Knifeprtyprose

The kiss ends, but he doesn’t move.

His face stays close, breath brushing your lips. And for a moment, there’s nothing—no guards, no scientists, no looming threats—just the silence of a room trying to understand what it just witnessed.

Then you see it.

Not hunger.

Not possession.

Not bloodlust.

Just awe.

Like he’s never been touched like that before. Like you did something holy without realizing it.

His eyes search yours, slow, almost cautious, as if you might vanish if he blinks too hard.

Then he exhales shakily. And says—

“ Mein Gott. ”

You blink.

“You…” He laughs under his breath, a low, disbelieving sound. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

You feel heat crawl up your neck. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” he says, soft, reverent. “That good .”

You look at him then—really look.

No mask.

No hood.

No veil between you.

His expression is open in a way you didn’t think he was capable of. His eyes are a soft, slate-grey-blue in the dim light. They keep flicking to your lips like he’s trying not to kiss you again.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. Like it hurts to say it.

Like he means it more than he knows how to.

You sit like that for a while. Two people who aren’t supposed to be touching. Who’ve bled and screamed and survived their way to this impossible calm.

Eventually, you both shift. Rearranged. Legs tangled. His arm draped loosely around your shoulders. A shared blanket across your laps. Your head tilted back against the wall as König settles beside you, big and quiet and warm. Like a shield you never asked for but find yourself leaning into anyway.

You talk, at first. Soft, tentative things. He tells you his favorite book they gave him was All Quiet on the Western Front . You say you never finished it. He says the ending is the only good part. You ask what kind of music he misses. He pauses—then says something slow, orchestral. “The kind that makes your chest hurt but you don’t know why.”

You get it.

Eventually, the talking fades. You sit in easy silence, just… existing. You’d forgotten what that feels like. Time doesn’t stretch or warp—it just passes. Like it used to.

You drift in and out of light conversation, König occasionally tracing a slow pattern on your arm with the back of one finger. Not possessive—just something tactile to anchor himself. He keeps looking at you, like you’re the only real thing left in the world.

But it’s not love. Not yet.

It’s too raw. Too uncertain.

Whatever this is between you—it’s growing wild, feral, out of control. Like something neither of you planted, but still bloomed in blood.

You feel it pressing at the edges of your awareness—how close he is. How different he looks without the armor. There’s stubble on his jaw and a shallow scar on his cheek, and when he shifts, you catch a glimpse of the veins on his neck. You shouldn’t notice these things. You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

At one point, you lean your head against his shoulder. His arm immediately comes around you again, strong and loose. He’s warmer than he should be. Or maybe you’re just cold.

You think about the file. The way he looked at you. The scientists. The hunger. The bond they’re trying to measure.

You think about the way he said, You asked me to be gentle .

You don’t want to speak.

You don’t want to break this.

So you sit there, two hours bleeding into each other like ink and water, until the inevitable comes.

The lock clicks.

Your body jerks instinctively, but König’s hand goes to yours, grounding.

Then the door opens.

And of course, it’s Albrecht.

He steps in like he’s entering a boardroom, clipboard tucked under his arm, lips pressed thin with satisfaction.

“How are we feeling?” he asks. “Bond strong? Intimacy levels rising nicely?”

You stiffen.

König doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t look away. Just narrows his eyes, protective.

Albrecht nods to himself like he’s mentally checking a box. Then: “It’s time.”

“For what?” you ask.

He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Testing. Round two. New variables.”

König moves to stand—but before he can say anything, Albrecht raises a hand.

“Separate rooms this time,” he says. “We need individual metrics.”

You stiffen.

“No,” König says sharply. “You said—”

“I say what I’m told to say.” Albrecht’s voice is clipped now. Less smug, more clinical. “This isn’t up for debate.”

König’s hand tightens around yours, and you feel it—something uncoiling in him, slow and dangerous.

But you squeeze his fingers gently. Just enough.

“I’ll be okay,” you whisper. You’re not sure it’s true. But you need him calm.

He looks at you like he might refuse. Like he’s one command away from breaking every bone in Albrecht’s body.

But eventually—slowly—he lets go.

Albrecht gestures.

Guards step in.

König stiffens again, clearly unwilling to be manhandled, but they don’t touch him. They know better now.

You step away first. Force your body not to shake. As you’re led from the room, König’s eyes follow you—unmasked, exposed, burning with something that doesn’t have a name yet.

You don’t look back.

You’re afraid if you do, you won’t be able to walk away.

⸻

The corridor smells of disinfectant and fear. You and König are both cuffed, wrists locked in cold steel that bites through skin, ankles shackled together with heavy chains that scrape every step. König walks ahead, his broad shoulders tense, every muscle coiled under the thin sweats and hoodie, his head tilted just enough to catch your shape behind him.

You stumble, exhaustion dragging at your bones, and a guard grunts at you to keep pace. Your heart pounds unevenly — not from exertion, but from the cold dread building in your gut.

The door slides open with a pneumatic hiss before you reach it. Harsh fluorescent lights flood the room beyond, sterile and merciless. The floor gleams cold concrete, marred by dark stains and smudges that look like old blood.

They shove you inside.

König is pushed in after you.

You barely have time to glance at him before you’re yanked down, limbs torn apart by the shackles. The cold bites through your thin clothes as you hit the floor hard, hands pulled behind your back. The chains jerk tight, straps biting deep into your wrists and ankles, spreading you wide in a cruel crucifix.

Your head snaps against the floor. Pain blooms like fire across your cheekbone.

You gag, tasting blood, and tear at the rough fabric pressed against your mouth.

König struggles beside you, his body muscle and tension, his eyes wild and furious. His hands thrash against the restraints, rattling the chains, the veins on his forearms standing out like cords under his skin.

“Stop struggling,” a guard orders. The voice is cold. Mechanical.

But König doesn’t listen. His whole body twists and jerks, pulling against the bonds with an animal desperation that makes the room pulse with raw energy.

Dr. Albrecht steps forward, clipboard in hand, his gaze clinical and cold as he watches the scene unfold.

“Subject One,” he says, nodding toward you, “your responses thus far have been promising, but insufficient. We need to see the limits of this bond.”

His eyes flick to König.

“And Subject Two,” he continues, voice low and deliberate, “your reaction to Subject One’s distress is the variable we will observe.”

You try to crawl, to reach König, but the chains hold you in place, stretching your limbs painfully. Every movement is a slow, grinding ache.

The guard nearest you raises his boot.

Without warning, the sole connects hard with your ribs.

The breath whooshes out of your lungs in a brutal rush. Pain explodes along your side, sharp and deep, and you gasp, a ragged, broken sound muffled by the gag.

König’s head snaps toward you.

His eyes meet yours — wide, frantic, desperate.

You see the way his jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck bunch like a coil about to snap.

The guard kicks again.

This time your cheek slams against the floor, skin scraping painfully against the concrete.

Albrecht’s eyes never leave his clipboard. He scratches something down.

“König’s reaction to Subject One’s pain has intensified. Note the increase in physiological response.”

You try to steady your breathing, but the pain blooms in waves — slow, cruel tides of fire spreading through your ribs, your back, your limbs.

The guard kneels beside you then, yanking your hair harshly. Your head snaps back, and your eyes water.

The gag slips loose with your frantic struggle, and you croak out a scream — broken, raw, torn from the depths of your fear.

Albrecht’s lips twitch in what you can only call amusement.

“Emotional distress enhances the bond,” he says softly. “Your screams are feeding his rage.”

König thrashes again, pulling and twisting, his voice a low growl that turns to a roar.

“I won’t let them—” he snarls, his body fighting the chains with a ferocity that makes the steel groan.

“You can’t reach her,” a guard hisses, stepping forward with a small device in his hand — a prod that crackles with blue electricity.

Your heart hammers as the guard presses it against your calf.

A shock rips through your muscles, making you convulse involuntarily. You scream, a sound torn from your very soul.

König lets out a guttural roar, muscles twitching violently, veins pulsing in desperation. The chains stretch, threatening to break under the force of his panic.

Albrecht watches, fascinated, jotting notes on his clipboard with a surgeon’s precision.

“You see,” he says, voice low, “the symbiotic link between Subject One and Subject Two is the key to our understanding. The pain inflicted on one triggers an unbreakable response in the other.”

Your vision blurs, tears slipping down your cheeks, mixing with the sweat and blood smeared across your face.

The guards take turns kicking and prodding you — each impact sending fresh waves of agony ripping through your body. Your skin is raw, bruises blooming beneath your thin clothing.

Yet you keep your eyes on König.

You try to tell him, without words, that you’re still here. That you haven’t given up.

The hours stretch. Time fractures into a relentless tide of pain and fear.

König’s thrashing becomes frantic, erratic — a force barely contained by the chains.

His breaths come in harsh, ragged gasps.

The anger in his eyes is not just for the guards or the pain — it’s for you.

He’s clawing toward you through the chains, but the restraints hold.

Until suddenly—

With a violent, guttural roar, König’s strength breaks the steel.

The chains snap.

The restraints hadn’t just snapped — they’d shattered .

Shards of reinforced carbon hung from König’s wrists like broken manacles, blood slicking his forearms where the metal had bitten deep. For a breath, the room froze.

Then all hell cracked open.

König surged forward with a guttural roar — nothing human in the sound — and slammed into the nearest guard before the man could even lift his weapon. The force sent them both crashing into the glass wall. It spiderwebbed behind his back. König didn’t stop. He drove the man through it.

Glass exploded, raining across the lab. Screams tore through the sterile air. Two more guards raised their rifles — too slow.

König was already there.

He grabbed one by the barrel and twisted — metal groaning, then snapping with a sharp crack . He turned the broken rifle into a bludgeon and swung. It caught the man’s helmet hard enough to crumple the plating, snapping his head sideways with a sickening jolt.

The last one fired. A single shot.

König flinched — just once — as the round grazed his ribs. Then he turned, eyes wild and dark and utterly locked on.

He charged.

The guard emptied the clip in panic. Bullets sparked off the walls, ricocheted into machines, shattered a row of fluorescent lights — but König didn’t stop. He tackled him like a beast, full weight behind it, and they hit the floor with a bone-crunching slam.

The screaming stopped.

Albrecht made a dash for the exit. König grabbed a chair and hurled it — it hit his spine mid-run, folding him in half before he crumpled to the ground, twitching.

The others backed away, trembling behind overturned desks and smashed consoles.

One of the guards had landed halfway into the wall. Another’s throat was smeared across the floor like wet paint.

König turned to you, heaving. jaw clenched, chest rising, pupils blown wide. His face was splashed with blood, and it wasn’t his.

“Can you stand?” he rasped, already reaching for the straps around your wrists.

Your limbs screamed when they moved — your wrists were raw, your knees barely holding. But you nodded.

“I’m okay,” you lied.

He didn’t argue. He lifted you to your feet like you weighed nothing and pulled you in for a split second — his forehead pressed to yours, blood-warm breath brushing your cheek.

Then: “We need to move.”

The door was already cracked open. One of the dead scientists had tried to run. His body was slumped just past the threshold, skull dented like a dropped peach.

König stepped over him without hesitation, eyes sharp.

The corridor beyond was too clean. Unnaturally lit. White floors, silver panels, humming lights — and the sharp, sterile tang of antiseptic fighting the copper stench of blood.

You limped at his side, favoring your left leg, one hand pressed to your ribs. Something felt cracked. Didn’t matter. You kept going.

Down the hall. Left. A stairwell. König kicked open a security door so hard it dented inward. You followed him down the stairwell, your breath ragged. Alarms hadn’t triggered yet. The facility was quiet — too quiet.

You turned a corner—

—and there it was. A supply alcove. Unlocked. As if someone had left it mid-shift.

Inside:

— a black tactical bag

— a hydration pack

— ration bars, vacuum sealed

— rolls of gauze and adhesive

— several clips of ammo

— a rifle propped carelessly in the corner like it hadn’t just been loaded that morning

You didn’t hesitate.

You slung the bag over your shoulder and started shoving supplies in: cloth, food, gauze, water, a second smaller pistol, knives.

König’s eyes locked onto the rifle. He took it without a word, chambered a round with an efficient click, then threw a full belt of ammo across his shoulder.

“I know this hallway,” he muttered in German, then louder, “There’s a side elevator. It leads to Sublevel 6.”

“What’s in Sublevel 6?”

His eyes flicked to you, and he didn’t answer.

You understood why ten seconds later.

The deeper you went, the more things changed.

The white tiles began to chip. The panels along the walls flickered. A pipe overhead was leaking. The air began to smell less like antiseptic and more like mold, rot, ozone.

Lights buzzed. Then dimmed.

You both moved fast. Silent.

You turned a final corner — and saw the door.

Big. Reinforced. Electronic.

Cracks ran through the metal, like something had once tried to force its way in from the other side. König didn’t hesitate — he slammed the butt of the rifle into the console. Sparks flew. The door glitched once — then slowly, groaningly began to open.

And beyond it — darkness.

Broken tile. Water on the floor. A corridor twisted out ahead, almost organic in how uneven the walls had become — like the facility had rotted from within.

König stepped forward.

You followed.

Then behind you — alarms.

Finally, too late — the system screamed.

BREACH. CONTAINMENT FAILURE.

You spun around, breath caught. And saw them.

The Wraiths.

At least five at first — but more coming behind.

Slipping through vents. Dropping from the ceiling. Sliding in from corridors like smoke. Twitching, jerking, some barely human-shaped anymore. Not shrieking, not roaring — just that clicking. That constant, distant clicking that echoed in your spine.

But they didn’t rush you.

They didn’t even look at König.

They looked at you.

Still. Hungry. Reverent.

You took a step back.

“Why aren’t they attacking?” you whispered, trembling.

König stepped in front of you automatically, gun raised. But the Wraiths didn’t move.

Then one of them twitched — sharply, like cracking a vertebra — and turned its head sideways. A strange, awful gesture. Almost like curiosity. Like recognition.

“I don’t think they want to kill me,” you breathed.

König didn’t lower the rifle.

“We’re not waiting to find out.”

You turned. He grabbed your hand.

You ran.

The corridor was half-submerged — slick water rising to your ankles. Somewhere in the darkness above, a vent cover clattered to the ground. A scream echoed — not human. One of the Wraiths, maybe. Or one of the scientists who didn’t get out in time.

The last thing you saw, before the door behind you sealed again, was the Wraiths slipping into the white facility like wolves into a slaughterhouse.

You didn’t feel relief.

You felt hunted.

And free.

Together, in the ruin.

At last.

You don’t stop.

Not to breathe. Not to speak. Not to process the fact that the Wraiths are inside the facility now, tearing through the husks of men who thought they could play god.

You just run.

König yanks open the warped door ahead of you, shoulder slamming into rusted metal that groans and gives way. The tunnel beyond stretches upward—steep, winding, almost vertical in places. Like the spine of the world cracked open and left a vein of concrete and steel behind.

It’s pitch black except for the small beam of your flashlight bouncing wildly over walls stained with moisture and blood. The air is wet, metallic. It smells like rust and rot and ozone—like the facility is decomposing while still alive.

You follow König, boots slamming hard, one hand gripping your ribs. Each breath is fire. But you don’t slow down.

You can’t .

Behind you, the sounds begin.

Not alarms.

Not footsteps.

Clicking.

High and low, soft and echoing, like bones breaking underwater. The Wraiths aren’t chasing you like predators. They’re following you. Quiet. Calculating. Patient.

“Faster,” König snaps, and you obey. His voice is low, controlled—but his eyes are wide, flicking between shadows, rifle clenched in one hand, the strap of the supply bag in the other.

The tunnel shifts ahead—narrows. Then curves sharply left. You nearly crash into him as he halts at a ladder bolted into the wall, the rungs rusted and slick.

“Up,” he orders. “Now.”

You don’t argue.

You grab the ladder, fingers numb, and start to climb. Your foot slips once. He catches you from below, steadying without a word. His presence is like gravity behind you—solid, certain, massive.

The shaft is narrow. You climb fast.

Twenty feet.

Thirty.

At the top: another sealed door.

König clambers up behind you, breathing hard, bracing his shoulder into the locking mechanism and heaving it open with a feral grunt. The hinges scream. Cold air spills down through the crack.

You lurch forward into another hall—this one tighter, older. Bare concrete. Fractured piping. Water drips somewhere nearby, rhythmic like a dying heartbeat.

Your flashlight flickers.

Then dies.

“Shit—” You hit it. Nothing.

König’s hand closes around your wrist.

“Stay close.”

His voice is the only light now.

You push forward together.

One continuous rush.

The tunnel begins to slope upward again, but now it’s steep, like a mine shaft with no rails. König moves ahead of you, carving a path. His shoulders just barely fit the space, and his breathing is ragged, teeth clenched tight.

You start hearing things again.

Clicks.

Scrapes.

Wet footsteps behind you—fast, then slow.

You don’t look back.

You reach a door. König slams the keypad with the butt of his rifle—no response. Dead. He grits his teeth and shoots the hinges. The metal screams, collapses inward.

You squeeze through.

The air changes again.

Colder. Less stale. You smell damp rock. The faint hint of pine.

You’re getting close.

You move faster now.

It’s like your body knows before your mind does—knows the pressure of the surface, the pull of open air.

König doesn’t speak anymore. He’s fully locked in—, mouth tight, eyes darting.

The tunnel changes texture—turns into rough stone. Not facility-made. Natural. A cave system repurposed for Obsidian Point, or maybe predating it entirely.

The walls glisten with wet moss and mineral veins. Some of the stone pulses faintly—like it’s holding energy. Or memory. You feel it in your chest, your fingertips.

König feels it too.

You keep moving.

Behind you—closer now—something screeches. Not loud. Not animal. Wrong . A sound made by something that doesn’t breathe like a man. Something with too many joints.

König stops in front of a ladder. His head jerks up.

“There,” he says. “That’s the last door.”

You follow his gaze.

It’s barely visible above: a round pressure hatch, bolted, with a single rusted wheel-lock in the center.

“How far up?”

“Forty feet.”

You stare at him.

“I can’t—”

“You can,” he snaps. “Climb.”

You reach the ladder. Pain shrieks through your limbs. But you climb.

Halfway up, something skitters below. Not one. Multiple . You glance down.

Eyes.

In the dark.

Too many.

König raises his rifle and fires.

The blast echoes through the tunnel like a thunderclap. The creatures scatter, but not far.

You climb faster.

The hatch is above you.

You reach it just as König reaches your back.

He braces himself and begins cranking the wheel.

It doesn’t budge.

“Scheiße.”

Another crack of gunfire below. Then metal creaks above—just slightly.

You throw your weight into the wheel with him.

It shrieks.

Budges.

A gust of wind hits your face. Cold. Real. Open.

You gasp like you’ve been underwater for hours.

König throws his shoulder into the door.

It gives.

Light floods down—not sunlight. But daylight. Dim. Cloud-filtered. Silver.

You scramble up together.

Then—

You’re outside.

⸻

The wind hits you like a slap.

Cold. Dry. Wild.

You stagger forward into snow, boots sinking into powder that hasn’t been disturbed in weeks. The sun is low behind thick clouds—late afternoon, late November. No leaves. No birds. Just a sky stretched pale and endless above a dead treeline.

You stand there, chest heaving, trembling, bloodied and blinking like something newly born.

König stumbles up behind you.

He pulls the hatch shut. Bolts it from the outside.

Then he just stands there.

Breathing.

Snowflakes stick to his skin. Melt in the blood streaked across his jaw.

You both look around.

You’re on the side of a mountain. Everything around you is stone, ice, and dying pine. The facility is hidden below—a secret buried in centuries of dirt and shame.

The landscape is barren .

No buildings.

No signs of life.

Just a wide, godless wilderness with no map and no promise.

But for the first time in days—you feel air that hasn’t been recycled through a machine.

You taste wind.

König’s breath steams.

He steps beside you, towering, his body still thrumming with the violence he barely held back. But his eyes aren’t wild anymore.

They’re watching the horizon.

“Where are we?” you ask, voice hoarse.

He shrugs. “Alive.”

You look up at him.

Snow dusts his hair. Sticks in the stubble along his jaw. He looks half-wolf, half-ghost, steam curling from his mouth as he breathes.

And you?

You’re shaking. Exhausted. Bleeding. But standing.

Not just alive— free .

You exhale a shuddering breath.

And for the first time since Obsidian Point swallowed you whole—

After feeding comes the silence. And then, the truth.

The bleeding has stopped.

But the silence lingers.

You walk behind him through the bowels of the facility—limping slightly, your thigh still sore where he fed. Not just sore. Strange. Like something’s knitting back together too fast. Or maybe wrong. The skin itches faintly. Warm under your clothes, despite the cold air that snakes along the corridor.

König hasn’t spoken since.

He moves ahead with the slow, deliberate gait of a man forcing himself to look composed. But you can tell by the set of his shoulders, the twitch of his fingers on the rifle grip, that he’s barely keeping it together.

The silence between you is swollen with things unsaid.

You haven’t pressed. Not yet. Partly because you’re still in shock—and partly because a small, terrifying part of you liked it. The way he touched you. The soft rasp of his tongue as he dragged it across your skin. How his breath hitched, barely controlled.

You should be afraid of him.

You’re not.

That’s the problem.

⸻

The halls twist like veins, narrowing and darkening the deeper you go. The metal under your boots is grooved and scored, like something sharp was dragged through it again and again. Every so often, you pass through a doorway into a zone the facility tried to seal. Welded doors. Emergency foam bursts hardened to chalky decay. Signs of a last-ditch containment effort.

Whatever they were trying to hold back—

It didn’t work.

König leads you wordlessly, the flashlight beam from his shoulder rig cutting through dust and haze. You can hear your own breathing. Every heartbeat. The drip of condensation from the cracked pipes overhead.

And something else. Low. Untraceable.

You keep glancing over your shoulder.

“König,” you murmur, after what feels like an hour of walking, “how far down does this place go?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Then, quietly:

“Too far.”

You pass a door with a smeared handprint on the glass. It’s been there a long time.

The fingers are bent wrong. Like they were reaching in, not out.

Something claws at your memory.

You pause beside a junction.

Stare at the wall.

There—beneath the grime and dust—your fingers brush across faint scratches. Not random. Not jagged. Deliberate.

X | X | X | X | /

A tally.

You tilt your head. Déjà vu prickles down your spine like static. Your body knows this place.

“König,” you say, slow, uncertain. “I’ve been here before.”

You expect him to deny it. To turn around and tell you it’s impossible. That you’re wrong, disoriented, confused.

But he doesn’t.

He just… waits.

Says nothing.

Your heart stutters.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He still doesn’t face you. His jaw twitches beneath the mask.

“I didn’t want to.”

You stare at him. “Why?”

He finally turns. His voice is low.

“Because if you remember—everything changes.”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

Because just ahead, something catches your eye. A shattered terminal still flickering with power, casting a faint blue glow. Past that, a half-open door, marked:

SUBLEVEL C — RESEARCH ADMIN

Inside: a room that feels like an echo.

It’s dusty, but less decayed than the rest. The walls are lined with filing cabinets and cracked monitors. Scorch marks climb the ceiling near a blown-out light fixture. In the corner, a coffee mug still rests on a desk—filled with something long congealed.

But your eyes are drawn to the back wall.

