Chapter 3: Echo-37
The city was too quiet at this hour.
Not dead. Not empty.
Just watching.
Eros walked through Sector 19 under the pretence of recon—civilian jacket zipped high, blade hidden beneath, commlink silent. The stabilizer implant pulsed faintly at his neck base, warm and cold like a second heartbeat.
They said it wasn't a leash.
They lied.
He could feel it every time he passed under the pulse towers—silent watchers coded to sync with New Era's command line. A dozen eyes without pupils, tracking heat and identity and deviations.
He passed the first tower.
It blinked green.
Then yellow.
Then neutral again.
Eros didn't slow his stride. But his hand shifted slightly in his pocket, ready.
"Let him notice."
That's what they said.
But they didn't account for how Prion noticed everything.
By now, Eros knew the setup.
Prion operated in concentric circles: never in the same place twice, always looping through familiar territories without forming patterns. Like a maze that rearranged itself behind him.
It made no tactical sense.
Unless you factored in one variable.
Memory.
Not his.
Prion's.
He wasn't hiding. He was waiting.
Eros turned the final corner and found the alley.
It was just like the last two sites—abandoned, but recently disturbed. Dust patterns broken. Trash shifted.
He stepped over a pipe and slid through the cracked service door.
The warehouse behind it was dark. Smelled like copper and oil.
And there he was.
Prion.
Hood up. Cross-legged on the ground like a monk at war.
He didn't flinch. Didn't look up.
But Eros could tell he knew.
The moment he entered, Prion's hand shifted a centimetre—closer to something on the floor.
A wire?
A detonation pin?
Or just the edge of a folded page?
Eros closed the door behind him and leaned back against it. "You moved again."
Prion didn't reply.
"You know I'm tracking you."
A breath. Soft. Controlled.
Then finally:
"You're late."
That voice. Unchanged.
Inflectionless, yet full of weight.
The kind of tone that made people listen even when they didn't want to.
Eros stepped closer.
"You left another message," he said. "Through a drone."
Prion tilted his head slightly.
"Or was that someone else?" Eros asked.
Finally, a hint of a smile. Not full. Just the corner of his lips.
"Do you think I'd trust someone else with your trigger?"
Eros's jaw tightened.
He hated how easily Prion disarmed tension with a phrase.
Not by being friendly.
But by being sure.
Dangerous sure.
This wasn't a man hoping to live.
This was someone who already calculated ten ways out of this conversation.
And probably predicted this exact moment.
"I was ordered to observe you," Eros said flatly. "To test emotional responses."
"Congratulations," Prion murmured. "You're responding."
Eros pulled the blade from under his coat and flipped it once in his hand.
It didn't mean anything.
Not yet.
But Prion's eyes didn't even track the motion.
He was still staring at Eros's face.
Not afraid.
Not smug.
Just watching.
Calculating.
"Why?" Eros asked quietly.
Prion didn't pretend not to understand.
"Because I was tired of dying before you remembered me."
That stopped him.
"Excuse me?"
"You think this is the first loop," Prion said. "It's not."
"I know it is not."
"No you don't," Prion replied. "I just remember further back than they meant me to."
Eros's eyes narrowed. "But I never killed you."
Prion didn't smile. "You didn't have to."
The silence stretched.
Eros's grip on the blade didn't loosen. But neither did he raise it.
"What do you want from me?"
Prion didn't move.
"You used to ask that differently," he said. "Back then, it was, 'What happens if I break?'"
A pause.
"You said you'd stay. You didn't."
A sharp throb hit behind Eros's eyes.
He staggered back a step.
A corridor flashed—white light—glass walls—his hand slamming against a panel—someone screaming.
Then it was gone.
Just static in his skull.
He didn't drop the blade.
But he didn't speak either.
Prion unfolded from the ground with all the grace of someone who hadn't been waiting.
He stood, dusted off his hoodie, and stepped forward—not aggressively. Not submissively.
Just there.
"Next time they wipe you," he said softly, "you'll come for me again."
Another step.
"And I'll remind you. Again."
Another.
"Until it stops hurting."
Eros didn't stop him when he passed.
Didn't turn when he heard the whisper behind him.
"You always hesitate."
He stood alone in the warehouse for several minutes.
The city didn't care.
But something in him shifted.
It wasn't trust.
It wasn't belief.
But it was something harder to overwrite.
Eros hesitates. Again. And this time, Prion just walked away.
The rain started just after Prion left.
Eros remained in the warehouse, unmoving, his breath slow and shallow as droplets struck the broken skylight above.
