Before Maarg could even fully process the dreadful implications, a sharp cracking sound tore through the air, distinct even over the roaring flames. Then, with violent force, a chair was hurled from the doorway of the room behind Jack and Gunther. It spun through the air, splinters of wood flying everywhere as it slammed against the far wall and disintegrated. The sudden barrage of flying debris was enough to momentarily halt the furious combat. Both Jack and Gunther, reacting purely on instinct, stopped their fight and jumped back towards opposite walls, shielding their faces from the razor-sharp splinters of wood.
The brief cessation of their battle left an eerie, momentary silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the unsettling sounds from within the room. Now, all three men—Maarg, Jack, and Gunther—were looking towards the source of the new threat, the ominous doorway from which the chair had been launched.
The momentary silence following the chair's destruction was brutally shattered. From the ominous doorway of the room, a being lunged through the swirling smoke and gloom, an indistinct blur of motion hurtling directly towards Gunther. It was too fast to distinguish any clear details, a mere silhouette against the inferno. Yet, an unwanted, grim smile touched Maarg's lips. He knew. With a chilling certainty that settled deep in his gut, he knew exactly what it was.
It was Mark.
Mark had transformed. He was a human no longer, a chilling echo of Charity, the intelligent zombie they had encountered before. Though Mark, in this grotesque new form, appeared physically much weaker than Charity, his lean, almost emaciated frame belied an incredible, inhuman speed and strength. He moved like a grotesque, reanimated puppet, his limbs flailing with raw power, his movements sloppy and unorganized. He lacked the predatory grace of Charity, the terrifying precision that had made him so deadly, or the brutal, calculated efficiency of Gunther. He was a raw, uncontrolled force, a terrifying testament to the serum's unpredictable power, a living weapon unleashed by a twisted mind.
A cold shiver traced down Maarg's spine. He felt a deep-seated, personal fear that he, too, might one day become like this, a monster of uncontrolled power, if he wasn't careful. Maarg possessed his own uncanny abilities – a newfound superhuman strength and speed that pulsed beneath his skin. For some reason, he had concluded that the multivitamins his brother had sent him held a strange, unexplained connection to these emerging powers, though he lacked any concrete proof. The uncertainty was a constant, gnawing fear, a chilling voice in the back of his mind. He knew that if he pushed his abilities too far, if he used them for more than a few fleeting seconds, he risked not only draining his stamina to dangerous, debilitating levels but also, terrifyingly, transforming into a mindless zombie like the creature now hurtling towards Gunther. Until he could be certain of the true nature of his powers, until he fully understood the full scope of his own altered physiology and its inherent risks, he had to use his new abilities sparingly. They were to be deployed only as calculated bursts of strength in crucial, desperate intervals, always ensuring he didn't exhaust himself or, worse, lose himself entirely to the terrifying potential locked within his own body. He was a tightly wound spring, capable of immense power, but constantly aware of the danger of unwinding too quickly, of breaking under his own newfound might.
***
The monstrous roar and the sudden, violent lunge of Mark provided the crucial distraction Maarg desperately needed. While Gunther, caught off guard by his own grotesque creation, reeled from the unexpected assault, Maarg seized the fleeting opportunity. He focused, channeling the mysterious energy he barely understood. He felt a familiar warmth, a surging power, flow not through his entire body as it sometimes did, but specifically towards his right leg.
With a controlled burst of his newfound strength, Maarg slammed his right foot into the concrete wall beside him. The impact was deafening, the wall cracking under the concentrated force, sending a shockwave that reverberated through the burning corridor. This powerful propulsion launched Maarg like a projectile, not towards the struggling titans, but directly towards the ominous doorway from which Mark had emerged, the image of Mark's grotesque transformation seared into his mind.
The sight of it, the raw, uncontrolled horror of a loved one turning into something monstrous, twisted his gut. It ripped open a fresh wound, a raw memory from his own past: the day his mother had turned, her eyes glazing over, her humanity draining away. He remembered her lunging at his father, the sickening crunch of bones, and then her turning on him, a primal hunger replacing the love in her eyes. If Jack hadn't been there, a swift, brutal force of salvation, Maarg wouldn't have survived that day. He would have been another statistic, another meal.
He knew, with a certainty born of shared trauma, that Jack would understand this. Jack, who had pulled him back from the brink, who had seen the same horrors, would undoubtedly comprehend why Maarg chose to prioritize Tara. It wasn't about Jack being less capable, or Maarg believing Tara to be inherently weak and needing saving. It was about shielding her from a pain he knew all too well, a visceral wound that could shatter a person from the inside out. He had seen the terror in Tara's eyes, the desperate denial, and he couldn't stand by and let her endure what he had. Saving Tara from witnessing Mark's complete descent, from becoming another victim of that specific, profound trauma, was an instinctual, almost primal drive. He just hoped Jack, battling a monster of his own, would grasp the silent logic behind his choice.
Maarg slammed through the doorway of the room, the impact echoing over the roar of the fire. The immediate sight made his gut clench: Tara was on her knees, her back to him, her shoulders trembling uncontrollably. She was a picture of utter devastation.
He reached her in two long strides, dropping to one knee and gently shaking her shoulder. "Tara?" he asked, his voice softer than he'd intended, but edged with urgency. "You alright?"
Tara slowly looked up, her eyes wide and unfocused, glistening with unshed tears. The raw horror in them was a stark reflection of the grotesque scene Maarg had just witnessed in the hallway. "He... he didn't attack me," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a fragile thread of sound amidst the encroaching inferno. Her gaze, however, wasn't on Maarg, but fixed on the dark, swaying form of Mark that was now locked in battle with Gunther in the hallway, glimpsed through the open doorway. "He's still in there... somewhere."