACK.
Her spine and ribs shattered on impact. She gasped, blood erupting from her mouth in thick streams. Her body hit the floor, spasming, eyes fluttering like a flickering light.
And then came the most horrifying moment.
Another man—a broad-shouldered guy—rushed with a scream. But the Warden gripped its axe in reverse, holding the metal handle like a stake, and jammed it forward—straight into the man's mouth.
CRACK—SHLUCK.
The handle tore through the inside of his mouth, piercing through his jaw and out the back of his neck.
He gargled violently, his teeth shattering and flying like shards of porcelain. His tongue twitched around the steel before the Warden ripped it out sideways, tearing flesh and muscle.
The man dropped, blood spewing from both ends of his face like a broken faucet.
The corridor was painted in red.
The floor—slippery with blood.
The walls—streaked with bone, skin, and teeth.
The air—thick with screaming, gurgling, and the sound of flesh giving way to metal.
And the Warden?
Still standing.
Still breathing heavy behind the leather sack covering its head.
Its chains dragging behind.
Waiting.
Waiting for more to break.
The Warden's shadow loomed over her—the red-haired woman who could no longer crawl, could no longer move. Her breathing was shallow, broken by the stabbing pain in her spine. Tears streamed down her face as she saw the Warden approach, dragging that blood-caked axe behind like a reaper savoring the silence before the harvest.
"N-No... please…" she whimpered, her voice raw, each word trembling. "I don't wanna die—please… I can't feel my legs, please… someone—help me…"
Her begging grew desperate, frantic.
"I have a sister—I was just trying to—please, I'll do anything—don't—DON'T!"
But the Warden didn't care. It never did.
It knelt beside her like it was studying prey, tilting its head, the leather bag creaking from the motion. The handle of the axe, slick with blood and grime, hovered just above her shattered back.
"No—NO NO NO! DON'T TOUCH ME! SOMEONE HELP—!"
The handle pressed slowly, deliberately, into her wounded spine. Her scream pierced the corridor, sharp and gut-wrenching. But as the pressure increased, something changed.
Her voice cracked. Then faded. Her mouth was still open, the terror still visible in her wide, trembling eyes—but no sound escaped. Like the pain was too much for her body to process. Like her voice had been stolen by the agony itself.
Her head slowly tilted forward. The scream became silent. Her lips still moved, but only breath came out. The horror in her eyes didn't fade—it just became quieter. Quieter than death itself.
And then—
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor.
Elliot turned the corner.
He froze.
His eyes widened.
The flickering ceiling light cast twisted shadows across the blood-slicked floor. Bodies—bodies he'd spoken to just moments ago—lay broken, scattered like discarded dolls. Blood stained the walls in sweeping arcs. A leg twitched. A crowbar lay bent near a crushed skull. The air reeked of iron and death.
And there—at the center of it all—stood the Warden.
Towering. Still. Breathing.
Its axe dripped red, gleaming in the low light. The chain around its neck clinked faintly as it slowly turned its head toward Elliot, the leather mask staring directly at him. The red-haired woman no longer moved. Her eyes were open—still—and her mouth was frozen mid-scream, silent and lifeless.
Elliot's breath caught in his throat. His heart thundered.
His legs wouldn't move.
And in that moment…
He realized he was too late.