The generator kicks like a dying horse, its uneven hum shaking the room. Dallas Fontaine stands over the open hatch, timing notes spread in his hands, while the thudding from below pounds the floorboards in ugly, measured blows.

He matches the notes to the generator dial and starts turning by fractions, hunting for the pulse gap. Dust shakes loose from the grate as the rhythm stutters, then surges again.

Dallas twists the control harder. The lights dim, then flare red. Below the hatch, something answers with one brutal удар that makes the lock plates chatter.

At the next marked interval, the generator drops into a cleaner cadence, just enough to smother the trigger frequency. The thudding below falters, not gone, but checked. The breach has been delayed, and the room is one step closer to staying sealed.

Dallas turns the dial by a hair, then another, until the generator’s cough settles into the cadence from the notes under the stairs.

The harsh stutter in the lights smooths out. Red glare drains to a steadier white, and the frantic chatter in the lock housing stops rattling the floorboards.

Below the hatch, the thudding becomes muffled, boxed in by the corrected pulse instead of feeding on it.

Murderbone plants himself beside Dallas, ears forward, staring into the open hatch as if daring anything below to move.

The room is steady for the first time, but the hatch stays open, the dark below listening for the next slip.