The rain hadn't let up since the afternoon, and by the time John left, the entire apartment felt like it had sunk underwater. No goodbyes. No promises. Just the soft click of the door, and then nothing.
Lex sat in the dim, stale light of the living room. One of the bulbs above buzzed weakly before dying with a sigh. The power never fully went out, but the silence that followed made it feel like the city had turned its head.
He looked at the table. The fragment was still there. Not glowing. Not pulsing. But present. Watching. It made the air hum, just beneath hearing.
He double-checked the front door. Locked it. Then locked it again. Didn't help.
It was after midnight when he moved again, slow and stiff. Every bruise the creature left on him still throbbed like a drum. He shuffled to the kitchen, turned on the light. That sickly yellow glow turned the fragment's black surface almost purple for a second.
He picked it up.
It felt different now.
He turned it over in his hand, searching for something he couldn't name. The edges weren't as jagged anymore. Like it had changed while he wasn't looking. He pressed a finger to one of the smoother corners. Still cold.
The memory of the graveyard slipped in like fog. That moment when the blade formed from nothing—when something inside him reached out without asking permission. It had saved him, sure. But at a cost he hadn't tallied yet.
He pocketed the fragment and grabbed his coat. If the damn thing wanted something from him, maybe he'd give it just enough to see what it was.
The streets were slick and empty. Lights flickered overhead as Lex moved fast through alleys and shortcuts, his head down. A broken umbrella hung like a corpse from a lamppost. Somewhere, water spilled from a pipe and echoed like a laugh.
The construction site was right where he left it. A skeleton of concrete and steel at the edge of the city's memory. No one came here anymore. Too dangerous. Too forgotten. Perfect.
He slid under the fence and found cover beneath a half-collapsed metal awning. Piles of trash. Discarded buckets. Rusted tools. Nothing living.
Lex pulled out the fragment again.
"Come on," he whispered.
Nothing.
He crouched down, set it on a cracked slab of concrete, and stared.
"You did something before," he said, softer. "Do it again."
Still nothing.
He clenched his fists, jaw tight. He could feel the frustration settling into his shoulders, heavier than the rain.
His knuckles met the concrete beside the fragment. A dull ache shot up his wrist.
Then a flicker. Just around the edges. Barely there. But real.
Lex leaned in. His thumb brushed the surface, too hard this time. A bead of blood welled up and smeared onto the fragment's surface.
It drank it.
Not fast. Not like in the movies. But slow. Intentional. The surface shimmered like heat haze, then stilled.
Lex's breath caught.
There was a voice. Not one he heard, exactly, but one that filled the empty space behind his ribs. One word.
Release.
His body tensed. Like something cold had slipped into his spine and was wrapping around each bone, studying him from the inside.
Then came the shadows.
They moved up his arm, thin and alive. The shape of a weapon formed again in his palm—a blade, familiar and crude. It didn't hum with power. It hissed. Hungry. Like it wanted to be used.
Lex stood. Raised it.
He swung at a nearby slab. The blade bit deep. Concrete cracked. Dust flared.
Then silence again.
The blade vanished as fast as it had appeared. The fragment in his palm cooled, but the word remained. Not in his ears, but in his blood.
Release One.
He dropped to one knee, breathing hard. The rain was louder now.
"So you want blood," he muttered. "Or maybe fear. Or both."
He wiped the blood from his thumb onto his jeans and stared up through the hole in the awning. Water traced thin lines down his face.
He could feel it now. The fragment wasn't just sitting in his pocket anymore. It was in him. In his ribs. His spine. His bruises. His thoughts.
It was healing him, maybe. But feeding, too.
He picked up a broken pipe nearby, swung it experimentally. It was solid. Heavy. But compared to the blade?
He almost laughed.
He walked back through the fence, hood pulled low. The sky was turning grey with early morning. Lights in apartments flickered on, one by one. The world waking up.
His pocket buzzed again. Just for a second.
Not a sound. A feeling.
When he reached his street, he paused at the corner. His eyes found the hallway light above his door—it flickered, weak and irregular.
The city hummed around him. But underneath, he could feel something else. Not just the fragment. Something deeper. Older. Watching him. Waiting.
It wasn't in the shadows behind him. It was inside him. Or beneath the streets. Or beneath the sea.
He didn't know.
But for the first time, he didn't look away.