A locked cabinet, half-ajar. Labeled:

SECURE PERSONNEL DOSSIERS — PRIORITY CLEARANCE

Your feet move before you can stop them.

König doesn’t follow. He lingers at the door, half-shadowed.

You open the cabinet.

Inside, the folders are neat. Stacked in alphabetical order. Most are blacked out, charred, or simply empty.

You move slowly. Fingers ghosting over each name.

And then—

KILGORE, ALEXANDER

Codename: KÖNIG

Your hand freezes.

The folder is heavy. Untouched by fire.

Your throat tightens as you flip it open.

Inside: no photo. No fingerprints.

Just report after report, stamped CLASSIFIED in blood-red ink.

– “Genetic hybridization successful.”

– “Blood-response shows catastrophic bonding pattern with FRSI-origin subject.”

– “Memory control protocols in place.”

– “Subject unstable. Contains latent WRAITH tendencies. Handle with remote sedation only.”

– “Do not allow unsupervised contact with Subject 037.”

You stare at that last line.

037. That’s you.

You don’t know how you know that. But you do.

The name is in the margins, scribbled in different handwriting.

She’s back.

She always comes back.

Your fingers tremble.

“König,” you say, voice brittle, “what is this? What did they do to you—?”

You turn.

But you don’t get the chance to finish.

Thwip.

A sharp prick lodges into the side of your neck.

You stagger. Your fingers drop the folder. It hits the floor with a slap, pages fanning out.

“König—”

He jerks toward you. Snaps into motion.

And then another dart sinks into the base of his throat.

“ Fick! ” he snarls, staggering, hand flying up to rip it out. “ No— ”

You try to move toward him, but your legs are made of sand. Your head spins. You reach out—your hand brushes his—

And then the floor rushes up to meet you.

Everything goes dark.

⸻

You surface in flashes.

Cold light. A ceiling like a hospital’s.

A voice—muffled, clinical—saying, “Still stable.”

A shadow at your side. The smell of latex and antiseptic.

Then darkness again.

And again.

Until finally, you wake fully.

Everything is quiet.

Too quiet.

No humming generators. No distant screaming. No damp mildew coating your throat. Just… clean.

The bed beneath you is firm. The blanket stiff with starch. The air smells like bleach and electricity, like the breath before a surgical cut. You’re dressed in a thin, sleeveless shirt and soft pants—gray. Institutional.

A single fluorescent panel hums above. You blink against it, squinting.

You sit up too fast. The world blurs, then realigns.

And you’re not alone.

A figure stands in the doorway. Not armored. Not a monster. Not König.

A woman. Mid-thirties, maybe. Blond hair tucked into a low knot. Dressed in scrubs, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Her hands are gloved. She watches you with the careful calm of someone trained not to spook animals.

“Good,” she says, checking something on the monitor beside your bed. “You’re awake.”

You blink again. Your throat is raw.

“Where—” you rasp.

The woman cuts you off gently. “We’ll answer your questions once you’re cleaned up. You’ve been through a lot.” A pause. “You were stabilized after arrival. Minor trauma, some blood loss, mild dehydration. Nothing critical.”

You stare.

Stabilized.

Not rescued . Not safe .

“Where’s König?”

She doesn’t flinch at the name. “Your…companion is being evaluated. He’s unharmed.”

You don’t believe her. Not entirely. Something about the way she says it feels rehearsed, like she’s trying to stop a dog from barking.

You shift back against the wall.

She notices your tension but doesn’t address it.

“There’s a shower ready. Fresh clothes. Food after. We’ll talk once you’ve had a moment to breathe.”

She sets something on the table—neatly folded garments. A toothbrush. Soap. Conditioner. Even a bra.

She gives a tight, practiced smile, then gestures toward a glass door down the hall. “Take your time.”

And then she’s gone.

⸻

The hallway is silent. There are no visible cameras, but you can feel them—eyes behind the walls. Watching. Waiting.

The bathroom is as sterile as the room. Chrome fixtures. White tile. No mildew. No rust. The water runs instantly, hot and steady. You hesitate, fingers brushing the faucet like it might bite.

You undress slowly, almost ritualistically, peeling away the borrowed clothes. You expect to see blood. Dirt. The usual grime. But your skin is already… mostly clean. Like they wiped you down while you were unconscious.

Still, it feels like something sacred, stepping beneath the stream. The water scalds your skin—deliberately. You let it. Let it burn away the hours, the fear, the filth of whatever basement they dragged you out of.

You scrub until your skin is red. Until your scalp tingles. Conditioner slicks through your hair like silk. The bra fits. The soap smells like nothing.

When it’s over, you catch your reflection in the mirror.

And flinch.

You look… human again. Not a scavenger. Not prey. Not whatever thing König licked blood from in a crumbling hall.

Just a woman.

Clean, hair damp and falling into your eyes, a stranger wearing your face.

And it hits you. The rawness of it.

Your knees give, almost. You sit on the edge of the sink and press your palm to your mouth.

Tears come sharp and sudden. Not sobbing—just leaking, like something overfull finally tipping.

You haven’t cried in weeks. Months, maybe. You didn’t have the time. You didn’t have the right. But now, clean and warm and alone for the first time in so long—

It feels like grieving something you didn’t know you lost.

⸻

You’re fed next. Real food.

A tray slides in through the narrow gap beneath the door—silent, sterile, stainless steel. There’s no mold. No soggy ration packs. No crumbled protein bricks made from god-knows-what. This looks…normal. Chicken, maybe. Steamed vegetables. A small bowl of berries that look almost too bright to be real.

You don’t trust it. You don’t trust any of it.

But you eat.

Slowly, mechanically. One bite at a time. Your stomach isn’t sure what to do with it at first—it cramps, uncertain—but your body is hungrier than your fear. Hungrier than your memories. You finish every bite.

And then… nothing.

You wait. You pace. You check the walls for seams or cameras you’ve missed. You knock on the door. Once. Twice. No answer.

Hours pass.

And just when you’re starting to wonder if the food was poisoned after all, the door hisses open with a pressurized sigh.

But it’s not a medic this time.

It’s a man.

Tall. Clean-cut. Crisp lines and colder eyes. He wears a dark suit—not tactical, not military. Civilian. But there’s something off about the way he carries himself. Too still. Too precise.

His age is hard to place. Forties, maybe. His hair is dark at the roots but silver at the temples, combed back with surgical neatness. No gloves. No mask. Just a clipboard in one hand, a manila folder in the other.

His smile is…polite. Practiced. And a little too sharp.

“Hello,” he says, voice smooth. “You must have questions.”

You don’t respond. You don’t move from your spot on the edge of the bed.

He seems unsurprised.

“I’m Dr. Hannes Albrecht,” he continues, stepping inside like he owns the air. “And I’ve been waiting a very long time to meet you.”

That earns your attention.

Your eyes narrow. “Where’s König?”

He lifts his hand, palm outward. Peaceful. Measured.

“Alive,” he says. “Sedated—for now. He’s under observation. Careful watch, for everyone’s safety.”

You don’t miss the implication.

“Everyone’s,” you repeat, voice low.

His smile widens by a degree. “He’s not the one we’re afraid of.”

That lands like a cold nail down your spine.

You stand slowly. “What is this place?”

Albrecht doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he walks to the small table near the wall and sets the folder down with quiet reverence.

Then, he opens it.

“We are what remains,” he says. “Of the foundation you were taught to trust. The ones who built the bunkers. Engineered the walls. Formed the Coalition. We were also the ones who catalogued the outbreak. Tracked its mutations. And yes—released the original strain.”

Your blood goes cold.

He turns the file toward you. You step closer, slowly.

Your name is written neatly on the tab.

Inside: paperwork. Test results. Handwritten notes. Bloodwork. Photos—clinical and eerie in their clarity.

And they’re of you.

Not just now—then. Years ago. Pre-Collapse.

You as a teenager. Pale, sickly. Tubes in your arms. Monitors hooked to your chest. A hospital you don’t remember. Or maybe… you chose not to.

“What the fuck is this?” you whisper, flipping through. “Where did you get these?”

“You were exposed before anyone else,” Albrecht says softly. “Strain A-0. Our patient zero. But you didn’t die. You adapted.”

He takes a step forward, voice calm. “Your immune system didn’t reject the virus—it welcomed it. Rebuilt itself around it. And in doing so, gave the virus something it never had before.”

“What?” you snap. “A makeover?”

He doesn’t flinch. “A host with permanence. A genetic anchor. Something to evolve with , instead of through . You didn’t become a Wraith, but the virus did. And it used you to do it.”

You’re shaking your head. “No. No, this is—this is wrong. I’m not—”

“Then how do you explain him?”

His voice cuts through the room like a scalpel. He doesn’t even say König’s name.

But you know.

Your heart stutters.

“You think that was random?” Albrecht asks. “That he found you? Followed you? You think he’s been protecting you out of sentiment?”

You swallow. The folder trembles in your hands.

“He’s not yours by accident,” he says. “He’s yours by design.”

You want to scream. You want to shove him, tear the room apart, claw out of your own skin.

Instead, you clutch the folder to your chest and rasp, “Why me?”

Albrecht’s expression softens. Almost.

“Because the virus wanted meaning. It found you, and it remembered. It built everything else in your image. And now… it wants to come home.”

You go still.

“…What?”

He looks at you like a teacher waiting for a student to catch up. “The Wraiths aren’t trying to kill you,” he says. “They’re trying to return you. To bring you back into the fold. You’re the origin point. The well they crawl toward. The missing equation.”

The room spins.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he says gently. “And we don’t want to hurt you. On the contrary. We want to use you to fix this.”

You glare at him. “Fix what? Your little science project got out of hand?”

He doesn’t take the bait. Just nods toward the folder.

“You’re the bridge. The singular anomaly. With your cooperation, we could engineer a strain that targets Wraith biology directly—without harming humans. The ultimate deterrent.”

You step back. “You want to dissect me.”

“No,” he says. “We want to understand you.”

You say nothing. Your pulse is a wildfire behind your ribs.

Then—

“…Can I see him?”

Your voice is quiet. Fragile. Barely there.

Albrecht tilts his head. For a moment, something flickers across his face—curiosity? Pity? You can’t tell.

He nods once. “I’ll have him brought to you. Temporarily. But think carefully about what you’ve heard today. You’re not just a survivor anymore.”

A pause.

“You’re history .”

Then he turns and leaves, the door sliding shut behind him with a hiss that sounds far too final.

You’re left alone with the file. With the tray of food. With the weight of a truth you never asked for.

You press your back to the wall and slide down until you’re seated on the floor, eyes closed, fists clenched.

But all you can think about is him.

His eyes.

His teeth.

The way he looked at you—like you were the answer to a question buried in his blood.

And maybe you were.

Maybe you still are.

⸻

You hear him before you see him.

Heavy boots—slower than they should be, deliberate. Each step like punctuation, like a countdown. You sit up straighter, breath catching mid-ribcage, heart coiled in your chest like a spring pulled too tight. Something in you dares not hope. Something in you already knows.

The door hisses open.

And he steps inside.

König.

Or—what’s left of him.

He’s been scrubbed clean of everything that made him look like a soldier. No vest. No plates. No weapons. No blood or dirt or grime clinging to his clothes like ash. Just loose dark gray sweats hanging low on his hips, and a black hoodie that stretches across his chest and biceps like it’s trying to hold something too large, too dangerous. And still, that sniper hood, draped over his face like a mourning veil—his one remaining armor.

The fabric shadows everything. His eyes. His hair. His mouth. But you don’t need to see his face to recognize him. You’d know the silhouette of him in the dark. The tension in his posture. The way he fills a room with nothing but breath and stillness.

He’s massive . Broader without the armor. Built like a wall meant to endure siege. Not show muscle— realmuscle. Lived-in strength. His bare forearms are a study in survival: scarred and veined, tight with sinew, dotted with healing wounds that haven’t yet faded. The sleeves of his hoodie cling to his arms like they’re holding on for dear life.

You stare. You stare . You can’t help it.

He looks strong enough to tear the walls down.

And yet he hesitates in the doorway, as if he’s afraid that if he steps too far inside, you’ll vanish. Like you’re a dream he’s scared to wake from.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

Something tightens in your chest—grief or relief or something stranger—and you push to your feet, fast enough that the chair legs scrape loudly against the floor. He flinches, moves to steady you, but you’re already walking. No— running . And then—

Then he’s there.

He doesn’t just catch you. He pulls you into him like he’s been dying to. Like he was made for this. Like he’s been stitched together by the idea of holding you and anything less would tear him apart.

You slam into his chest. He grunts softly, arms wrapping around you so tightly you can barely breathe—and you don’t care. Your hands fist in the fabric at his waist. Your face presses against the solid heat of his torso, and the smell of him hits you like a drug.

Soap. Linen. Something herbal. Sharp and clean and utterly foreign to the blood-metal stench he wore before.

But underneath it, still— him . Earth and heat. A wild, quiet violence that hums beneath the surface like a caged storm.

You inhale greedily. Let it dizzy you.

And then you laugh. Soft. Breathless. A little hysterical. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter against his chest, “you actually smell good.”

He makes a sound—deep in his chest, not quite a laugh, not quite a growl. A little like home .

One of his hands lifts—tentative, unsure—and smooths up your back, pausing just between your shoulder blades like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you there.

“You’re okay?” you ask, voice muffled. “They didn’t—”

“I’m fine,” he says, too fast.

But you can feel the tension in him. The twitch in his fingers. The silent tremble in the way he holds you. Like he doesn’t trust any of it to be real. Like he thinks if he lets go, you’ll be gone.

You pull him tighter.

“I thought they hurt you,” you whisper.

He’s quiet. Then—“They tried .”

You start to speak again, but then—

A throat clears behind you.

Your entire body locks up. König doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch. But you feel the shift in him. A deep, silent readiness. The way a wolf might go still before it lunges.

Doctor Albrecht still stands in the corner. Watching. Observing. His arms are folded, posture almost casual, but his eyes are clinical. Cold. Detached. Like he’s recording data. Like you’re both just test subjects. Meat with memories.

“Now that you’ve both had a moment,” he says, voice mild. “I’ll leave you to… catch up.”

You don’t turn to face him. You just tighten your grip on König. Your nails curl into the fabric of his hoodie. “Leave.”

There’s a beat. A pause filled with the whirr of the ceiling vent and König’s low breathing.

“I understand this is… emotional,” Albrecht says carefully. “But let’s not mistake sentiment for leverage.”

You turn then. Slowly.

“I’m not negotiating,” you say.

He studies you. Tilts his head slightly, birdlike.

“If you try to separate us,” you go on, voice sharp and rising, “I won’t cooperate. Not one fucking word. Not one test, not one sample, not one goddamn thing.”

Albrecht’s smile is slight. “You assume we need your consent.”

“You assume I care if I die.”

That gives him pause. Just for a second.

“I’d rather die right now, right here, than let you take him away from me again.” You glance at König. “And he’ll make sure it’s not just me.”

Albrecht’s gaze flicks to König, as if doing quick calculations. “If either of you attempt anything foolish,” he says at last, softly, “I’ll kill you both before you even make it to the elevator.”

König’s growl rises from deep in his chest, low and guttural. Not words. Just sound. A dark, snarling promise that scrapes down your spine.

Albrecht watches him for a moment longer—assessing. Then, without another word, he turns and strides toward the door.

It hisses open. Cold white light bleeds in from the hallway.

And then he’s gone.

The door seals shut behind him. And the room drops into silence like a stone into still water.

You don’t move. Neither does König.

Just breathing. Yours, fast. His, slower—grounding.

You tilt your head back to look up at him.

He’s still watching the door. Rigid. Unblinking. As if expecting it to open again. As if expecting the worst.

You reach up. Press your palm gently to the center of his chest.

Only then does he look at you.

And god—god, he’s huge . You knew that. You’ve always known that. But like this? Clean. Unarmored. Dressed down to nothing but soft fabric and muscle and himself —

It’s obscene.

You can feel the sheer heat of him through the hoodie. Can see the outline of his chest. The curve of his traps. His neck is thick, corded, disappearing into the dark fabric of the hood like something carved out of war. Everything about him feels raw and real and undeniable .

He’s not some brute built for violence. He’s not some polished statue.

He’s a weapon shaped by use. Every inch of him is functional .

And you want to crawl inside his ribcage and live there.

You don’t say any of that. You just look at him and whisper, a little unsteadily:

“They really fucked up letting you walk in here.”

You pull away slightly, just enough to glance over your shoulder—your hand brushes the folder on the bed. You grab it and press it into his chest.

“Your name is Alexander,” you say. “Alexander Kilgore.”

His breath catches. His fingers hesitate on the file. Then he takes it—like it might vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight. Like it might bleed.

“I wanted to ask you…” you begin, soft. “Why you didn’t tell me. About who you were.”

König’s gaze flickers. The tension that lives in his body—all that coiled silence, the slow-simmered violence—tightens visibly. His shoulders lift on a breath, then settle again.

“I didn’t know,” he says. His voice is quiet, frayed around the edges. “Not all of it. They told me what I needed. Bits. Nothing whole.”

You watch the way his hand clenches around the file.

“I knew what I was,” he continues. “What I’d become. But not why. Not… who I came from.”

There’s something raw in his voice—something that wasn’t there before. Not just shame. Not just regret.

Grief.

You study him. His jaw is tight under the hood. His hands flex like he wants to reach for you, but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. You feel the phantom echo of his arms still around you. The heat of him. The way he held you like you were gravity itself.

“Can I see your face?” you ask.

He goes still.

“You don’t have to,” you say quickly. “I just…”

You trail off, not sure what it is you want. Proof, maybe. Something real to hold onto. Or maybe you just want to see the man who’s been breaking and bleeding for you.

A beat passes. Two.

Then, without a word, he lifts his hands.

The sniper hood peels back first, dark fabric dragging slowly over his head. The mask follows—worn, familiar, pulled down like the final curtain being drawn.

And underneath—

Oh.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a polished, pretty kind of way. No. His face is made of sharp lines and harder stories. A crooked nose—hooked, broken once, maybe twice. A brutal scar cuts across one cheek like something clawed its way out of him. His jaw is strong, covered in days-old stubble, and his mouth, full-lipped and strangely soft, is pulled tight with uncertainty. There’s an animal tension in the way he holds himself—like he expects to be judged. Named.

But his eyes.

That’s where you stop.

Downturned, heavy-lidded, storm-gray. The kind of eyes that look older than the body they live in. Haunted. Like he’s been watching you for a very, very long time.

His hair tumbles down after the mask. Thick, messy waves of chocolate brown. It’s longer than you expected, unruly from being kept under the hood. You want to run your fingers through it. See if it’s as soft as it looks.

You stare. Blinking. Swallowing.

“…Fuck,” you breathe. “You’re—really hot.”

He startles. Just slightly. Then frowns like he doesn’t understand the word.

You grin. “I’m serious. All this time I was picturing scars and fangs and, like, creature features.”

“I have fangs,” he says, and opens his mouth slightly to show you. They’re there—just behind his canines. Small. Sharp. Intimate.

“Yeah, okay,” you murmur, eyes narrowing. “That’s kind of hot too.”

Something flickers across his face—something like disbelief. Then, slowly, he tilts his head, regarding you with a cautious sort of reverence.

“You are inspecting me,” he says, voice low. “Like a product.”

You shrug. “Well, technically. They made you for me.”

His expression shifts. He looks down, then back at you—his voice drops, quiet.

“You knew?”

You nod. “They told me. Sort of. Enough to put it together.”

He doesn’t move for a long moment. Then: “And you’re… not afraid?”

“Of you?” You glance at his bare arms—his biceps flex as he holds the file, veins coiled like roots beneath the skin. He looks like he could throw a tank if he wanted. “Should I be?”

He looks away. “I don’t know.”

A long pause.

“Are you okay?” he asks suddenly, and it’s not casual. It sounds like he’s choking on the question.

“I’m okay,” you say. And you are. Because he’s here. “Are you?”

He exhales, jaw ticking. “No.”

Your throat tightens.

“I feel—different. Off-balance.” He rubs at the back of his neck, where his hood used to sit. “They didn’t tell me you were real. Not until I could feel you. When you were near.”

Your brows knit. “What do you mean feel me?”

“It’s not words,” he murmurs. “Not thoughts. Just… hunger. Pain. Want. You were the center of it.”

Something hot blooms behind your ribs.

“They built me from you,” he says, looking at you now. “Your blood. Your cells. Everything they changed inside me—was so I would survive you.”

You feel suddenly naked. Small.

“You were my design,” he says, softer. “I think—I think I was made to protect you. Or maybe… I just chose that part myself.”

The silence between you isn’t empty. It’s full of breath and trembling and a sharp, aching clarity.

You look him up and down again, slower this time. “You sure they didn’t put anything in to make you modest?”

He gives you a dry, disbelieving look.

You gesture to his arms, his chest, the way the sweatpants cling like they were made for his hips and no one else’s. “I mean, this is a lot to take in.”

“I would put the mask back on,” he mutters, “but I think that might make it worse.”

You laugh—really laugh this time, something startled out of you.

He watches you with something tender and unreadable in his eyes.

“You always do that,” you say, quieter now.

“What?”

“Look at me like that.”

He shrugs. “You’re mine.”

Your heart skips.

There’s a beat. The air between you thrums.

And then, softer—more human: “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

He nods once. “I know.”

“Play it cool,” you whisper. “Don’t give them a reason to sedate you again.”

His gaze darkens. “They haven’t let me feed.”

You look at him sharply.

“Not since we were separated,” he says. “I’m running on instinct. It’s not enough.”

You step closer. Lower your voice.

“Then we’ll fix it. Quietly.”

You don’t wait.

You reach for him, fist your hand in the fabric at his chest, and pull him down to you.

And then you kiss him.

Not softly.

Not sweetly.

You kiss him like you’ve been waiting lifetimes. Like you’ve both been starved for the same thing and didn’t know how to name it until now.

He makes a noise—guttural, stunned—and then he’s on you. Mouth crashing against yours, hands rough at your waist, dragging you into his body like he wants to disappear into you. His lips are hot. A little chapped. He tastes like iron and breathless need. Like restraint finally breaking.

His fangs graze your lips.

You don’t flinch.

You kiss him harder, tilting your head, opening your mouth to him, letting him in. His stubble scorches your skin. His hands are trembling—like he’s still holding back, like he doesn’t trust himself not to lose control completely.

And maybe he is.

Maybe that’s why it’s so good.

You break for air, gasping, and he chases you—mouth dragging along your jaw, down to your throat, where he pauses. Breathing hard. His nose brushes the skin there. Lingers.

“You need it,” you murmur, voice wrecked. “So take it.”

He shakes his head, still pressed to your throat. “I—” His voice cracks. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” You fist your hand tighter in his hoodie. “You didn’t before.”

His jaw tightens against your neck. You feel it—the flicker of his tongue as he tastes your skin. The heat of him, the ache, the restraint fracturing by the second.

“I can feel it in you,” you whisper. “You’re starving.”

“I don’t want to be this,” he says, barely audible. “Not with you.”

“You already are.” Your hand cups the back of his head. “And I’m still here.”

That breaks him.

He groans—something raw and guttural—and then he sinks his teeth into your throat.

