Door after door caves beneath the pressure of a foot forcefully impacting wood, slamming each one inward in a swift arc. But again and again and again, it yields nothing but empty rooms and disappointment.

The last bolt cracks as he kicks it viciously open, and glimpses something - something suspiciously boxy and broadcasting a live signal and goddamnit, that little triangular bastard tricked him, and before he can spin around with a roar of frustration, something jolts into the flesh of his side.

Agony lances up his spine, to his fingertips, to his teeth that are clenched too tightly, to his eyes stretched wide in shock and horror, spreading in a steady and inexorable inflorescence. It curves upwards, excruciatingly slow.

"You - "

His throat works soundlessly, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows and tries to twist around, do something, anything.

He is too cold and too hot and this is the third time now, the third time something sharp and edged made its home in his organs that have been sliced open thrice too many now, and it is exactly what he deserves and he needs to move and so he does.

He tears himself out of the grip in an explosive burst of kinetic energy, and he staggers forward two steps before one hand shoots out to brace itself on the wall, the other groping at the place where the sharp-edged thing sunk deeply, too deeply. The red seeping out from his shirt is dark, dark and aching, almost black as it stains his fingers and soaks his clothing.

"Fuck," he whispers.

The gun slips from nerveless fingers and clatters to the floor.