Fortune Favors the Bold

17

Convict 286 carefully closed the door after himself. He lifted his hands to adjust the collar of his shirt, smoothing his hair as he crossed the bridge. Nobody was on the bridge as he made his way back to his room. They're already non-verbally established a curfew after the first death. The last person out was in danger of becoming the killer's next target so nobody wanted to be the last one out.

He lowered his head, sliding his hand over the back of his hair to brush out any potential knots. Each wide stride brought him toward the center of the bridge. But, near its middle, his eyes caught on the droplets of red liquid that seemed to be purposely smeared in the middle of the intersections between the quarters.

Pausing in his place, the ex-soldier glanced around the branches around him for any more blood, but the only stains remained in the middle. He snorted, realizing that whoever had done it had made it intentional. That way, the trail couldn't lead to them.

With a brush against his nose, the convict turned around and began back toward his own room. Soon enough, news would come of the next victim and the chase would be narrowed down even further.

His Pair would probably be sleeping now, or off with Assad and Tamara on another useless goose-chase. He rolled his eyes at the thought of them. If anything, he found the group of three more annoying than helpful. If they were any good, they would have been able to identify the murderer out of the only five left alive. In the end, he'd been right in his assumption about them: they'd be no help.

As he neared the first bedroom door, Convict 286's eyes caught on the narrow width that remained between the door and its frame. He slowed in passing, glancing around in case anybody was within. But no sound came from past the ajar door.

He snorted in irritation, placing a single knock on its wood before walking into the narrow hall. "Makoa," he called out. The ex-soldier pressed his eyes closed and cocked his head to the side.

If Assad was in here....

His lips curled in disgust at the thought, more aggravation already building into each footstep as he neared the end of the hall. "Do you have a death wish?" He asked, stepping past the wall. "Why is your door...?"

But his words trailed off as his eyes took in the sight of the messed bed's blanket. A dark stain could be seen on the material. He didn't have to wonder what it was as he looked down at the blood smeared over the ground in a path that led to a much larger pool beneath-.

"Fuck!" He cursed, launching forward to the side of the unconscious girl on the floor. Her eyes remained peacefully closed and her lips slightly parted, but no breaths slipped through. "Makoa?" He slid his hand under her neck, lifting her head to feel for a pulse and check for a reaction. But the girl was way too far gone to respond.

He pulled in a sharp breath, his knee slipping against the ocean of blood that seemed to surround her body. "Dammit, dammit," he pressed his thumb beneath her jaw. A weak pulse was slowly fading from her body. He searched around, frantically scanning for something to keep the girl from slipping too far.

As long as the loud blast hadn't exploded through the building, she still stood a chance of revival.

The ex-soldier grabbed a white towel off the ground in the distance, quickly lifting her shirt to observe the three stab wounds that remained wet with dark red blood.

Who'd done this?

He glanced at her face, relieved that she was already unconscious because it'd make what he was about to do so much easier. Convict 286 placed the towel over his index finger and held it over his wrist, reaching over her to force it into her wound. Her gasp was barely audible as he shoved the towel further into her wounds, plugging the blood before she lost anymore. Her flesh squelched against his touch, but the ex-soldier only stopped when blood was no longer seeping out of her wounds.