You gasp. Not from pain. From the pull . The heat. The dizzy, burning rush of being taken . His mouth is hot and reverent, tongue lapping the blood as he drinks. His grip on you is punishing. One arm around your waist, hauling you closer. The other buried in your hair, holding your head steady as he feeds from you like he’s never tasted anything more vital.

It’s not clean.

It’s not careful.

It’s not supposed to be.

You arch into him, breath ragged, hands scrambling over his chest. His name breaks from your lips like a prayer. He moans against your skin, drinking like it ruins him to stop. Like it ruins him more to keep going. There’s a tremble in his body you’ve never felt before—a desperate, frantic hunger just barely caged.

His teeth drag as he pulls back. He licks the wound shut, slow and soft, like an apology he doesn’t know how to say. Then he rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard. His mouth is slick. His lips swollen.

You’re both shaking.

“You taste like…” He doesn’t finish the thought. Doesn’t have to.

You nod. Dizzy. Breathless.

“Better?” you manage.

His eyes meet yours. They glow faintly, silver and dark. There’s blood on his tongue. On his teeth. His lips are parted, panting. His voice is ruined when he answers:

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get enough of you.”

You kiss him again.

This time slower.

But still just as hungry.

König POV

---

I wake to the taste of rust.

It coats my tongue, thick and bitter. My ribs grind together as I shift, and pain blazes through my side — dull at first, then sharp. Not broken. Torn. Not fatal.

The metal under me stinks of heat. My ears ring. The lights overhead stutter and spit sparks like dying stars.

But none of that matters.

She’s gone.

I call her name.

Nothing.

Only the wind of the ventilation and the groaning bones of the building.

The last thing I saw—her falling. Her mouth shaped around my name, her eyes wide. And then the scream was mine.

I stagger upright, grabbing the railing. The catwalk above is gone, twisted into a ruin. My leg twinges, but I push forward, dragging breath like a blade through my throat.

Where is she. Where is she. Where is she.

I’m not thinking anymore. Just moving.

The halls breathe around me — flickering, humming with old life. Ozone in the air. Copper. Dust. Blood. Blood. Blood.

I smell it before I see it — a thin streak smeared along the floor, trailing like a ribbon into the dark.

Her blood.

My stomach knots. My skin tightens.

It calls to me.

No. Not now.

I slam my palm into the wall hard enough to split the skin. The pain flares, real and bright. It holds back the hunger — barely.

This is wrong. All of this is wrong.

She told me to go. I didn’t listen. I never listen.

Now—

Now she’s gone.

And I am losing her scent.

I move faster.

My body wants to drop to all fours, to run the way the Wraiths do. I don’t let it. Not yet. I cling to the scraps of my humanity like rope—slipping, fraying.

I round a corner. The trail veers, broken by boot prints, a smear against the wall where she braced herself.

There’s blood on the doorframe. Fresh.

I inhale through my teeth.

She was here.

She’s still alive.

She has to be.

I push deeper into the corridor. It narrows. The shadows lengthen. Pipes rattle overhead. The power grid is on life support — flickering red then white, like a warning pulse.

And then — I hear it.

Not her voice.

But something like it.

Faint. Behind the wall.

“…König…”

I stop cold.

“…König…”

It’s her voice, twisted. Stretched thin like sinew. Soft, breathy. Too soft.

Then: a laugh. Warped. Wet.

They’re mimicking her.

The Wraiths.

My blood goes cold.

I press a hand to the wall. Close my eyes. I listen — truly listen.

Breathing. Scratching. A shuffle. Somewhere below.

They’re here. They’ve found her. Or they want me to believe they have.

Either way — it means I’m close.

“Leave her,” I mutter, voice low and venomous.

The shadows hum back at me.

I begin to descend. Slow, silent. The trail of blood continues — thinner now. She’s fading.

My pulse is a war drum. My mouth is dry. I can feel it — the other side of me — pressing up against my spine, clawing for control. The part of me that belongs to the dark. To them.

They want to call me brother.

I want to tear them apart.

My shoulder brushes a pipe — hot and hissing — and pain rockets through my side. I grit my teeth.

Not now. Not yet.

I reach a hatch door. Jammed half-open. Blood on the edge. A handprint.

I crouch, head tilted, listening. The silence here is thick.

Then—something moves. Just out of sight. Light flickers. A face.

No — not a face. Not anymore.

It smiles at me with too many teeth.

I move before it does.

My blade drives up through the thing’s throat. It gurgles — surprised, not afraid — and its fingers twitch as it dies.

More come.

Three.

Five.

Seven.

They crawl through ducts, spill from vents. Limbs too long. Spines open like split bark. Some whisper her name again. Others only laugh.

I tear through them.

My body moves without command — all instinct and speed. The pain fades. My eyes burn. My mouth is dry. My heart is—

Gone.

I don’t feel it anymore.

Only her blood, calling me forward.

Only their voices, mocking me.

Only the dark, swallowing everything I love.

They cannot have her.

They will not.

I don’t stop.

I don’t break.

I go deeper.

---

READER POV

---

You wake to the smell of metal and ash.

For a moment, you don’t remember falling. The pain brings it back—white-hot, stitched across your ribs like barbed wire. You try to breathe, and it punches straight through your side. Broken. Bruised. Maybe worse.

Everything is wrong.

Not just the pain. Not just the cold concrete against your back, or the slick warmth pooling beneath your hip.

The air is wrong.

It pulses with a low hum you can’t quite hear, only feel. Somewhere between frequency and instinct. Your teeth ache with it.

You open your eyes.

Not darkness. Not quite.

A long corridor stretches before you—warped, crumbling. Ceiling lights stutter in and out like dying fireflies. The walls are concrete, but… wet? Slick with something black that flows upward instead of down, veins tracing toward the ceiling.

The color of oil. The texture of rot.

You force yourself upright. Pain flares, and you nearly blackout again—but you grit your teeth and stay conscious. Barely.

Your leg’s a mess. The gash burns. Your side screams. But you’re not dead. Not yet.

“König,” you whisper. The word cracks. Dry. Raw.

No answer.

Just the echo of your voice bouncing down the corridor, swallowed by static and distance.

You try again, louder. “König!”

Your voice disappears like it never existed.

Silence.

Then:

A soft tap.

Then another.

Footsteps?

You freeze. Every hair on your body stands up.

You press your back to the wall and reach for your blade—your gun is gone—but the knife’s still strapped to your thigh. Your fingers are slick with blood when they close around the handle.

Breath shallow. Vision swimming. You wait.

And then something speaks.

Not from ahead. Not from behind.

From above.

From the ceiling.

“You’re not like the others.”

The voice is low. Measured. Neither male nor female. It feels like it’s inside your skull, not outside.

You look up.

Nothing. Just the half-lit ceiling and the faint, glistening web of that black vein-stuff climbing across it.

But something moves.

A shifting in the dark. Something pulling itself along the ceiling like a lizard, slow and deliberate, limbs too long and bent the wrong way.

You back up. Slowly. Knife raised.

It doesn’t drop. Doesn’t attack. Just watches.

“You bleed slow,” it says, like it’s impressed.

“What—” your voice catches. “What are you?”

A pause. Then a laugh.

Not loud. Not mocking. Just… amused.

“Wrong question,” it says. “The better one is: what are you?”

You say nothing.

“You opened the door,” it murmurs. “You let the rot breathe. Now it’s remembering.”

“What do you want?” you whisper.

Another laugh, quieter now.

“I like your voice,” it says. “So much noise in the others. Screaming. Thrashing. You don’t scream.”

You take a step back. Your leg nearly buckles, and you hiss in pain.

“Where is he?” you ask. “The man I was with.”

Silence.

“Tall,” you add. “Mask. Rifle. Bleeding.”

It shifts again—lower this time. Close enough to smell the air around you.

“I remember him,” it says. “Too much hunger in him. Like us.”

You swallow hard. “Did you kill him?”

A long pause.

“No,” it says. “But others might.”

You clench the knife tighter.

“Where is he?” you ask again.

It hums, like it’s thinking.

“Above,” it finally says. “Scratching at the ceiling. Screaming for you. Still warm.”

Still warm.

The relief is instant and hollow. If he’s alive, he’s suffering. If he’s suffering, he’s dangerous. You know that look he gets. That edge of something barely restrained.

You don’t know what will be left of him when you find him again.

“Why are you talking to me?” you ask.

“I watch,” it says simply. “You remind me of something. Long ago. Or maybe not yet.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Time is soft here,” it says. “Like your skin.”

The thing drops from the ceiling. You lurch back—but it doesn’t move toward you. Just lands with a sickening, liquid sound and crouches on all fours, cocking its head to the side.

It should look human. It has the shape. The symmetry.

But its eyes are mirrors. And its mouth is wrong. Stretched. Torn at the corners like it was carved into place.

It grins, impossibly wide.

Then it bows.

A mocking gesture—fluid and theatrical. Its limbs bend too far, spine curving unnaturally.

“I’ll walk with you,” it says. “For a while.”

“Don’t,” you snap. “Stay back.”

“I won’t touch,” it says. “Not unless you ask.”

You step away, limping. It follows—keeping a strange, circular distance, like it’s orbiting.

You don’t look at it. You just move forward. One step at a time.

The hallway twists. Subtle at first. Then impossible.

Stairs leading nowhere. Doors that open onto brick walls. Lights flickering in Morse code you don’t recognize.

You pass a door that’s labeled with your name. You don’t open it.

“Why is this place like this?” you ask, voice hoarse.

“Memory,” the Wraith says. “Not yours. Not yet. Someone else’s.”

You don’t answer. You just keep going.

Your side is burning now. Each step harder than the last. But you can’t stop.

Eventually, you reach a wide chamber. Circular. Like a silo. The air is still, heavy with dust.

You’re shaking. Feverish.

The Wraith circles behind you, and you whirl on it.

“Why aren’t you killing me?” you demand.

It tilts its head again.

“I don’t have to,” it says. “Something else will.”

You step back. “You want me to die?”

“No,” it says. “I want to see what you become.”

You raise your blade. “I’m not becoming anything.”

“Everyone does,” it replies. “Even him.”

You freeze.

König.

“What are you talking about?”

“His hunger,” it murmurs. “It’s louder than yours. But it’s not for flesh. Not exactly.”

Your stomach turns.

“I’ve seen things like him before,” it goes on. “Half-made. Torn between scream and silence.”

You don’t lower the knife. But your hand is trembling.

“He’s trying to fight it,” you whisper.

“Maybe,” it says. “Or maybe he’s saving it. For you.”

That lands like a blow. You feel it in your chest.

The doubt. The horror. The truth in it.

“No,” you say. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

The Wraith grins again.

“Not unless you asked,” it says.

You snap.

You lunge—knife flashing, rage and fear crashing through your body.

But the Wraith vanishes before the blade connects. Gone. No sound. No blood. Nothing.

Just the echo of its laughter, slipping between the walls like water through cracks.

You stand alone in the chamber. Breathing hard. Legs shaking.

And then—

A sound.

Far away. Muffled.

Your name.

His voice.

Desperate.

You turn, eyes wide.

You run.

Or try to.

Your legs fail halfway up the next corridor. You collapse. Hands scraping on concrete. Blood slick on your palms.

But you heard him.

You crawl.

One hand in front of the other.

The corridor narrows. The walls sweat. The black rot creeps higher.

Your vision blurs. But you keep going.

König is out there.

And something is waiting.

---

KÖNIG POV

---

Her blood leads me.

Not like a trail. Not like something left behind.

Like a lure.

It snakes down the corridor in irregular patterns—smears, droplets, finger-trails down rusted walls. Too much. Too much for what she could survive. It smells wrong, sweet in a way blood shouldn’t. I know it’s hers. I know it like I know my own breath.

The wound at my side throbs, but it’s distant. Drowned beneath something heavier. Something ancient that’s pulling me under.

I move fast. Quiet. My feet barely touch the floor. Something in my limbs feels too light, too fluid—like I’m not quite wearing this body right anymore. Not fully human. Not fully anything.

I turn a corner. The hall warps.

It isn’t a corridor anymore, but a mouth. A wet, yawning throat of a thing too big to live, lit by flickering lights that pulse like a heartbeat. The tiles squirm beneath my boots. The ceiling curves, bulbous and slick. My stomach coils.

I keep going.

She’s ahead. She has to be.

A shadow darts through the peripheral. I wheel on it—too late. Nothing there. My heartbeat slows. Or maybe it stops.

The farther I go, the less the facility feels like a place and more like a dream I can’t wake from.

Words crawl across the wall.

My name.

Not König. The other one. The name I never speak.

The one I buried.

It’s written in something dark and sticky, shaped by fingers too long, too thin.

I tear it off the wall.

I keep going.

Blood paints the steps downward. Bent handprints. A smear where she fell again. My jaw aches. My teeth are clenched so tight I can feel the enamel cracking.

They took her from me.

They dragged me away while she was bleeding—while she was trying to reach me. I can still feel the air leave her throat when I was ripped from her, the way she said my name like it could save her.

And now she’s alone down here.

With them.

A low, wet sound rises behind me. Breath. No—laughter. I spin.

A Wraith stands where no Wraith should be—too still, too composed. Not crawling, not shrieking. Upright. Watching.

Its head tilts. No eyes. No face. Just that awful impression of interest.

“She bleeds beautifully,” it says.

The voice is wrong. It’s not from a mouth. It’s inside my skull. Echoing between bone.

I lunge.

It vanishes like mist.

“Coward,” I snarl, but I’m not sure if it’s at them or at myself.

I kill three more Wraiths in the next hall. The first gets a knife through the jaw. The second I shoot, three times. The third I tear apart with my hands. I don’t know how. I don’t care.

They don’t scream like people. They scream like machines with something dying inside them.

My hands are wet.

Her blood is stronger here.

The floor tilts. I stumble. Everything is too loud, then too quiet. I think I hear her voice—then my mother’s. Then no one’s.

“Come closer,” the voice says again. “She did.”

I don’t listen. I run.

Something bursts behind me—maybe a pipe, maybe a body. I don’t turn.

I round a corner, breath ragged, vision dimming. My body burns, but not with pain. With something older.

And then—

I see her.

She’s slumped against the wall, half-shrouded in flickering light, hair tangled, skin pale. Her shirt’s soaked with blood. One leg curled beneath her wrong. One arm trembling as she lifts her head.

I freeze.

She sees me.

And she flinches.

She draws back—not far, not fast, just a single step. Barely anything. But it feels like a bullet to the chest.

My bloodlust cracks, fractures down the spine. The heat in me turns cold.

She doesn’t speak.

Just stares.

Like she’s afraid.

I step forward—slowly, carefully, like she’s an animal and I’m the threat.

(But I am.)

My hands shake. I look down at them—red, raw, claws instead of fingers. I don’t know when they changed. I don’t remember making the last kill.

She presses back into the wall.

And I realize—

She doesn’t know if I’m still me.

And I don’t either.

---

Reader POV

---

You hear him before you see him. Not his voice — his breathing.

Heavy, ragged. Animal.

It echoes through the dark like something alive in itself, something stalking. You back into the wall, fingers brushing the cold tile, ribs splintering pain down your side. The flashlight you scavenged flickers weakly, stuttering over grime-slick walls, smeared handprints, a hatch barely hanging on its hinges. It smells like rot and rust and copper. Like something long dead, just now starting to wake.

And then —

Footsteps. No, not footsteps — too fast. A thud, a scrape, a sickening crunch of something wet as it hits concrete. You clamp your hand over your mouth.

Something is out there.

The corridor distorts around you. You blink once, twice — and the hallway bends. Angles you can’t track. Doors where there weren’t any. A light swells at the edge of your vision like a migraine blooming. You stagger.

You don’t remember standing.

You don’t remember crying.

But your cheeks are wet and your body is moving, limping blindly down a corridor that reshapes with every breath.

The voices — they start low, like a radio buried under water.

“Little thief…”

“You left the door open…”

“He’s not the same anymore.”

You don’t look back. You won’t.

Not until something growls.

Not until a shape throws itself through the flickering light — massive, violent, lurching toward you from the dark like a nightmare with a human spine.

You scream.

Back up, trip, fall.

The flashlight skitters away.

And he’s there.

König.

It’s König.

But not as you knew him.

His mask is still on — soot-streaked, shredded at the hem — but his eyes are different. Not red. Not glowing. Not wrong exactly — but wild. Blood paints his forearms to the elbow. Something dark and twisted sticks to his thigh. His chest heaves under his armor. Every breath sounds like it hurts.

He drops the body at his feet.

You don’t know if it was a Wraith. You don’t know if it was ever anything human.

He doesn’t say your name.

Not yet.

Just stares.

His chest expands, shoulders rising like a storm swell. You watch his fingers twitch like he’s fighting the urge to grab something. His eyes — those blue, glassy eyes — track you like prey.

Like he can smell you.

And maybe he can.

You flinch back. He flinches, too.

“Wait,” he rasps. His voice sounds like it’s been ground to dust. “It’s me.”

Your body doesn’t believe him. Neither does your pulse.

He takes a step forward.

You don’t move.

Another.

You step back.

That’s when his gaze breaks.

His whole posture fractures like a cracked bone — like he’s just realized how you’re looking at him.

Like you’re afraid.

And you are.

You’ve seen him kill. You’ve seen him bleeding and half-alive and furious.

But never like this.

Never not speaking.

Never with teeth like that.

“I followed the blood,” he chokes out, as if that’s something you should thank him for. “I — they touched you.”

He spits the word like it burns.

“I tore them apart.”

The lights above you buzz. One bursts — glass falling like rain.

You feel your ribs scream as you rise to your feet. Your knees shake. The room tilts.

He watches every movement like it hurts him.

“I thought I lost you,” he says quietly. “I thought—”

He doesn’t finish.

Just steps closer. One more. And you don’t move away.

You’re not sure why.

Maybe it’s the sound of him — this great, brutal thing trying to breathe through whatever hunger’s crawling up his throat. Maybe it’s his hands — twitching but still open, never reaching. Maybe it’s the way he looks like he needs you to say something before he breaks completely.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you say.

A lie. Half-lie.

But his breath shudders.

And then—

He drops to his knees.

Like it’s the only thing he can do.

He sinks down in front of you, breath scraping in and out of him, hands on his thighs, his whole body shaking. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t plead. But he looks up — through the mask, through the ruin of everything — and he waits.

Like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to do anymore.

You kneel, slowly.

Closer.

Your hand lifts — hesitant — and finds the edge of his mask. Not to take it off.

Just to touch.

He flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

“Look at me,” you whisper.

And he does.

His eyes are glassy, frantic. You can see the dilation — the way his pupils swell and retract like a hunted animal. You can hear his heartbeat. Too fast. Too loud. It stutters when you press your hand to his shoulder.

“König,” you murmur. “You came back.”

His breath catches.

Then, suddenly — a sob.

Not loud. Not theatrical.

Just a quiet, awful exhale that sounds like grief finally making room inside his chest.

He surges forward.

Not to crush.

Not to bite.

Just to hold.

His arms close around you with something desperate and shivering. You feel the shake of him — the heat, the dampness, the effort it takes not to press his face to your throat. He keeps it buried in your shoulder instead. You feel the edge of his breath — stifled, sharp. His whole body locked up with restraint.

His voice, when it comes, is shattered glass:

“I wanted to tear everything down until I found you.”

“I did.”

Your fingers curl in the back of his armor.

You want to say it’s okay. That you’re okay.

But you aren’t.

He isn’t.

So you say nothing.

Just hold him tighter.

He shifts — slightly — and you feel the tension ripple down his spine. His chest is heaving. Shuddering. Like every breath is a war.

And then — his hand curls into your shirt.

Just a little.

Just enough to anchor himself.

You feel him tremble.

And then—

He exhales.

Not calm. Not safe.

But less.

More human.

For now.

---

You don’t know how long you were out — minutes, maybe — but when your eyes open, it’s to the low thrum of machinery, and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

König is cradling you on the floor of a dark, strange room. Old control panels blink faintly in the background, dim green lights like distant stars. The air smells like metal and blood.

Your blood.

It’s still warm, leaking slowly from somewhere near your stomach. You try to lift your head, but pain lashes through your side, and you whimper.

“Don’t move,” König says, voice low. Strained.

You blink. Look down.

Your shirt’s been cut open. Jagged tears from fabric shears. Bandages pressed to your hip and side — but they’re soaked red already.

“…Shit,” you whisper.

He kneels beside you, mask still on, eyes locked on the mess of your wounds. His whole body is tense. He looks like he’s trying not to shake.

Then he says—

“I can stop it.”

Your breath catches. You stare at him.

“…What?”

“I can help,” he says again. Quieter this time. “But only if you let me.”

His voice is trembling now. Like he’s holding back something massive. Like it hurts to even say it.

You swallow. “How?”

He hesitates. Breathes in. Then looks at the open gash above your hip — and something in his gaze fractures.

You realize, too late, what he means.

“…No,” you say, hoarse. “No — wait, what? You—what, lick it? That’s—how do you even know that works?”

König drags a hand through his hair — fingers shaking.

“Because I’ve done it,” he says, and his voice is ash. “Before.”

You freeze. Your blood goes cold.

“…On who?”

He doesn’t answer at first. You see the flicker of shame in his eyes — not regret. Something else. Older.

“A man in our unit,” he murmurs. “Torn up in a trap. No supplies. No time. I didn’t think — I just—” He cuts himself off. Shakes his head. “He didn’t die.”

You stare at him.

“And you didn’t turn?”

“No,” he says, jaw clenched. “Because I didn’t infect. I gave something else.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

You don’t want to understand it.

But the pain is blinding now — spreading fire across your hip and gut, up under your ribs.

“Please,” he whispers. “Let me help.”

His eyes — what little you can see of them — are frantic. Begging.

He could just do it. He could have done it already. But he’s asking.

And something in that—

You nod. Hesitant. “Okay. Just—don’t bite.”

A dry, choked sound comes from behind the mask. Maybe a laugh. Maybe a sob.

“I won’t.”

He lowers himself carefully, gloved hand bracing your thigh. You feel his breath before you feel his mouth — hot and shallow, like he’s trying not to inhale too much of you.

Then his tongue presses to the wound on your hip.

Your whole body jolts — pain, heat, something else. His grip tightens just slightly, steadying you.

He groans into your skin — low, feral, like he hates how good it tastes. You feel every shiver run through him.

Your breath comes sharp. “You okay?”

“No.” His voice is wrecked. “You’re killing me.”

He moves to the wound beneath your ribs. The stretch of skin just under your bra, where your stomach rises and falls with shallow breaths. He pauses.

“Can I?” he murmurs, voice so hoarse it’s almost gone.

You nod, a little dazed.

He touches your ribs, peels back what’s left of the fabric, and leans down.

When his mouth finds that wound — hot, wet, slow — you cry out softly. Not from pain. From how close it feels.

You feel him shudder.

Like something inside him is breaking.

When he lifts his head, his mask is stained dark. His breath is coming in shallow gasps.

You stare down at your skin.

The wounds—

They’ve closed.

They’re raw, but sealed. The pain has dulled.

You blink up at him, dazed.

“…It worked.”

He doesn’t speak. Just breathes hard, shaking. You can see the restraint in every inch of his body. His hands, still gloved, twitch like he wants to touch more — taste more.

