The fortified walls of Santi's nonchalance begin to melt away like an ice cube searing over the surface of a lit limekiln. He could already feel the waning remnants of pain from his broken nose by virtue of Wolfgang's punch. His knuckles are only starting to slide back into place after having been disjointed from the heavy-duty boxing they've endured moments prior. Seeing the fragmented neck of his favorite red guitar sticking out of Howie's midriff sends an indescribable despair all over Santi's senses. The only thoughts that were invading his mind at this point had been the only question that had come out of his mouth after carrying out the unbridled rampage against all three of his coworkers. "Why? Why couldn't you just leave things be?"

The truth has eluded Santi like a prey scurrying to get as far away from its hunter as possible ever since he had regained awareness of his circumstances, from the moment of that first night he had woken up at the port up until that fateful incident with Tiger Kwon and his Crows. And all the while he desperately begs for it so much as to spare a glance in his direction, ceaselessly calling out to it, beseeching it to show him some semblance of consolation, to approve of his efforts, to let him know that all of his sufferings had not been for nothing, because they are coming to an end, because all things come to an end, including this. They would have been all over without the gratuitous turmoil had Howie just let sleeping dogs lie. And now Santi is forced to become the monster again, and the truth has shunned him once more.

If only he is allowed to know why he is so paralyzed with fear. What could have gone on in the past, who had he been before he had lost all of his memories? Had there been someone looking out for him? Had there been anyone ready to bring comfort to him whenever he's immobilized by the intensity of crippling dread? He hates feeling afraid because it reminds him so much of being alone. Try as hard as he may to deceive himself as well as others that he is actively choosing to be by himself, pushing everyone away as if he truly prefers solitude, but he can't deny the ravenous feasting of the beastly envy consuming every other emotion at the pit of his stomach, leaving him hollow and wanting so badly that he's driven to the point of destruction.

Santi desperately aches to be able to say that he's sorry to the mother who had lost the son in him, for not knowing how to reach out to her, for forgetting her name. He craves to share a conversation with a father whose face has forever been erased from his memories. He wants to apologize to everyone he used to know for failing to carry the past with him. He cries without tears, as he lives with the meaning of life lost on him for good. That's why he never asks. He never wants to know how much more he owes, and how far behind he is at paying his debts. It takes a lifetime to fill an entire lifetime and that is something Santi knows he cannot afford to compensate.

"It's because you don't do anything, you useless piece of !" snarls Howie as he attempts to make his first counterattack since the brawl has started. Santi doesn't get it. He doesn't understand why Howie just can't accept the fact that doing something could cost him more, and he's already running on zero. It's incomprehensible to him how this man can be inspired by the lack of reason. How can he add to something armed with only negatives? It doesn't make logical sense. This is absurd—he is absurd. This man is much more insane than he had originally presumed. At first he had thought that Howie is just an annoying little who doesn't know when to scram when hits the fan, gullible and naive to an extent that he truly believes in things changing for the better no matter how abysmal the situation gets, but no. The sharp-eyed newbie has totally gone off the rails, like a crazed lunatic chasing after shadows no one else can see. And here he had believed that being hounded by a psycho gangster is already bad enough, but he hadn't foreseen how taxing it would have been to live with an overzealous and priggish nutcase. Compelled to voice out his stance on the matter once and for all, Santi lets his question hang at the tip of his tongue: he has decidedly mustered all of his frustration, resentment, and guilt and has put them all together, allowing himself to open up to the unknown, to step outside of his safety bubble, and to finally be clued up on the aspect of the situation they are in that Howie thinks is worth saving. What is it about their shared devilish ordeal that is so valuable that the newbie is willing to walk through hell to justify confronting it? What is going on in that brain of his that empowers him to see opportunities where there are only drawbacks?

"Oh ," Howie mutters as he looks at their two coworkers rising from the ground. Santi's mind fails to catch him up with what his eyes have been looking at that it had to take the newbie's mindless reaction for him to perceive just how quickly Wolfgang and G have recuperated from their injuries. Most especially G, who he had swung at with his knife so hard that he had to pull his hand all the way back for the wind-up.

"What? What?? What is that?" he stammers helplessly.

"Blackmouths... But, how?" Howie voices absently under his breath. The newbie jolts in surprise at the sudden movement of G's hulking figure as the bouncer begins to approach the both of them. He cranes his neck towards Santi to inch closer to him without turning fully to face his direction, his gaze remaining fixed on the two other Blackmouths before them. "Do you think they can still recognize us?"

"No," Santi says, shaking his head as he pulls himself up. He leans a hand on the toppled round table beside him, the one he had crashed into when Howie had thrown him around, before straightening himself again, the soreness all over his body promptly registering in his mind. "That's a severe Level 2 state at best, but it's probably considerably closer to a Level 3. G's in the process of dying because the knife getting stuck in his heart didn't outright kill him. Wolf is in Level 2 but somehow he looks different."

