Monster

ㅤㅤIason lay motionless against the cold stone, his breath shallow, his body wracked with exhaustion. His limbs felt like dead weight, as if he had been emptied of something vital. His mind swam in a haze of fatigue, his thoughts sluggish, disjointed.

ㅤㅤBut something was wrong.

ㅤㅤThe pain should have been unbearable, at this very moment. He should be drowning in agony, gasping through the raw, open wounds carved into his flesh—inflicted by Odysseus. His body had been broken—slashed, punctured, bleeding out on that cold corridor where he had felt death creeping in, ruthless and inevitable, sinking into his marrow.

ㅤㅤAnd yet.

ㅤㅤHis pulse throbbed, strong. Too strong. A deep, rhythmic pounding that felt more like a war drum than a heartbeat. His breath hitched as he lifted a trembling hand to his chest, fingers tracing where he knew there should be torn flesh, where he had felt the steel of a spear pierce deep.

ㅤㅤBut there was nothing.

ㅤㅤUnbroken bones. Unscarred of the recent wounds—the oldest fairly present.

ㅤㅤHis throat tightened. This wasn't possible. He knew what he had suffered. His body should have been shattered, his blood spilled, his breath stilled forever in the dust.

ㅤㅤSo why was he still here?

ㅤㅤIason exhaled, slow and uneven, willing himself to move. His fingers curled hesitantly into a fist, expecting frailty, expecting the ache of overworked muscles.

ㅤㅤInstead, something coiled beneath his skin.

ㅤㅤA sharpness. A strength. A sensation foreign yet familiar, like a beast crouched in the depths of his bones, waiting to be unleashed. Yet, despite this newfound strength, it was a paradox—his wounds had vanished, but exhaustion clung to him like a heavy shroud. Then something pulsed through his veins, an unfamiliar energy, raw and potent, a power that did not belong to him.

ㅤㅤA faint, skittering scratch—a sound.

ㅤㅤAt first, he thought it was distant—an insect scuttling over stone, a noise from beyond his body. But then, as silence stretched, as his senses sharpened, he realized.

ㅤㅤIt wasn't coming from outside.

ㅤㅤIt was beneath his skin.

ㅤㅤA sickening scrape, like centipede legs—the very same that crawled to him—dragging behind his eye socket, curling around the soft tissue, burrowing deeper with each skittering movement. His stomach twisted. His breath stuttered. He pressed a shaking hand to his face, fingers trembling as they hovered over his eyelid, half-expecting to feel something writhing beneath the surface—something foreign and wrong.

ㅤㅤAnd then—a twitch.

ㅤㅤNot his own.

ㅤㅤA sharp pulse lanced through his skull, an unnatural shudder beneath his skin, and for a split second, the world blurred. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls, the air thickened, and a whisper—not a sound, but a feeling—rippled through his mind. A presence. Watching. Waiting.

ㅤㅤFootsteps.

ㅤㅤThe unnatural clarity shattered. Voices echoed through the chamber entrance, distant but growing closer.

ㅤㅤGreek.

ㅤㅤIason forced himself upright, pressing against the cold stone as he strained to listen. The air was thick with dust and old decay, but beyond that—torchlight flickered from the tunnel ahead.

ㅤㅤ"—Check every corner. The rats always scurry underground."

ㅤㅤTwo of them. Maybe three.

ㅤㅤHis fingers found the hilt of his sword out of instinct, but then hesitated. His mind was still reeling, body still adjusting. And that thing—whatever had curled behind his eye—was still there.

ㅤㅤWhat would happen if he fought them?

ㅤㅤWould he still be the one holding the sword?

ㅤㅤA second voice, closer now. 'Some of them ran this way. If they're hiding, we'll find them soon enough."

ㅤㅤIason clenched his jaw, his breath steady but his pulse betraying him. His mind screamed to stay hidden, to let them pass. But deep beneath his skin, something else stirred.

ㅤㅤA hunger.

ㅤㅤIt coiled deep inside him, an itch that spread from behind his eye, crawling through his limbs. Not pain. Not fear. Something worse.

ㅤㅤ"Still, I never would have imagined that something like a lair underneath Troy's palace. And in such a state."

ㅤㅤA rock shifted from the darkness nearby.

ㅤㅤIason stiffened. The Greeks did too.

ㅤㅤA shadow moved—not his.

ㅤㅤSomeone else was in here.

ㅤㅤThe Greeks turned, their torches lifting, shadows stretching long across the chamber walls. The dim light barely reached the far side, but there—it was unmistakable. A ragged breath, sharp and uneven, shuddered through the darkness.

ㅤㅤThen, a voice—hoarse, weak. "No... please—"

ㅤㅤIason's heart pounded. A Trojan. A survivor.

ㅤㅤThe Greeks moved fast. The first soldier lunged forward, seizing the wounded man by the tunic and yanking him up like dead weight. The survivor—a boy, no older than thirteen—collapsed onto his knees, his leg twisted at a sickening angle. A broken limb. He wasn't going anywhere.

