"Well?" he asked, his tone flat and exhausted, like speaking to me was just another weight on his shoulders. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a heavy thud that echoed in the small room, the bolt sliding back into place without him even looking. His eyes, that piercing gray, fixed on me with a cold assessment, scanning my injuries. Up close again,in the weak light, he looked even more frayed than last night, the dark veins under his skin standing out like cracks in marble, his stubble thicker, his posture rigid against whatever invisible strain pulled at him. He didn't move to help me up, didn't offer a hand or even a word of false concern; he just stood there, blocking the exit, waiting.
I pushed to my feet, ignoring the way the room spun for a second, and steadied myself against the wall. "Done? With what, your sick little game? Watching me bash my head against… whatever the fuck that is in the door while you hide like a coward?" My voice came out sharper than I expected, laced with the anger that kept me from crumbling. I wasn't going to let him see how much that invisible wall had shaken me, how it made everything feel unreal, like I'd slipped into some fever dream. But it was real, the pain proved that, and so was he, this man who'd dragged me here and now acted like I was the one wasting his time. I took a step forward, testing the distance, my hand slipping into my pocket to grip the glass shard I'd pocketed earlier. It wasn't much, but it felt like something, a reminder that I could still fight back, even if it was just words for now.
"Sit down," he said, pointing to the cot again, his voice low and controlled, but there was an edge to it, a weariness that sounded more like desperation than authority. He rubbed at his temple, wincing slightly, like a headache was building behind his eyes, and for a moment his gaze unfocused, listening to that inner nothing again. It made him seem unstable, like he was one wrong word away from unraveling, and that sharpened my resolve. If he was cracking, I could push harder, find the breaks.
"Why? So you can keep playing whatever sick joke this is? No thanks. How about you tell me what the hell that was at the door? Some kind of trap you set up to mess with my head?" I stayed on my feet, crossing my arms to mirror him, though it pulled at my bruised ribs and made me bite back a hiss.
He ignored my question, stepping closer, his presence filling the space until the air felt thicker, harder to breathe. "Your dreams," he said abruptly, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a chill down my spine. "Tell me about them. What do you see? What do you feel? A humming that vibrates in your bones?" The words came out clipped, almost urgent, like he was chasing answers he needed more than air.
I blinked, caught off guard, a laugh bubbling up despite everything. "My dreams? Are you serious? You drag me here, lock me in this dump, and now you want to… play therapist? What, is this your idea of bonding before you finish what you started in the alley?" I shook my head, stepping back to keep distance, my back brushing the wall. It felt manipulative, this sudden shift, like he was trying to disarm me with weird questions instead of threats. But there was no warmth in it, no fake concern; just that dark, probing stare, as if he was dissecting me word by word. And the way he leaned in slightly, his breath uneven, it didn't feel like cruelty for its own sake. More like he was grasping at straws, desperate for something only I could give, though that made even less sense.
"Answer me," he pressed, his voice dropping lower, irritation creeping in as he took another step, towering over me without touching. "Do old places feel wrong to you? Churches, old schools, ruins, stone walls covered in ivy? A pull, like you've been there before, but you can't remember why?" He fired the questions like accusations, each one stranger than the last, his fists clenching at his sides as if holding back from shaking the answers out of me. The exhaustion in his eyes deepened, shadows under them like bruises, and he glanced away for a split second, muttering something under his breath.
I met his gaze, refusing to look away, even as the questions unsettled me, stirring faint echoes of those dreams I'd pushed aside for years. But I wasn't about to hand him that, notwhen he gave nothing back. "Wrong? Like this warehouse feels wrong, you mean? Or like being kidnapped by a psycho with a sword feels wrong? Yeah, those feel pretty off.” He straightened, rubbing his neck where those dark veins pulsed faintly, and for the first time, his command sounded less like a threat and more like he was begging for silence without saying it.
"I’m not talking about tonight," he said, his tone clipped. "Flashes of familiarity. Mental visions. Have you had that? Chills that come and go without reason? Memories that don't fit, like they're from someone else's life?" He kept going, the questions piling up, each one more bizarre, his voice growing rougher with frustration as I stood there, silent and defiant.
"You're insane," I snapped, my anger flaring hotter, fueled by how his words poked at things I'd actually experienced – strange dreams, visions that always left me unsettled. "Or you're just screwing with me, asking this crap to keep me off balance. Well, it's not working. If you want answers, try giving some. Who are you? Why am I still alive? What's so special about me that you didn’t kill me?" I leaned forward, closing the gap he'd tried to maintain, my voice rising to match his intensity. The glass shard dug into my palm through my pocket, a small anchor, reminding me I had options if words failed. And as I pushed, I saw it register in his face, a subtle shift, like he realized I was starting to see the cracks, to sense that whatever power he held over me wasn't absolute.
