The rocks began to fall with an irregularity that made everything worse. There was no pattern, no predictable direction, just massive chunks of the burning ceiling breaking loose at random points and crashing down with the weight of something that had been held up for too long and no longer had any reason to keep doing so.
The killer moved between them using flesh tentacles that sprouted from his palms and stabbed into the walls or into elevated rock fragments that hadn't fallen yet, keeping himself suspended above the burning ground with the same methodical skill as before, cutting each tentacle before the purifying fire could reach it and creating a new one before the previous one stopped being useful.
