I had collapsed just before the door opened.
My eyelids remained shut, but my senses—still sharpened by the Infusion—picked up every vibration, every breath, every gesture. Like whispers echoing across a lake at night, subtle yet impossible to miss.
There were three of them. Two stayed further back, posted like shadows near the threshold. The third stopped in the doorway.
"He was right. That kid's unstable."
His voice was light, almost amused, as if he wasn't looking at a boy lying in a pool of dried blood, but rather a curious puzzle. Something broken, but still interesting enough to keep.
I felt his hands on my ribs. Big. Rough. Calloused. Yet... gentle. Far too gentle for someone in a place like this. He lifted me as if I were made of paper, careful not to tear what might already be torn beyond repair.
My body trembled uncontrollably. The pain from the Infusion still surged in waves, rolling under my skin like silent thunder. Fear crawled beneath it all, tight and hot in my chest. But I stayed limp, unmoving, feigning unconsciousness. Letting him carry me like dead weight.
The hallway we entered was quieter than before. The walls no longer echoed with screams, only soft, wet groans and the low shuffle of boots. Somewhere further down, metal clanked—tools or restraints being handled. Maybe both.
Behind every door we passed, someone else was enduring what I had. Someone else was being torn apart and rebuilt by something they didn't understand. Another Infusion. Another victim.
My carrier came to a halt. I sensed them before I heard or saw anything—two other figures stationed ahead, waiting. They said nothing. None of them did.
A rusty, agonizing creak broke the silence.
A door opened.
We passed through, my head lolling against his arm, and then he knelt. The ground that met my back was stone-cold, jagged. It bit into my skin without mercy.
Footsteps retreated. Another metallic click—the lock sliding back into place.
Silence again.
Only then did I open my eyes.
The light was dim and uneven, cast by a few dusty wall lamps that buzzed faintly. This room felt older, like a forgotten limb of the facility. The air smelled of mold and wet rust, and there was a stillness that wrapped around me like a damp sheet.
The walls were dull steel, discolored and covered in long trails of mildew. The floor, a patchwork of stone blocks, was cracked and uneven. Black roots or vines snaked through the gaps, pulsing faintly as if alive. It looked like the cell itself was being swallowed back into the earth.
I pushed myself up slowly, careful not to draw attention. My limbs were weak, every movement a quiet struggle. My breathing had settled, but my heart hadn't. It beat like a war drum behind my ribs.
Then I noticed him.
On the far side of the room, slumped against the wall, was another boy. He looked older than me—taller, broader—but curled in on himself like something wounded. His face was buried in his crossed arms, his back rose and fell in shallow shivers. Still breathing. Still alive.
Lance?
The name crashed into my thoughts before I could stop it. But I caught myself—no, it couldn't be him. Not like this. Not so broken.
I hoped it wasn't.
And yet... that fleeting hope was the clearest thing I'd felt in what felt like hours. The first thought untouched by pain.
Where was Lance now? Had he survived? Was he screaming behind one of those other doors, begging for it to stop like I had?
It was strange—being here, in this rotting cell, after everything—and still worrying about someone I barely knew. But Lance was different. He was the only thread I had to my old life. The only one who reminded me of home.
And for a moment, memories surged forward, colliding with the present.
I saw my sister's lifeless body, sprawled on the ground. My father's open eyes, staring at nothing. Blood on the walls. Blood on my hands.
I clenched my fists, forcing the images away. Not now. Not again.
I had to focus. I had to survive.
I looked again at the boy in the corner. He hadn't moved. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe, like me, he was pretending. And if he was in here... had he killed someone, too?
That thought made something twist in my stomach.
I backed away from him, crawling to the opposite corner, toward the deepest shadows. There, I sat—silent, watchful, curled around myself like a flickering flame about to go out.
My hands were still stained. A thin, orange film clung to my palms, the last trace of the man I'd consumed.
There wasn't much left of him. Not on the outside.
But inside... I felt it.
Like a seed. A rot. A weight that pulsed with heat in my chest. The stolen fruit—his essence—was still within me. It throbbed like a second heartbeat, alien and wrong.
I felt... hungry.
Not like hunger for food, but something deeper. Gnawing. Wild.
I could feel the fruit calling to me. Urging me to finish what I'd started.
But I couldn't. I wouldn't.
I'd already crossed a line I didn't understand. Even taking him had left a stain I could still feel. What would happen if I went further?
My stomach twisted again. I hugged my knees, trembling in silence.
After a while, the hunger dulled, replaced by exhaustion.
A long, reluctant yawn escaped me. My body grew heavier, my limbs sinking into the cold stone like roots into soil. The room wavered, blurred around the edges.
I didn't want to sleep.
Not because I wasn't tired—but because I was terrified of what sleep would bring.
Memories. Visions. That place between dreams and death where something else watched me. That version of me.
But sleep was pulling me down, slow and steady. My eyelids dropped like iron shutters, and my thoughts scattered into fragments.
I didn't want to go back there. I didn't want to see what waited for me.
But I had no choice.
Darkness took me.
And I slipped, once more, into a world I could neither control nor understand.
All I could do was hope to dream.