But he doesn’t. He stays crouched over you, eyes burning.

“…Thank you,” you whisper.

König flinches.

Then he leans forward — not to touch you again, not to press his mouth to your wounds — but to gather you in his arms.

He lifts you, cradling you to his chest. Your bare skin presses to his suit. You hear his heart — erratic and too fast.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

You close your eyes against the sound of it.

But as he carries you away from the broken room and the blood-stained walls, you notice something.

His breathing—

It’s getting steadier.

You smell it before you see it.

Burnt stone. Metal. Something sour and chemical that rides the wind like it’s clinging to the air just to get inside your lungs. It’s not rot, not exactly. But it’s close.

The terrain starts to dip, and you follow it — slow, deliberate steps through dust and loose gravel, boots cracking over dry earth that’s long forgotten water. There’s no sound but your own movement. No birds. No wind. Just the occasional scrape of his boots behind yours, heavier than usual, more uneven.

He’s trying not to limp.

You don’t comment on it. You’ve already told him once — I’ve got point. Just follow. He hadn’t argued, but he hadn’t liked it either. His silence after said more than words would’ve.

Still, he’s back there. Watching your back while you carve the path forward with a knife in one hand and your eyes on every flicker of movement in the distance.

You crest the last rise — and there it is.

Obsidian Point.

Half-submerged into the ridge, the facility looks like it tried to disappear into the mountain and the mountain spit it back out. Concrete walls sheared and stained, security fences blown open from the inside. No guards. No lights. No signs of recent traffic. Just rows of crumbled structures like broken teeth sunk into blackened soil.

You stop walking. Let your eyes scan — right to left. Long enough to memorize the gaps in the fencing, the open gate, the watchtower that’s slouched sideways like something pushed it hard. You kneel, sweep your fingers through the dirt near your boot. No tracks. Not even animal.

Something about that chills you worse than finding a pile of corpses would’ve.

Behind you, König exhales — not loud, but sharp. You don’t turn.

“You see movement?” you ask.

“No,” he says. His voice is raw today. Lower than usual. “But I smell… something.”

He’s close now. Not quite touching you, but his presence creeps into your space like heat. You glance back. His hood’s pushed up again, mask in place, but you catch the angle of his shoulders — tense. Defensive. His left arm’s tucked tight to his ribs again. You know it hurts. He hasn’t said a damn word about it since you re-wrapped it this morning.

“It’s not rot,” he adds, almost to himself. “It’s chemical.”

You rise to your feet. He doesn’t stop you, but his hand twitches like it wants to.

“There’s no bodies,” you say. “No scavengers. No drag marks.”

“No rats.”

He’s right. You hadn’t even thought about it until now. This place is dead in the wrong kind of way — like a house that still smells like smoke months after the fire.

You walk first.

The gate is twisted off its hinges, its security panel shattered like someone drove a truck through it — or something stronger. You pass through, König shadowing you a few feet behind, his footfalls dragging just slightly.

Every few steps, he makes a low sound. Not pain exactly. But effort. It’s subtle — throat-clearing, breath catching, a grunt when the slope forces him to shift his weight. You don’t acknowledge it. Not because you don’t care. Because if you do, he’ll try to prove something. And you don’t have the time for either of you to get stupid.

The path to the main entrance is scattered with debris. Old helmets. Ripped-up boots. Shell casings that don’t match any civilian caliber. You crouch near one and touch it. Still intact. Untarnished. Couldn’t be more than a year old.

Something scraped deep gouges into the concrete wall nearby. Not bullet holes — claw marks. Wide apart. Fast.

You mutter something under your breath, more to yourself than him.

“Something fought its way out.”

König steps up behind you. He’s close enough now that when he speaks, you feel it behind your ear.

“Or in.”

You don’t respond. Not out loud.

Because he might be right.

---

The entrance is cracked open just wide enough for you to slip through sideways. You test it first, hand pressed against the frame. No electric hum. No trip wire. You draw your knife anyway.

The door groans as you slide through, then open it wider for him. König moves slow. He tries not to show it, but his breathing is louder now. You can hear the pain behind it — the kind of hiss someone makes when they’re trying not to make a sound.

Inside, it’s dark. Not pitch black — emergency lights still flicker on the ceiling, casting everything in dull orange pulses. Like a heartbeat. Like it’s alive in here and barely holding on.

You click your flashlight on and sweep the beam across the entryway. There’s a reception desk, flipped. A blood trail smearing out from behind it, stopping abruptly like the body just vanished.

On the far wall: an old mural, flaking and smoke-smeared.

OBSIDIAN POINT RESEARCH INITIATIVE

“Beyond the Collapse. Toward a Cure.”

The words make your skin crawl. Too clean. Too hopeful.

“We shouldn’t stay long,” König says, scanning above you.

“We don’t have a choice,” you say. “We’re out of options.”

You don’t say: You’re bleeding again. You’ll collapse if we don’t rest. You don’t say: We came here for answers. You don’t say: I need to know if there’s a way to fix you.

You step deeper into the building.

The silence swells again. Not empty — expectant.

You feel König’s eyes on you. Not just in the way he watches your six — but in the way his gaze lingers too long. Tracks the movement of your hands as you sheath your blade, the way your shoulders square when you listen for sound, the way you move low and fast without checking if he’s keeping up.

You’ve caught him doing it more lately.

Not just admiring. Wanting.

But he doesn’t say anything. He just follows.

---

Down the hall, you find a torn barricade — old tables stacked and then shredded by something that didn’t need a weapon. You move past it without pause.

“You’re sure you want to keep pushing?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “But I will.”

You glance back. His eyes meet yours — through the slits in his mask, half in shadow. There’s something there that wasn’t before.

Not quite admiration.

Something darker.

You break the look and keep moving.

The corridor ends in a set of double doors — one hanging loose, the other jammed shut. You shove it open with your boot and freeze.

Another long hallway. At the end of it: a steel door. Keypad access.

And beside it, painted in smeared black ink — maybe blood — someone’s written:

“DO NOT GO FURTHER. IT’S STILL HERE.”

You hear König exhale behind you. It’s almost a laugh. A bitter one.

“Helpful.”

You nod once. Grip your knife tighter.

“Stay sharp.”

“Always.”

But he doesn’t sound sure.

You step through the threshold. The door creaks as it swings back.

Then it clicks.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just the soft, unmistakable sound of a magnetic lock engaging behind you.

You both stop.

König turns to the door, tries the handle.

It’s sealed.

His voice drops lower. Sharper.

“Scheiße.”

You look at him.

He looks at you.

The hallway ahead waits — pulsing with orange light.

Somewhere in the dark, something moves.

You move deeper. He follows slower. And something in here is waiting for you both to get close enough.

---

The first thing you notice is the heat. Not the kind that warms — the kind that clings. Thick and humid and wrong. Like you’ve stepped into someone’s breath.

The corridor narrows as you move deeper into the complex. Pipes run along the ceiling, hissing with condensation. Some are snapped in half. You duck under one and wipe a smear of oil from your cheek with the back of your hand. The floor under your boots is tacky.

König breathes behind you — strained, clipped. His footsteps drag a little more now.

“Stop limping,” you say under your breath.

“I’m not,” he mutters.

You don’t argue. He is. But if he wants to pretend he’s still functional, fine. Just as long as he doesn’t collapse.

You reach a junction and sweep your flashlight across a map bolted to the wall. Half of it is charred, but the lettering still holds. OBSIDIAN POINT – INTERNAL MAP LAYOUT.

The layout is massive — three main wings: Administrative, Containment, and Research. The Research wing is buried the deepest. Of course it is. The map lights blink faintly beneath your touch.

“That’s where we need to go,” you say, pointing.

König leans beside you, squinting at the damaged screen. He’s close again — too close. You feel the heat rolling off him. Even injured, he’s large enough to shadow your entire side. His breath catches. You think it’s pain until you glance sideways — and see the way his eyes linger on your mouth.

You ignore it.

“This is the main route,” you say, tapping the map. “But it’s sealed off. Looks like they locked it before they evacuated.”

“So we find another way.”

“Yeah.”

You step back. König doesn’t move right away. Not until you start walking again. Then you hear his boots fall into rhythm behind you — slower, heavier.

---

The deeper you go, the worse it gets.

Glass crunches underfoot. You pass a lab split open like it exploded from the inside. Cabinets scorched. Chairs overturned. Blood on the ceiling. Scorch marks on the walls — not just burns, but black lines, veined like something crawled up from inside the concrete itself. You trace one with your finger. The soot clings. Greasy. Organic.

You wipe it off fast.

König’s breathing is louder now. Labored.

“You good?” you ask, not looking back.

“Fine,” he says too quickly.

You stop walking. Turn toward him.

He stands in the flickering hallway, swaying a little. His left arm trembles at his side. His right grips his rifle too tight.

“You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

There’s a sharpness in his voice now. You raise your brow.

“Don’t snap at me.”

That pulls him back. He exhales through his nose. You see it — the second he realizes he’s fraying. His shoulders lower an inch.

“Sorry,” he says, quiet.

You nod, once. Then keep walking.

---

Ten minutes later, you stop again.

Because the sound changes.

It’s faint at first. Almost background noise — like something leaking. But it shifts. Wet. Uneven. A dragging sound. Something soft being pulled across something hard.

You raise a hand, fist clenched.

König stops behind you without a word.

You kill the flashlight.

The hallway drops into black.

Your eyes adjust slowly. The emergency lights are farther apart here, casting long, syrupy shadows. You listen.

The sound comes again. Closer.

Click.

Drag.

Click.

Like claws against tile. A wet, slow gait. Something walking wrong.

You motion König back, slow and steady. He doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans forward and whispers:

“Right side. By the vent.”

You shift your weight. Draw your knife.

Then —

— the creature steps into the light.

It’s not like the others.

Not like the Wraiths you’ve fought before — the fast, shrieking, animalistic ones that tear through flesh and scatter in packs. No.

This one walks.

On two legs.

Too long, too thin. Its arms drag against the floor behind it, fingertips leaving streaks of black that smoke slightly on contact. Its head is tilted sideways — like it’s listening. The mouth is too wide. Torn back. Exposed muscle pulled into something like a smile.

Its eyes catch the flicker of light from the wall and reflect it like glass.

You don’t move.

It stops mid-step. The smile twitches. Opens. No sound. Just… stares.

Then, without looking, König says:

“There’s another one.”

You shift your stance. Slow.

“Where.”

“Left. In the ceiling.”

You glance up — just enough to see the fingers curling over the edge of the vent.

They’re waiting.

Not charging. Not attacking.

Waiting.

Your stomach drops.

“They’re not hunting,” you whisper.

“They’re waiting.”

König nods, jaw clenched.

Neither of you move.

The one in the light breathes in — a rasping, wet inhale that sounds like lungs filled with tar. It shifts its weight, then tilts its head further. It’s watching both of you. Studying. Smelling.

The overhead light blinks.

Flickers again.

Goes out.

In that split second of darkness, you hear movement.

A whisper against metal. A shuffle of limbs. The soft tick of claws finding purchase.

When the light returns, the hallway is empty.

They’re gone.

But not far.

---

You don’t speak again until you’ve moved three corridors over — fast, silent steps. König presses a bloodied hand to his side as he follows. You hear every hitched breath, every drag of his boot.

You stop at a corner and grab his arm — not gently.

“You’re slowing down.”

“I know.”

“I need you with me.”

His eyes meet yours.

“I am.”

You hold his stare a second too long.

His pupils are blown wide. His skin gleams with sweat. And underneath all of it — pain, fear, adrenaline — there’s something else.

Something darker.

You let go of his arm.

“Let’s keep moving.”

---

You reach a stairwell. The main lab access is still two floors down, but the elevator shaft’s been melted through. You shine your light over the railing. The stairwell descends into thick black.

“We go down,” you say.

“After you,” König mutters. He’s trying to sound casual. He fails.

You descend first. Blade in hand. Every step groans underfoot.

Halfway down, you pause. Flash the light over the wall.

Another smear of that black substance — but this one’s different. It’s not random. It’s words.

Scrawled in streaks.

“IT SEES WHAT YOU WANT.”

König reads it over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything.

You think about what you want. What brought you here.

And the fact that it might be watching.

---

At the next landing, König nearly collapses. He catches himself on the rail, teeth bared behind the mask.

“Fuck.”

“Sit.”

“No.”

“You’re bleeding through the wrap. If you fall, I leave you.”

You don’t mean it. Not really.

But he sits.

You crouch beside him, pulling your bag around. He doesn’t stop you when you tug up his shirt. The wound’s worse now — angry and wet. Dark streaks spider away from it like veins. Not infection. Not natural.

He watches your hands. Silent. You feel his gaze — not just on your hands. On your neck. Your mouth. Your pulse.

You don’t meet his eyes.

“You’re burning up.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve told me it spread.”

“You would’ve kept going anyway.”

You tape the bandage tighter. Pack gauze over it. His breath catches — just once — when your fingers graze too deep. You feel his stomach twitch under your touch.

“You gonna make it?”

He doesn’t answer. Not right away.

Then:

“I have to.”

You pause.

Your eyes lift. Finally meet his.

The flicker of your flashlight reflects in them — two small, sharp lights, wide and hungry.

You stand.

“Come on.”

---

The stairwell ends in a sealed door — reinforced, but the control panel blinks green.

König presses a hand to it.

The door clicks.

Slides open.

Inside is the beginning of the lab sector. The air here is thick. Hot. And it stinks.

Something between blood and copper and melting plastic.

You step through first.

Behind you, König follows.

The door slides shut.

Another lock sounds.

No turning back.

---

The lock groans before it gives.

You wedge your knife under the panel and wrench hard — metal shrieks like something dying. König stands behind you, half-limping, half-hovering, one hand on his side and the other clutched around his rifle. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, toward the dark hall behind you, as if the air itself is watching.

Then the seal cracks.

The doors to the main lab shudder and part. Stale air spills out, hot and chemical-sour, like opened rot. For one breathless second, there’s silence.

Then the alarms scream.

A red strobe starts to pulse from the ceiling — no siren, just a harsh klaxon, hammering into your chest like a heartbeat out of time. König flinches. His arm shoots out and grabs your bicep, tight.

“Shit,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

The lights flare in sequence. Bright white. Then red. Then white again. You shield your eyes and blink hard.

And that’s when you see them.

Dozens of tanks. Half-shattered, half-fogged. The kind you’d expect to see in some underground cryo facility — but they’re wrong. They’re too organic. Like veins have grown across the glass. Like the fluid inside is alive. Like the things inside…

A hiss. A movement.

Then another.

The tanks are occupied.

Some are already cracked open. Slashed from the inside. The things inside them — the Wraiths — aren’t moving fast, not yet. But their eyes are open.

And they are not the same as the ones you’ve seen before.

These ones look human — almost. Pale, twitching bodies twisted just slightly off. Limbs too long, joints bending the wrong way. Their mouths move like they’re whispering. Black foam at their teeth. Bones jut from shoulders like weapons. Their skin looks paper-thin, wet, veined with something dark.

One of them meets your eyes.

And smiles.

“Komm,” König breathes — voice hoarse, urgent.

You don’t need translation.

He pulls you back, stumbling, and you run.

The hallway blurs. Boots slamming into metal grates. The strobe lights behind you cast your shadows long and twitching. König’s larger frame moves beside you — slower, struggling, but he doesn’t stop.

Behind you: glass shatters.

Screeches.

And then the sound that makes your stomach lurch — the scuttling. Fast. Wet. Wrong.

You slam into a side corridor, half-pulling König with you. Your knife is still in your hand. He’s panting now, wheezing slightly, hand pressed over his ribs, blood leaking through the bandages. His other arm slams into the wall to hold himself up.

A snarl echoes down the corridor.

They’re fast. Too fast.

You don’t have time to think. You push König ahead of you and turn just as one of them barrels from the ceiling vent — jaws wide, a mouth full of rotted needles, hands curled like claws.

You plant your foot and drive your knife up into its throat.

It screams. You don’t know if it’s pain or pleasure — the sound is too high, too sharp, like glass in your ears. You rip the blade free and it crumples, twitching.

Another comes, and König lunges forward — shoulder first — slamming it against the wall with a roar. He stumbles after, falling to his knees, hand pressed to the ground to keep himself from going all the way down.

You grab his jacket and yank him up. “Come on. You with me?”

His eyes flash to yours — pain and something else beneath it. Panic. Fury. Hunger.

“I’m with you,” he grits.

You move again. Down another corridor. No time to scan the map now — just a gut-feel left turn, then another.

The Wraiths don’t follow in one wave — they splinter, flank, move above and below. Some are in the vents. Some crawl the ceilings like insects. They’re toying with you.

You reach a narrow catwalk over a vast, open shaft — and then you see the way out.

A stairwell. Partially collapsed, but reachable. If you run.

“König,” you call, pointing. “There—”

A snarl behind you.

Too late.

Something slashes your leg.

It tears clean through your thigh — hot pain blooms up your side like an electrical wire snapping. You cry out, stumble. Blood spills fast, thick and dark, soaking into your boot.

König turns. His face changes, pupils blown out, he tenses.

He grabs you — arms strong, one hand cradling your waist, the other lifting you like you weigh nothing. You shove at him.

“No. Go. I’ll slow them down—”

“I am not leaving you,” he growls. His voice doesn’t break. It cracks.

More of them are coming now. Dozens. Flooding the corridor, writhing down the walls. The catwalk groans under the weight of both time and bodies.

You limp toward the stairwell together, half-dragging, half-carried. The Wraiths close in.

The moment you step onto the final span of catwalk — the metal groans again.

Then something breaks.

It collapses in an instant — screaming metal and sparks.

König tries to throw you clear. You don’t make it. You fall hard — one level down, slamming your side against something jagged. You bite your lip to keep from screaming, tasting blood.

“König!” you gasp, reaching up.

He’s above — crawling to the edge, trying to see you through the smoke and strobe light.

His eyes are wide. Wild.

“Don’t move,” you croak. “I’m okay. I just— I can get—”

But he’s not listening. He’s standing now, stumbling toward you, gun raised.

“Stay with me—” he’s shouting. “You stay with me, Scheiße, don’t—!”

Then a Wraith lands on him.

It tackles him to the metal. He fights — wildly, brutally — but another joins, then another. They drag him backward, deeper into the shadows. His fists slam into flesh. He roars something you can’t understand. Then his voice:

“NEIN—!”

“Lass sie! LASS SIE—!”

You try to move. Your leg gives. You slump down, hand pressed to the wound, pulse hammering.

His voice is still echoing, ragged and furious, fading into the dark.

You try to crawl.

Blood loss wins.

Your last sight: his silhouette disappearing, clawed hands dragging him away, his mouth still open in a scream.

Your last sound: your name, torn from his throat like a promise or a prayer.

And then—

Dark.

---

You come to choking.

The air is wet — chemical, sour — and your lungs seize around it like it’s poison. You gag, curl forward, and pain cracks through your ribs like splitting wood. You’re on the floor. Cold metal. Blood beneath your cheek, tacky and half-dried. Not fresh. Not all yours.

You don’t recognize the room.

Sterile light flickers above you — one bulb sputtering behind mesh. The walls are a dull surgical green, smeared with something darker. The floor slopes slightly. Everything smells wrong. Burnt plastic. Copper. Rot.

Your hands tremble as you push up. Every inch of movement hurts — your leg is wet and numb, your side screams. A sob catches in your throat before you can stop it.

Where is he?

“König—?”

You try to stand, but the world tips. Gravity buckles sideways and you stagger into a gurney — rusted, overturned. Your fingers grip cold steel. You breathe too fast.

He was with you. He was right behind you.

You remember the scream. His voice breaking.

Then nothing.

“König,” you whisper again, louder this time. The sound echoes, and then dies.

No answer.

The hallway ahead yawns open — a black throat. Something scrapes beyond the edge of the light. You freeze. Every muscle locks. Your mouth is dry.

This place is wrong. It’s not where you fell.

You’ve been moved.

Dragged?

Your breath shudders out of you. You try not to cry. You don’t cry.

But you’re alone.

The tower shrinks behind you like a vanishing landmark, swallowed by fog and skyline bones. You and König move south in the hush of pre-dawn, boots crunching through frost-laced debris, the map folded tight in your coat pocket. The paper crackles like dried leaves when you check it—handwritten notes, half-smeared by damp fingers, pointing toward the research checkpoint.

Theta. The cure, maybe.

Or the end of the road.

König follows just behind, his steps too quiet for his size. You only know he’s there by the way the birds stop singing when he gets too close.

Thehighway bends through the corpse of a rural township—collapsed fences, blackened windows, and yards overrun with kudzu. An overturned bus rusts in the middle of the road, its wheels clawing at the air like the thing tried to run and got frozen mid-scream.

You kick a soda can as you walk. It echoes down the hollow street, then disappears.

“Charming,” you mutter.

König glances at the house beside you, its porch half-sunk into rot. “It used to be.”

You raise a brow. “You’ve been here?”

He shrugs. “Not this exact town. But one like it.”

“You think they made it out?”

König’s voice is quiet. “No.”

The wind shifts, carrying the scent of stagnant water and smoke. You pause at a collapsed gas station, rifle slung over one shoulder, scanning for movement. König walks past the pumps, eyes scanning the rooftop like he expects it to groan or speak.

You watch him for a moment. How carefully he moves. How quiet.

“You always this good at sneaking?”

He glances back at you. “Would you prefer I stomped?”

You grin. “Honestly? Wouldn’t mind some warning when you show up behind me like a damn ghost.”

His eyes flick down to the gravel. “I’m trying.”

You laugh. “That’s terrifying.”

By midday, you’re halfway to the checkpoint the doctor marked—Theta’s last known forward post—when König stops short, nostrils flaring behind the mask.

“What?” you ask.

“Blood. Small. Rabbit maybe.”

You narrow your eyes. “That your lunch or mine?”

He hesitates.

Then: “Both.”

Before you can ask more, he’s already vanished into the trees.

He returns over an hour later.

There’s dirt on his gloves, leaves in his hood. His chest rises and falls just slightly faster than usual.

In one hand, he carries a limp bundle—fur, paws, long ears. In the other, a few foraged apples, a battered MRE pouch.

“Dinner,” he says simply.

You blink at the rabbit. “You caught that?”

He nods.

“Cooked?”

“Mostly.”

You glance at the pouch in his other hand.

“What about you?”

His eyes slide away. “I ate earlier.”

You watch him a moment longer. His gloves are cleaner than they were. His scarf hangs just a little looser. There’s a faint smear near the edge of his mask—something dark, almost dry.

You don’t ask.

You just take the food and mutter, “Show-off.”

The night tastes like iron and fog.

You build a fire in the lee of a crumbling drainage tunnel, a hollow tucked beneath the road. The rabbit chars over low flame, its scent thin and smoky. You eat quietly, König sitting opposite, silent. Always watching. Always a little too still.

“You sure you don’t want some?” you ask, mouth half-full.

He shakes his head. “Not this kind.”

“Too civilized?”

He exhales through his nose. “Too dead.”

You snort. “You’re creepy when you’re honest.”

König tilts his head. “And when I lie?”

“Still creepy. Just more polite about it.”

He shifts, just slightly. “You’re not afraid of me anymore.”

