The safehouse was silent except for the faint hum of old pipes and Ethan's breathing. He lay on the cot staring at the cracked ceiling, counting the tiny fissures branching like veins above him. His pulse was steadier now, but the hunger still lurked — a wolf pacing the edges of his consciousness.
Selene had left him alone for the first time since dragging him underground. The door's heavy latch clicked an hour ago; she said she was "checking the perimeter." But Ethan could feel her presence even when she wasn't there, a phantom weight in the room.
He rolled onto his side. The vial she'd given him sat empty on the crate beside him, a smear of dark residue clinging to the glass. His fingers hovered over it but didn't touch. It felt like a talisman — or a warning.
What am I becoming? he thought.
The Core didn't answer in words. It never did. It pulsed in his veins, a slow heartbeat, like a predator biding its time.
He pressed his palms to his eyes until he saw sparks of red light. "Stop," he whispered, not sure if he meant the Core or himself.
The latch clicked again. Selene entered soundlessly, a ghost with steel-gray eyes. Her jacket was damp from the drizzle aboveground, hair clinging in dark strands to her cheeks. She looked… human, for once. Tired.
"You're awake," she said.
"Couldn't sleep." His voice was rough.
Selene set a small bag on the table — weapons glinting inside, more vials of synthetic blood, a folded map. "No movement topside. We're clear for now."
He sat up slowly. "You always sound like a report."
One of her eyebrows lifted. "You'd rather small talk?"
He almost smiled. "Maybe."
Silence stretched between them. Selene began checking her weapons methodically, but her eyes flicked to him once, twice — a rhythm he was learning to read. She was measuring him. Always measuring.
He broke first. "Back at the cot… when you said I'm not the first. What did you mean?"
Her hands stilled over a magazine.
"I'm still me," he said quickly. "I haven't lost control yet. You said awareness matters. So tell me. Help me stay aware."
Selene's gaze dropped to the floor. For a moment, she looked carved from stone. Then, without warning, she sat opposite him on the edge of the cot. Close enough for him to smell rain on her skin.
"I had a brother," she said quietly.
Ethan blinked. "You…?"
"Marcus." Her lips barely shaped the name. "He was infected with the Core years before you. Before the city fell this far. We didn't know what it was then. We thought—" Her voice hitched, just enough for him to notice. "We thought it was a cure."
Ethan's stomach went cold. "What happened to him?"
She stared at the floor, eyes unfocused, as if the concrete had turned to memory. "He was strong. Disciplined. Smarter than me. He fought it as long as he could. But the hunger doesn't care about discipline."
Ethan swallowed. "Did he…?"
"He didn't last." She met Ethan's eyes at last. "One night I woke to him standing over me. His eyes were red. He didn't know who I was anymore."
Ethan's throat tightened. "Selene…"
"I stopped him," she said simply. "That's why I do what I do now. That's why I don't leave people like you alone. Because I've seen the other outcome."
The Core stirred inside Ethan at her words — a flicker of dark satisfaction. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. "I'm not your brother."
"I know." Her voice was soft but firm. "But you're walking the same line."
He turned his head, staring at the empty vial. "And if I fall?"
Selene didn't hesitate. "Then I'll stop you."
He let out a jagged laugh. "That's comforting."
"It's the truth."
Her steadiness was infuriating and grounding at the same time. Ethan rubbed his temples. "You sound like you've already decided how my story ends."
Her eyes flickered — a brief, unguarded flash of pain. "No. I'm hoping for something different this time."
That caught him off guard. Hope. From her.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Why tell me this now?"
"Because you need to know what's at stake," she said. "And because lying won't help you."
He studied her face. Up close, he could see the faint scar along her jaw, the fine tremor in her fingers when she wasn't holding a weapon. She wasn't as unbreakable as she wanted him to think.
The Core shifted again, tasting her nearness. Hunger rose, hot and metallic, but he forced it down.
"I can feel it," he said quietly. "When you talk like that. It makes the Core… stronger. Like it wants me to use your pain."
Selene didn't flinch. "Then don't."
He laughed once, bitter. "It's that easy?"
"No." She reached into the bag, pulled out another vial — this one lighter, almost pink. "But you're still aware. That's your edge. Take this. Small sips."
He accepted it with shaking hands. The liquid glimmered under the light. "What's in it?"
"A stabilizer. Not full synthetic. It should give you a window."
"A window for what?"
"To choose."
Her words landed like a weight. He opened the vial and drank slowly. It was cool this time, not burning — a strange sweetness under the iron. The Core hissed at it, recoiling.
He exhaled. "Better."
Selene nodded once. "Good. Now, rest. We move at dawn."
"Where?"
She hesitated, then unrolled the map. Red circles marked several zones. "There's an old lab beneath Sector Nine. That's where the Core first appeared. If there's an answer, it's there."
Ethan stared at the circles. "And what if we find nothing?"
"Then we improvise."
He looked up at her, searching her face. "Why are you risking this for me?"
Her eyes softened again, just a flicker. "Because someone should have done it for Marcus."
The room was quiet. Ethan felt something shift inside him — not the Core, but himself. A thread of resolve knitting through the hunger.
