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As he ran through the fog, cold air hit his fresh wounds. Blood kept seeping through his grasp. He knew that the fog would never end, but he had to keep going. If anything, it was just so his “killer” wouldn’t get the satisfaction of delivering a final blow. His legs ached and he was so…So tired…
But as Michi thought he was about to collapse, he saw a shape in the fog: A shack. In an internal haze, he just hoped someone would be there. Anyone!
The door was unlocked as he barged into the cabin. It was empty. Within the walls of petrified wood, all of the furniture inside remained still, as if untouched by time. He shut the door.
Pressing against his wound, he tried to keep breathing at a steady pace. He didn’t know if his attacker was still around. The chances were high. Michi’s blood not only pooled, but he saw smaller streaks of crimson leading up to himself. If the person chasing him didn’t see it, then it was possible someone else would.
How long would that take?
Everything felt so cold, so dark. He wanted to sleep. Until he heard deep thumping from the outside. From the windows, Michi could see a figure lingering around. He looked around, his eyes eventually setting on a rusted box cutter hidden inside the desk drawer he rested against. It was the only thing that reminded him of the aged, decrepit hell that is Gateway.
As he grasped it, the door opened. He was left with one way out. Will he have his blood spilled by his attacker? Spill his own blood and go out on his own terms? Or…The miniscule chances that someone would rescue him, and he’d walk out alive?
The tip of the tarnished blade cradled against his wrist. Not enough to pierce it. At best, it could leave a pinkish mark. The doorknob twisted, and as the door slowly opened with a creak, Michi was further pushing the blade.