There was no time to process what had happened. No time to reflect on his own actions. Though there was no doubt about it.

Eddie Gluskin was dead. The man who had been tormenting Waylon for endless hours, who had stalked him around the Vocational Block, calling for him like he was a blushing bride waiting to be swept off his feet. His kind words and suave voice was all a mask to hide his true identity. A traumatized, misogynistic serial killer.

Gluskin, who had captured him and tied him to a table with a saw close enough to cut off his genitals was nothing more than a bloodied corpse with a pole skewered into his belly. He ended up in the same fate all of his victims suffered before him. And it was Waylon who let it happen.

All the time spent roaming Mount Massive, avoiding getting murdered and tortured by maniacs, praying he would make it out alive to see his family again ultimately landed him doing thing he promised never to do. Despite his treatment as an employee and later as a patient, Waylon never wanted to cause harm to anyone. He wanted to believe he was above the likes of Frank Manera or even Jeremy Blaire, who killed people for their own benefit. He wanted to prove that he was different. That he would make it out alive without hurting anyone, no matter how evil they were.

But he failed. He had indirectly let Gluskin die. It had been an accident, he kept convincing himself. Was it? He could hardly remember now.

He could have saved Eddie if he wanted to. Sure, gravity pulled the Groom backwards and pushed him into the rod, but there was a split second where he could have reached his hand out and grabbed him. Instead, he watched him fall pathetically, in awe and amazement and relief. The man who was going to hurt him was gone forever.

He thought of what Miles had said to him. ["You did the right thing. Even if it doesn't feel right. He won't be able to harm anyone anymore."]

Waylon didn't know if he liked Miles all that much. The feeling was probably mutual. But he knew saving him was the right thing to do. He hoped Lisa would think the same. Although by the time he escaped this terrible place, he might as well be a monster.

He didn't want Lisa, above anyone else, to see him as a monster. He knew she was fighting tooth and nail to get him back from being wrongfully committed. Even if it put herself in danger, she was stubborn enough to save him. He felt a lump in his throat as he thought of embracing her, promising to never let go. He would tell her how much he loved her, again and again. She would laugh and kiss his cheek, whispering sweet words to comfort him, assuring him that everything would be alright. And then their wonderful would sons run by and he would hear their bright, bubbly giggles.

He missed them so goddamn much.

What would they think of him now? A broken man coated in dried blood on his prison jumpsuit, already numb from seeing gore and dead bodies with wild eyes that saw things that weren't there. They didn't deserve to have a husband or father that was on the brink of insanity. They deserved so much better.

His weak leg wobbled, and he almost fell forward into the grass. Lisa, boys…I am so sorry.

Something sinister flashed in his mind.

"We...could have been beautiful..." Gluskin's final gasp was uttered before fading into silence.

His heart rate increased, trying to shake away the imagery of Gluskin's guts being torn to shreds. Even if he didn't regret it completely, and was relieved he was alive, he was still unnerved at what he had done-indirectly or not. He never wanted to admit he almost wanted to laugh at the sight.

The rain had stopped by the time they made it outside, like Miles had said. The soft pitter patter of raindrops were only faintly dripping into a nearby sewer grate. He shivered, zipping up the borrowed jacket. It was still cold.

Suddenly he felt a hand to his shoulder, making him flinch. "Sorry." Miles mumbled, retracting his hand immediately. "You okay?"

He shook his head.

Miles nodded. "Me neither."

Waylon continued to walk, slipping his camcorder out from his pocket. It wasn't like he recorded any footage, but he could see the screen had been cracked a bit. He reviewed the footage from when he was hiding in a locker from Eddie. The man's clipped voice singing to that jagged melody was still audible, haunting him still.

"But..." Miles added, with some hesitance. "I would have been a lot worse if you hadn't saved me."

Hearing those words made him stop in his tracks. Miles' screams, his eyes wide and frightened from being captured and dangling several feet in the air and close to being forced into the disaster of a wedding. Waylon had taken that leap of faith for a man he hardly knew. That part he didn't regret.

"I really thought I was dead," He continued. "Then you came in, even after I was such a dick to you." That made Waylon snort. "What I'm trying to say is...thank you. I know...I know I haven't been very good at saying that. First with the interview and now this. I mean it though. Thank you."