He set the vial down carefully. "Then let's find that lab."
Selene stood, pulling her jacket on. "Get some sleep first."
He almost smiled. "You sound like my drill sergeant."
"Better me than the Core," she said, and turned toward the door.
Ethan lay back, staring at the ceiling again. The fissures above him looked different now — less like cracks, more like paths.
He whispered, "I'm still here."
The Core hummed in reply, but softer this time. Almost… grudging.
And somewhere, behind the hunger, a flicker of something else stirred — not power, not bloodlust, but a strange, tentative hope.
Ethan's inner monologue as the Core "tests" him
Selene's return to the room after thinking he's asleep
small but potent, intimate actions (patching a wound, shared stillness)
The hum of the pipes deepened as the old building cooled for the night. Ethan lay on the cot with his eyes closed, but his mind was a restless sea. The Core prowled at the edges of his thoughts, brushing against his memories like a cat against a door it wanted to enter.
He tried to anchor himself: the rhythm of his breath, the faint ache in his knuckles, the sound of rain pattering through some unseen crack in the ceiling. It all felt fragile. I'm still here, he reminded himself. I'm still Ethan.
The Core pulsed once—hard enough to make his vision flash crimson even behind his eyelids. A sensation like a second heartbeat bloomed in his chest. It whispered not words but images: Selene leaning close, her throat exposed, blood like sunlight under her skin. Hunger curled around the vision, warm and nauseating at once.
Ethan forced the thought out, sitting up sharply. His breath came fast. The vial's sweet aftertaste lingered on his tongue like a rope he could cling to.
Beyond the door, footsteps paused. A soft metallic clink, then the latch slid open again. Selene stepped back inside. Her jacket was gone; she wore only the black undershirt beneath, the fabric clinging damply to her shoulders. A strip of dried blood streaked her forearm where she'd been cut earlier.
"You should be asleep," she said quietly.
"Can't," he admitted.
She closed the door behind her. "Neither can I."
For a long moment she just stood there, arms crossed, eyes on the cracked floor. Then she moved to the crate, digging for something. When she turned back, a small med kit sat in her hands.
"That cut," Ethan said, nodding at her arm. "You're still bleeding."
Selene glanced down, as if she'd forgotten. "It's nothing."
"Let me." The words left his mouth before he thought about them. His hunger bristled at the scent of her blood, but he held it down, jaw tight. "Please."
She hesitated, the muscles in her shoulders tightening. Then she sat opposite him again, setting the kit between them. "Fine."
Ethan opened the kit with steady, deliberate movements. He swabbed a bit of antiseptic onto gauze and reached for her arm. His fingers brushed her skin — cool and damp from rain. The Core roared in his veins at the contact, but he pressed it back, focusing on the wound, on the simple human act of tending.
Selene watched him, her expression unreadable. "You're trembling."
"I know." His voice was rough. "It's not you. It's… me."
He wrapped the gauze gently around her arm. The smell of antiseptic and blood mixed with rain and iron — a scent that made his stomach twist and his resolve harden all at once.
"Why are you letting me do this?" he asked quietly.
"Because you need to know you're still capable of something other than hunger," she said. "And because…" She stopped herself, then added, softer, "Because I wanted to see if you could."
Ethan tied off the bandage, his hands steady at last. He exhaled. "I could."
Selene didn't pull her arm away immediately. Her fingers flexed once against his palm, a tiny ghost of contact. Then she drew back, standing.
"Get some sleep," she said, voice back to its usual steel. "We leave at first light."
He looked up at her. "Stay. Just for a minute. Please."
Her breath caught almost imperceptibly. She hesitated, then sat back down on the edge of the cot, facing the door. The distance between them was a single handspan.
Neither spoke. The only sounds were the rain, the pipes, and two heartbeats — his erratic, hers steady as a drum.
Ethan stared at the fissures in the ceiling again, but this time he saw something new in them: paths converging, not splintering. His hunger settled into a low, reluctant hum.
Selene shifted, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "We'll need to move fast in Sector Nine. It won't be safe."
"When has it ever been?" he murmured.
That earned him a ghost of a smile. "Fair."
The silence stretched, but it was different now — not hostile, but shared. He felt himself leaning toward it, toward her, then stopped, remembering her warning: Don't get attached.
The Core purred at the tension, but Ethan whispered inside himself: Not yet. Not like this.
Selene rose finally, the moment breaking like thin glass. "Try to rest," she said. "You'll need it."
She moved to the door. Ethan almost reached for her but didn't. "Selene."
She paused, hand on the latch.
"Thanks," he said again, but this time it wasn't just for the vial. It was for the moment. For being human with him, if only briefly.
She didn't turn around. "Don't thank me yet," she said softly, and slipped out.
The door shut. Ethan lay back on the cot, heart still racing but steadying. The Core shifted inside him — not asleep, but quiet, as though watching.
He stared at the ceiling until the fissures blurred, until dawn's first pale light seeped through the cracks in the boarded window.
He whispered, "I'm still here," and for the first time, the Core didn't answer at all.