cHApTEr 14. HAir on firE (3 of 3)

If he had to call her anything, it would be Hair Corpse. She was targeting him specifically, but for what reason? Why had she lured him into her trap?

He had never seen this woman before, never crossed paths with her. The only explanation he could come up with was that she had been sent by the Order of Mercy. Who else would be hunting him? That pale woman with snow-white hair he had encountered during Mia’s rescue mission clearly held a grudge after he knocked her out. She had been commanding the Restored, so it was entirely possible she dispatched Hair Corpse to deal with Mioray.

Eight months of silence, and now the Order finally made a move. First target: Mioray.

He did not have much time to decide what to do. The situation was dire. His feet had been severed and lay nearby in a pool of blood. But losing blood was not the most frightening part. It was the easiest form of bodily damage to recover from. The real problem was mobility. Hair Corpse had taken that from him. For his feet to reattach and regenerate fully would take several hours, and he doubted she would grant him that much time. It was not as though the coffee-blonde woman would simply stand there and wait for him to piece himself back together.

He had been too optimistic, convincing himself he would not get caught. If he failed to escape Hair Corpse, he was as good as captured. And even if he did escape, what then? The Order of Mercy had begun its hunt. Was there anywhere in Reques City that could be considered safe? The storage facility, perhaps, but he would have to make sure he was not followed.

The woman towered over him, her hands resting on her hips. She still held his mask between her fingers, tapping lightly against it. She said nothing. She simply stood there, grinning, as if waiting.

Ah. He understood. She wanted him to struggle. She wanted to watch him attempt to escape. This was entertainment for her.

He refused to give her that satisfaction. If she truly meant to corner him, she should have severed his arms instead.

Mioray shot one arm toward the stair railing and pulled himself forward. As he moved, he grabbed his severed feet in an armful and pressed them tightly against his chest. When he reached the stairs, he glanced back at Hair Corpse.

She remained where she was, framed by fire, eyebrows slightly raised in interest.

It really is just a game to her, huh? He thought.

Why allow him to escape? If she had been sent by the Order, her objective should have been to capture him, not play sports. Was she that confident? Was she letting him believe he had a chance to escape, only to cut him down again when it suited her?

Mioray did not intend to test that theory. He launched his arm upward and hooked it onto the next railing. Pulling himself up, he fired it again toward the railing above. In seconds, he reached the top floor.

His movements were growing sloppy. At the final railing, instead of reattaching his arm as usual, he flinched and lost his balance, falling hard onto the floor. His detached arm still hung from the railing, black threads stretched taut between it and his shoulder. Leaning against the wall beside the staircase, he reeled the arm back into place. The fire was weaker here, and thanks to the firefighters below, it likely would not spread much further.

Breathing became increasingly difficult. Mioray dragged air into his lungs, but it felt thin, useless, as though it carried no oxygen. The smoke must have damaged them more than his body could physically handle. He looked down at the bloodied feet he held against his chest. If only he had not lost his backpack to the flames. It would have been useful now. He wanted to keep his feet close, but doing so left him with only one free arm, which made everything harder.

A bitter thought crossed his mind.

I completely forgot that I used to manage with only one arm for more than a month.

At the time, he had more or less gotten used to functioning with one arm, but now he had grown dependent on having both working. With one arm occupied, escaping would be much harder.

Then an idea struck him. He tried stuffing his severed legs into the front pocket of his hoodie. The pocket swelled awkwardly, blood soaking into the black fabric almost unnoticed, but the sneakers stuck out clumsily. It was far from ideal, but he had no better option. After securing his feet as best as he could, he pulled his phone from the pocket of his shorts.

The others needed to know that hostile Corpses had appeared in the city. Unlike the Restored in yellow hazmat suits, Hair Corpse was self-aware and possessed a lethal ability to control her hair. Mioray unlocked the screen, but as he touched it, he accidentally answered an incoming call that appeared at that exact moment.

It was his mother.

Fuck.

