The Mercy Kills

Marcus drove through the empty streets at 2 AM, his father’s car keys in his hand.

He’d left the house without a plan, just the thread pulling him forward, showing him where to go. But now, sitting in the parking lot of St. Mary’s Hospital, he had a decision to make.

The thread wanted him to go inside. It wanted him to find the dying and finish what disease or age had started.

Make it merciful, he told himself. Choose people who are suffering anyway. People who want it to end.

But that was just an excuse. Murder was murder, no matter how he dressed it up.

Marcus looked at his hands on the steering wheel. The red threads were visible now even without looking closely, spreading up his arms like veins, pulsing with each heartbeat. By tomorrow, they’d reach his chest. By day seven, they’d consume him completely.

He didn’t have time for moral debates. He got out of the car and walked toward the hospital entrance.

The automatic doors slid open silently. The lobby was nearly empty, just a tired security guard behind the desk reading something on his phone, and a janitor mopping the far corner.

The guard looked up as Marcus came closer. “Can I help you?”

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, and the thread pulsed. Warmth spread through his chest, his throat. When he spoke, his voice sounded normal. Calm. Confident.

“I’m here to visit my grandmother. She’s in the ICU. The family asked me to sit with her tonight.”

The lie came easily. Too easily.

The guard checked his computer. “Name?”

“Price. Margaret Price.”

The guard frowned. “I don’t see a Margaret Price in the ICU.”

The thread pulsed again. Marcus felt it pushing at the guard’s mind, making him confused, making him want to just let this go and get back to his phone.

“Maybe she was moved to a different floor?” Marcus said. “Can you check palliative care?”

“I...” The guard rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Give me a second.”

While he typed, Marcus looked at the visitor log on the desk and saw the floor directory. The ICU was on the fourth floor. Palliative care was on the third.

“Sorry, I don’t see her anywhere in the system,” the guard said. “Are you sure she’s at this hospital?”

“My mistake,” Marcus said, already backing away. “Wrong hospital. Sorry to bother you.”

He turned and walked toward the elevators, feeling the guard’s eyes on his back. But the thread had done its work. The man was already forgetting, already looking back at his phone.

Marcus pressed the button for the third floor.

The palliative care wing was quiet. Dim lights, soft music playing from hidden speakers, the antiseptic smell mixed with something floral. Pictures of peaceful gardens and sunsets hung on the walls.

A place where people came to die.

Marcus walked slowly down the hallway, the thread leading him. It pulled gently toward certain rooms and ignored others.

He stopped outside room 312. The thread pulsed brighter.

Through the small window in the door, he could see an old man in the bed. Thin, pale, hooked up to several machines. His breathing was labored, even from here. A morphine drip ran into his arm.

The chart on the door said: Robert Hayes, 87. DNR. Comfort care only.

Marcus’s hand touched the doorknob.

This was it. This was the moment he became a killer.

He could still walk away. He could leave the hospital, drive somewhere far away, and let the thread take him on day seven without feeding it.

But then he thought about the neighborhood. About the forty-three people who’d already died because the thread had spread while he hesitated.
About the hundreds more who would die if he didn’t complete the cycle.

Marcus opened the door and went inside.

Robert Hayes was asleep, but it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. His face was drawn tight with pain, even through the medication. His breathing rattled in his chest.

Marcus stood next to the bed and looked down at him.

The thread detached from Marcus’s finger and floated toward the old man. It hovered over his chest, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

The thread sank into Robert’s chest.

The old man’s eyes opened. For a moment, they were unfocused and confused. Then they locked onto Marcus’s face.

“Who...” Robert’s voice was barely a whisper. “Who are you?”

“Someone trying to make this easier,” Marcus said. He didn’t know if that was true. He didn’t know if anything could make this easier.

“Am I dying?” Robert asked. Not afraid. Just curious.

“Yes.”

Robert nodded slightly. “Good. Been waiting long enough.” He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. “Hurts. Everything hurts.”

“Not for much longer.”

The thread spread through Robert’s body, visible now even to him. He looked down at his chest, at the red glow beneath his hospital gown.

“What is that?”

“Something that’s going to take the pain away.”

Robert’s breathing was getting slower. The thread was wrapping around his heart and lungs, shutting them down gently. No struggle. No panic. Just a slow dimming.

“Thank you,” Robert whispered.

And then he was gone.

Marcus felt it. He felt Robert’s last moment: the relief as the pain finally stopped, a brief flash of memory (a woman’s face, a garden in summer, a child’s laughter), and then nothing.

The thread absorbed it all and grew slightly thicker.

One down. Twenty-four to go.

Actually, Marcus realized, counting the forty-three who’d died in the neighborhood, it was forty-four down. Negative nineteen to go.

