Santiago's words hung in the air like a storm cloud waiting to burst. The realization hit him hard, his heart racing.
"They're working both sides," he repeated, his voice now firm, though the weight of it crushed him.
John's face twisted in disbelief. "No, that can't be right. They've always been with us—fighting alongside us. Kils' chosen warriors, remember?"
But Santiago couldn't shake the feeling gnawing at him. He clenched his fists, staring at the white hair between his fingers.
"They were always there. Watching. Pulling strings from the shadows, controlling us without us even knowing." His breath quickened as he thought of the battlefields. "The Void... it's never been just about them. The real war has always been inside. Against them."
Johnna, her face pale, shook her head. "This isn't possible. If they wanted to fight the Void, they would have—"
"But they didn't. They stayed hidden, pulling the strings, making sure that nothing was ever truly finished, nothing ever won."
Santiago's eyes grew cold as he stared at the bloodstains on Metal Master's body. His blood. "This isn't about the Void anymore. They want control. They always have."
Johnna took a step back, her hand to her mouth, a chill creeping over her. "Then why Metal Master?"
"Because he knew too much," Santiago replied, his voice breaking. "He was digging too deep into things they never wanted uncovered." He swallowed hard. "We were fools to trust them."
The walls of the workshop seemed to close in around them, and the sound of footsteps from the hallway outside grew louder. They had no time to waste.
"We need to warn the others," Santiago said, his voice steady now, despite the storm inside him.
But before they could move, a low voice from the doorway interrupted.
"It's already too late."
Santiago froze, eyes snapping to the door. A figure stood there, cloaked in the pale light of the corridor. The white hair, the familiar robes—everything about the figure was wrong, more imposing than ever before.
It was one of them. AOLAL.
The figure stepped into the room, his presence heavy, the air pressing in from all sides.
"You know too much already," the figure said softly. "You should not have learned what you have."
Johnna reached for her weapon, but Santiago held her back. He had no choice but to face what was coming.
"Who are you?" Santiago demanded, his voice sharp.
The figure smiled. "A soldier of the Light. You have been playing with fire, Santiago Jaskulski. And now… you will burn."
And with that, the darkness around them deepened, the walls closing in as everything they thought but find out they knew nothing.
Johnna was the first to spot it—a narrow window tucked near the corner of the workshop wall. Half-covered in grime, just barely big enough.
"There!" she shouted. "Come on!"
She squeezed through, boots scraping metal, breath ragged. John followed, heart hammering, arms trembling from adrenaline and fear.
Santiago was right behind them, sprinting across the room. He dove forward, body crashing through the opening—almost. His foot caught.
And then the hands came.
Cold. Pale. Inhuman.
They seized his ankle, yanking hard.
Santiago's cry tore through the air. "John! Johnna!"
John reached back, grabbed his arm. "I've got you—just hold on!"
Johnna grabbed the other. Together, they pulled with everything they had.
But more hands spilled from the shadows. Dozens of them, groping, clawing, relentless.
"Pull!" Johnna screamed. "We can still—"
The hands changed direction—lunging for them now.
One brushed John's wrist, another caught Johnna's braid.
They flinched, stumbling back just in time, gasping.
And in that moment, Santiago slipped further inside.
"No!" John roared.
Johnna's eyes filled with tears. "We can't—we can't save him."
Santiago looked up at them, his face pale, his breaths shallow.
And then—he smiled.
A soft, sad smile. The kind you give someone when you've already made peace with the end.
"Go," he said quietly. "Please… go."
Johnna hesitated.
"Run," Santiago said again.
This time, they did.
They turned. They ran. Down the corridor, sobbing, breath catching in their throats. They didn't look back—until the last second.
One final glance.
Santiago, still half in the window, still smiling.
Then—he was gone.
The hands pulled him into the dark.
And he felt it.
Teeth—sharp and cold—sinking into his neck.
There was a flash of pain.
Then…
nothing.