“Mioray, are you alright?” her voice came through the speaker, tight with worry. Since last year, his parents had developed an almost constant fear of losing him whenever they did not hear from him for a few hours. “Where are you?”

After everything that had happened, that fear was unlikely to fade, no matter how much time passed. If only he could end the call and focus on getting help and escaping. But he could not bring himself to do it. He did not want to make them worry more than they already did. And if he hung up without a word, they would likely call the police immediately. They would not take chances anymore.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “You know, this isn’t the best time to talk.”

“Why? Are you hurt?” Panic crept into her tone.

Well, technically… aside from a burned arm, severed legs, and lungs filled with smoke…

“Not exactly,” Mioray replied, doing his best to sound calm.

He was not in pain, after all. He simply could not feel it. But at any moment Hair Corpse could appear on this floor and finish what she had started. His eyes stayed fixed on the staircase as he spoke.

“Mom, I’m with Angelika right now.”

“Angelika? The girl with the green highlights? Wait, are you saying you’re spending the night at her place?”

“Yes, that’s right,” he seized the opportunity without hesitation.

Any excuse that would satisfy his mother would do. He did not allow himself to think about it.

“Well… okay. You’re an adult, after all,” she said, her tone uncertain but trying to accept what she believed. “Maybe you could invite her over for dinner sometime and introduce us properly?”

“Sure, Mom. I will,” a loud crack startled him, but it was just part of the ceiling collapsing at the end of the hallway. It was not Hair Corpse. Not yet. “Sorry, I can’t talk right now. I have to go.”

Convinced he had prevented a larger crisis, Mioray ended the call and quickly opened his contacts, scanning for the first person he could reach. He selected Farah.

The beeping began. Once. Twice. Three times. Each second stretched unbearably long in the empty space between the tones. He kept glancing toward the staircase, expecting Hair Corpse to appear at any moment. She was taking her time. Maybe her hair had caught fire? It would not have been surprising. Hair was highly flammable, and hers had seemed wild enough to touch anything on its path.

“That’s quite a surprise,” Farah’s voice replaced the next beep. Mioray had never been so relieved to hear her. “I don’t remember you calling me, like ever.”

“I’m under attack,” he said bluntly. There was no room for banter. “Hair Corpse. Residential complex that’s on fire, on Calm Street. She cut off my legs.”

“What? Are you high or something? What Hair C–”

The phone, split in two, slipped from his grasp and it hit the floor. His palm now had a bloody hole in it, pinned to the wall by a lock of coffee-blonde hair as if it were a steel spike. It was hard to believe hair could be that sharp.

Crap, Mioray thought. I was so relieved that Farah answered that I stopped watching the stairs.

Hair Corpse appeared at the top of the stairs, ascending toward him. Or rather, floating. No, not exactly that either. She was still in contact with the floor, but not with her legs. She was standing on her hair.

Her hair functioned like tentacles, and they stretched out similarly to how Mioray’s black threads did. One extended strand kept Mioray’s hand pinned to the wall, while others slowly carried her body toward him. Several more writhed behind her, restless, as though waiting for their turn.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Hair Corpse wagged her index finger, scolding him like a child. She grinned, eyes gleaming. “We don’t need outsiders. This is between you and me.”

“What are you talking about?” Mioray shouted. “I’ve never seen you before!”

Instead of answering, she launched another spear of hardened hair toward him. He threw himself to the side, wrenching his trapped hand free with all his strength. The first hair spike tore loose from the wall as he yanked it out. The second spear struck the spot where he had been leaning just a moment earlier, burying itself deep into the concrete. If he had hesitated even a second longer, it would have pierced straight through his chest and heart.

Okay, that was enough to understand that talking would get him nowhere. Still, this did not feel like mindless rampage. Hair Corpse was not like Impact Corpse or Terry when they were twisted by insanity. At least, judging by her eyes, she wasn’t. Her eyes hadn’t turned black with irises glowing red.

It didn’t mean she wasn’t crazy and dangerous, though. She was trying to kill him without offering a single explanation.