"Different, how? What do you mean, there's more things to consider about this than what we already have to worry about?!"

"Just a guess," Santi starts, "but I think the states manifest differently in each person."

"What?!"

"I think yours is that you are conscious and aware—that you're still human but with the added abilities. Mine completely overtakes me and I'm left wondering what could possibly be happening during the resurrection state—"

"Look out!" Howie immediately picks up a chair before releasing it, and it comes clashing against G's charging form. It breaks into pieces and falls to the floor as nothing but dismantled scraps. Santi has ducked before him and has narrowly avoided being jumped on by a feral 6'2", 180lb bouncer. The newbie heaves painstakingly as he takes a deep breath, groaning in agony from having a guitar neck impaled in his diaphragm. Level 2 is taking over his senses now, his eyes and mouth have darkened, and the veins are becoming visible, and soon enough the gruesome urges will come into effect. "Why do you have to be a Blackmouth too, G? You're already ing terrifying!"

"This is not good," Santi says, looking in the other direction to where Wolfgang is launching into a wobbly trudge towards them.

"I'm...so...hungry," growls the senior bartender. "I don't...know...why... I'm...hungry..."

"He's in Level 2. He's barely conscious," Santi assesses.

"I know that," Howie interrupts, his mind calling back to the many previous instances of him turning into a Blackmouth himself. Wolfgang is in Level 2, he can talk, just like Howie, but it seems that the senior bartender doesn't have the same level of cognizance. He's confused, groggy, and seemingly undergoing a terrible trip—the bad side effects of the hallucinogenic drugs. He is not completely aware and forcing him to come to could make their situation more dire. "Go get the Z first before these bastards take a chomp on us."

"You think you can handle both of them on your own? You must be delirious."

Within the second of their exchange, G has started his attack once again. He doesn't seem fazed by being slammed with a chair in the slightest. Santi proceeds to haul a table over his head and throws it at G as he bolts towards them. The bouncer marches head on, even using his face to block out the flying furniture. The skin on his forehead rips open and black blood begins streaming down from it.

"Bull! Why does G just juggernaut at us like that?!" Santi manages to articulate before the shock from the full force of G bulldozing against him sends the pale man crashing to the opposite wall, knocking the air out of his lungs. He coughs and convulses on the ground as he tries to catch his breath, and had he been any normal, getting winded like that would have taken him longer to recover. It's moments like these that Santi is thankful he's a monster. Howie's right. He is reliant on being physically invincible. But in any case, none of the transformations nor the DNA mutation and regeneration can guarantee that he won't feel pain at all.

"Santi!" Howie shouts, but the newbie couldn't even take a step first before Wolfgang runs at him in a frenzy. And it isn't even a sprint—the senior bartender takes three massive leaps before he materializes in front of Howie, all for the goal of taking a bite at him. The newbie is somehow able to do a flying double kick hitting Wolfgang squarely in the chest, the other falling on his back as Howie successfully lands on his feet. Distracted with his own opponent, Howie is unable to come to his pale coworker's aid.

Nevertheless, Santi regroups fast enough to support himself up on one knee, but he's still dizzy and disoriented that he fails to put up his defense against the persistence of G's onslaught. In a flash, the bouncer turns up before him, his body covered in the conspicuous black veins that appear like vines crawling all over his olive skin that had properly lost its usual sheen and has turned into a purplish shade of ashy tan. The gash on his forehead is gone, but the residue of black blood that had dripped from the wound forms a river of tears on the inner corners of his eyes down to the sides of his nose. G catches Santi by the neck and slams him against the wall once more, pinning him there, and slowly lifting him up, the pale man's back scraping against the brick panels and hanging decors, the nails that is used to fix the furbishing in their places incidentally grating across his shirt, leaving deep slashes and abrasions on his back. The sensation is both burning and freezing at the same time. Santi could feel every nerve ending in his body flare up in anguish. And he could hear himself choking, a disgusting choppy gagging sound coming out of his open mouth. The grip G has on his neck is squeezing tighter by the second and he could feel his windpipe closing in, every breath now a struggle for him. His vision is beginning to look hazy, and he could barely keep his eyes open anymore. If he doesn't do anything now, then he's going to have to deal with the things he will wake up to the next time he gains consciousness. And Santi could only imagine how revolting whatever those things would be. He searches for anything he can put his foot on, feeling his way underneath himself, realizing then that he's probably more than three feet off of the ground now, and when the tip of his shoe hits the armrest of a couch near the wall at his side, he bolsters his leg against it and steadies himself for a moment, before shifting his entire body weight on the part of his foot he has on the side of the couch, relying on it to hold him up as he wraps his other leg over G's outstretched arms. He tries to bend the bouncer's elbows with the strength that more than half of his body could lend him, but when G just tightens his grip against his neck further, unbothered by all the acrobatic stunt he is doing, using the friction the wall behind him offers, he purposefully reclines his back into it as he mounts himself th