The thread had overshot by a lot. That meant when the cycle completed, nineteen people would come back to life. They would wake up confused but alive.

Small comfort for the twenty-five who wouldn’t.

Marcus left the room before anyone could find him. The thread reattached to his finger, satisfied but still hungry.

It led him to the next room.

By 4 AM, Marcus had been in six rooms.

Room 312: Robert Hayes, 87. Cancer.

Room 315: Mary Donnelly, 92. Heart failure.

Room 318: David Morrison, 76. Liver failure.

Room 320: Sarah Williams, 81. Stroke.

Room 323: James Whitaker, 69. Pancreatic cancer.

Room 327: Elizabeth Hart, 88. Alzheimer’s and pneumonia.

Six people who were dying anyway. Six people in pain. Six people who, in some cases, had actually seemed grateful when the end came.

Marcus told himself that made it okay. That he was doing them a favor.

But he carried all six deaths in his head now. All six sets of final memories. All six lives squeezed into their last moments.

He sat in a bathroom stall and threw up.

The thread pulsed impatiently on his finger. It wanted more. It needed more.

Forty-nine down. Still not enough.

Marcus stood up, rinsed his mouth, and left the bathroom.

The thread led him toward the elevator. Up to the fourth floor. The ICU.

The ICU was more heavily monitored. Nurses at a station in the center watched screens that showed vitals from each room. Alarms beeped now and then. There was the sound of machines breathing for people who couldn’t breathe for themselves.

Marcus stood in the stairwell doorway, watching.

The thread wanted him to go to room 402. But a nurse was standing right outside it, adjusting an IV.

He couldn’t just walk in. Not without being seen.

The thread pulsed, and Marcus felt it reaching out. He felt it touching the nurse’s mind, making her tired, making her want to sit down, making her forget about the IV for just a minute.

The nurse yawned. She rubbed her eyes, walked back to the station, and sat down.

Marcus moved quickly. He opened the door to room 402 and slipped inside.

A teenage girl lay in the bed. Maybe fourteen or fifteen. She was hooked up to more machines than Marcus had seen in the other rooms. A ventilator breathed for her. Monitors beeped steadily. Her head was wrapped in bandages.

The chart on the wall said: Jessica Moore, 15. Traumatic brain injury. Brain death confirmed. Organ donation pending.

Marcus felt sick. This wasn’t an old person at the end of their life. This was a kid.

“No,” he said to the thread. “Not her. Someone else.”

But the thread didn’t listen. It floated toward Jessica’s bed, insistent.

“She’s already dead,” Marcus said. “The chart says brain death. She doesn’t count.”

The thread paused. And Marcus felt something. Understanding? Agreement?

The thread pulled back and reattached to his finger.

It led him out of the room, past the nurses’ station, to a different room.

Room 405: Michael Foster, 34. Multiple organ failure. No brain activity.

Another brain death case. Another person already gone, just waiting for the machines to be turned off.

But the thread didn’t want this one either. It moved on.

Room 408: Patricia Blake, 52. End-stage kidney disease. Multiple system failure.

The thread stopped here. This was the one it wanted.

Marcus looked through the window. Patricia was awake, staring at the ceiling. Her face was yellow with jaundice. Her breathing was shallow.

She was dying, but she was conscious. Aware. Not brain dead. Not already gone.

Marcus went inside.

Patricia’s eyes moved to look at him. “Are you a doctor?”

“No.”
“Nurse?”
“No.”

“Then what are you doing in my room at four in the morning?” Her voice was weak but sharp.

Marcus didn’t have an answer. The thread pulsed, offering to cloud her mind and make her go along with it.

He refused it.

“I’m here to give you a choice,” he said.

“What kind of choice?”

“The doctors told you about your kidneys, right? About the liver failure?”

“They told me I have maybe a week. Maybe less.” Patricia shifted slightly in the bed, wincing. “Told me I could try dialysis again, but it probably won’t work. My body’s giving up.”

“What if you could end it now? No more pain. No more waiting.”

Patricia studied his face. “You’re talking about killing me.”

“I’m talking about mercy.”

“That’s just a nicer word for the same thing.” She looked at the ceiling again. “Are you going to do it whether I agree or not?”

Marcus thought about that. The thread wanted her. Needed her. But did Marcus have to obey?

He tested it. He tried to turn away, to leave the room.

The thread burned. Pain shot through his arm and chest. He gasped and grabbed the doorframe.

“You okay?” Patricia asked.

“No.” Marcus forced himself upright. “I have to. I don’t have a choice.”

“Everyone has a choice.”

“Not me. Not anymore.” He walked back to her bed. “But I can make it quick. Painless. Better than waiting a week to drown in your own fluids.”

Patricia was quiet for a long moment. Then: “I have a daughter. Rebecca. She’s supposed to visit tomorrow. I wanted to say goodbye.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you? Or are you just saying that?”