He hadn't followed.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he didn't understand why he wanted to.
His commlink buzzed against his ribs. No sound. Just a vibration.
New Era was watching.
"Subject anomaly pinged on surveillance grid.
Return for report.
Psychological integrity test pending."
He stared at the message for a long moment.
Then powered the commlink down.
He'd report later.
He needed time.
He needed answers.
Eros moved before he had a plan.
By the time he surfaced in Sector 20, it was past midnight. Neon signs flickered in rain-streaked glass. He moved like a shadow—hood up, hands tucked, blade sheathed.
It was a part of the city rarely touched by control towers. The slums sat too low, the concrete too warped for trackers to latch reliably.
Which is why Prion had passed through here. Recently.
And deliberately.
Eros slipped into a service duct behind a hollowed-out shopfront, accessed the outdated security grid, and watched.
Twelve hours of footage. No facial matches.
But frame 2376 showed a figure in a hoodie, standing still beneath a malfunctioning tower.
No motion.
No signature.
No heat.
Like the system chose not to see him.
Eros leaned in.
Prion stood under the tower like a statue. Unmoving. Hood half-shadowed. Back turned.
But one hand was out.
Facing the camera.
And written on the palm—
"You're not broken. Just unprocessed."
Eros shut the feed off.
Anger pulsed in his throat—but it wasn't clean. It was murky. Confused.
How the hell had he known where the camera would be?
How had he known Eros would come here?
And what the hell did that message mean?
He wandered for another hour.
Then, without planning to, he found himself at the river.
The one near the old processing plant—long abandoned, power cut, doors sealed with rust and silence.
Except… one wasn't sealed anymore.
Inside, he found a dim corridor.
Clean.
Intentionally so.
And on the wall—drawn with chalk, faint but unmistakable—was a symbol he'd never seen before but instinctively recognized.
A ring. Split at the top. Two figures at its base.
One black. One fading.
It didn't say his name.
But it felt like it had once.
"You're the variable. He's the constant."
The phrase came back to him. New Era's voice. Cold. Instructive.
If he was the variable… how long had they been watching him instead?
The room at the end of the hall had only one thing.
A mirror.
Not modern. Not tech.
Just a wide, old mirror propped against stone.
Eros stared into it.
His reflection blinked back.
But behind it, just for a second, he swore he saw another version of himself—
Same clothes. Same scars.
But his eyes were wet.
And his blade… wasn't drawn.
The image vanished.
Replaced by his own hard, dry gaze.
He turned.
A piece of paper had appeared on the floor.
He hadn't seen it before.
Folded once, clean, exact.
He crouched.
Unfolded it.
"If you want the truth, stop following their map."
Another symbol. The same ring.
This time, the black figure was falling.
And beneath it, in the same looping script—
Don't break.
Eros folded it.
No reaction.
No breath shift.
But he didn't throw it away.
He tucked it into his chest pocket, next to the last one.
He'd stop running too. For now.
Two notes. One mirror. Zero certainty. Who's playing who?
The note burned in his chest.
Not literally—but it felt like it had weight. Like carrying it too long would brand him.
Eros moved through the shadows of Sector 11 with the silence of someone trained to be forgotten. He didn't check the time. He didn't need to.
The schedule wasn't his anymore.
It never had been.
"If you want the truth, stop following their map."
The words echoed louder the longer he walked.
Prion hadn't left coordinates. No location. No plan.
Just symbols. Messages. Places touched by thought, not traceable routes.
Which meant he wanted Eros to think—not follow.
To remember.
But memory was the one thing they'd taken.
He emerged into the old steel district, now flooded with repurposed housing and underground labs.
He didn't stop at the tower checkpoint.
The guards scanned him, recognized the designation, and let him through.
No one asked questions when your identity returned blank, but clearance read green.
Inside, he found the basement archive New Era once used to store old test tapes—audio logs, failed experiment clips, calibration records.
All wiped from official files.
But Eros had tracked the pattern of where the missing feeds went.
Not erased.
Reassigned.
He stepped past flickering shelves until he found the unmarked drawer.
Opened it.
Inside—three reels.
Two unplayable.
One marked in faded ink:
Echo / Subject 7 + Anchor Stability Log – Entry 12
He didn't remember being "Anchor."
But the cold up his spine did.
He inserted the reel into the rusted playback terminal. Static hit his ears.
Then a voice.
Not Prion.
Not Eros.
A researcher.
"...stability drops when Subject 7 is isolated. Reintroduction of Anchor prompts immediate response."