Hazel eyes met dark ones, and they held on to each other's gaze. Waylon could tell that he was being genuine and was even shocked at how vulnerable he was being. Not to mention Waylon had the impression that Miles- the reckless journalist was too prideful to say thank you.

He couldn't find his voice. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Tears pricked at his eyes. He tried to blink them away before Miles could see. But judging from his expression, Waylon wasn't good at hiding them.

"Park...?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't...I'm still thinking about what I did to him. I let him die."

"Would you rather the alternative?" Miles asked. "You would be forced to marry that guy, have your balls chopped off and boobs sewn to your chest?" He folded his arms as if to cover something. "I'm gonna be honest with you. You're a good, pretty average guy, Park. And... I've seen and done worse than what you did tonight. Hell, I pushed Richard Trager into an elevator and laughed as it crushed him. Not saying I justify murder, but considering he was going to cut off my balls and tongue after my fingers, it was the least I could do." He smirked.

Before Waylon could interject, he held his hand up. "I know how bad that sounds but you need to understand something. There are certain things that you need to do in order to survive. Crazy things, things that you would never want to do in any other situation. I learned that when I covered the war."

"The same one that got you fired?"

He chuckled. "Yeah. The point is, there was no other option; we wouldn't have made it out alive. He was too strong and he had lethal weapons. Murkoff may be the real monster behind this operation, but we still have to care for ourselves out here. We have to keep pressing on if we want to get out of here alive."

Waylon bit his lip. "I don't know if I can keep moving forward long enough to stay alive."

"What do you mean? You've survived this long!"

He couldn't find his words, again. He didn't know what to say, or how to say it without seeming weak. Especially compared to someone like Miles, who was fearless and fierce in the short hours that they spent together.

"This...isn't how I wanted my life to go," Waylon admitted, refusing to look back at Miles for fear of judgment. "Everything I worked for, through college and grad school and- shit, I got this job thinking I was going to make a real difference. Now, all I did was make things worse for everyone involved except Murkoff. You wouldn't have been here if not for my email, whether you want to admit it or not." Miles was about to protest but he cut him off. "No, listen. Yes, I can tell you're dedicated and would put yourself in danger for a story but if I hadn't sent that email, you probably wouldn't have traveled here in the first place."

Miles did not correct him this time by mentioning that he would have gone regardless. Instead he glanced back at the Vocational Block and said, "You might be right. But it wasn't all your fault. You were trying to do the right thing by sending that email. And for the record, I don't go chasing after stories in the hopes that I'll end up in danger. Nope, I only do that for important shit. Like this."

"Still-I've put so many people at risk because of my stupid, stupid decisions and now this? I know, its stupid, but I can't take it anymore. I want everything to just stop-and for us both to be safe and-"

Waylon gritted his teeth and tried to keep moving, only to have his leg spasm violently feeling a sudden stinging pain. "Fuck!" He gasped, falling to his knees. He hadn't had a chance to truly look at it after he had painfully removed the piece of metal stuck inside. From the blood stains alone it had to be bad, possibly infected. He panted and ignored the tears streaming down his cheeks. Miles reached his hand out, and he instinctively snapped, "Don't. I'm fine."

"Could've fooled me."

Waylon gripped at the pavement, trying to clumsily wobble to his feet. He thought of the hanging men, ending their lives in an instant. He thought of James, willing to die in burning flames just to make it all end. "I just want the pain to stop. Not...not just physically but, everything else too. Wouldn't it be more freeing to end it all? It would be quick and- and...so easy-" He hadn't realized what he was saying until he felt a strong pair of arms grab hold of him. He tried to protest before he heard the other man say:

"Stop." Miles interjected, glaring straight at him. "You don't wanna do that. Not after everything you've been through." He exhaled. He looked as though he had a million thoughts racing in his head.

"You don't know me at all," He stated coldly. "How would you know what I want?"

"You don't think I've felt the same way?" asked Miles. "Because if I died, I don't think anyone would give a shit. Anyone alive, that is."

"Miles I didn't…"

"Park...Waylon, I promised I would keep you safe. Just like how you saved me from Gluskin."