Marcus thought about Emma. About his father. About the forty-nine people who’d died because of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. And he meant it.

Patricia closed her eyes. “Do it quick.”

The thread moved forward.

Marcus left the hospital as the sun was starting to rise. Day five.

Seven deaths in one night. Fifty total.

Negative twenty-five.

He’d gone past the quota. By the rules the projection had told him, twenty-five of those deaths would be permanent. The other twenty-five would be released when the cycle was complete.

But which twenty-five? Did the thread choose? Or was it random?

Marcus drove home and parked in the driveway. He sat in the car for a long time, staring at his hands. The red threads covered his arms completely now. They’d reached his chest, spreading like a rash across his skin.

By tomorrow, they’d reach his face. His eyes. His brain.

He didn’t have much time left as himself.

Marcus’s phone rang. He’d turned it back on at some point without thinking about it.

It was Officer Chen’s number. He answered.

“Marcus? Where are you? We’ve been looking for you all night.”

“I’m at home.”

“Stay there. I’m coming over. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

Chen’s voice was grim. “Seven people died at St. Mary’s Hospital overnight. All in palliative care and the ICU. Security footage shows a teenage male matching your description entering the building at 2:13 AM.”

Marcus’s blood went cold. “I didn’t...”

“Save it. Just stay where you are. If you run, it makes you look guilty.”

“I am guilty.”

“Marcus...”

He hung up.

He had maybe ten minutes before the police arrived. Maybe less.

The thread pulsed on his finger. It didn’t care about the police. It didn’t care about consequences. It only cared about feeding.

And it was still hungry.

Marcus got out of the car and went inside the house, upstairs to his room. He looked around at all the pieces of his old life: his books, his computer, his clothes.

None of it mattered anymore.

He grabbed a backpack and threw in some clothes, his phone charger, and the cash he’d been saving from birthday gifts. Maybe three hundred dollars.

Then he heard the sirens. They were close, coming down his street.

Marcus ran to the window and looked out. Three police cars, lights flashing, pulled up in front of his house.

Officer Chen got out of the first car, along with two other officers. They walked toward the front door.

Marcus didn’t wait. He grabbed his backpack and went to his window. It faced the backyard. He opened it and looked down. Maybe a fifteen-foot drop to the grass.

The doorbell rang. Then pounding.

“Marcus! This is Officer Chen! Open the door!”

Marcus climbed out the window, hung from the ledge, and dropped.

He landed hard, rolled, and felt something in his ankle twist. But adrenaline kept him moving.

He ran across the backyard, jumped the fence into the neighbor’s yard, and kept running.

Behind him, he heard shouting. The police had seen him.

Marcus cut through more yards, between houses, onto a side street. His ankle screamed with each step, but he didn’t stop.

The thread pulsed, showing him where to go. Not toward safety. Toward more people. More deaths.

Marcus ignored it and ran in the opposite direction.

The thread burned. Pain exploded through his body. He collapsed in someone’s driveway, gasping.

“You don’t get to run,” said the voice from before. All the versions speaking at once. “We told you. You’re ours.”

“I’m... not... killing... anymore...” Marcus forced out through gritted teeth.

“Then we’ll kill for you.”

The thread detached from his finger. Marcus watched in horror as it split into multiple strands, each one shooting off in a different direction.
Toward the houses around him. Toward the people inside.

“No!” Marcus tried to stand, but his body wouldn’t obey. The thread had locked him in place.

He could only watch as the threads found their targets.

He felt them dying, one by one. Families sleeping in their beds. A man making coffee. A woman getting ready for work. A child watching cartoons.

The thread didn’t discriminate. It didn’t choose the sick or the old or the suffering. It just fed.

Marcus screamed, but no sound came out.

When it was over, seventeen more people were dead.

Marcus lay on the driveway, shaking. The threads returned to him, thicker than ever.

Sixty-seven total deaths. Forty-two over the quota.

The police sirens were closer now. They’d find him soon. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

He’d tried to do it mercifully. He’d tried to choose the dying. He’d tried to hold on to some shred of humanity.

And the thread had punished him for it.

Marcus forced himself to stand. His ankle was definitely sprained, maybe broken. But he could still move.

He limped away from the sirens, into an alley behind a shopping center.

His phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number: You can’t fight it by running. You can’t fight it by choosing. The only way forward is surrender. Let it use you completely. Stop trying to steer and just let it drive. — Cassidy

Marcus deleted the text.

Another one came immediately: She’s right. The thread isn’t your enemy. Resistance is what causes suffering. Accept your role and the pain stops. — Version 12

Another: Or keep fighting and watch everyone you’ve ever known die screaming. Your choice. — Thomas

Marcus turned off his phone and threw it in a dumpster.