You pause. “Should I be?”

He doesn’t answer.

The road south pulls you through old farming counties—acres of rusted barbed wire and broken silos. A hand-painted sign on a fence reads:

THETA PERSONNEL ONLY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

The gate swings open on its own.

A scarecrow leans on a pole nearby, dressed in a hazmat suit two sizes too big.

You murmur, “Charming.”

König glances at it once. “It’s to scare animals.”

You shake your head. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Later, you pass a billboard stripped of its paint, graffiti scrawled over what used to be a government warning. In blood-red letters, someone’s written:

STAY OUT OF THE WATER. IT SEES YOU.

You stare at it a moment too long.

König does too.

“That true?” you ask, voice low.

He’s silent a beat. Then: “Maybe.”

“Hell of an answer.”

He exhales, slow. “I don’t drink it.”

You look at him sidelong. “But you could?”

He shrugs. “I’d rather not find out.”

You both fall silent.

The wind cuts across the empty fields, dragging leaves like bones down the road.

At dusk, you find an old waystation—one of those prefab modular buildings dropped in by field teams in the early days. Its door hangs half open, generator long dead, but the structure’s mostly intact. König checks the perimeter while you pull tarps and cracked plastic crates into a corner.

Inside, the dust smells like bleach and mildew. Blood stains the floor—old, brown. Drag marks trail toward a smashed window.

You don’t ask what happened.

You already know.

König drops his pack near the door. You unpack the food. Silence stretches.

Finally, you say, “You don’t have to stand guard all the time, you know.”

He grunts. “I do.”

You tilt your head. “That’s very stoic of you.”

“Or anxious.”

You blink.

Then grin. “You? Anxious?”

He doesn’t look at you.

You press: “What, you worried I’ll sneak off in the night?”

His voice is very quiet. “Worried something will take you.”

Something tightens in your chest.

“…Well,” you mutter, fumbling for levity. “If it tries, tell it I bite.”

König shifts, and for a moment, you swear his shoulders shake. Like he laughed.

That night, you lie side by side, separated by six feet and the dying warmth of the stove.

You whisper: “You said there was someone before.”

He doesn’t move.

“You followed them?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He hesitates. “I thought they were strong.”

“Were they?”

“They died.”

You glance up. The ceiling sags overhead, a piece of insulation swaying like wet paper.

“…Did you like them?”

“No.”

You blink. “But you followed them.”

“They were going somewhere. Like you.”

You chew your cheek. “What happened?”

König’s voice is a whisper. “I scared them.”

“Did you hurt them?”

“No. But I wanted to.”

You go still.

“And me?” you ask, after a long pause. “Do you want to hurt me?”

He turns his head toward you.

Very quietly: “No.”

Then, after a beat: “That’s the problem.”

You drift to sleep with his silhouette burned into your mind.

Not the violence. Not the hunger.

The restraint.

The way he turns away before you can catch him looking. The way he doesn’t touch you, even when you’re trembling with cold. The way his voice dips when he says your name.

Not possession. Not even lust.

Something quieter. Sadder.

Like he’s not sure he deserves to want you at all.

The checkpoint isn’t marked on any official map—just a cross on the back of the doctor’s notes and one word scrawled in tight, urgent ink:

Theta?

By the time you find it, the clouds have choked out the sun, and the light has gone soft and colorless. The wind moves through the overgrowth like a whisper, but nothing else makes a sound.

You slow, motioning König to halt. The field ahead is ringed by skeletal fencing, the barbed wire long since collapsed. What used to be a temporary forward operating base now slumps inward—prefab walls sheared open, floodlights rotting on their poles, and a comms tower leaning at a sick angle toward the trees.

The first thing you notice is the smell.

Metal. Burned plastic. Blood.

Not fresh, but not long dead either.

König steps forward beside you. You can feel his body tense before you see it—shoulders locked, hands flexing once in their gloves.

“You smell that too?” you murmur.

He nods. “Blood. Viral rot. And—” He cuts off.

“And?” you press.

His eyes shift beneath the hood. “One of them is still here.”

You both move low, silent, hugging the tall grass. He takes point as you slip toward the shattered gate. Bits of shattered glass crunch under your boots despite your care.

Then something moves.

Just a flicker—beneath one of the collapsed shelter roofs. A shape crawling.

König moves before you can. A blur of mass and violence.

He barrels into the shape, lifts it, and slams it down into the concrete so hard you feel it in your teeth. The thing snarls—more sound than shape—and you get a glimpse of it through the churned dust: half-human, jaw split, skin half-peeled, one arm longer than the other like the mutation didn’t finish.

Not a Wraith.

But not a man either.

König crushes its skull with one booted heel. The crunch is sickening. Final.

Then, silence.

You breathe out, trying to slow the rush in your blood.

“Scout?” you ask.

He nods, voice low. “Likely. And not alone.”

You scan the shadows. “Theta must’ve been stationed here. Then… this happened.”

He doesn’t answer.

There’s a sound then. Not close—behind the shelter. A scrape. Then a sharp inhalation.

You draw your weapon. “Three o’clock—”

But you’re already too late.

A second creature slams into you from behind. You go down hard, elbow cracking against rubble, blade skittering across the ground.

König doesn’t shout. He just moves—silent, brutal. You hear him strike something—hear bone give way—and a second body drops. You manage to draw your knife with your left hand and sink it into the throat of the one pinning you.

Black blood spills. The thing gurgles, jerks, then collapses across your legs.

You shove it off and scramble up, chest heaving. “That it?”

“No.”

Then you hear it—too fast. One more charging from the tower entrance.

You turn.

It lunges.

König intercepts it. They crash into the wall together, but this one has claws—hooks into his side and drags down. He grunts—a sharp, wet sound.

Then crushes the thing’s throat with one arm.

It falls.

He doesn’t.

But when he turns toward you, you see the blood leaking from under his armor.

“König.”

“I’m fine.”

You glare. “Bullshit. Sit.”

He opens his mouth—maybe to argue—but then sinks slowly to one knee.

You cross the yard fast, unfastening your pack. “Armor off.”

“No.”

“You’re bleeding through it.”

He hesitates.

“Come on. It’s not like I haven’t seen blood before.”

“…Not mine,” he mutters, then starts pulling the straps.

He peels the vest off with a grunt, the motion jerky. Then unhooks the outer shirt, baring his side.

You freeze.

His torso is a map of damage. Long-healed scars. Puckered burns. Parallel claw marks that stretch from hip to ribcage and vanish beneath the curve of his chestplate.

Some look old. Some don’t.

You reach for the wound, but your fingers hover there. “Jesus, König…”

He looks away. “Don’t.”

You glance up. “Don’t what?”

“Pity me.”

Your voice is quiet. “I don’t.”

You press the gauze into his side. He jerks.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “You always touch like that?”

“Like what?”

“…Like you’re trying not to hurt something already broken.”

Your hand stills on his skin. You say nothing.

His muscles jump under your fingers—solid, enormous. It’s hard not to notice. He’s built like a war machine. Every inch of him is muscle, tension, power coiled tight. And yet—

When you touch him, he breathes like it’s hurting him not to move.

“You’re strong,” you murmur. “I mean—I knew. But—fuck. You’re huge.”

He coughs, looks away.

You swear he flinches like you slapped him. “S-scheiße…”

You blink. “Did I just fluster you?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t expect—”

“What?”

“…That.”

You smile, slow. “You really never been patched up by someone before?”

He shifts. “Not like this.”

You tilt your head. “You mean not by someone who talks too much?”

“No.” His voice is almost sheepish. “I mean someone who looks at me.”

That shuts you up for a second.

You tape the gauze tighter than necessary. He hisses. “Mean.”

“I’m not your nurse.”

You work the bandage around his waist, fingers brushing more scars. You can feel him fighting not to react. Breath coming faster. Shoulders tight.

His chest rises, falls. Your arms almost touch.

You glance up.

He’s watching you.

Not hungry.

Not lustful.

Just… watching. Like you’re something he hasn’t been able to look at for a long time.

“You always breathe this heavy when you’re nervous?” you murmur.

“No.”

“What is it then?”

“…Don’t know.”

You finish the wrap and sit back on your heels. Your pulse is still high. You can’t tell if it’s from the fight—or the way he’s looking at you now. Like you’ve shaken something loose.

He exhales. Then mutters: “You shouldn’t touch me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you trust me.”

You wipe your bloody hands off and look him dead in the eye. “I do.”

He goes completely still.

Then, voice low and cracked: “Why?”

You shrug. “Because you didn’t let me die.”

----

The fire snaps loud as you toss another splintered board onto the coals. The warmth it gives is small but sharp, licking at your hands, your legs. Beyond the shelter, the sky hangs dark and low—no moon tonight, just a sagging curtain of clouds that hasn’t let up since sundown.

König’s on the far side of the fire, half-shrouded in shadow, the curve of his hood barely lit. He hasn’t taken the mask off. He never does.

You press your back against the wall behind you, easing into the stiff ache that lives in your spine now. Every night it’s there. Every night, you pretend it isn’t.

“You always like this?” you ask, voice casual. “Staring broodingly into the dark? Or is that just for me?”

König glances at you. Slowly. “You’re the one who builds fires.”

“So it’s my fault you look like a horror movie villain.”

He exhales—a short sound. Might be amusement. Hard to tell with him.

You shift your legs and nod toward him. “Bet it takes a lot of protein to keep all that muscle on.”

A pause. Then: “I hunt.”

“Yeah, I saw the blood on your sleeves. You eat that whole coyote?”

“No.”

“You save me some?”

“No.”

You snort. “Selfish.”

König adjusts slightly, arms resting on his knees. His body takes up so much space and yet he still folds in on himself when he sits, like he’s trying to vanish. The weight of him is constant. So is the silence.

“You ever get full?” you ask, tilting your head. “On blood, I mean.”

Another long pause.

“Not really,” he admits. “But I get calm. For a while.”

You raise your brows. “Calm? That what this is?”

He shrugs. “It’s better than the alternative.”

You hum. “What’s the alternative?”

His hands curl faintly at his sides. The fabric of his gloves strains.

“It starts like thirst. Then it burns. Like there’s something living under your ribs, gnawing its way out. Like your mouth forgets what it’s for, and your hands stop feeling like yours.”

You’re quiet a long beat. The fire crackles between you.

“That why you didn’t follow me inside that building back in Sector Nine?”

König nods once.

“I smelled the cut on your hand,” he says. “Didn’t trust myself.”

You shift, not quite sure what to say.

Eventually, you offer, “You haven’t touched me. Not once.”

He doesn’t answer.

“That means something,” you add, softly.

He studies the fire.

“Do you think you’ll lose control?”

“I don’t know.”

Your gaze drags up to him. “How long since you… lost it?”

“Almost a year.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He nods.

“You ever kill someone you didn’t mean to?”

He looks at you—really looks.

Then says, quietly, “Yes.”

It hits with the force of a dropped hammer, even though he doesn’t flinch. Neither do you. You just sit there, the fire whispering between you.

You glance down, then back up.

“Were they… like me?”

“No,” he says. “They were worse. I told myself that mattered.”

“Did it?”

He shakes his head once, slow. “Not enough.”

You let the silence settle. Then lean back and eye him again.

“Guess it makes sense,” you murmur, “with arms like that.”

He tilts his head.

“You’ve got arms like telephone poles, König. I mean—what were you, born bench-pressing tanks?”

His brow lifts slightly, as if baffled by the turn.

“I was small when I was young,” he says.

“Right,” you say. “And I’m a retired ballet dancer.”

He huffs under his breath. “Really. I didn’t grow until I was almost seventeen.”

“You’re telling me all that”—you wave vaguely toward the bulk of him—“just popped into existence?”

“No,” he mutters, and you swear there’s a trace of embarrassment. “I trained.”

“Figures. You military guys and your secret muscle-building rituals.”

He’s quiet again. Then adds, voice low:

“My father used to say I was too soft. Weak.”

The joke drops clean out of your mouth.

You glance at him, more careful now.

He’s not looking at you anymore. Just the fire. His posture has shifted—not defensive, but drawn.

“He’d hit me if I cried,” König says, like he’s reporting on a stranger. “Sometimes if I didn’t.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

“He believed fear built strength. That pain made you a man.”

Your throat tightens.

“That’s a load of shit,” you say, flat.

König doesn’t disagree. He just watches the flames dance over splintered bonewood and adds, softer:

“Maybe that’s why I don’t take off the mask. Some part of me still thinks I deserve to be invisible.”

You sit with that for a moment. Then lean forward, chin resting on your knees.

“Want to hear my theory?”

He glances at you.

“I think the mask’s not to hide. I think it’s armor. Not for fighting—just for carrying yourself around.”

Another beat.

“You think so?” he asks.

“I know so,” you say. “It’s not about protection. It’s about distance.”

He doesn’t respond. But you watch the tension shift slightly. Not disappear—just soften. Enough to breathe through.

You let it sit, then smile faintly.

“How old are you anyway?”

“Thirty-four,” he says.

You blink. “Seriously?”

“I think,” he adds.

“You think?”

He shrugs. “There were years I stopped counting.”

You grin. “I figured older. You have big ‘grumpy retiree’ energy.”

He huffs again. “Thanks.”

“It’s not an insult. You just sigh like the weight of the world lives in your back.”

“It does,” he deadpans.

You laugh. It startles even you.

Then—you hear it.

A thud. Metallic. Shifting stone.

You rise fast, knife drawn.

König moves with you, quicker, silent. He’s at your side before you’ve registered it. The noise came from the collapsed entryway.

You both approach it—slow, deliberate.

Behind the rusted shelving, you find it. A loose crate. It must’ve tipped from the top of the stack with the wind.

Beneath it, something half-buried in dust and ash: a folder. Laminated. Faded military seal half-flaked away.

König kneels. Pulls it free.

You squat beside him as he flips through brittle, age-stained pages.

You both stop at the same line:

THETA RESEARCH IS NO LONGER OPERATING IN THIS SECTOR.

IF CONTACTED, REDIRECT TO SITE 3B: OBSIDIAN POINT.

–Classified Route: BLACK FURNACE. South Ridge.

You exhale through your nose.

“Well,” you mutter. “Guess the road’s still long.”

König looks up, eyes unreadable behind the lens of the mask.

“I’ll keep going,” he says. “If you do.”

You nod once. “Yeah. Me too.”

You dream in pieces.

Heat first. Thick and suffocating. The kind that drags sweat down your spine and makes your limbs feel heavy, boneless. You’re pinned beneath it—drenched in warmth, surrounded by it, smothered. A weight against your chest. Not pain. Not fear.

Want.

A voice, too close to your ear:

“Bleib still…”

Stay still.

You breathe hard through your nose. Your mouth won’t open. It’s full of blood. Or maybe something sweeter. You can’t tell.

His hands are on you. Or a hand. Just one, massive, gloved. Pressed flat against your sternum, fingers spread, anchoring you down with barely any pressure at all. Like he could crush you without effort but chooses not to. Again and again.

The mask drips water against your neck. Or sweat. Or saliva. You don’t care.

You can’t see his face.

But you feel his breath.

Hot. Starving. Not human.

“Schau mich an,” the voice growls. Look at me.

You can’t.

Your pulse pounds between your legs. You try to move—hips grinding upward against something solid, unyielding—and a sound escapes your throat, low and pathetic. You can’t tell if it’s his name or just a gasp. He breathes it in like a secret.

“Don’t—” you manage to rasp, but you don’t mean it.

He knows.

He leans in. The world tips sideways.

The pressure in your gut curls sharp and deep, shamefully sweet.

Then—

A flash.

Light slashes across your vision like a blade.

You blink.

You’re awake.

The fire’s gone out. Smoke curls upward in lazy strands from the collapsed tin pan you’d been using to burn scraps. The ceiling above you is cracked concrete. Rain leaks in through a rusted seam, drops tapping rhythmically onto the tile near your hip.

Your mouth is dry. Your skin feels too tight. Your lungs ache like you’ve run a mile.

You’re burning up. Except—no. Not anymore.

You push the blanket down from your shoulders. It sticks to your damp collarbone.

König is sitting a few feet away, his back to the wall, one knee bent. Still armored. Still masked. His hood is down, though—damp and bunched at his shoulders.

He’s watching you.

Not intensely. Not like before.

Just… calmly. Like he’s been waiting.

Your cheeks flame before you even speak. You pray to something, anything, that you didn’t make noise in your sleep.

He tilts his head slightly. “You were dreaming.”

No shit.

“Fever,” you mumble, pushing yourself upright with trembling arms. “Probably cooked my brain.”

He reaches beside him and pulls a battered metal canteen from his bag. Passes it to you in silence.

You drink too fast. It hurts going down. You don’t care.

He shifts forward, reaches out—

You flinch, instinctual.

But he doesn’t touch. Just hovers, then gently presses the back of his glove to your forehead.

“Cooler,” he says. “Fever broke.”

You nod, still blinking away the afterimage of teeth behind your eyelids.

He starts to pull his hand back.

“You can touch,” you murmur.

He pauses.

Then draws his hand away anyway.

Typical.

You drop back against the makeshift pile of coats and torn fabric, exhaling slow. Your whole body still feels strange. Too aware. Too raw.

You glance at him again.

He’s watching the fire pit now. Or what’s left of it. Like he’s pretending he wasn’t looking at you a moment ago.

“…You’re not great at bedside manner,” you say, voice rough with sleep.

He doesn’t look over. But after a beat, he says, “I kept you warm.”

“Romantic.”

A long pause.

Then—quietly:

“You were shaking.”

You pause mid-sip.

His tone wasn’t sheepish. Wasn’t soft. Just matter-of-fact. But something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten.

You glance at him sideways. “How long was I out?”

“Eight hours. Maybe more.”

“Jesus.”

“You don’t remember?”

You shake your head. “No dreams. Not really.”

He glances at you, eyes sharp behind the slits of his mask. “You made sounds.”

Your stomach drops.

“Bad sounds?”

He doesn’t answer.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “God, if I said anything weird, just—forget it, okay?”

Another beat of silence.

Then, almost too soft to hear:

“You said my name.”

You freeze.

He says it without any weight. Without accusation. Just fact. But your brain stutters all the same.

“Are you messing with me?”

He shakes his head once.

You shift your legs under the blanket. The fire might be out, but your cheeks are still fucking burning.

“Great,” you mutter. “My subconscious is officially an embarrassment.”

König is quiet again. But not the uncomfortable kind. Just… watching. As if waiting for you to implode.

You bite back a nervous laugh. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

He finally speaks. “No.”

You blink.

His tone is flat. But there’s something underneath it. A beat of sincerity you’re not used to hearing from him.

You pull your knees up, wrapping the foil around your legs tighter. “You always watch people sleep?”

He shrugs, barely a movement. “Sometimes.”

“That’s creepy.”

“You make noise. I had to listen.”

You snort. “That’s even worse.”

He tilts his head again. That weird little twitch he does when he’s confused or amused or trying to hide either.

You glance at him sidelong.

His eyes are sharper than usual. Pale as ever, but catching the low light differently. Less ice, more glacier. Still unreadable. Still intense.

But softer, too.

“You, uh…” You clear your throat. “You sleep with your eyes open?”

He gives the smallest shake of his head. “Didn’t sleep.”

You frown. “At all?”

“I told you. Not often.”

“Because of the dreams?”

He says nothing.

You let it sit. The quiet, the cold, the hum of wind pushing at the rusted beams overhead. It feels like a moment balanced on the edge of something bigger. You don’t know what. But it’s fragile. You don’t want to break it.

You lean back. “Anyway. Thanks for not letting me freeze to death. Very noble of you.”

He shrugs. “Would be a waste.”

You smirk. “Wow. Truly touched.”

“You’re welcome.”

Another pause.

Then, deadpan: “Next time I’ll let you die.”

You grin. “See? You’re getting the hang of jokes.”

He looks away. But his posture is easier now. Looser. Like the worst of the tension has passed. Like maybe, just maybe, the space between you doesn’t feel like a minefield anymore.

You lean your head against the wall, watching him watch the room.

And for the first time in a while, you let yourself rest without bracing for the worst.

———

The city stretches before you like a carcass.

Sky dull and low, draped in heavy cloud cover. No rain yet, but it threatens in the air—static clinging to your fingers, gathering behind your teeth. The wind picks up every now and then, pulling tarps loose from skeletal balconies, dragging wet plastic bags like ghosts across the pavement.

You move carefully. Slower than usual. Your body’s still recovering—fever sweat dried into your collar, every step a dull echo in your skull.

König walks beside you.

Not behind. Not shadowing.

Beside.

It’s the first time he’s walked with you like this—level. Like you’re equals. Like you’re not something he’s guarding from behind or watching through cover. He doesn’t speak, but the change is… noticeable.

You glance at him. “You don’t have to match my pace.”

“I’m not,” he says.

You snort. “Sure.”

His eyes flick toward you, unreadable through the slits of his mask. “You think you’re faster than me?”

You raise a brow. “Only one of us needed to sleep.”

A pause. Then: “You talk more when you’re feverish.”

“You’re just lucky I didn’t try to bite you.”

“I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

You blink.

He keeps walking.

Right.

Okay.

The buildings begin to change—less shattered, more intact but still clearly abandoned. Long corridors of glass storefronts, their windows blown out and gutted by mold. You pass what used to be a bank. Vines creep through the front like veins, bursting up through tile. Inside, a ceiling fan still turns lazily overhead, power somehow still feeding in from a distant, groaning grid.

“Almost looks normal,” you mutter.

König glances at it. “Almost.”

He steps over a cracked curb. You follow, boots squelching in a puddle. The water here is worse—thicker. Slightly iridescent. You sidestep it, but König doesn’t.

The stuff clings to the edge of his boot. When he lifts it, it stretches faintly before snapping.

You pause, eyeing the smear it leaves behind.

“That stuff’s alive,” you say.

He nods. “A little.”

“How much is a little?”

“Enough.”

You keep walking. “Comforting.”

As you move deeper into the city’s bones, the static gets stronger. It starts like a buzz in your molars. Then your skin. Then under your tongue.

You touch the side of your head, frowning. “You feel that?”

König doesn’t answer right away.

Then he says: “It’s the tower.”

“How far?”

He lifts his head slightly, scanning the skyline. Then points.

There.

Between two half-collapsed office buildings—one of the old military relay towers, jutting up like a spike through the spine of the city. You hadn’t seen it earlier. It blends into the gray.

But now that you do…

You hear it.

A faint whine in the distance. Fading in and out. Like a heartbeat trying to sync with the air.

“I thought these went offline years ago.”

“They did,” König says. “This one didn’t.”

You narrow your eyes. “That mean someone turned it back on?”

“Maybe.”

Great.

The closer you get, the more the buildings crowd in—like teeth. You pass through alleyways thick with steam and mildew, your breath misting in the air. The heat from earlier is gone now, replaced with the brittle chill of an incoming front. You tug your scarf tighter.

König doesn’t react to the cold. No surprise.

He pauses as you duck beneath a collapsed pipe. Reaches out—not touching, just steadying his hand near your shoulder, in case you fall. You don’t.

But you glance up anyway.

“You always like this?”

“Like what.”

“Hovering.”

He considers. Then: “Only around you.”

“Flattering.”

