Blood Tyes

The water sliced past her goggles, a churning, blue-white world that was Alani's to command. Down and back, down and back, the black line on the bottom of the pool was her unblinking guide. The sharp scent of chlorine was the air she breathed, the burn in her shoulders the feeling that told her she was on the path. This was where the Team GB selection was forged, not on the podium, but here, after 10 PM in the echoing silence of the Basildon Sporting Village, when everyone else had gone home.

With a final, explosive push, her hand slapped the touchpad. The timer on the wall froze. She'd beaten her personal best by another two-tenths of a second. A wide grin split her face as she hung onto the lane rope, chest heaving. Get in. Absolutely chuffed with that. Tomorrow morning, she'd treat herself to a proper fry-up.

She pulled her tired, aching body from the water, the cool air of the vast, empty hall raising instant goosepimples on her skin. The only sounds were the soft slap of her footsteps on the wet tiles and the gentle lapping of the water settling behind her. This was her sanctuary. The lights cast long, distorted reflections across the still surface of the pool, turning the hall into a place of quiet, sterile beauty.

In the cavernous changing rooms, she let the hot water of the shower beat down on her aching muscles, feeling utterly knackered but satisfied. It was as she was drying herself off that she heard it. A heavy, wet thud from out in the main hall. She paused, listening. Probably just the night staff stacking the floats. She thought nothing of it.

Then came the second sound. It was different. A rhythmic, metallic clink… a pause… clink… another pause… clink… It was the sound of metal tapping against tile, slow and deliberate, moving along the edge of the pool. Moving closer.

Every muscle in her body went rigid. That wasn't a cleaner's trolley. The rhythmic quality was too predatory.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice sounding small and fragile in the huge space. "Is anyone there?"

The clinking stopped. The silence that rushed in to replace it was absolute, heavy with unspoken threat. Alani's heart hammered against her ribs. She wasn't alone.

Her disciplined mind, trained to react, took over. She wrapped the towel tightly around herself and darted out of the changing room, not towards the sound, but towards the small gymnasium that adjoined the pool area. Her eyes scanned frantically for a weapon. On a rack against the wall, she found it: a single, 2kg dumbbell. It felt pitifully light in her hand, but it was solid. It was something.

Clutching the small weight, she crept back to the doorway, peering into the cavernous swimming hall.

He was standing at the far end, a hulking silhouette against the glass doors. His size was the first thing she registered; he was immense, broad-shouldered and tall. The second was his posture. He was stooped, twisted, his frame somehow unnatural and wrong. In one hand, he held a hammer—not a claw hammer, but something with a strange, pointed tip on one side. A rock pick.

He saw her.

He didn't run; he moved with an impossible, fluid speed, his long legs eating up the distance between them. The sight of his unnatural gait froze her for a fraction of a second too long. She screamed, a raw, terrified sound, and hurled the dumbbell with all the force her athletic body could muster. It flew through the air and struck him squarely in the chest with a dull thud.

He didn't even flinch.

Terror, pure and absolute, finally broke her. She turned to run, but he was already there. An arm like a steel girder wrapped around her, lifting her from her feet. She saw the hammer rise, its polished steel glinting in the cold fluorescent light.

The first blow was not to her head, but to her leg. The sound was not a wet crack, but a dry, percussive snap, like a thick branch breaking in a winter frost. The pain was a white-hot nova that erased all thought. The world dissolved into a storm of agony and brutal, rhythmic impacts.

Alani Costa's consciousness ceased.

The Architect stood over the broken form, his breathing heavy but even. He was not rushed. He was not fleeing. He looked down at the body, then at the graceful curve of the highest starting block. An idea, pure and perfect, bloomed in his mind.

He carefully lifted her ruined body, his movements now slow, almost reverent. He carried her to the edge of the pool, the water reflecting their distorted image. With the focused intensity of a sculptor, he began his work. He bent a shattered leg here, twisted a broken arm there.

He stepped back, admiring his creation. Poised on the edge of the block, her limbs arranged in a grotesque, impossible parody of a perfect dive, was his masterpiece of broken grace.