"Well, yeah but I-"

"I'm gonna keep saying this until you get it through your thick skull: We're in this together. Okay? We've got a mission."

Waylon smiled weakly. "You always seem to know what to say, even after I admitted wanting to off myself."

"Who could blame you? No, seriously, this place sucks."

"I didn't mean what I said. I just, I don't know." He took another shaky breath. "I want to live and see Li…Lisa. That's my wife's name. I want her to know that I will never forget about her. That I would keep fighting for her and our kids."

Miles softened. "You love her a lot, huh?"

"More than anything." He didn't hesitate, but he saw Miles looked crestfallen. He wondered what that was about.

"Then yeah, you've proven to me-and maybe to yourself that you're tough. That you would live to see your wife and kids and parents again. You know that, right?" His expression shifted mournfully, leaving some questions unanswered about his own life. But he didn't let Waylon ask about that. "God, I sound like a broken record saying the same shit over and over. I just...don't wanna lose hope, ya know? It doesn't seem worth it to convince ourselves otherwise. You've got a family to go back to once this is over."

"No, no...it's actually comforting, knowing that we're in the same boat. But wait, what will you do after this is all over?"

"Me?" Miles rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Hadn't really thought of that. Besides exposing Murkoff, I don't really have any lifelong goals or..." He shook his head. "Eh, it doesn't really matter what I do. You're the one with the family and friends."

There was an awkward pause. Waylon then remembered he was still wearing Miles' army jacket. Without thinking, he tried to shrug it off in a failed attempt to change the topic. "Oh, um, here's your-" One of his arms was stuck. "Ugh, hang on..."

Miles laughed. "Keep it. You still look cold."

He grinned back. "Look at you being all considerate. You going soft on me, Upshur?"

"Ha, you wish." Miles scoffed. "Let's keep moving."

Waylon knew they had to stay together.

The problem became blatantly apparent that neither of them knew where they were going. If it was daytime, Waylon would have a better idea of where to go, but considering he had only explored the recreational portion and they were in the courtyard-it was unlikely he would be much help. Still, both men refused to admit it. To make matters more unbearable, Waylon was constantly in pain. If it wasn't his leg acting up, it was his migraines and sporadic visions flashing in front of him. He knew Miles was hurting too from his hands, but he was stubbornly acting as though he was perfectly healthy.

Miles seemed focused on filming everything as usual, even if there wasn't much going on. With night vision activated to the cameras, it helped a little to navigate around their surroundings. A cool breeze wisped around him, and although his uneasiness had decreased significantly, he still felt as though he was being watched by someone.

Putting the camcorder away helped, even though Miles was rolling his eyes at him for wasting potential footage. Filming simply made the effects of his time at the Engine therapy worse, and he really didn't want to be reminded with more headaches. Plus the screen was ruined anyway.

He rubbed his eyes, about to check to see if there was a shack or shed when he heard rustling leaves nearby. Thinking it was merely the wind, he kept moving. There seemed to be a light up ahead, maybe leading to wherever Father Martin was. A faintly cool breeze touched his shoulders.

LetmeFreeLetmeLiveLetmeStay.

"Who…" Waylon swallowed, trying to find Miles in the darkness. Hearing voices was not unusual, he was used to it by now. But this didn't sound like a human's voice. It sounded robotic.

He blinked twice and turned his head. Then a gust of wind hit again, this time much harder.

LetmeFreeLetmeLiveLetmeStay.

"Who…" His voice died in his throat. "Miles?"

"I heard it too." Miles whispered. "Stay close to me. Please."

Then, there it was. The misty black cloud wisped around them like a ghost or ghoulish presence. It stopped, soulless eyes staring blankly at the two men, as though it was deep in thought. Neither of them could move with the parazyling knowledge that this creature-whatever it was, could kill them if it wanted to. The wind halted, and all they could hear was a sharp buzz of static. He wanted to believe it was an illusion, until he heard Miles yell out:

"What the fuck?!"

But when he looked back, the monster had disappeared.

Miles pointed in the same general direction, frazzled and terrified, "Did you see that?"

Waylon felt sick to his stomach. "I think…I think so. But my camera didn't. Did yours?"

