Chapter 4: Skin & Sinew

The survivors awoke to the stench of burning flesh.

Jin-soo’s eyes snapped open, his throat raw from screaming. The funeral bell’s echo still vibrated in his skull, but the grand hall was silent now, save for the crackle of flames. A pyre burned in the center of the room, its fire fed by the Hanged Man card he’d thrown into the hearth. The edges curled to ash, but the face—his face—remained intact, grinning through the smoke.

Anya stood in the doorway, her silver mask reflecting the inferno. “The second trial awaits,” she said, gesturing to a corridor choked with shadows. “Follow the thread.”

A crimson ribbon snaked across the floor, its end disappearing into the dark.

The survivors followed, their footsteps echoing through the mansion’s bowels. The air grew thicker, hotter, stinking of copper and spoiled meat. The ribbon led them to a cavernous gallery, its walls lined with statues that twitched and shuddered. At first, Jin-soo thought they were carved from wet clay—until he saw the pulse of muscle beneath translucent skin, the roll of eyes in sockets, the silent scream of mouths stretched too wide.

“Skin & Sinew,” Anya announced, her voice reverberating off the dripping walls. “The Veil admires… artistry.”

She snapped her fingers. Shadows pooled on the floor, congealing into scalpels, chisels, and needles that gleamed like bone.

“Carve your masterpiece,” she said. “The Hollow will judge its worth.”

Viktor was the first to move. He snatched a scalpel, his gold lighter glinting as he rolled up his sleeve. “Finally—a game for connoisseurs,” he sneered, pressing the blade to his forearm. Blood welled, but he didn’t flinch. “A dollar sign,” he said, carving deep. “The only art that matters.”

The wound glowed. Golden veins spiderwebbed up his arm, consuming muscle, bone, sinew.

“What’s… happening?” he rasped, dropping the scalpel. His fingers melted into coins, clattering to the floor. “No! NO—”

His scream turned metallic as gold flooded his throat. His body collapsed into a pile of coins, their surfaces etched with his screaming face.

Jin-soo stared at the tools. The Hollow’s whispers slithered into his mind, oily and cold:

“What do you deserve, Doctor?”

He picked up a scalpel. The handle felt familiar—too familiar. It was the same one he’d used during his residency, the one he’d gripped the night he’d sent Min-ji home.

“Guilt,” he whispered.

The blade bit into his forearm. Blood dripped onto the floor, forming a scalpel that mirrored the one in his hand.

“You coward,” Amara hissed, her camera flashing.

The lens captured his bleeding arm, the scar taking shape—a jagged, trembling line. “This won’t bring her back.”

“I know,” he said, carving deeper. The pain sharpened, a white-hot lance that cut through the fog in his mind. For a moment, he almost welcomed it.

Sasha knelt beside Tomas, her hands trembling as she pressed a chisel to his chest. His skin was mottled, veins blackened beneath the surface. “This’ll protect you,” she lied, carving a symbol into his flesh—a circle pierced by arrows.

Blood oozed, thick and tar-like.

“Don’t… waste time,” Tomas coughed, black bile bubbling on his lips. “Go.”

“I’m not leaving you,” she said, tears streaking her face.

The statues stirred. A low groan filled the gallery as the Hollow descended—a fractal of screaming faces, its form shifting like broken glass. It hovered above them, its voice a chorus of the damned:

“Pathetic. You carve regret? Greed? Where is your hunger?”

It seized Amara’s camera. The lens cracked, and she screamed as her reflection fractured in the glass—a dozen spiteful eyes glaring back.

“Better,” the Hollow purred. “Rage feeds the Veil.”

When it was over, only nine remained.

Jin-soo’s arm throbbed, the scar glowing faintly. Sasha cradled Tomas’s head, his breathing reduced to wet rasps. Amara stared at her shattered camera, her reflection now a mosaic of jagged edges and hate.

Anya appeared, her mask streaked with gold. She tossed Viktor’s lighter to Jin-soo. The metal burned his palm, fused with flecks of flesh.

“The Veil is pleased,” she said. “Rest. Tomorrow, you feast.”

That night, Jin-soo dreamt of Min-ji.

She stood in a field of asphodel flowers, her hospital gown stained with blood. Petals fell from her lips as she spoke: “You promised.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be,” she said, her voice the Hollow’s. “We’re all hungry.”

He woke to a scream.

Tomas convulsed on the floor, veins bulging black beneath his skin. His eyes had turned milky white, pupils swallowed by the corruption.

“It’s in him,” Sasha sobbed, pressing her hands to his chest. “The Veil’s in his blood.”

Jin-soo grabbed Viktor’s lighter. The flame sputtered, then caught, burning blue. He pressed it to Tomas’s chest. Flesh sizzled.

“What are you doing?” Amara shouted.

“Cauterizing the infection,” he said, though he knew it was futile. The black veins writhed, spreading faster.