Phileo heard it before he saw it.
A soft scrape.
He froze in the hallway of the apartment building, one foot lifted mid-step. The sound came again, closer this time, like skin dragging against concrete.
His grip tightened on the crowbar.
"Quiet," he whispered to himself.
He leaned forward and peered down the stairwell.
Something stood at the bottom.
A woman. Or what used to be one. Her head hung to one side, neck bent wrong. One hand clawed at the wall as she tried to move forward, pulling her leg behind her.
Phileo stepped back slowly.
His heel brushed a loose bottle.
Clink.
The sound was small. Too small.
The woman's head snapped up.
She let out a sharp, broken shriek and rushed the stairs, faster than her body should allow.
Phileo turned and ran.
He burst through the apartment door and slammed it shut, shoving a table against it. The door shook as something hit it from the other side.
Once.
Twice.
Then the wood cracked.
"Damn it," Phileo hissed.
He backed away, heart racing, eyes searching for another exit. The window was open just enough. He climbed through, dropping hard onto the alley below.
Pain shot through his leg.
He stumbled, barely catching himself before falling.
That's when he felt it.
A sharp sting on his arm.
Phileo looked down.
Blood.
A long scratch ran across his forearm, skin torn where the woman's fingers had caught him as he escaped.
His breath caught.
"No," he whispered.
He wrapped the wound quickly with cloth from his bag, hands shaking. His heart hammered as he waited—counting seconds, expecting heat, pain, something.
Nothing happened.
Not yet.
He limped away from the building, hiding until the sounds faded. When he finally stopped, he leaned against a wall and slid down, staring at the wrapped arm.
His skin felt warm.
Too warm.
By nightfall, the fever hit.
Phileo shook violently, teeth chattering as sweat soaked his clothes. His head pounded. Shapes moved at the edge of his vision. He heard his mother's voice calling his name, soft and worried.
"I'm here," he whispered back, tears slipping down his face. "I'm still here."
The fever burned through the night.
But morning came.
Phileo opened his eyes.
He was still himself.
The wound had darkened, but it hadn't spread. His body hurt like it had been torn apart and stitched back together, but he was alive.
Phileo stared at his arm, breathing hard.
"I should be dead," he said.
Far away, in a place buried beneath concrete and silence, old Haven-9 records listed rare cases like his under a single word:
Delayed.
And Phileo had just become one of them.