The snow had been falling for three days.
Derek stood on the stone wall, his breath fogging in the cold, his eyes scanning the treeline. Below him, the settlement was quiet—fires burning low, children tucked inside, the last of the winter food stored in underground caches. They had done it. They had survived long enough to see the snow.
Spears leaned against the wall every few feet. Bows hung from pegs. A handful of guns—precious, irreplaceable—were cleaned and oiled and ready.
The hybrids among them weren't fighters. Not really. But they could lift. Could carry. Could build walls that would keep the cold out and the wolves at bay.
Derek had counted them twice before he saw the figure.
A man walking toward the gate.
Same build. Same walk. Same scars.
Derek's stomach dropped. His mind scrambled for an explanation—a clone, maybe. Or a trick. Something the Architects had cooked up while they weren't looking. Something that made sense.
The man kept coming, unhurried, unarmed, his face splitting into a grin that Derek had never worn.
"Well, well." The wrong Derek stopped at the base of the wall, looking up. "Aren't you cozy?"
Derek didn't answer.
The stone beneath his feet cracked. He was already moving—off the wall, through the air, his fist connecting with his evil self's face before the grin could finish forming. The impact sent the wrong Derek flying backward, tumbling through the snow, carving a trench that stopped a hundred yards from the gate.
Derek landed in the snow. His knuckles were bleeding. He didn't feel it.
"Get away from here," he said.
Wrong Derek pushed himself up, brushing snow from his shoulders. His grin was wider now, bloody. "Hahaha. I wasn't expecting that. But look at you." He spread his arms. "All kind and nice. Helping humans. It's pathetic to see myself sink so low."
Derek didn't care what he said. He was going to end him if he had to.
Wrong Derek's skin hardened. His pulse spiked. Blood Rush.
Derek did the same.
Nine times. That was how many blood rushes he was using. He could push harder, but the camp was behind him. The people were behind him. He couldn't risk them.
They charged at the same time. Punched each other in the face.
Derek's fist found Wrong Derek's jaw. His other fist found his ribs. He punched up, down, left, right—guts, ribs, eyes, throat. The blows broke through Wrong Derek's hardened skin like it was wet paper.
Wrong Derek's eyes went wide. He hadn't expected this. Derek's blood rush was stronger. Way stronger.
He wasn't going to win this fight.
A beam of electricity hit Derek from the side.
He jumped back, felt his insides seize, felt the damage spreading through his chest, his arms, his nerves. He looked up.
Wrong Leo stood at the edge of the trees, his hands still crackling, his smile sharp.
A two-on-one.
What the hell is going on? Derek's mind was racing. Where did they come from? How did they get here?
His blood rush climbed to eleven times. The highest he could go.
Wrong Derek's punches glanced off him like rain. He punched once—one clean hit—and sent his evil self flying like a rocket, disappearing over the treeline, crashing somewhere far beyond.
He vanished. Appeared in front of Wrong Leo. Punched him in the gut.
Wrong Leo's stomach exploded. His guts spilled out in small, wet pieces, steaming in the snow. He looked down at the hole in his abdomen, then back up at Derek. His smile didn't waver.
He cursed Derek. Then he collapsed.
Derek stood over the body, breathing hard. His evil self looked like a cracked rock, blood seeping through the fissures, the light gone from his eyes.
This doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. A clone, maybe. But two? From different universes? How?
Someone was clapping.
No. Not someone. Some people.
Derek turned.
Ten Wolfens stood at the edge of the clearing.
The first was a zombie—its skin grey, its eyes milky, its jaw hanging loose. It swayed slightly, like it was listening to music no one else could hear.
The second wore an Architect mask—grey, cracked, the eye slits dark. Its clothes were pristine, its hands clasped behind its back. It stood like it was waiting for a meeting to start.
The third stood with its arms crossed, its chin lifted, its expression the particular boredom of someone who had seen everything and found it all lacking. The world was below him. Everyone was below him.
The fourth had no face. Just smooth, pale skin where his features should have been. It tilted its head when Derek looked at it.
The fifth was burning. Flames licked at its clothes, its hair, its skin—but it didn't seem to notice. Didn't seem to feel.
The sixth was crying. Tears streamed down its face, silent, endless. Its hands were pressed over its ears.
The seventh was laughing. No sound came out, but its shoulders shook, its mouth stretched wide, its eyes were wet.
The eighth was covered in scars—old ones, new ones, some still healing. Its clothes were rags. Its hands were wrapped in bloody bandages.
The ninth was perfectly still. Not breathing, not blinking, not moving at all. A statue wearing Wolfen's face.
The tenth looked exactly like the Wolfen Derek knew. Same golden eyes. Same half-smile. Same hands in his pockets.
But his eyes were wrong. Too bright. Too hungry.
Ten Wolfens. Ten different versions. How many universes did that bald bastard pull from? How many of them are here? How many more are coming?
They all watched him. Ten versions of the same man, standing in the snow, waiting.
Derek's blood rush was still at eleven times. His body was screaming. He didn't lower it.
I don't know how you got here. I don't know why you're here. But I'm not letting any of you near my people.
"Come on," he said.
The Wolfens smiled.