Miles didn't respond right away. He pocketed his camera and dragged Waylon by the arm into the nearest unlocked shed. It was damp and dusty and cramped, but there was a singular lightbulb to ease their nerves.

"I'm not risking shit." He grunted, taking his own camcorder, reviewed the footage quickly and shoved it into Waylon's fumbling hands. "Watch this. I- I swear I saw something through the lense." Waylon pressed play and watched the footage, and sure enough, the black cloud had appeared, flying around for a few seconds before fading into darkness. "Right there! It isn't a glitch in the camera, I know it isn't, I saw it before-"

"I know. I saw it too, I told you."

He took in a shaky breath. It was at that moment Waylon noticed how disheveled and truly scared Miles looked. The man couldn't be more than thirty, but the experience clearly made him gain a few years from stress and pure adrenaline. This was the same man who confidently admitted to being tortured by a mad doctor and stalked by monstrous man. If this mysterious figure scared him, then that made Waylon even more anxious.

"The Walrider... That's gotta be it, right?" He uttered, shaking like a leaf. Waylon nodded in confirmation. "You gotta be shitting me. I thought I-Christ, I thought I was seeing things. I first saw it when Father Martin showed me the security cam footage of it ripping people apart but I didn't want to believe it. Did you...?"

Waylon gave him a grim look. "Yes. I saw it in real life, though not clearly. When I was committed, before I was released and escaped…there was another patient beside me. He warned me, telling me to run. And then...he was gone. I didn't even hear him scream." He shuddered uncomfortably.

Exposed organs. Burnt flesh. Blood. So much blood. A ghostly figure hovering over him with an irregular vibration of static rattling inside his skull.

"Shit." Miles swore. "I'm a reporter, I didn't sign up to be Peter Venkman. This is some Ghostbusters type nonsense."

"The Walrider isn't a ghost though, it's a scientific experiment created by Murkoff created by a swarm of miniature supercomputers located in the-"

"Yeah, yeah I know, I was being sarcastic," Miles interrupted. He crouched down to scribble some notes. "It doesn't even look man made. It looks like something out of a horror film. And we've both seen what it can do. Its a monster. The real question is why does it exist? Do you know why?"

"I worked with Murkoff for two weeks, and I only helped with the Morphogenic Engine. I hardly know every little detail about their secret project." Waylon leaned a little closer. "Lucky for you, I'm an excellent eavesdropper."

Miles grinned.

"From what I gathered, it was created with the intention of it being a lethal weapon," explained Waylon, recalling what he had heard from listening to his coworkers and superiors discuss. "Rudolf Wernicke and a group of other scientists were behind it."

"But Wernicke died years ago," Miles pointed out. "I saw his death certificate and a copy of his autopsy report."

"Exactly. So it's not like we can ask him why it was made. Though judging from the timeline -it sounds like it was an experiment wanting to exterminate certain groups of people." He acknowledged Miles' wide eyes. "It's extremely strong, powerful and dangerous as you can clearly tell," He swallowed. "The only issue is the Walrider needs a host to keep surviving. That's where the Morphogenic Engine comes in, and why the Variants exist."

"And why everything is fucked up." Miles agreed. "I've heard the Variants talk about the Walrider constantly, without fully understanding it. All I know is the current host is some man named Billy Hope."

"Yes. Hope has been the only successful host," Waylon said. "I assume that's why the Walrider can move around so freely. Some of the other people I worked alongside said how he can communicate it through his dreams. He goes through some lateral ascension."

"His lucid dreams-yeah I read about that in a document," Miles sighed. "What do we do with this information? We're two regular guys. We may have avoided the Variants by luck, but this is a whole 'nother problem. I am not qualified to fight ghosts."

"Not a ghost, but I see your point," said Waylon. He frowned, deep in thought. "If everything is connected to Project Walrider, then that's it, isn't it? We have to stop it somehow."

"How?"

Waylon glanced out the window. In the distance, he could see the crumbling building that once was the Female Ward. It was not a surprise really, seeing that all the women were moved somewhere else, but it still was jarring. To his right, he saw a lone church surrounded by massive pillars. He didn't even know Mount Massive Asylum had a church. His eyes lit up as thought stuck him.

"We go find Father Martin, just as planned. He might know more than he's letting on." The words left him before he could stop himself.