Viktorâs lab is darker than she remembers. The lightbulbs overhead sputter and twitch, casting jagged shadows across the walls like broken glass. Itâs too quietâexcept it isnât. The stillness is suffocating, but her head is anything but still. The voices keep tearing through the silence, dragging claws down the raw edges of her mind. Mylo, Claggor, Vander, Vi. Louder, sharper, circling like vultures over a fresh corpse.
âAlone again, huh? Whatâd you think was gonna happen?â
âViâs gone. Silcoâs gone. Viktorâs gone too, more than likely.â
âDead weight. A jinx. Always have been.â
â SHUT UP! â she screams, her voice breaking as it ricochets off the walls, a ragged, desperate sound that rattles through the lab like a gunshot. Her hands grip her head, nails digging into her scalp, and for a moment, she almost canât tell where her skin ends and her veins begin. The shimmer has turned her into something elseâsomething alive with its own seething glow. It streaks beneath her pale skin like lightning, the veins around her eyes a deep, bruised purple that spiders outward.
She canât take this anymore. Her legs buckle, but she catches herself before she hits the floor, her chest heaving as she gasps for air. The voices roar louder, drowning out her thoughts, drowning out everything. Her glowing eyes dart around the lab until she spots the rafters above. High, quiet, dark. Away. She scrambles up the pipes like a feral thing, the metal groaning beneath her hands, until sheâs perched near the ceiling, limbs curled tight to her chest. Up here, the chaos feels a little more distant, but not far enough. Never far enough. She squeezes her eyes shut, burying her face in her hands as her whole body trembles. The static in her head hums louder now, sharp and electric, until it blurs into nothingness.
She disassociates . . . . .
And then, through the static, comes another voice.
Her eyes snap open, their violet glow piercing through the shadows, and for a moment, she forgets how to breathe. It sounded like him. It had to be him. But sheâs afraid to look. Afraid itâs just another trick of her own fractured mind. Another ghost to mock her, to taunt her, to remind her that sheâs alone. Her hands clutch the pipe beneath her, the metal creaking as her weight shifts. Slowly, she leans forward, peering down into the lab. And there he is.
His silhouette is strange, his skin gleaming like molten steel cooled too quickly. But it is him. Sheâs sure of it. It has to be him. Right? â Vik? â she croaks, her voice hoarse and raw, the syllable scraped across sandpaper. Her throat feels like itâs on fire, but she doesnât care. She just needs him to answer. Needs to know if heâs real. If anything is real. â Is that . . . really you? â
He doesnât disappear. She blinks. Heâs still there.
Without thinking, she moves, dropping from the rafters in a blur of motion. She hits the ground hard, her boots cracking against the concrete, but the impact doesnât faze her. Her back is to him as she lands, crouched low like an animal poised to spring. Slowly, she rises, straightening with a deliberate slowness as her shoulders pull back, her head tilting to the side. She glances over her shoulder, her glowing eyes locking onto him, unblinking.
Black streaks trail down her cheeks, dried makeup mingling with the faint shimmer of drying tears. Her lips part slightly, but no words come out. She takes him in, piece by piece, her mind struggling to reconcile what sheâs seeing. He looks different. Like heâs been remade into something new, something she canât quite understand. But she can empathize with the notion. The faint metallic sheen of his skinâhe looks like heâs been touched by the Hexcore itself. Like heâs become part of it. Or itâs become part of him. And despite herselfâdespite everythingâshe feels a flicker of awe.
Then, all at once, it hits her. The grief, the rage, the crushing weight of the past three days. She canât hold it back anymore. The dam breaks. In a single blur of unnatural speed, sheâs on him, throwing herself into his arms. â Youâre really here, â she says, her voice muffled against his chest. â You look really intense, but youâre really here, â she says again, her voice trembling, as if she needs to convince herself. â You are really here . . . right? â She has to make sure. â Your timing is either perfect or entirely fucked, I havenât really had time to process which one it is yet. â
