God of Vengeance : Vaughn x OC

CHAPTER 7 : VAUGHN

VAUGHN

Hospitals always smell like antiseptic and death.

My eyes crack open, and the smell of antiseptic assaults my nostrils.

Why can't they invest in some scented candles? Coconuts would do wonders right now. I like coconuts.

I groan, squinting against the harsh fluorescent light glaring down from above. My fingers press against my scalp, feeling the rough texture of a bandage wrapped just above my neck.

It takes me a second to get my bearings, to place myself in a world that feels hazy and distant.

White walls. Cold, sterile air. The rhythmic beeping of monitors. The unmistakable scent of antiseptic hanging thick in the air.

Why am I in a hospital? I'm too disoriented to recall what happened before I was admitted here.

Something about —

Oh fuck.

I glance around, half-expecting to see my ever-present dark angel standing nearby—looming over my shoulder, that trademark frown fixed firmly on her face.

Yet I see nothing—no one.

Just pristine white walls and bland, lifeless furniture—like the whole room was designed with the single most objective of being as dull and uninspiring as possible.

I pull the IV out of my wrist with a sharp sting, and the hospital gown rustles as I swing my legs off the bed. I look like a walking talking public embarrassment. As I stand, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a darkened monitor screen across the room—a thin, hollow-eyed version of myself, washed out under the hospital lights. I almost laugh at the pitiful sight.

Vulnerable, fragile.

Pathetic.

I take a step toward the door, determined to get out of here and get answers, but my foot slips, skidding on something cold and wet. My heart skips a beat as I look down.

Blood.

A dark smear of it stretches out across the floor, thick and glistening, like some kind of sick river winding toward the hallway. My pulse spikes, and I push the door open, the metallic scent intensifying as I step outside. The bright lights in the corridor flicker, casting a dim, ghostly glow over the scene laid out before me.

Bodies.

Nurses, doctors, patients—all lying motionless, scattered across the floor like one of Maya's dolls, sans the blood and gore. Bullet wounds, slashed throats, twisted limbs. Blood pools around them, seeping into the cracks of the tiles, painting the hallway in a gruesome red.

It's like a fucking B-grade horror film.

A chill runs down my spine, and for the first time in a long time, a dark, heavy unease settles in my chest.

Where is she?

Katerina isn't among the dead. The thought is oddly comforting, even as it cuts through me. It's going to take a lot more than some maniacal psycho on a killing spree to kill her.

I step over the body of a doctor sprawled across the ground, his neck twisted, and keep moving, following the trail of blood that leads to a storage room door up ahead.

I step over the body of a doctor lying face-down, his neck twisted at an impossible angle. I can barely feel my own feet as I keep going, my legs moving automatically, my mind numb to the horror. My body feels weightless, as though I'm not really here. But then, I spot something that jerks me back to reality.