You step through the gap and land in the next corridor. A low, flooded street, lined with what used to be market stalls. The signs are all in spray paint now—warnings, markings, a few crude maps left behind by travelers or scouts. You pause near one. It’s smeared, but you can still make out one phrase:

DON’T DRINK. DON’T BLEED. DON’T STAY LONG.

You nod toward it. “Catchy.”

König steps up behind you. “They’re right.”

You tilt your head. “You know what’s in the water, don’t you.”

He nods. “Biological. Engineered. Airborne wasn’t stable enough.”

“So they made it liquid.”

He doesn’t answer.

You walk in silence a while. The wind stings your cheeks now. You wipe your nose on your sleeve.

König watches. “Still sick?”

“I don’t get sick,” you say. “Just inconveniently on fire.”

“Hm.”

Another pause.

Then he adds, low: “You smell better now.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Not so… feverish.”

You stare at him.

He glances away.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, smiling despite yourself. “Is that how you tell someone they’re looking healthier? ‘You don’t smell like death anymore’?”

He shrugs. “It’s true.”

You chuckle. “You’ve got to work on your people skills, König.”

He tilts his head. “You’re not people.”

“…Excuse me?”

“I mean,” he says, slowly, “you’re you.”

You stop walking. Look at him.

He freezes, visibly realizing how that sounded.

You let it hang there a moment longer than necessary. Then:

“You’ve been alone too long, big guy.”

He grumbles something under his breath in German.

You smirk. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Say it in English.”

“No.”

You laugh, stepping forward again. He follows. A half-beat behind. His head ducked a little lower than before.

The sky grows darker.

Eventually, the tower looms directly above you—an ugly, rust-streaked needle of antennae and bolted steel. You can see cables strung across its base, tied into nearby power lines. Someone’s been here recently.

You grip your knife tighter.

König stops just behind you. “Wait.”

You glance over. “Why?”

He nods toward the open doorway at the tower’s base.

You squint.

It’s cracked open. Faint flickers of light pulse behind it.

Not warm light. Not fire.

Something electric.

“Someone’s inside,” you whisper.

König nods. “Alive. For now.”

You swallow hard.

The static pulses again—sharp, closer, humming just beneath your feet.

The tower waits.

The base of the tower hums like a dying organ.

You approach slowly—knife drawn, heart thudding. König’s footsteps are silent behind you, but you feel his presence like gravity. Closer than usual. Protective.

The door is barely open, wedged at an angle by a fallen piece of rebar. You nudge it wider with the toe of your boot, and it groans against the frame—loud in the heavy quiet.

Inside, the air stinks of copper and mold. A generator ticks somewhere beneath the floor, struggling to stay alive. The light flickers—pale green from cracked monitors, bleeding across the concrete like spilled coolant.

You step through.

The room used to be a server hub. You recognize the bones of it—racks gutted and dead, a shattered control station littered with the corpses of a thousand tangled cables. There’s graffiti across the far wall: a black sun with jagged rays, bleeding down into words you can’t read. Beneath it, a cot. A figure.

You halt.

It’s a man. Maybe fifty. Gaunt. Drenched in sweat. His arm is missing from the elbow down, bound in rags soaked through with blood and something darker. Tubes run from his body to a battery-powered med kit that’s long since died. His chest rises and falls shallowly. One eye is open.

You whisper, “He’s alive.”

König says nothing.

You step forward. Slowly. Hands visible. Nonthreatening.

The man’s gaze twitches toward you. Unfocused.

“…Help?” he rasps.

You crouch by the cot, checking his vitals. Pulse, thready. Pupils, uneven. You glance over your shoulder. “He’s septic.”

König scans the room—his mask twitching toward every creak, every whine of the tower overhead.

The man’s hand twitches. “You’re not… scav?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“You have gear.”

“I have a pulse.”

He huffs a breath. Could be a laugh. Could be pain. “You armed?”

König steps into view.

The man stiffens. “Oh.”

“He’s not your problem,” you say quickly.

“Looks like a big one.”

You almost smile.

The man coughs—wet and rattling. He gestures toward the corner. “There’s a file. Red tab. Take it. Take all of it.”

You move toward the folder—barely held together with cracked plastic. Inside, hand-scrawled notes. Maps. Medical symbols. Codes you don’t recognize. You flip through.

“What is this?”

The man licks his cracked lips. “It’s what’s left of us.”

“Us?”

“Southern branch. Research division. We were based out of Lab Theta—subterranean facility beneath the old quarantine zone. We were… tracking viral evolution. Trying to reverse engineer the blood vector.”

Your chest tightens. “A cure?”

He gives you a look. Dry. Pained. “You sound like her.”

“Who?”

He doesn’t answer.

König steps closer. “You said ‘were.’ What happened?”

The man doesn’t flinch. “Collapse. Breach event. We lost half the team in three minutes. Those of us that escaped tried to re-establish contact. Everyone went dark.”

You glance at the monitor. It’s flickering now—looping an old signal pattern. Static overlaid with numbers.

“Why are you still here?”

“Was manning the tower when the breach hit. Didn’t get clear in time. Tried to patch my arm. Didn’t work.” He breathes through his nose. “Stayed alive long enough to pass this on.”

You glance at the folder again. Your fingers twitch.

“How far south is the lab?”

“Two hundred kilometers. Maybe more. Terrain’s hostile. You’ll have to cross Wraith territory.”

König shifts behind you.

The man notices. “You’ll have to protect her, freak.”

König goes very still.

You rise, carefully. “Don’t call him that.”

The man squints at you. “You know what he is?”

“I know what he isn’t.”

“Yeah?” He coughs. Blood sprays across the cot. “You sure?”

You hold his gaze.

He sags back, spent. “Doesn’t matter. Go south or don’t. Won’t change what’s coming.”

“What is coming?”

He swallows hard. “The strain’s mutating. Faster than expected. If there’s any chance of reversing it, it’s buried down there. Buried with the last people who understood the code.”

You look at König.

He says nothing. Just watches the dying man with unreadable eyes.

You turn back. “You said there might be a cure.”

“There was something. A hybrid model. Enzyme-based. We were testing it on the Bound.”

You go still.

“The what?”

The man blinks slow. “Wraithbound. Half-turned. Like him.”

You don’t move.

“They responded to it. Some of them. Regression in aggression markers. But the effects weren’t consistent.”

“Did it help?”

He nods faintly. “Maybe. I don’t know. We didn’t have time. All I know is—you’re not the first one he’s followed.”

Your blood goes cold.

“What?”

“Go south,” the man says again. His voice is fading. “Find Theta. Burn it, if you have to. But find it.”

You crouch beside him again. “Hey—stay with me. What do you mean I’m not the first?”

But he doesn’t respond.

His breath rattles once more. Then stops.

König says nothing.

The monitors whine, then blink out.

Silence.

You sit back on your heels, hand still on the edge of the cot.

“He’s dead,” you murmur.

König steps closer. “We should leave.”

You don’t move. Your fingers drift across the edge of the folder. The maps. The idea of something better.

Hope.

Thin. Maybe lethal. But there.

You look up at him.

He stares down at you, eyes unreadable. But his shoulders are tense. Jaw clenched beneath the mask.

“…Was he telling the truth?” you ask.

“I don’t know.”

“About the Bound?”

He’s silent.

You stand slowly. “He said they responded to the cure. That it worked. A little.”

König turns away. “He said it didn’t last.”

“He said it might be a chance.”

He faces the wall. Silent. Still.

You take a breath. “What happened to the others? The ones like you.”

“They changed,” he says.

“Into Wraiths?”

“Worse.”

You wait. But he doesn’t explain.

Instead, he adds, quietly: “I didn’t.”

You nod. “Because of the cure?”

“No.” He turns back. “Because I didn’t want to.”

You meet his gaze.

For a second, you see something flicker behind his eyes. Not hunger. Not restraint. Something like… fear.

You step forward. Close enough to see your reflection in his mask.

“Would it help you?”

His voice drops. “What.”

“If we found it. The cure. Would it fix you?”

He laughs once. Soft. Bitter.

“There is no fixing,” he says.

You look down at the file in your hands.

There’s a map. A route south. Lines drawn in frantic pen, circling zones labeled RED, DEAD, and BLACK. You trace one finger along the edge of it.

“I’m going,” you say.

König looks at you.

“If there’s even a chance,” you continue, “I’m going.”

He watches your face. The way your hands shake.

Then, after a long silence:

“I’ll go with you.”

You blink.

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“…But?”

He straightens. “I can’t let you go alone.”

You nod once.

Then tuck the folder into your pack.

The tower creaks around you, full of ghosts.

But for the first time in a long time, the road ahead doesn’t feel empty.

Aboveground is worse than expected.

The building they emerge from groans with the weight of itself. Rust-pitted rebar coils out of the concrete like broken ribs. The staircase they climbed wheezed under König’s bulk with every step. Now, back on the fractured street, the wind tears sideways against your jacket with a kind of bite that feels personal.

By the time the rain thins, the world has turned to ice.

Not snow—ice. A thin film glazes every surface, slick and shining under a colorless sky. The ruined city looks frostbitten. Abandoned bones rimed in silver.

You pull your coat tighter, boots grinding against the frozen slush as you push ahead. König trails behind, heavy and silent, his breath fogging the air in rhythmic bursts. He’s close enough that when you stop, you feel his presence press into the back of your shoulders—an eclipse, made of heat and instinct and unsaid things.

“We need height,” you mutter, peering through the haze. “Signal’s dead down here. No way to check the maps unless we find a rooftop.”

König doesn’t argue. He rarely does. He just nods, gestures toward the concrete monolith two blocks up—an old high-rise, its top half collapsed inward like a skull caved in. Still, the base looks stable. If anything in this place can be trusted, it’s what’s already broken and still standing.

You move.

The wind slices through every gap in your jacket. Water sloshes in your boots. König is a wall of warmth behind you, but you don’t let yourself drift toward it. Not yet. Not while you’re still walking on your own two feet.

The lobby is hollowed out. Marble floor cracked open like eggshell, the remains of a reception desk caved in under a fallen support beam. There’s a half-melted sign above the elevators: “Level Access: 1–20.” Of course, the elevators are dead.

“Stairs?” you ask.

König gestures to the right. You spot the stairwell door—ajar, the inside black with shadow.

“Lovely,” you mutter. “Let’s see how much of this building doesn’t want to kill us.”

The stairs are icy. Every step creaks. You move slow, methodical, blade in one hand, flashlight in the other. König’s steps behind you are too soft for someone his size. You wonder if he’s always moved like that, or if the virus made him quieter.

By the 7th floor, your breathing grows shallow.

By the 10th, your vision swims.

“Shit,” you whisper, leaning against the wall. A cough claws up your throat and bursts from your chest before you can stop it. Wet. Sharp. You cover your mouth, already knowing what you’ll see when you look at your hand.

Red.

Not a lot. Just specks.

But enough.

“You’re hurt,” König says behind you.

You shake your head. “Not new. I’m just cold.”

He doesn’t believe you. You can feel it in the way his weight shifts.

“I’m fine,” you snap.

And then your knees give out.

You pitch forward—stupid, clumsy, a flash of light and bone.

But before you can hit the ground, there’s an arm around your waist. Strong. Sure. Effortless.

König catches you like you weigh nothing.

He doesn’t ask.

He just lifts.

You feel the motion before you understand it—his body curling around yours, one arm braced behind your shoulders, the other beneath your knees. You’re half-frozen, shaking, but your brain still sputters with heat at the sensation of being held.

“Put me down,” you mutter, throat raw.

“You’re freezing,” he growls. “You’ll fall again.”

“I can walk.”

“No.”

The word cuts deeper than it should. Not angry. Not scolding.

Just firm. Final.

Your body aches against him, cold seeping in at every seam. But his chest is warm. Too warm. His heart thunders beneath layers of gear, steady and inhuman.

You don’t fight him.

Not this time.

He carries you to the 15th floor.

The rooftop door is rusted shut, half-welded from weather and decay. König shifts you gently—gently—against the wall, cradling your back like you’re something soft and breakable, then slams a boot into the door.

It buckles.

Another hit, and it bursts open, revealing a skeletal rooftop slick with melting ice.

You blink against the cold light.

He sets you down on a dry patch near the edge, where a chunk of overhang has shielded the floor from the worst of the storm. He shrugs out of his scarf, then his tactical outer layer—leaving only the reinforced undersuit clinging to his massive frame—and drapes the heavy fabric over your shoulders.

The heat of it is immediate.

You blink. Then speak, quiet: “You didn’t have to carry me.”

“I wanted to.”

He says it too quickly. Like it’s a truth that escaped before he could strangle it.

You stare at him.

For once, you don’t have something sharp to say.

So you look out instead—at the horizon.

The sky is bruised. Low clouds smear the air, and in the distance, a radio tower juts through the mist like a needle through skin. It pulses faintly.

A signal.

You point. “There.”

König follows your gaze.

“We could reach it,” you say, coughing again. “Maybe tomorrow. If the cold breaks.”

“You shouldn’t be walking tomorrow.”

“I’m not dying,” you mutter.

“No,” he says quietly. “But you’re not healing, either.”

You don’t respond.

The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable this time. It settles like fog—close, but not choking. A presence more than a pressure.

You shift the scarf tighter. It smells like leather and damp fabric, like something that’s been through too many storms. You don’t thank him again. It would feel strange now—like stating the obvious.

König kneels beside you. Not close enough to touch. Just near. His mask shifts slightly as he watches you adjust the layers.

“You’re burning up,” he says after a moment. Not worried. Just observant.

You shrug, teeth chattering faintly. “I’ve had worse.”

He doesn’t comment. Just reaches for his pack and unzips a side pocket. Pulls out a canteen, offers it.

You take it.

The water’s cold. Sharp. It helps a little.

“You always carry this much gear?” you ask, not out of real curiosity—just to fill the space.

“Yes,” he says. Then after a pause, “I used to carry more.”

You glance over.

“Before?”

A short nod.

“Squad?”

“Ja.”

You wait, but that’s all he gives you.

Still, something about the way he sits now—settled, less alert—makes him feel more like a person and less like a shadow stitched to your heels.

You shift in place, trying to get more comfortable against the concrete.

He watches you. “You’ll feel worse tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the optimism.”

“Just saying.”

He pulls out another blanket—thinner, emergency foil. Passes it over without comment. You take it.

“You’re not cold?” you ask.

“No.”

“Because of the virus?”

A beat.

“Maybe.”

You lie back, pressing the scarf against your cheek.

He doesn’t move. Just sits beside you, tall and quiet, his weight casting a long shadow against the rooftop wall.

The wind has dulled to a whisper, dragging scraps of cloud across the low, bruised sky. The rooftop around you gleams faintly—melted sleet refrozen in glassy patches, catching the dim light like veins of silver. Far below, the city steams in the aftermath of the storm, gutters overflowing, dead leaves swirling in corners of broken stone.

You lie on your side beneath the scarf and foil blanket, shivering in short, rhythmic bursts. König sits beside you, legs folded, broad back curved slightly inward like he’s trying to take up less space than his body allows. You don’t think he’s blinked in ten minutes.

“Do you ever sleep?” you ask, voice rough around the edges.

He doesn’t look at you. “Sometimes.”

“How often is sometimes?”

A pause.

“Every few days.”

You squint. “That by choice, or…?”

“I don’t like the dreams.”

His voice isn’t quiet, exactly—but there’s something pulled in about it. Like each word has to be weighed before it can leave his throat.

You shift onto your back, the cold biting your spine through the concrete. “What’s it like?” you ask. “Being… changed.”

That gets his attention. He tilts his head slightly, mask catching the light. You can’t see his expression, but you can feel the tension thread through him.

After a long moment: “Loud.”

You blink. “Loud?”

He nods once. “Not with sound. Just—always something moving. Something waking. In my blood. My bones.” He flexes a hand, gloved fingers curling. “Hunger. Pressure. Like a second heartbeat.”

You’re quiet for a beat, watching him.

“And you can feel it all the time?”

Another small nod.

You wrap the scarf tighter around yourself, pulse fluttering low. “Will it ever… stop?”

König doesn’t answer right away. He turns his head slightly, looking out over the city. His silhouette is massive in profile, but somehow still contained—like something trying to stay folded, despite the urge to unfold violently.

“Not unless I die,” he says eventually.

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“Will you hurt me?” you ask softly.

He stills.

Doesn’t flinch.

But you can feel the shift in him. Like the question cuts cleaner than anything you’ve asked before.

He turns toward you slowly.

The light hits his eyes through the slits in his mask.

They’re so pale they barely register as blue. More like shattered ice—cracked glass over something endless. Colorless in the center, with just the faintest ring of frostbitten blue around the edge. The kind of eyes you’d expect to find staring back at you from the wrong end of a rifle.

But they’re watching you now with something else.

Not threat. Not guilt.

Worry.

“I don’t know,” he says.

You blink. “That’s honest.”

“It’s the only answer I have.”

You nod slowly.

Then, without thinking, you say: “Your eyes are weird.”

He goes still again.

“What?”

“I mean it in a nice way,” you add quickly. “They’re not like anyone else’s. They don’t look real. Or maybe too real. I don’t know. Kind of like something cold that never melts.”

Silence.

You glance over at him.

His posture has changed—just slightly. Stiffer now.

“…König?”

He clears his throat. Shifts. And when he speaks, the accent catches harder in his voice, rough around the edges.

“Thank you,” he mumbles. “I think.”

You bite back a smile.

Was that a stutter?

“I didn’t mean it as a flirt,” you offer, smirking. “More like an observation.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “Still.”

Still.

You’re not sure what the rest of that sentence would’ve been. You don’t press.

Instead, you turn your head back toward the sky.

The wind’s picking up again. Just enough to make the foil crackle faintly beside your ear.

“You ever take the mask off?” you ask, quieter now.

He hesitates. Then:

“No.”

“Why not?”

Another long silence.

Then: “I don’t want to see what’s underneath.”

Something about that answer makes your chest ache.

You lie there, watching the clouds. Letting the cold settle deeper into your muscles, anchoring you to the roof. You don’t speak again for a while.

Neither does he.

You don’t realize how hard you’re shaking until you miss the zipper on your med pack three times.

The rooftop is too quiet. Not peaceful. Not safe. Just the kind of quiet that lingers after something violent. Like the city’s holding its breath and doesn’t know if it wants to exhale.

The Wraiths are dead. Or what’s left of them.

One is still twitching—its spine broken in three places, limbs jerking uselessly like a puppet mid-seizure. Another lies half-folded over the edge of the roof, leaking black sludge onto the concrete below. The third is barely recognizable.

And König stands at the center of it.

His shoulders rise and fall in uneven pulses. Not from exertion. From restraint. Like his body wants to keep going and he’s forcing it still. His hands—massive, gloved, slick with something that steams in the cold—hang loose at his sides, twitching just slightly at the fingertips.

You sink to one knee near the rusted air vent, sucking in thin, smoke-tainted air. Your thigh screams as the movement pulls open the cut you earned on the jump. You grit your teeth, tear open a sterile pad, and press it in place hard enough to make your vision swim.

When you glance up again—he’s staring.

Not at the Wraiths. Not at the blood.

At you.

The same way he looked at you when you first met. Like he doesn’t know if he should speak your name or swallow it.

His mask is splattered—black, red, flecks of yellow-green wraith matter. The eye slits glint dull blue in the half-light. His head tilts.

He takes a single step toward you.

You tense without meaning to. Not fear. Not exactly. Just readiness.

One hand curls instinctively toward your blade.

He stops.

His voice is low. Cracked. “Bist du verletzt?”

You blink. “What?”

“Verletzt,” he repeats, then slower. “Injured?”

You look down. Scrapes across your palms. Gash on your thigh. Bruising. You nod once, sharp.

König shifts his weight, as if he might kneel. Might help.

But he doesn’t. He backs off a half-step, like your blood on the air is dangerous. Maybe to you. Maybe to him.

“You didn’t have to… do that,” you say.

Your voice sounds wrong in your mouth. You don’t even know what you mean by it. Kill them? Save me? Unleash whatever the hell that was?

“I did,” he answers.

“Why?”

No reply. His gaze drops to your wrapped thigh. Lingers.

You exhale, slow. “Let’s go.”

He follows.

No sound but his boots, heavy behind yours, echoing through the bones of the ruined city.

———

The street feels abandoned by gravity.

You pass the husk of a fire-gutted transport truck. Its tires are melted to slag, its cargo bay peeled open like a can. Beyond it, half of a transit station juts from the earth at an angle, as if the ground tried to swallow it and failed.

Signs are faded. Structures lean. The sky above you is a slate bruise, cloud-thick and heavy with a threat that hasn’t yet decided if it’s storm or smog.

North. Always north.

König is six paces behind you. Still trailing like a ghost with too much weight. When you stop, he stops. When you look over your shoulder, he’s already looking back.

You duck into a low structure—once a city planning office, judging by the toppled drafting tables and wall maps curling with mildew. The interior is dark. Unstable. The floor creaks.

“Careful,” König warns from behind you.

You ignore him. “Yeah, yeah. Careful. I know.”

The next step is the wrong one.

The floor cracks open. Concrete gives like wet paper. You have one half-formed thought—Oh, shit—before the entire subfloor drops.

You fall with it.

Impact slams the breath out of your chest. You hit something slick, bounce, then crash down into cold, foul water. You go under.

It’s not deep, but it’s everywhere. It’s in your ears, your nose, your mouth. You drag yourself out coughing, spitting, gasping.

The space around you is a sunken sublevel—old maintenance or filing offices. Broken tile. Rusted pipes. A half-flooded trench runs through the center like a ruptured vein. The water’s cloudy, iridescent in places. Pale threads pulse faintly beneath the surface.

Your body seizes with cold.

Then—another crash.

König drops down behind you like a landslide. Hits the ground in a crouch and rises fluidly, head snapping toward you.

He sees the water. He sees you in it.

And he freezes.

“Get out,” he says.

You’re already hauling yourself up onto a pile of broken chairs.

“I’m fine,” you snap. “Relax.”

He doesn’t relax.

His whole body stiffens, breathing ragged through the slats of his mask. He paces once. His gloves flex. He won’t come near the water. Not yet.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He turns toward you slowly. His eyes catch the low emergency light bleeding in from a broken vent above.

“Water is bad,” he says. “Sick.”

You glance back. The surface of it shifts—not like water should. Something in it glows in the wrong color spectrum. Blue, red, but oily. Twisting. Like it’s not reflecting light, but eating it.

“What kind of sick?” you ask, quieter now.

“Viral. Blood-carried. Bio-contaminants.”

“And that stuff in the water—?”

“Carriers. Sometimes dormant. Sometimes not.”

You look at your soaked legs. Your arms. You didn’t swallow it—but you definitely weren’t untouched.

Your throat feels tight. “Am I infected?”

“No,” he says too fast. Then hesitates. “Not from this. Not yet.”

You stare at him. “But you knew the second I stepped in it, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches you.

And keeps watching.

His body language is off. Subtle, but there—his jaw tight beneath the mask, breath shallow, weight shifting between his feet. Like he’s locked in place only by effort.

That’s when you realize: it’s not just the virus he’s worried about.

It’s you.

Your blood. Your scent. His proximity to it, soaked into your clothes, clinging to your skin.

