No stumbling, no hesitating. Just steady, certain steps down narrow side corridors lit by flickering wall panels and emergency lights that haven’t flickered on for anyone else. It’s like the Hulk recognizes him. Like it’s making way. Doors hiss open before we reach them. A ladder folds out without being touched. I swear one of the ceiling vents adjusts its trajectory so he doesn’t have to duck.
He’s notjustsurviving here.
He’spart of it.
A ghost king walking his haunted kingdom.
And I’m in his arms.
I peek up at him again, trying to get a better look. His jaw is all harsh lines and battle-scars. There’s one long scar across his cheek, jagged like it was carved with something rusty. His horns are small and symmetrical, swept back over his skull, not ornamental—functional. His arms are all corded muscle and subtle scales that shimmer dark crimson in the flickering light. Not like skin. Not like armor. Something in between.
The silence stretches. Too long. Toofull.
I can’t take it anymore.
“So,” I mumble, voice rough with nerves. “You gonna tell me your name or do I just keep calling you Beastly McMurderpants in my head?”
Nothing.
Just the low rumble of his breath and the softthunk-thunkof his boots on the grated floor.
“You’re not big on conversation, huh?” I try again. “That’s fine. I talk enough for two. Or five. Whatever.”
Still nothing.
A smirk flickers across my mouth—reflex. Habit. “Just for the record, this isnothow I expected this mission to go. Glitter in my hair, yes. Murder? Eh. Not on the schedule.”
We pass a panel where One Horn’s blood has smeared in a crooked trail. The scent hits me then—coppery and thick. My stomach twists. The image of his body crumpled on the floor flashes behind my eyes again. Limbs bent wrong. That awful,wetsound when the blade?—
I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe.
“You saved me,” I whisper, barely audible.
The moment I say it, I feel it sink in. Like reallysink.
He saved me.
Not Meyer. Not Bokis or Reflector. Not even Snarl.
Him.
The so-called monster in the walls.
And suddenly I feel safer here, in his arms, than I ever did with the people I hired to protect me.
“I don’t know why,” I say, louder this time. “But... thanks. For stepping in.”
Still no answer. But his grip tightens slightly. Just enough to feel it.
Reassurance?
Maybe.
Eventually, he slows. Turns. Pushes open a panel I wouldn’t have even noticed was a door if I hadn’t watched it move. The room he steps into is dark, but not cold. It smells like him—spice, heat, dust, old circuits. There’s a kind of... makeshift nest in one corner. Blankets, cloth scraps, a dented old food crate. A few dim lights glow blue along the wall. Nothing fancy. But... it’s ahome.
His home.
He kneels, easing me down gently onto one of the softer piles.