ㅤㅤTorchlight flickered across the boy's face—dust-smeared, bloodied, streaked with the grime of war. His wide eyes darted wildly through the dark, desperate for salvation, for a chance. For mercy.

ㅤㅤAnd then, for the briefest moment, they locked onto Iason's.

 ㅤㅤThe boy's lips parted in silent plea.

ㅤㅤIason's fingers twitched.

 ㅤㅤThe whispers stirred.

 ㅤㅤKill them.

ㅤㅤNo.

ㅤㅤThe Greek raised his sword.

 ㅤㅤYou know what to do.

ㅤㅤNo.

ㅤㅤIason barely had time to think before his body moved—not of his own will, not truly.

ㅤㅤA blur. A surge of unnatural speed.

ㅤㅤOne moment, the Greek was standing, sword poised. The next—Iason was behind him.

ㅤㅤA sharp gasp. A gurgle.

ㅤㅤThe Greek stiffened, his hands flying to his throat—blood gushing between his fingers, thick and dark. He staggered forward, choking, his sword slipping from his grip, clattering uselessly against the stone. He collapsed before he could even turn to see what had struck him.

ㅤㅤIason blinked.

ㅤㅤHe hadn't meant to move like that. Hadn't even thought.

ㅤㅤThe second Greek barely had time to react. He spun, eyes widening—too slow.

ㅤㅤIason's hand snapped forward.

ㅤㅤFlesh met flesh. A grip, too tight, too strong.

ㅤㅤHis fingers closed around the soldier's jaw, locking him in place. The man choked, a muffled scream caught in his throat as he thrashed against the hold. His arms flailed wildly, striking Iason's shoulders, his ribs—useless, weak.

ㅤㅤIason should have let go.

ㅤㅤHe should have let go.

ㅤㅤBut his fingers dug in deeper, locking unnaturally, like they belonged to someone—something—else.

ㅤㅤHe could feel it beneath the skin. The frantic pulse. The fragile, mortal rhythm of a man who was afraid to die. The man's heartbeat was loud, fast and eyes stricken with terror as he looked at a monster in man's clothing.

ㅤㅤA little more pressure. Just a little more.

 ㅤㅤThe parasite wanted it.

 ㅤㅤKill him.

ㅤㅤIason clenched his jaw. His muscles spasmed. A war raged inside him—one part screaming to release, to stop, to remember who he was. The other... something far less human.

ㅤㅤThe soldier stopped struggling.

ㅤㅤIason's breath caught. His grip released, and the body collapsed to the ground, dead.

ㅤㅤThe realization came slow. He had done that. Not with a sword. Not in the heat of battle.

ㅤㅤWith his bare hands.

ㅤㅤHis fingers twitched, expecting weakness, expecting tremors. Regret. Horror. Guilt.

ㅤㅤBut there was nothing.

ㅤㅤHis hands were steady. And damn it, his heart and mind weren't—and he found a ray of hope in that. Because this was not him, not this.

ㅤㅤThe Trojan boy was still there. Still kneeling. Still staring. His own fearful eyes matched Iason, terrified of what transpired. Iason opened his mouth—to reassure him, to explain, to say anything would make sense of this.

ㅤㅤBut the boy scrambled backward, his breath ragged, his face twisted in horror.

ㅤㅤBecause Iason wasn't just standing there.

ㅤㅤHe was shaking.

ㅤㅤHis chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, but something was wrong. The tremor in his hands wasn't from exhaustion. It wasn't from fear.

ㅤㅤIt was something else. Something deeper—the fucking thing.

ㅤㅤThe scent of blood hung heavy in the air, thick and metallic, saturating his senses. The warmth of it, the way it glistened under torchlight—something inside him reacted.

 ㅤㅤA trigger.

ㅤㅤHis mouth ran dry. His fingers twitched. Something curled in his stomach, slow and insidious, slithering through his veins like hot iron—that he had been feeling since that parasite latched onto him. An experience he would never and wouldn't want to get used to. But after so many episodes in just the short time, he's come to understand something about it—hunger.

ㅤㅤA deep, gnawing hunger.

ㅤㅤNot his own.

ㅤㅤHis vision blurred at the edges. The boy. The boy was still there, breathing fast, his chest rising and falling in panicked, shallow gasps. Too close. The pulse in his neck—too loud.

ㅤㅤIason clenched his jaw, backing away. "Run."

ㅤㅤThe boy flinched.

 ㅤㅤ"Go. Now."

ㅤㅤBut he didn't move.

 ㅤㅤOf course he didn't.

ㅤㅤBetween the Greeks or him, the boy would be dead either way.

ㅤㅤIason's hands fumbled over the corpses, searching, trying to focus, trying to hold on. A torn satchel. A flask of water. A rope. He could tie his own wrists, restrain himself until the madness passed—before it was too late.

ㅤㅤBut as soon as his fingers closed around it.

 ㅤㅤHis vision snapped.

ㅤㅤThe world pitched.

 ㅤㅤDarkness.