Your hand finds your knife without thinking.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

His answer is low. Guttural. Like it’s pulled from the back of his throat.

“Not for long.”

That chills you more than the water.

You nod toward the wall ahead, where part of the structure has caved in, revealing a maintenance corridor still mostly intact.

“There’s no way back up.”

“I know.”

“So we go forward.”

He nods, still not looking directly at you.

You wring out your jacket, water running in rivulets down your fingers.

The corridor yawns open ahead—narrow, black, ribbed with old metal piping and collapse-scarred walls. A former maintenance shaft, maybe, or some forgotten access tunnel used to ferry security personnel when this city still had order. Now it smells like rust and wet insulation. Like the last breath of something left behind.

You shiver as you step into it.

The walls are slick. Water drips from above, tapping the broken floor in an irregular rhythm—tick, tick-tick, tick. Echoes bounce ahead of you like footsteps not your own.

Behind you, König follows—his boots almost soundless, but you can feel him. He takes up too much space even in silence. Even in shadow.

You glance over your shoulder. His posture’s tighter now. More rigid. He walks like he’s containing something in his chest, and the narrowness of the tunnel makes it worse. There’s no room to not breathe the same air.

“Claustrophobic?” you ask, not unkind.

“No.”

Just that. No elaboration. His voice is duller now, almost flat.

But his hands are flexing again.

You say nothing.

Fifteen minutes of walking brings you into a sublevel checkpoint—twin doors pried open by some long-dead survivor, scorched gunmetal twisted and blackened. One of the walls inside is scorched with a handprint. The other’s been overrun with something biological—not fungal, not viral. Just old mold and decay. It crawls up the plaster in long ribbons.

You find the supply locker in the corner.

Still sealed. Padlocked.

König steps up behind you.

You glance at him. “You want to try?”

He nods once. Raises one boot, and in a single motion, slams it into the lock.

It snaps like a tooth.

Inside, there’s not much. A half-frozen bottle of water. Some plastic-wrapped rations—chewy protein sludge with no expiration date. A packet of flares. A compact medkit sealed in military plastic.

But at the bottom, you find the thing that makes your heart stutter:

A thermal blanket. Still rolled. Still silver. Still clean.

You turn it over in your hands.

Outside, you can hear the wind picking up again. Howling through the fractures in the upper levels like a beast trying to sniff its way inside.

You glance toward the cracked stairwell that leads deeper underground. Then back at König.

“We can’t go back up,” you say.

“No,” he agrees.

“It’s going to get cold.”

He looks at you like he knows exactly how cold.

You make camp in the most intact section of the tunnel—wedged between two cement support beams and what was once an electrical panel. There’s enough flat ground to sit, enough height to not feel buried alive.

The wind outside turns from voice to scream.

You’re already shaking. The water in your boots never fully drained. Your sleeves are still damp. The chill is crawling into your spine.

You light a flare, set it into a rusted pipe fitting. It burns red, casting the walls in devil light.

König stays across from you.

Silent.

The air between you is heavy again. Not with threat—but with something worse. Something quieter. A pull. A pressure. Like the space wants to collapse between you and is just waiting for one of you to give it permission.

He hasn’t taken off his gear.

You can’t stop thinking about the blood on his mask. The wet line of it that trickled down over his collar, soaking into the scarf.

“You’re still bleeding,” you say.

“No.”

“You are.”

He looks down. Shrugs one shoulder. “Not mine.”

You swallow and look away.

After a long minute, you offer him one of the ration bars. He doesn’t move.

“Not hungry?”

His voice is quieter now. “Not for that.”

Your hands still.

You should hate him for saying that. You should be afraid. But the words don’t come out angry. Or mocking.

They come out like confession.

You break the bar in half anyway and eat yours without looking at him. It tastes like wet sand and iron supplements.

Eventually, your teeth start to chatter.

You curl tighter into yourself, wrapping your arms around your knees. You try to rub some warmth into your shoulders, but it’s not working. The wet has sunk in deep.

König shifts.

“Give me your pack.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll dry it.”

You hesitate, then hand it over. He pulls it open, lays it flat beside the flare. The warmth isn’t much, but it’s enough to start drying the straps.

Then he does something unexpected.

He unhooks his own scarf.

You watch, stunned, as he peels it back and folds it slowly—carefully—then tosses it to you.

“Dry your hands,” he says.

You hesitate.

But take it.

It’s warmer than you expected. Smells faintly of metal, blood, and… something else. Cold cotton. Distant fire.

You dry your fingers. The tremble lessens.

He watches you the whole time. Not moving. Barely breathing.

“You don’t have to help me,” you say.

His voice is quieter than the wind now.

“You smell like something I want to remember.”

Your heart kicks behind your ribs. You don’t know what to do with that.

You unfold the thermal blanket. It’s barely wide enough for one person.

You meet his eyes across the flare.

“I’m not dying from hypothermia tonight,” you mutter. “So unless you plan on standing guard in subzero—”

“I’ll stay close,” he says immediately. Too fast. Like the idea of being invited wrecks him more than being denied.

He crosses the space. Lowers himself down beside you.

Not touching. But close enough that your shoulders nearly brush.

You pass him the edge of the blanket.

His gloves hesitate. Then, gently, he tucks the corner between his arm and side.

You both sit like that. Listening to the flare burn down. Listening to the wind scream.

You don’t speak. Not for a long time.

But your eyes drift closed, and when your head lolls sideways, it lands against something solid and warm.

He doesn’t move.

You wake to warmth.

Not the comfortable kind. The kind that clings. That feels like a fever trying to crawl out of your skin.

The flare has long since burned out. The red light is gone, swallowed by shadows. But there’s still a low glow nearby—dim and pulsing. The last of the emergency power humming through a junction box across the tunnel, casting the walls in an amber haze.

You try to shift.

But something solid is pressed against your side.

König.

You freeze. Breathing shallow.

He’s still beside you, massive and unmoving, crouched like a sentry built out of concrete and rage. But his arm—just barely—has curved around behind your back. Not touching, exactly. Just there. As if he’d hovered at some point in the night, instinctively, and then never moved again.

He’s still wearing the mask.

But you can feel the heat of him under all that armor. Like standing too close to a generator.

Your pulse trips.

Slowly, carefully, you lean back. Just enough to put a breath of space between your bodies. His arm twitches.

He wakes instantly.

No jolt. No noise. Just awareness. Like he never really slept.

His head turns toward you. The eye slits of his mask catch the dim light.

You blink up at him.

Then, quietly, “Were you watching me?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

No shame in it. No apology.

You push yourself up to sit, brushing your fingers through your hair. It’s damp at the roots, skin clammy with cold that never quite left.

Your breath ghosts out in front of you in the underground chill.

He shifts to sit beside you. Still close. Still too large for the space. His knees brush yours when he moves.

You tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders and mutter, “Hope I didn’t snore.”

“You didn’t.”

You glance at him. “So you were listening.”

He doesn’t deny it.

For a moment, the only sound is water dripping from a pipe somewhere above. A faint mechanical groan filters through the wall, like something buried in the sublevels still trying to turn on after all these years.

“I didn’t think I’d sleep,” you admit.

“You needed it.”

“You think I need a lot of things,” you say, half-smiling.

He doesn’t answer that. But he tilts his head—slightly, birdlike—like he’s dissecting something in your voice.

You sigh and start checking your thigh wound. The bandage is soaked through, but the bleeding’s stopped. You peel it away carefully, teeth clenched.

König reaches into his gear. Produces a sealed dressing. Offers it without a word.

You take it.

His gloves brush your fingers.

The contact is brief. Nothing more than an accident.

But it’s enough to make your breath catch.

You unwrap the fresh bandage. The edges are stiff. Your hands shake more than you want them to. Cold. Or adrenaline. Or maybe just him.

He watches.

Always watching.

“Ever been this close to someone without trying to rip their throat out?”

His reply is quiet. Immediate.

“No.”

That stops the air in your lungs.

You glance at him. His eyes are dark. Fixed on yours. And for a second, something slips between you.

Not threat.

Not desire, either—not exactly.

But hunger. Emotional. Physical. Something that doesn’t know how to live in his bones anymore.

You murmur, “You didn’t touch me. Back there. When I fell.”

“No.”

“Why?”

A pause.

His jaw shifts under the mask.

“I wanted to.”

That lands like a weight in your chest. Your hands freeze over the fresh dressing.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But the silence between you thickens. Heavy. Charged. Not hostile—but not safe, either.

He lowers his gaze.

Then stands. Fluid. Quiet. Like the conversation never happened.

You gather your gear slowly, heart still beating faster than it should. Your hands fumble more than they should.

Outside the tunnel, wind roars down through the cracks like the world is reminding you how small you are. Cold, violent. Directionless.

But you feel his presence beside you. Warm. Grounded.

He won’t say anything else.

He doesn’t need to.

The first thing I notice is the sound.

Not footsteps. Not voices. Not my own breath.

Whale song.

It thrums through the room in low vibrations, a sound too big for the walls to contain, mournful and alien, like it drifted in from another planet. It feels ancient, oceanic, like something calling out from a depth I’ll never touch.

I blink, staring up at a ceiling I don’t recognize. Off-white. A faint crack in the corner. Too clean to be one of the Blackwell dorms I’ve been in.

My head is a fist pounding against itself. My tongue tastes metallic. My stomach rolls every time I move.

Hungover, I think. Except it doesn’t feel like any hangover I know. This isn’t just tequila and bad decisions. This feels chemical, invasive, like something still in my blood.

My heart slams once in my chest.

Nathan Prescott’s room.

I know it before I want to. It’s in the weight of everything—the smell of expensive cologne and stale smoke, the faint hum of electronics, the curated neatness that feels too intentional. I shouldn’t know him well enough to know this, but I do.

I peel myself off the couch. My head still feels like it’s been hollowed out and packed with broken glass, but my legs work. Sort of. The couch leather sticks to the back of my thighs.

The room is spotless. Too spotless. Like a showroom, or a photograph of what a room should be. A black leather chair, a desk sharp enough to cut yourself on, shelves with books arranged for display rather than reading. Everything in straight lines. No warmth. No life.

On the walls: photographs. Not landscapes or portraits. Not even artsy still lifes. They’re people—blurred faces, distorted angles, bodies twisted in ways that make me feel like I’m intruding on someone else’s suffering. Not gore. Not explicit. Just… off. Like he hunted down the ugliest truths and pinned them to the wall like trophies. My stomach twists.

There’s a stack of DVDs tucked under his stereo. I crouch, fingers brushing their spines. Old horror films. Foreign arthouse. Titles I half recognize, others I don’t. The covers alone are enough—men screaming into voids, women tied in ropes, shadows devouring rooms. “Entertainment,” apparently.

I pull away, unsettled.

On the nightstand: pills. Bottles lined up like little soldiers. Antipsychotics. Mood stabilizers. Benzos. Half are empty, others half-full. Sharpie scribbles over the labels, dosages corrected in messy handwriting. A bottle of whiskey shoved behind them, cheap but not cheap enough, amber catching the dim light.

My fingers shake as I pick one bottle up. Rattling. Heavy. I put it down fast. Like it might go off in my hand.

I move to the desk. A laptop glows faintly, lid cracked. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But the curiosity outweighs the fear.

The inbox is open. Unread emails.

The first is from Sean Prescott.

You’ve been given every resource. Blackwell. Jefferson’s mentorship. The family name. I won’t tolerate another failure. Do not embarrass me again.

My chest tightens.

You’re a disgrace. Your sister already surpasses you. I expect results, Nathan. Enough excuses.

I shut it, then open it again. I don’t know why. The words sting, and they’re not even mine.

Another email sits below it. From Mark Jefferson.

Nathan, I know it’s difficult, but this is the path you chose. Greatness isn’t for everyone, but it can be for you—if you listen. No one else will understand you the way I do. You can’t afford another slip-up, not if you want to keep my trust. We’ll talk soon.

My skin crawls.

It’s written like encouragement, but it isn’t. It’s a leash. Sweet words with barbs inside them. Creepy.

I close the laptop, harder than I mean to. The sound cracks across the room.

My thoughts churn, heavy, uneven. The photographs, the drugs, the emails—they all stack into something unbearable. Something that makes sense of him in ways I don’t want to admit.

Nathan Prescott, with his sharp edges and sharper moods.

Nathan Prescott, everyone’s favorite monster.

Nathan Prescott, trapped in a cage so clean it gleams.

I rub at my temples, fighting the nausea crawling up my throat.

This isn’t a dorm room. It’s a glass box. A perfect display of someone who’s coming apart.

And I can’t decide what scares me more—how much of him is in the room, or how much of the room is in him.

⸻

I make it to the door before catching my reflection in the hallway mirror.

I look wrecked. Mascara smeared, hair wild. I smell like alchohol, like cigarettes, like the party.

No way I can walk into class like this.

The showers. If I cut across the courtyard, I can wash this off, hide it, pretend none of this ever happened.

I left Nathan’s dorm before the sun was even fully up.

The hallway was still, the kind of silence that clings to early mornings in places meant for noise. My footsteps on the tile echoed louder than they should have, too loud, like they were announcing me. Every door I passed looked like it might swing open and catch me red-handed: the new girl, hair a mess, last night’s sweater hanging off one shoulder, tiptoeing out of Nathan Prescott’s room.

God.

My chest was a vice of shame and panic, but I kept moving. No one could see me. If no one saw me, it didn’t happen. That was the rule.

The air outside bit cold against my damp skin, sharp enough to wake me but not enough to clear the fog behind my eyes. The quad was empty—mercifully empty—but I still hugged the shadows, crossing like I was dodging spotlights.

When I slipped into the girls’ dorm, my hands were shaking.

I didn’t breathe until I reached my door. Inside, my room was still and untouched, bed neatly made, desk stacked with notebooks and pens, my sweater folded on the back of the chair. The normalcy of it, waiting for me like nothing had happened.

I tossed my shoes under the bed and grabbed the essentials: my shower caddy, clean jeans, a sweater, underwear, socks. I stuffed it all into a tote bag like I was stealing my own belongings. Then I checked the hallway again—empty—and hurried toward the showers.

⸻

The dorm bathroom was thick with steam, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. I claimed the farthest stall, set my things down, and stepped under the spray.

The first hit of hot water almost knocked me down.

It wasn’t relief. It was punishment. The scalding stream beat down on my head, my shoulders, the sore spot along my temple I didn’t remember earning. I pressed my palms against the tile and let the water run over me until the sting blurred into something numb.

I tried to reconstruct last night, but the pieces wouldn’t fit.

The party came back in fragments: Dana laughing as she pulled me into the crowd. Music like a second pulse, heavy enough to drown my own. Someone shoving a red cup into my hand, the burn of liquor sliding down my throat, another drink I hadn’t asked for.

After that—it was static.

Faces blurred. Voices warped. I remembered sitting down because the floor felt safer than the air. I remembered someone’s hand on my arm. Nathan’s? His voice maybe. Low, sharp, threading through the fog. Then—the dorm guard’s flashlight, slicing across the lawn. The sick drop in my stomach when I realized I couldn’t go back.

And then Nathan’s room.

The hum of his laptop. The faint smell of weed and something chemical underneath. Whale songs, of all things, filling the silence.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My stomach flipped.

What had happened between the gaps?

I scrubbed at my skin until it stung, until it looked raw. No amount of soap could wash away the not-knowing.

When I finally shut the water off, I was dizzy, my head heavier than before. I wrapped myself in the scratchy towel, wiped the mirror clear, and forced myself to look.

Bloodshot eyes. Wet hair clinging to my temples. A faint bruise by my hairline.

Never again.

The words felt hollow in my mouth, but I repeated them anyway as I pulled on my clean clothes, stuffed my wet hair into a bun, and packed my caddy. Jeans, sweater, sneakers. Invisible. Just another student heading to class.

The hallway outside was alive now—voices, laughter, the clatter of doors shutting. I kept my head down, moving fast, hoping no one noticed me. Hoping I could make it back to my room before anyone—

“Jackie.”

I froze.

Victoria stood by the door to the showers, arms crossed, eyes sharp even in the washed-out dorm light. She looked flawless, of course. Hair smooth, eyeliner crisp, blazer tailored within an inch of its life. Like she’d slept twelve hours and not attended the same party I had.

My heart stuttered.

“Where were you this morning?” she asked. Not sharp, not cruel—concern disguised in her even tone.

My throat tightened. “There was—” My voice cracked. I cleared it. “There was a security guard I guess. I couldn’t get back inside. I had to… go with Nathan.”

Her brows lifted, but not in surprise. Like she already knew.

“Prescott,” she said, flat.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just studied me, gaze too steady, too knowing. I braced for the smirk, the daggered remark she wielded better than anyone.

Instead, she sighed. “You don’t remember much, do you?”

The words scraped something raw in me. I forced myself to meet her eyes and shook my head. “Not really. It’s all… blurry.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You were roofied, Jackie.

“I—what?”

“I saw it happen. One second you were fine, the next you were gone. I couldn’t take you back here. Nathan was there. He carried you out.”

My skin crawled, every hair on my body standing on end.

“I—was I—” My throat closed. “Was I bad?”

“You weren’t yourself,” she said, tone softer now, almost careful. “But Nathan didn’t touch you. He just got you out.”

Relief crashed into me so fast it made me sway. My knees nearly buckled.

“I—thank you,” I whispered, voice breaking.

Victoria’s mouth curved, not quite a smile but close. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t let it happen again. The Vortex club isn’t forgiving. You can’t afford to be careless.”

I swallowed hard, nodding. “I know. I won’t.”

For a beat, we just looked at each other. No barbs, no games. Just a thread of something quieter—respect, maybe. Or recognition.

Then she stepped aside, her tone brisk again. “Go. You’ll be late.”

I clutched my bag tighter, straightened my sweater, and forced myself forward—toward class, toward normalcy, toward daylight.

But her words echoed after me with every step: You were roofied.

⸻

The clock was merciless.

Every tick seemed to echo against the hall as I bolted down the corridor, shoes slapping the linoleum. My notebook dug into my arm, the strap of my bag sliding off my shoulder no matter how many times I yanked it back up.

It was already past noon. Way past the time Jefferson expected his students—his artists—to be sitting pretty and prim in their desks, poised like mannequins waiting to be posed.

My stomach churned as I shoved the classroom door open.

Thirty pairs of eyes flicked toward me, every head swiveling like I’d just dragged a megaphone in with me. My hair was still damp, clinging against the back of my neck; I’d rushed through drying it, pulling it into something resembling neatness, but I could feel strands sticking. The lavender scent of the showers clung sharp on me, too clean, like I was trying to wash the night off.

Jefferson stopped mid-sentence at the front of the class. His gaze cut clean across me. The corners of his mouth tugged into that small, rehearsed smile that wasn’t a smile at all.

“Well,” he said smoothly, hands sliding into his pockets like a model on a magazine cover. “Glad you could finally join us, Miss Harlow. I was starting to think Blackwell’s rules didn’t apply to you.”

A ripple of laughter rolled across the room. Quick, sharp.

Heat seared my face. My throat was dry, my head still foggy from whatever had been in my drink last night, and all that came out was a thin, embarrassed:

“Sorry.”

Jefferson let it hang a beat too long before nodding toward the only open seat. “Don’t worry. We’ll catch you up. Have a seat.”

My pulse was a drum as I scanned the rows. Of course it had to be near him.

Nathan Prescott sat slouched in the middle row, his body taut with a jittery energy that made the air around him feel unstable. His leg bounced restlessly under the desk, rattling it against Hayden’s beside him. He wasn’t even pretending to take notes—just drawing erratic lines on his paper, scratching too hard. His face was pale, his jaw clenched.

Hayden spotted me, waved with that laid-back grin that always seemed permanently plastered on him. “Hey, Harlow,” he whispered loudly enough for a couple heads to turn. “We saved you a seat.”

Saved me a seat. Like I belonged. Like it wasn’t the last seat available.

I forced a smile and slid into the desk beside Hayden, acutely aware of Nathan right there, radiating static. He didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked on Jefferson, unblinking, a glare sharp enough to cut.

Jefferson started pacing again, picking up his lecture like the interruption had been part of the performance all along.

“Photography,” he said, gesturing dramatically toward the screen behind him, where black-and-white prints filled the projection, “isn’t about replication. It’s about translation. About seeing. About choosing what truth to put in the frame. Every shot is a confession of the photographer, not the subject.”

He prowled the room with practiced elegance, his words rolling out like a sermon.

“You think you’re documenting life? Wrong. You’re shaping it. Editing it. Presenting a story of yourself every time you click that shutter.”

Pens scratched across notebooks. Fingers tapped on keyboards. I tried to keep up, my own pen poised, but my brain felt like sludge. Normally, I’d be cataloguing every word like scripture. Now, it all sounded like static.

Nathan’s knee kept thumping the underside of the desk. Thump-thump-thump. My pen jittered across the page every time.

Jefferson’s eyes swept the room again, and they landed on me. Too sharp.

“Miss Harlow,” he said. “Since you’ve made such a dramatic entrance, why don’t you contribute? Tell us—what’s your take on today’s reading? You did read it, didn’t you?”

The blood drained from my face. Of course I’d read it. I always read everything. But the fog in my head, the leftover haze of last night’s drugged blur, made the words vanish.

“I—” My voice cracked. A few students chuckled under their breath.

I forced it steady. “Yes. I read it. The author was saying… that photographs aren’t neutral. They always reflect the photographer, not just the subject. That… we’re always choosing what story to tell.”

A safe answer. True. But Jefferson’s smile tilted in that way that said he wasn’t impressed.

“Adequate,” he said simply, before gliding on with his lecture.

Adequate. Like I was a half-finished assignment.

A sharp crack split the air. I jerked. Nathan’s pencil had snapped in two between his hands.

Jefferson didn’t even look at him. But I did. His face was stone, his eyes still locked on the teacher with something burning behind them. Rage. Or something worse.

⸻

The lecture dragged on, every word dripping with Jefferson’s trademark blend of charm and condescension. He pointed at images on the screen: war photography, portraits, landscapes. Every photo an excuse to wax poetic about “integrity” and “vision.”

When the bell finally rang, it was like air returning to a suffocating room.

Chairs scraped, bags zipped. Students filed out in little clusters, voices rising again now that Jefferson wasn’t hovering over them.

Hayden stretched so hard his hoodie rode up a little, then slouched back in his seat like the dismissal hadn’t applied to him. He glanced over his shoulder at me, his grin crooked but softer than usual.

“Hey, Harlow,” he said, like he was testing the ground. Then his voice dropped, the joking edge stripped away. “About last night—shit got outta hand. I didn’t realize people were passing around… whatever the hell they were. Shouldn’t have been like that. Sorry you had to deal.”

The words were casual on the surface, but Hayden wasn’t looking at me like it was casual. His eyes flicked over me—checking, gauging.

I managed a tired smile, though my stomach was still knotted. “It’s fine. Really.”

It wasn’t fine. Not at all. But what was I supposed to say? Yeah, I think I was roofied, thanks for hosting?

My hand stilled on the zipper of my bag. I hesitated, then forced myself to look sideways. Nathan was still at his desk, hunched, stuffing his notebook into his bag with jerky, angry motions. His leg bounced, heel hammering the floor.