He stopped pacing, turning to face me fully, his expression darkening, irritation boiling over into something colder. "You think this is a game to me? That I want you here?" His words came out harsh, partial and biting, revealing just enough to unsettle without clarifying. "You're alive because killing you... Nevermind. But push me, and that changes." There was no bluff in it, but the strain was there too, threading through his voicelike he was fighting more than just me, some internal war that made his threats ring hollow.
I laughed again, short and bitter, the sound echoing off the walls. "That's all I get? Fine, keep your secrets. But if you knew what was good for you, you’d let me go before it gets worse for you." I didn't believe he'd do it, not for a second, but saying it felt like reclaiming ground, turning his desperation back on him. He watched me closely, his gray eyes narrowing, and in that moment, I knew he'd caught on, sensed that I was probing his weaknesses just as he probed mine. The air between us thickened with it, a hostile standoff where neither of us could walk away, bound by questions neither wanted to answer. This wasn't ending soon, and as the realization settled, I understood we were stuck with each other, enemies in a cage of his making, each holding cards the other couldn't see.
8
XAVIAN
The warehouse door groaned shut behind me, the sound swallowed by the fog rolling in from the river, thick and cloying like a shroud over the industrial district.
I had left her there, her presence no longer the salve it had been in those first fragile days. At first, having her close had almost entirely muffled Virelya's incessant demands, granting me stretches of silence I had not known since the exile began, a quiet that let my thoughts uncoil without the blade's constant gnawing. But that had eroded, worn thin by the passing hours without a proper feeding, the whispers creeping back in whispers at the edges of my awareness even as she glared at me from the cot or spat questions I refused to answer.
I could not risk it anymore, could not let her nearness fool me into thinking I had control. The hunger was building again, a slow burn in my veins that her anomaly could no longer fully suppress, and if the blade wasn’t fed soon, the blackouts would come, erasing chunks of time and leaving bodies in their wake. So I had slipped out, leaving her secured, telling myself this separation was necessary, a return to the routine that had kept me alive in this forsaken world. The streets would provide, asthey always had, and distance from her would sharpen my focus, remind me of what I truly was without the illusion of peace she brought.
But as I moved away from the warehouse, each step pulling me farther into the labyrinth of cracked sidewalks and shadowed alleys, the mistake revealed itself with brutal clarity. The fog clung to my coat, damp and heavy, but it was nothing compared to the weight settling in my chest, a tightening that had nothing to do with the chill. I had misjudged it all, had let those days of relative quiet lull me into a false security, allowing her presence to become a crutch I did not even fully recognize until now.
The first block passed under my boots, the chain-link fences rattling faintly in the wind, and already the whispers stirred, not the faint echoes I had grown used to near her, but sharper, insistent, threading through my mind like vines choking a ruin.Feed,they murmured, the blade's voice a low vibration against my side where it hung sheathed, its hunger mirroring my own but twisting it into something monstrous.
My veins itched, the dark threads beneath my skin pulsing with renewed vigor, as if the separation had awakened them fully, spreading like ink through water. I clenched my fists, feeling the tremor start in my fingers, a fine shake that I could not will away, and cursed myself silently for the foolishness of it.
How had I let this happen? How had I allowed her to become the anchor holding back the tide, only to find that without her, the waves crashed in harder, more violent than before?
The industrial sprawl gave way to narrower streets, abandoned lots giving over to clusters of derelict buildings, their windows like empty eyes staring out from the gloom.
Two blocks now.
The hunger sharpened into a blade of its own, slicing through my gut with each breath, a hollow ache that demanded filling. Near her, it had been bearable, muted to a dull throb that letme think, let me question without the constant distraction of need. But here, alone in the growing dusk, it roared back with a vengeance, amplified by the contrast, making every sensation raw and immediate.
My vision blurred at the edges, not from fatigue alone but from the blade's influence seeping in, coloring the world in shades of red and shadow.
The whispers grew louder, no longer content to lurk but pushing forward, fragments of demands that overlapped and echoed.Feed. Now.
I shook my head, trying to clear them, but they clung, wrapping around my thoughts like smoke, making it harder to hold onto the clarity I had prized so much in her presence.
Fool, I thought, the word bitter on my tongue, fury rising hot and self-directed. I had weakened myself by relying on that quiet, had let it erode the vigilance that exile demanded, the iron will that kept the blackouts at bay. And now, with each step farther from her, I felt the slippage begin, the edges of my control fraying like old rope under strain.
Three blocks.
The city pressed in closer, the fog thickening to obscure the distant lights of downtown, leaving me in a pocket of isolation amid the urban decay. My legs moved on instinct, carrying me toward the underpasses and forgotten corners where prey was easiest to find, but the effort cost me, each stride pulling at muscles that screamed with exhaustion.
