Sam sat on the cabin's dusty floor, rolling the dark orb between his palms. The cold magic hummed against his burned skin. Every day he trained with it, learning to control the stun spell locked inside. Dr. Reinhard was out there somewhere, still running, still free. But Sam had time now. He had this cabin, these tools, and a partner who knew how to hunt Necronomicon threats. The carved tree outside reminded him why this mattered—the dark book destroyed everything it touched. Sam tucked the orb away and stood. Revenge would come, but first he needed to be ready. Morning light pushed through the cabin windows. Sam stepped outside and walked to the possessed tree in the clearing. Its twisted branches reached like claws. The face carved into the bark watched him with hollow eyes. He'd found it three days ago, proof that dark magic still lingered here. The tree meant the Necronomicon had touched this place before. Sam pressed his hand against the rough bark, feeling for energy. Nothing pulsed back. Dead magic left behind like a scar. He circled the tree twice, checking the ground for signs. Blue flame flickered around his left hand without thinking. Sam closed his fist and the fire died. Control was getting easier. Dr. Reinhard had done this to him, turned half his body into something else. But now Sam would use it. Every evil tree, every dark spell, every threat he stopped brought him closer. Closer to finding the doctor. Closer to making him pay. Sam turned back toward the cabin. The work was just beginning.

Sam needed something that belonged to Dr. Reinhard. He paced the cabin, thinking through what he remembered from Sunny Meadows. The doctor's laminated procedure cards were probably still at the asylum. His color-coded charts too. Sam stopped mid-step, remembering the white coat Reinhard always wore. The bastard had left it draped over a chair the day Ash broke everyone out. Sam had seen it there, smelling like disinfectant and ash. If he could get back to that asylum, find something with Reinhard's touch on it, the tracking spell would lead him right to the doctor. Then the real work could start. Sam grabbed his coat and headed for the door. The asylum was two hours away, maybe three on foot. He'd walked farther for less. Blue flame crackled around his deadite hand as he thought about those white hallways. About the examination room where he'd died seventeen times in the beginning. About Reinhard's careful notes and color-coded schedules. The building would be empty now, abandoned after the outbreak. Sam could slip in, grab what he needed, and get out before anything noticed. The forest stretched ahead as Sam walked. His boots crunched on dead leaves. He practiced the protection spell quietly, whispering the words until they felt smooth. Five seconds wasn't much time, but it was enough to grab something and run. The asylum loomed in his memory—that big sign out front, those barred windows, that smell of bleach and fear. Sam's jaw tightened. Going back there made his skin crawl, even the dead half. But revenge required tools, and Reinhard's coat was the best tool he had. Sam kept walking, keeping his breathing steady. The tracking spell would work. He'd find the doctor. And then Dr. Reinhard would learn what three hundred and twelve deaths felt like. Sunny Meadows Asylum rose from the tree line like a tombstone. The big sign out front hung crooked, letters still visible in the fading light. Sam stopped at the edge of the grounds, his deadite side sensing something wrong. That ice pick feeling crawled up his spine—Kandarian demons, maybe more than one. The building's windows stared back at him, dark and empty. Then the ground in front of him exploded. A deadite burst up through the dirt, its twisted face shrieking. Sam's protection spell left his lips before he thought. Blue flame wrapped around him as clawed hands raked where his chest had been. Five seconds. He dove past the creature, rolled, and sprinted for the asylum's front entrance. The deadite's scream followed him, joined by two more rising from the earth. Sam hit the doors hard and they gave way. He stumbled into the lobby, gasping. The smell hit him immediately—bleach, rot, and something chemical. Home sweet horrible home. Behind him, footsteps scraped across gravel. Sam ran deeper into the building, toward the examination wing where Reinhard's coat was waiting. If it was still there. If the deadites didn't tear him apart first. Either way, he'd started. No going back now.