“And…” My voice felt too loud. “Thanks. For helping me back to the dorms. I don’t remember much, but—”

Nathan’s head snapped toward me so fast it startled me.

His eyes were bloodshot, glassy but sharp at the same time, like a fever that refused to break.

“Don’t,” he cut in flatly. His voice cracked at the edges, low but vibrating with some raw current under it. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

I blinked. “I just—”

“Seriously.” His tone sharpened, defensive, almost biting. “Don’t make it a thing, alright? You don’t… you don’t need to thank me. Just—leave it.”

The silence that followed was brittle.

Hayden frowned, leaning forward between us like he was trying to smooth it over. “Dude, relax. She’s just saying thanks. Normal people do that, y’know.”

Nathan shot him a glare, jaw tight. “Shut up, Hayden.”

“Jesus, man,” Hayden muttered, raising his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes lingered on Nathan with something closer to unease. “Didn’t mean to set you off.”

Nathan exhaled sharply through his nose, shoving his chair back like it had offended him. The metal legs screeched across the floor.

I watched him, my words stuck somewhere between my throat and my chest. He wouldn’t look at me again.

The dismissal was sharp enough to sting. My mouth opened, ready to argue, but Jefferson’s voice slid in before I could breathe a word.

“Nathan. Stay a moment. We need to talk.”

It wasn’t a request.

Nathan stiffened, the way a cornered dog might — twitchy, dangerous, half-ready to bite. For a heartbeat, I thought he might pretend he didn’t hear. Then, with jerky, angry movements, he shoved his notebook into his bag, nearly tearing the spiral, and stalked toward the front of the room.

I lingered. Pretending to shuffle papers, to gather my things, to exist in that vague student limbo after class. But really, my ears were straining.

Jefferson’s voice dropped, pitched low, but his smoothness carried through the empty room. That voice — practiced, warm on the surface, but with something metallic underneath. “We’ve talked about this, Nathan. You need to stay in control. No more outbursts.”

Nathan’s reply was too quick, too low for me to catch, a string of angry syllables swallowed before they reached me.

Jefferson leaned in. I couldn’t see his eyes clearly from where I stood, but I could feel the way they sharpened. His tone was silk, but silk stretched over steel. “You want to stay in this program, don’t you? Then prove you can handle it. Otherwise…” He let the pause linger, like a blade held just above skin. “You’re wasting my time.”

My skin prickled. The fluorescent lights hummed loud in the silence that followed.

Nathan’s fists curled at his sides, knuckles white. His shoulders were wound so tight it looked painful. For a split second, I thought he might actually swing at Jefferson — that raw, twitching violence crackled off him.

Instead, his head dropped. He muttered something I couldn’t hear.

Jefferson didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. He just straightened his tie with an unhurried grace, as if disciplining Nathan Prescott was no different than adjusting a camera lens.

“That’s better,” he said, so quiet it almost wasn’t meant for me. Then, louder, pleasant again: “Remember, Nathan, art is discipline. Without it, you’re just noise.”

The words dripped with the kind of calm that made my stomach turn. A teacher’s advice dressed up neat — but underneath, it sounded like control. Ownership.

Nathan stalked past me, shoulders still tight, face pale with fury. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at anyone.

I stood frozen, papers limp in my hand, as Jefferson’s eyes finally flicked my way. He smoothed his tie again — a tiny, needless gesture — and smiled like nothing had happened.

“See you tomorrow, Miss Harlow,” he said, cool as glass.

I nodded automatically, my throat dry.

By the time I slipped out the door, my heart was hammering.

And for reasons I couldn’t name, the look on Nathan’s face stayed burned in my mind all the way across campus. Not just the anger — but the defeat. The way it seemed like Jefferson had taken something from him in those few minutes, and Nathan hadn’t even realized he’d handed it over.

⸻

The air outside was crisp, the kind of thin coastal autumn chill that slipped under collars and made your lungs sting when you breathed too deep. Sunlight cut across the courtyard, bright but cold, casting long shadows of students streaming between classes.

I hugged my notebook to my chest and tried to shake Jefferson’s voice out of my head. Adequate. That smug tilt of his smile, the way the word had landed like a stain I couldn’t scrub out.

But there wasn’t time to wallow.

Because they were all there—my so-called circle, the Vortex orbit—clustered near the fountain like they’d been waiting for me.

Taylor spotted me first. She was perched on the fountain edge, blonde glossy hair perfect as ever, phone in hand, her sharp eyes cutting up from the screen. “Well, look who finally emerges from the Prescott dungeon.”

My stomach clenched. She didn’t mean it cruel, not entirely—it was Taylor’s way. Half-joke, half-needle, testing for weakness.

Dana turned immediately, her brows lifting. “Jackie!” She got up, ponytail swishing, crossing to me like she was ready to wrap me in a hug. “Oh my god, are you okay? Last night—you scared us.”

Zach was there too, leaning against the fountain with his basketball tucked under one arm. His grin was practiced, lazy, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. “Yeah, Harlow. You just ghosted. One second you’re fine, next second—poof.”

Courtney hovered a step back, hands clasped around her binder, looking guilty. “Victoria said you weren’t feeling well. I didn’t know if—”

“—If you’d, like, died,” Taylor cut in, arching a brow.

“Taylor,” Victoria’s voice sliced across, cool and commanding. She stood a little apart from the group, arms folded, her expression unreadable. “Not funny.”

They were all staring at me. Waiting. And suddenly I was back under Jefferson’s scrutiny, only this time it was worse—these weren’t teachers. These were my friends, the people who defined whether you mattered at Blackwell.

I forced a smile, the polite one, the armor. “I’m fine. Really. Just… too much last night. I didn’t realize some of those drinks were stronger than they seemed.”

“Uh, understatement,” Dana muttered, eyes soft with concern.

Taylor gave me a once-over, sharp and assessing. “You don’t look fine. You look like…” She stopped herself, then shrugged. “You look like you had a night.”

I laughed lightly, like it was no big deal. “Didn’t we all?”

“Not like you,” Zach said, smirking. He tossed the basketball between his hands, casual. “You were gone. Like, spaced. Prescott had to drag you off before you faceplanted.”

Heat prickled at the back of my neck. I glanced at Victoria, but she was already shaking her head, hair gleaming in the sun. “Nathan took her back because I asked him to. The guard was making rounds. She couldn’t go back to the girls’ dorms without risking trouble. It was the only option.”

The way she said it—firm, almost protective—made something in my chest loosen.

“Yeah,” I said quickly, nodding. “Exactly. I didn’t want to, you know, get written up or whatever. So… thanks, Vic. Really.”

Her eyes softened a fraction. “Don’t thank me. Just be smarter next time.”

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out, and the name on the screen made my heart lurch. Mom.

“Sorry, one sec,” I muttered, stepping a few paces away before swiping to answer.

“Jacqueline.” Her voice came crisp through the line, carrying that Monterey sharpness even from miles away. “I’ve been calling. How are you? How’s Blackwell?”

I swallowed. “Good, Mom. Busy. Classes are… intense, but manageable.”

“You sound tired.”

“I’m fine.” The word was automatic.

A pause. Then: “You’re not overextending, are you? You know how you get, trying to do everything perfectly. You need to take care of yourself.”

My throat tightened. “I’m fine,” I repeated, forcing brightness. “Really. Just—late night. Group project.”

Another pause, heavy with things she wasn’t saying. Finally: “Alright. Call me later this week. I want to hear more. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line clicked dead.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and rejoined the group, pasting on another smile.

“Mom check-in?” Dana guessed, tilting her head.

“Yeah.” My voice came out flat. I cleared it. “Anyway—what were you saying?”

Taylor leaned forward, smirk tugging at her lips. “We were saying tomorrow night, lowkey bonfire at the beach. Nothing crazy. Just… chill. You in?”

Zach grinned. “Yeah, you gotta come. Make up for bailing last night.”

Courtney added quickly, “It’ll be fun. Like, actual fun, not just Vortex mandatory fun.”

My gut twisted. The last thing I wanted was another night like last night. Another chance to lose control, to wake up in someone else’s room with gaps in my memory.

But their eyes were all on me. Expectant. Waiting to see if Jackie Harlow could keep her place in orbit.

“Sure,” I heard myself say. “I’ll be there.”

Taylor smirked knowingly. Dana looked relieved. Zach winked. Courtney practically beamed.

And Victoria—Victoria just studied me, unreadable, before giving the faintest nod.

That was it. Decision made.

You don’t hear them first.

You feel them.

Low—too low to be sound. A hum that sinks into your molars and doesn’t leave. Like the concrete is pulsing under your boots. Like something massive just shifted a hundred meters off, and the echo is still folding in on itself.

You kneel in a pool of old rainwater, half-soaked through, and press your fingers into the cracked asphalt to steady your balance. The road here buckled years ago, maybe during the riots, maybe from one of the firebombs. You don’t know. Doesn’t matter.

What matters is that it’s quiet now. Too quiet.

You exhale through your nose, slow. Listen. Wait.

No birds. No rats. Not even flies.

Just the wind hissing through broken glass, and somewhere, a soft wet drip that hasn’t stopped in hours.

Your hand tightens around the grip of your knife. You don’t draw it yet.

Instead, you slip into the pharmacy’s side door, shoulder-first.

---

It smells like old piss and bleach.

The metal shelves are mostly bare, half-collapsed, littered with cracked bottles and shredded cardboard boxes. Someone scavenged this place already. Maybe a year ago. Maybe a week. It’s hard to tell anymore. Blood dries fast, but spores don’t.

Your boots make almost no noise on the tile, but still—you wince every time your weight shifts. You keep your light low, red filter snapped over it. Just enough to catch the edges of labels, the shape of shelves, the corner of a steel cabinet pried open and left yawning like a mouth.

One drawer still locked.

You brace your knee against it and dig the crowbar in.

Metal gives with a shriek that turns your stomach. You freeze.

Count to ten.

Nothing moves.

You dig faster.

A cracked plastic medkit. Bandages. Two half-full bottles of amoxicillin. Some gauze pads still sealed. You shove them into your pack, careful not to rattle.

You’re zipping it shut when the shift happens.

Not a noise. A pressure.

Not like something entered the room.

Like something was already there and just stood up.

Your fingers hover over the zipper. You go still.

There’s breathing behind you.

Slow. Controlled. Just loud enough to register.

Not infected. Not feral.

Someone trying to be quiet.

You reach for your blade.

“Langsam.”

The voice is low, behind you. Calm. Not unkind.

You twist around fast, weapon drawn—

—and stop dead.

He’s already there, standing a few feet away in the aisle.

Not moving. Not holding a weapon. Just… watching.

Tall doesn’t cover it. The man’s a wall. Built like he belongs in power armor, and dressed like he never took it off. Every inch of him is covered—plate carrier, layered camo, tactical gloves, even a scarf looped up high to the jaw. But it’s the hood that pins you in place: dark, worn, draped low over a reinforced mask with no markings. No insignia. Just two slits where eyes flash dully in the half-light.

You can’t see skin. Not one inch of it.

“Wer bist du?” he asks, voice like gravel ground down to the bone.

Your knife stays raised.

“Back the fuck up.”

He doesn’t move.

“Not infected,” he says. Accent thick. German. “You neither.”

“Good for us.” Your eyes narrow. “Get out of my way.”

His head tilts.

“You’re bleeding.”

You glance down. Small cut across your knuckle. Nothing major. Barely leaking.

You look back up.

His eyes are fixed on it.

You tuck your hand behind you without thinking.

“Look, I don’t want anything from you,” you say, keeping your tone level. “Just let me walk out of here.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he says, like it’s fact.

You clench your jaw. “I’ve made it this far.”

“Stupid, then,” he mutters, almost to himself.

Your temper sparks.

“Who the hell are you to talk about stupid?”

At that, something shifts in his posture. Not relaxed—but looser. Not a threat.

“I was just here.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No.”

A beat. Then another.

“I’ll go first,” you say, slow. “You stay where you are.”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps aside—massive, deliberate, silent. Like the floor’s used to him by now.

You back away, eyes on him the whole time. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t follow. Just watches you reach the door and slip out into the alley, your pack heavy and your hands shaking.

It’s not until you’ve made it two blocks down, past the collapsed transit line and into the rust-thick maze of what used to be downtown, that you realize he’s still behind you.

Twenty feet back. Not speaking. Just walking.

You spin, breath caught in your throat.

He stops too. Doesn’t come closer.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing,” he says. “You’re heading north.”

“How do you know that?”

“There’s nothing south. Just nests.”

You hesitate.

He doesn’t push it.

You squint at him, heart still rattling in your ribs. He hasn’t drawn a weapon. His hands stay at his sides. The mask hasn’t shifted. He looks like a statue. Something left behind and forgotten.

Still. Something’s off. Too still. Too quiet.

You keep your pace steady. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to show you’re not afraid of him. Which is a lie.

Every time your boot scrapes the asphalt, you think about how silent his are.

You cut through the skeleton of what used to be a financial district—glass teeth jutting up into the darkening sky, the wind sharp with the smell of ozone and mold. A breeze carries the scent of something rotting five blocks away. Too old to chase, too fresh to be ignored.

You don’t turn around, but you know he’s still behind you. Not close, not touching distance. But near enough to make you feel his eyes on the back of your neck.

Eventually, the silence needles into you.

“Why are you following me?”

Nothing for a beat. Just the wind tugging at plastic tarps nailed down to collapsed storefronts.

Then he says, “I told you. North is safer.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Another pause.

You risk a glance over your shoulder. He’s there. Same as before. Hood pulled low. Mask shadowed. Still too much of him to take in all at once. You can’t stop picturing how fast he could close that distance.

“You think I need help?”

“I think you’re stubborn,” he says.

That surprises you. Just enough to glance again. His voice isn’t mocking—it’s quiet. Deadpan. Maybe even dry.

You snort under your breath and mutter, “Takes one to know one.”

His eyes flick toward you. Not humor, exactly. But something close to it. Recognition, maybe. The kind that makes you uneasy.

You climb over a collapsed balcony and drop down into a water-logged stairwell. The water hits your calves, cold enough to bite. You wince.

He follows without a sound.

You turn halfway, blade still in hand.

“What's your name?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Like he’s weighing whether it matters. Then:

“König.”

“Military?”

“Yes.”

“Still serving?”

He shakes his head.

You narrow your eyes.

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“No.”

“Why?”

His voice stays even. “Because I don’t.”

That’s it. No elaboration. Like you’re not worth more words.

You grit your teeth.

The stairwell opens up into the gutted interior of a hotel lobby, one side of it collapsed. You push through soggy furniture and a thick curtain of ivy until you find a dry enough ledge to sit and start checking your leg. The cut from earlier split open again during the jump. Not deep, but it’s bleeding enough to soak your sock.

You hiss through your teeth.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t offer help. Just watches.

His mask tips slightly as your fingers smear blood across your ankle.

“You smell it?” you ask, not looking at him.

A pause.

“Yes.”

You nod, jaw tight.

You tear a strip of cloth from your sleeve and tie it off.

“How long has it been since you ate?”

Still no movement.

You look up sharply. “Wasn’t a rhetorical question.”

His shoulders rise slightly, like he’s breathing in.

“Two days.”

“Is that normal?”

“For me? Yes.”

“And for—” You stop short. “You’re not human anymore, are you.”

It’s not even a question. Not really.

He tilts his head slightly. Like a bird listening to something through the wall.

“Not fully.”

You stare at him for a long moment. That half-second where the air feels charged, like a wire pulled too tight.

“What happens when you go too long?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you see it now—the way his gloved hand flexes and curls. The stiffness in his posture. Like he’s holding something in. Like he’s hungry.

You stand slowly. Sling your pack over your shoulder.

“I don’t trust you.”

“Good.”

His voice is sharp now. Not angry. But firm.

“You shouldn’t.”

That stops you. Something about the honesty in it. The lack of apology.

“Then why keep following me?”

He shifts.

Then says, almost reluctantly:

“You smell like something worth protecting.”

You go very, very still.

Your heart stutters behind your ribs.

“That supposed to be a compliment?”

He looks at you. Long. Quiet.

“No.”

Your fingers hover near your knife again.

Not because he’s said something threatening—but because he’s said too much.

What the hell does that even mean?

You back away a step, slow.

“Right,” you say, voice flat. “Because that’s not a creepy thing to say to someone you’re stalking through a dead city.”

König doesn’t react.

Just stands there, still as stone in his soaked-through boots, his breathing steady beneath the layers of armor and damp fabric. The mask doesn’t move. But you can feel his eyes on you.

Not hungry.

Not yet.

Just watching.

“Look,” you mutter, adjusting your pack, “you’re freaking me out. You say you’re not infected. You say you’re not one of them. But you won’t take off the mask. You won’t stop following me. You say shit like that.”

Still, he says nothing.

You click your tongue in irritation and start walking.

He waits a beat, then follows—quietly. He’s not hiding it anymore. Not pretending it’s a coincidence. He just trails you like your shadow decided it wanted to grow legs and follow you out of spite.

Your boots splash through ankle-deep water as you pass what used to be a bar. The stools are rusted to the floor. Bottles gone. Black mold creeps up the walls in feathering fingers.

“Why me?” you ask, not turning around.

He hesitates.

Then, almost too softly to hear over the dripping water:

“Du bist laut.”

You stop.

“What?”

He exhales like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“You’re loud,” he says again, this time in English. “Inside. You feel… full. Alive. I can hear it.”

You blink, unnerved.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “You’re definitely not human.”

He tilts his head again. You’re starting to hate that motion—like he’s dissecting you.

You push forward into the next building, not because it’s safe, but because you need space. Inside, the air is worse—warm and wet. Like breath trapped behind drywall. Fungi glow faintly along the baseboards, lighting your path in a sickly orange.

König steps in behind you.

The second his boots hit the tile, the air tightens.

You snap around. “No. You wait out there.”

He stops. Stiffens.

You watch him, heart in your throat, pulse hammering behind your ears.

“You said it yourself—I smell like something alive. And you haven’t eaten in two days.”

He doesn’t move.

You lift your chin, grip tightening on the knife.

“Tell me right now. If I cut my hand, would you still be standing there?”

A long, awful silence.

His gloves twitch at his sides. Flex once. His shoulders shift.

Then, through the mask, low and hoarse:

“Nein.”

That chills you more than anything else he’s said.

You swallow hard and back further into the room.

He stays at the threshold like a goddamn dog on a leash.

The glow from the fungus casts a weak halo around him, orange clinging to the edges of his mask and the shadows carved into his armor. He’s so still you start to think maybe he really isn’t breathing.

You crouch to check your bandage, speaking just loud enough to carry.

“So. What’s wrong with you?”

Another pause. Longer.

“I volunteered.”

That’s not what you asked—but you let him keep talking.

“Years ago. Before it spread. They wanted… stronger soldiers. Survivable. Fast.”

You glance up, watching the faint rise of his chest.

“They thought it could be controlled. Symbiotic.”

“And?”

His fingers twitch again.

“They were wrong.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t have to. You’ve seen the ones it takes over fully—the Wraiths. Skin gone red and raw, spines pushing through backs like knives, jaws too wide for any god to have designed.

But he looks—normal. Human-shaped. Mostly.

“Is it in your blood?” you ask.

He nods once.

“Does it… talk to you?”

He shifts his weight, slow.

“Not with words.”

You rise to your feet, wiping your palms on your thighs.

“So what happens if you go too long without blood?”

He doesn’t answer.

You stare at him, waiting.

Finally, softly:

“I forget what I am.”

König doesn’t move from the threshold, but you can feel the air shift again—thicker, heavier, like your breath has to shove its way out of your chest.

You’ve heard stories of people like him.

Half-turned. Not quite monsters, not quite men.

The military called them Wraithbound—early test subjects that didn’t die, but didn’t stay clean.

Most of them didn’t last long. Most of them broke.

So why hasn’t he?

You turn back toward the far exit, the one you know leads to the scaffolding and rooftop catwalks that’ll get you through the next zone without stepping into open street.

But his voice stops you again.

“Why north?”

You glance over your shoulder.

His mask is tilted just slightly, one eye reflecting dull light. You wonder what he’s trying to read in your silence.

“Supply drop,” you say. “Or what's left of one.”

That’s a lie.

The convoy sent a signal two weeks ago—last known coordinates, buried static, a last-ditch emergency flare. Not a full drop. Not even guaranteed. But something. Maybe survivors. Maybe fuel. Maybe answers. 

You’re not in the mood to explain all that to a stranger whose jaw twitches every time you bleed.

He follows.

Your boots hit the rust-slick stairs leading up to the rooftop, metal groaning under your weight. König’s steps are quieter than yours—too quiet. A man that size shouldn’t be able to move like that. But he does.

You scale the side of a collapsed billboard and come out onto the rooftop. The sky is burnt orange now, sun bleeding behind a wall of cloud cover, casting everything in rust and bruise.

Below, the city breathes slow and wrong.

The wind carries distant shrieking—feral, inhuman, layered. More than one voice. You crouch low, heart in your throat.

König crouches beside you, silent.

You whisper, “How many?”

He doesn’t speak. Just holds up two fingers. Then another. Then one more.

Five.

Five Wraiths below.

You watch them circle the collapsed buildings—tall, lean, red-skinned things with joints that bend wrong and mouths that stay open far too wide. Their limbs twitch like they’re listening to music you can’t hear.

Your hand slides toward your pistol. Slow.

König catches the motion.

“Don’t,” he murmurs.

“They’ll smell me eventually.”

“They already do,” he says. “But they don’t know what you are yet.”

You glance at him, breath caught.

His eyes flick to your throat. Just for a second.

The sound that breaks the stillness next isn’t natural.

A scream—cut short. Then another. Higher up. Close.

Not one of them.

Human.

You snap to attention.

There—two rooftops away, across the gap of a collapsed parking structure. Movement. Struggling. You see a flicker of a body—a survivor, maybe two. Being dragged. Limp.

A Wraith lurches into view behind them. Bigger. Less wild in the way it moves.

Your pulse spikes.

“Fuck.”

You move before you think, hooking your rope to the anchor still wedged into the frame of a rusted HVAC unit. You toss the line. It catches.

“What are you doing?” König’s voice is low, urgent.

You don’t look at him.

“Someone’s alive.”

“You’ll get yourself killed.”

You pause only long enough to snap back, “Then don’t follow me.”

You jump.

Your boots hit the other side hard, knees buckling. You stumble forward, drawing your knife just as the Wraith swings its head toward you.

Too late to hide.

It screeches—metal and rot—and charges.

You lunge sideways, sliding under its swipe, blade flashing. You carve deep into its thigh. It howls. Black blood sprays across the rooftop. The second Wraith is behind it, faster. You twist, bring the blade up, and—

It doesn’t land.

Because König slams into it from behind.

It’s not quiet. It’s not surgical. It’s a fucking collision. Like watching a car crash in human form. He throws the thing off the roof without slowing down.

The survivor—young, face smeared with blood—stares at you from behind a vent.

You shout, “Move!”

They bolt.

But the third Wraith is climbing over the edge now. Fast.

You turn. Raise your blade. Step forward—

König’s hand slams against your chest.

Not hard enough to knock you down. Just enough to sto

p you.

His voice is low. Too low.

“Stay back.”

Then he moves.

Not like a man.