"No aggression. Only... recognition. Subject 7 vocalizes name: 'Eros.'"
"This was not implanted. Origin unknown."
"Anchor does not react. Appears unaware."
"Looping cycle will reset in two hours. Memory lockdown in place."
"Subject 7 is beginning to anticipate resets. Requests Anchor presence before each termination protocol."
"He says... 'Just stay this time.'"
Eros's breath caught.
The audio continued, but he didn't hear it.
That voice—his name—spoken by someone who wasn't supposed to feel anything.
The crack in the wall had always been there. He just never knew where to look.
He shut the reel off. Pocketed the data drive.
Then left the archive.
No one stopped him.
Not until the roof exit—where a figure stood.
Waiting.
Not Prion.
Not New Era.
A woman.
Thin. Lab coat weathered. Half her face covered by a neuro-mask.
One eye glinted artificial.
She didn't speak.
Just handed him something.
A metal chip.
No label.
But etched into the surface—
Echo-37
Eros stared.
"How do you know who I am?"
She tilted her head.
"You're not supposed to exist anymore," she said.
Then turned.
And vanished through a side stairwell before he could follow.
The chip was cold in his palm.
Another fragment. Another ghost.
He closed his fingers around it and walked into the night.
The city didn't notice.
But someone was watching.
Somewhere above.
Somewhere deeper.
And they whispered to a console:
"He's diverging.
Protocol burn has begun."
The files are resurfacing. The Anchor is waking. And Prion isn't the only one hiding from the system.
The walk back to the safehouse was quiet.
Too quiet.
No pursuit. No messages. No pressure from New Era.
That was how he knew something had changed.
They weren't trying to restrain him anymore.
They were watching to see how far he'd go.
Inside, the lamp was still burning low—just enough light to cast Eros's silhouette against the far wall.
He moved to the desk, unfolded the chip labelled Echo-37, and slid it into the terminal.
Password required.
The screen flickered once.
Then cracked.
Not from damage.
From override.
Lines of code shimmered like broken glass, then reassembled into a corrupted file tree.
Most entries unreadable.
But one folder blinked in red: Anchor Chain / Termination Candidates
He opened it.
Only one name.
Prion / Subject 7
Status: Critical Anomaly
Termination Priority: Alpha-Zero Override
And a sub-tag:
"Subject 0–6: All failed to generate sustainable memory anchors.
Subject 7 breached retention protocols post-Reset Cycle 5.
Subject is now classified as [ANOMALOUS SELF-WRITING ENTITY].
Direct interference unauthorized without Executive Layer clearance."
Eros stared at it.
There was no fear in his expression.
Only something colder.
Familiar.
Recognition.
He scrolled further.
An audio fragment attached.
He tapped play.
"He was supposed to erase himself," said a voice he didn't know—sharp, female, clinical.
"Instead, he rewrote the loop. Seven cycles in. Like he remembered something we didn't program."
"You're not just his killer, Eros. You're his anchor. You were always meant to break first."
Eros turned off the player.
The memory wasn't there.
But something inside him was shifting.
A muscle he didn't know how to move.
A thought not fully formed.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
He didn't react.
He already knew who it was.
Prion leaned against the wall near the window, hoodie soaked through, hair clinging to his pale skin.
He didn't speak at first.
Didn't have to.
Eros didn't turn.
"You broke their code," he said instead.
A pause.
Prion's voice was quiet. "No. I became it."
Eros turned slowly, eyes narrowed.
"They said Subject 0 to 6 failed. You were supposed to fail too."
"I did," Prion said. "Then I woke up. And they got scared."
Another silence stretched.
"You think I trust you," Eros said flatly.
"I don't need you to trust me," Prion replied.
He stepped forward, only once, and his smile—calm, cold, enigmatic—cut through the room like a blade.
"I need you to remember me."
That was when the power cut.
A low hum snapped from the wall. Terminals died.
Eros's fingers twitched toward his knife.
But Prion didn't flinch.
He stepped even closer, close enough that the rain off his hoodie dripped to the floor between them.
"I wasn't made to win," Prion said.
His voice didn't rise.
It just settled into the air like something permanent.
"I was made to remember when they lose."
Outside, a drone passed by—its scanner light flickering uncertainly before veering away.
Like even it didn't want to see what was inside.
He wasn't meant to win. He was meant to survive long enough to end it from the inside.
Subject 7 was never the weapon. He was the glitch.
And Eros? He's just beginning to realize whose side he's truly on.
What's more dangerous—a weapon they control, or a failure that writes his own rules?