His chances of survival were shrinking fast. Could he hold out until help arrived? Assuming help was even coming. From the brief exchange with Farah, it was just as likely she would dismiss what she heard as nonsense.

For now, Mioray was on his own.

He shot his arm toward the open apartment doorway and latched onto the frame, pulling himself forward. This time, Hair Corpse did not remain still. Her hair tentacles propelled her across the floor after him, angling to cut off his escape. With each extension of hair, her body swung forward like a pendulum, closing the distance. She looked disturbingly like a spider advancing on prey.

Another spear flew at Mioray, faster than he could reel himself in.

That was exactly what he was waiting for. He detached his second arm and drove it into the floor, lifting his body upward. The hair spear shot past beneath him and embedded itself in the wall. Before she could retract it, he grabbed the hardened strand and yanked it sideways into the nearby flames. Fire leapt onto her hair instantly, racing along it with a vicious hiss and releasing a sharp, unpleasant smell.

“My hair!” she screamed. “You son of a bitch!”

That accusation was rich. She had ambushed him without warning, and now she was offended that he fought back? If anything, he was only evening the odds. As they say, offense is the best defense.

While the woman focused on the fire spreading across her hair, Mioray pulled himself toward the apartment interior. Down the hallway he spotted a sofa in the living room and launched his arm to hook onto one of its legs. Just as he prepared to pull himself inside, something struck him from the side.

Hair Corpse had slammed into him, sending him skidding away from the entrance. For a moment he expected the final blow, but instead she veered into the apartment herself and vanished from view.

Mioray realized she was prioritizing her hair. If the fire spread through it, she would lose it all and her advantage. She was likely searching for a towel or water in the bathroom, assuming the plumbing still worked. She was distracted, and that meant he had a narrow window to escape.

He pulled himself toward the sofa and then toward the broken window. From the next room, the woman’s curses echoed through the smoke. Mioray positioned himself on the windowsill and looked down. He was too high to safely reach the ground, and even if he could, descending was not a good option. He had lost his mask and was in terrible shape. If someone recognized him, he would never be able to explain why his feet had been severed and then reattached after some time. Besides, he would be vulnerable while lowering himself. One hand would have to grip the sill, and nothing would prevent Hair Corpse from knocking him loose and sending him into a freefall.

He needed another route. The rooftop. From there, he would have space to maneuver. He could reach the opposite edge and launch himself toward the neighboring building where he had left Natalie.

Is she still there? he wondered.

Natalie Lance would definitely help him with Hair Corpse.

Decision made, Mioray steadied himself on the windowsill and fired his arm upward, latching onto the roof ledge.

Thick black smoke continued to rise from below, obscuring much of the view. He could barely see more than a few meters around him. In a way, that might work to his advantage. The smoke could conceal his movements and throw Hair Corpse off his trail. Once on the roof, visibility improved slightly. Two elevator and staircase shafts stood near the center, surrounded by ventilation ducts and exhaust fans. Between them ran a narrow maintenance walkway. There were enough structures to latch onto if he needed to move quickly.

A sudden noise from below made Mioray glance over the edge. He recoiled.

Hair Corpse was rising through the smoke, her expression twisted with fury. Half of her hair had burned away, but the remaining strands drove themselves into the wall like anchors, hauling her upward. She truly resembled a spider climbing its web.

Wasting no time, Mioray aimed at a ventilation duct and launched both arms, pulling himself forward as quickly as he could. He had to widen the distance. Just as he reeled himself in, the woman climbed onto the rooftop.

She was breathing hard now and no longer standing on her hair. She ran toward him instead. He noticed she was not holding his mask anymore. She must have left it behind in the apartment. His stomach tightened. Would it burn like his backpack had?

This was not the moment to dwell on that.

At least Hair Corpse was on foot now. She could only run, while Mioray was still able to propel himself forward by extending and retracting his arms, gradually increasing the distance between them.