He needed to think. He needed to find a way to stop this that didn’t involve surrender or death.

But as he limped through the alley, red threads spreading across his face now and reaching toward his eyes, he wondered if there was any way left at all.

Marcus found an abandoned warehouse near the industrial district. The same area where the storm drain was. Where the basement waited.

He broke a window and climbed inside.

The warehouse was empty except for some old machinery and broken pallets. Graffiti covered the walls. The floor was dirty concrete.

He sat down in a corner and tried to think through his situation.

Sixty-seven people dead. The thread was satisfied for now, not pulling him anywhere, not demanding more. But that wouldn’t last.

The police were looking for him. By now, they’d have the hospital security footage, probably witness descriptions, and maybe even an alert out for him.

He was a fugitive. A mass murderer.

And he had two days left before the thread consumed him completely.

Marcus looked at his reflection in a piece of broken glass on the floor. Red threads covered half his face now. His left eye was starting to turn dark, like Thomas’s had been.

He was becoming one of them. One of the hollow ones.

“There has to be a way,” he said to his reflection. “There has to be something I’m missing.”

His reflection smiled. Its jaw dislocated, dropping open.

“There is,” it said in that distorted voice. “You already know what it is. You’re just afraid to do it.”

“What? What am I missing?”

“The basement isn’t just where the hand is being built. It’s where all the timelines come together. Past, present, future. All the cycles are happening at the same time.” The reflection’s eyes went completely dark. “If you can get to the center of it, to the exact point where all the threads meet, you can collapse the whole structure.”

“How?”

“By becoming the twenty-fifth finger willingly. Not fighting it. Not being dragged. But choosing to complete it on your own terms. Then, at the moment of completion, when the hand becomes whole and the threads are all connected, you destroy yourself. Completely. No consciousness left to be part of the web. Just oblivion.”

Marcus stared at his reflection. “That would kill everyone connected to the thread. All the survivors. All the versions in the between-space.”
“Yes.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? They’re trapped anyway. Existing in eternal suffering. You’d be freeing them.”

“Or I’d be murdering them.”

“Is there a difference?” The reflection tilted its head. “You’ve already killed sixty-seven people. What’s a few dozen more if it ends this forever?”

Marcus looked away from the glass. “No. There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t.”

“Then I’ll find one.”

His reflection laughed. “You have forty-eight hours. Good luck.”

The image faded, leaving just Marcus’s real reflection. Red threads and all.

He sat in the warehouse and tried to think of other options. But his mind kept coming back to the same conclusion: the only way to truly end this was to end everyone connected to it.

Including himself.

Night fell. Marcus hadn’t moved from his corner. His ankle had swollen to twice its normal size. His stomach cramped with hunger. But he couldn’t make himself leave.

If he left, the thread would take over again. It would kill more people.

At least here, alone, it couldn’t hurt anyone.

Around midnight, he heard a sound. Footsteps.

Marcus tensed. Police?

But the footsteps were too light. Too deliberate.

A figure came out of the shadows. A girl, maybe his age, with dark hair and familiar eyes.

Cassidy. But not a projection this time. She looked solid. Real.

“How are you here?” Marcus asked.

“I’m not. Not really. But the thread is strong enough now that I can manifest more fully. I can interact with the physical world for short periods.”
She sat down across from him. “You’re running out of time.”

“I know.”

“The thread is losing patience. By tomorrow night, it’ll take full control. You’ll become a puppet. You’ll kill hundreds, maybe thousands, before it’s satisfied.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“How will you stop it? You can barely move. You’re injured, starving, and the threads have almost completely consumed you.” Cassidy leaned forward. “There’s only one option left. Surrender. Let it happen. Complete the cycle properly and save whoever you can.”

“And condemn twenty-five people to permanent death.”

“Twenty-five who are already dying because of you. Twenty-five out of sixty-seven. The other forty-two get released. Isn’t that better than everyone dying when you lose control?”

Marcus was quiet. She was right. He knew she was right.

But accepting it meant accepting that he was a monster. That there was no redemption, no heroic sacrifice that would make this okay.

“What happens after?” Marcus asked. “After I complete the cycle and become the twenty-fifth finger?”

“You become part of the web. Conscious but powerless. You’ll feel every future cycle, every future death, until the structure is complete.”

“How many more cycles?”

“No one knows. The thread has been building for at least five hundred years. Maybe it needs another five hundred. Maybe it needs five thousand.”
Marcus put his head in his hands. “This is hell.”

“Yes,” Cassidy said simply. “But it’s the only hell available. The alternative is worse.”

She stood up. “I’ll give you tonight to decide. But by tomorrow sunset, one way or another, the choice will be made. Either you make it, or the thread makes it for you.”

She faded back into the shadows.

Marcus sat alone in the dark, counting down the hours until day six.