But then, she suddenly bent low. The remaining mass of her hair spilled onto the rooftop behind her and stiffened. She jumped. It was not an ordinary jump. As she launched upward, her hardened hair struck the rooftop like a spring, driving her higher with calculated force. She arced through the air and landed directly on Mioray, slamming him down against the surface.

An evil grin stretched across her face. Two sharpened strands of hair hissed through the air and impaled both of his hands, pinning them to the rooftop. She made certain he could not wrench himself free.

“You’ve got some skills, I’ll give you that,” she said, leaning close enough that her breath brushed his face. Her brown eyes were blurred by proximity. “But in the end, it’s not enough. You’ve lost.”

“What do you want from me?” Mioray strained against the hair spears piercing his palms. They were stained red where they passed through his flesh. “Did the Order of Mercy send you?”

She scoffed, clearly pleased with herself.

“Why would anyone need to send me?” she asked. “Did you not hear me the first time? This is between you and me.”

This again. What exactly was supposed to be between her and Mioray? It was starting to irritate him.

“Well, did you not hear me?” Mioray shot back. “I told you I’ve never seen you before. I have no idea why you’re trying to kill me!”

“Kill you? We both know I can’t kill you. But I can humiliate you for the rest of eternity.”

“What for?!”

Still sitting on top of him, her weight pressing him into the rooftop, his severed feet awkwardly stuffed into the front pocket of his hoodie, Hair Corpse rested her knuckles against her cheeks as if settling in for a conversation.

“A little bird told me,” she said, her expression twisted between amusement and hatred in a way that should not have been possible, “that you killed my husband.”

Mioray stopped struggling. His jaw fell open. No. That couldn’t be right. She believed he had killed her husband? But if that was true, how was it possible?

There was only one man whose death could be placed on Mioray’s shoulders, and who had supposedly had a wife.

Could this woman who had subdued him be Amika Clopton?

Natalie had been searching for her for months, and now she had appeared in the middle of a burning residential complex as if by coincidence. Except there was nothing coincidental about this. She had entered Mioray’s life like a thunder strike.

Questions crowded his thoughts. Too many questions, and judging by her behavior so far, she was not the type to calmly explain herself. Cooperative was not a word that applied to her. She was entirely opposite of that.

The dead wife of Herman Clopton.

Mioray did not know what Herman had been like before he became the Dismantler or the raging Impact Corpse. Whatever he once was, this woman seemed to match him disturbingly well.

If only Mioray could inform the others! Together, they might be able to capture her, uncover where she had been all this time and how she had become Restored. But first he had to get free. Amika Clopton believed she had him pinned for good, yet she had not seen everything he was capable of.

Heads up.

His head detached from his neck, held by black threads, and shot forward in a violent arc. The impact landed squarely against her jaw, a headbutt amplified by the force of sudden propulsion. She toppled backward, her remaining hair whipping through the air as she lost control, the strands retracting and releasing his hands.

Mioray broke free. Without wasting the momentum, he pulled his head back into place and immediately launched an arm toward the maintenance walkway near the roof’s edge. He reeled himself in and propelled his body across the street toward the neighboring building, just as he had done earlier when he launched himself into the fire to help the woman that tried to take him down.

He landed on the opposite rooftop and allowed himself one quick glance back. Hair Corpse had already regained her footing. She was studying the distance, calculating whether she could replicate his leap.

He did not intend to find out. Mioray fired his arms toward the maintenance curb on the rooftop and pulled himself forward again.

Then a gunshot shattered the air.

The impact knocked him off balance. He hit the ground hard and instinctively looked down at his side. A clean hole marked his hoodie, and beneath it was the dark wound of a bullet. Smoke curled faintly from torn fabric.

Across the rooftop stood a man in a sand-colored gabardine coat and a brown fedora. A grey mustache framed his face. Mioray had never seen him before. The man held a revolver steady in his hand, thin smoke rising from the barrel.

Oh, Mioray thought. So she wasn’t alone after all. What happened to this being “between you and me”?

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