Chapter 8: Echo Residue

It rained the moment they crossed the perimeter.

Cold. Sparse. The kind of rain that soaked bone rather than skin.

Eros didn't slow down.

He had Prion over his shoulder, weight feather-light but wrong. Not limp, exactly. More like… drained. As if something had been siphoned out of him.

And Eros could feel it too.

In the silence.

In the static whisper that still crawled behind his right ear, like a system glitch refusing to reset.

The safehouse was ten levels down.

Not one of the usual fallback points.

This one hadn't been touched in years.

Old field cache. Off-grid. His own notes tagged it: "EM-neutral zone. No uplink. No mirrors."

A place meant for when the enemy wasn't outside—but inside your mind.

He keyed the code manually.

It still accepted him.

The door sighed open with a hiss of stale air and time.

Inside: a cot, a desk, a rusted washbasin. Medical packs. Ration cubes. And something older—a scar across the wall, like someone had once driven a blade through it and left it there.

No memories here.

And yet…

His chest tightened as he stepped in.

Like he'd been here before.

Maybe he had.

Maybe they both had.

He laid Prion down carefully on the cot.

His hoodie was soaked through. Blood was visible at the collar, though the wound had already sealed.

He checked his pulse.

Fast. Shallow.

Breathing irregular.

Not fatal.

But if the system override had reached deeper—if the loop reaction had destabilized the emotional tether in his neural lattice—

Eros didn't finish the thought.

He didn't want to know what would happen if Prion fractured again.

He took a step back.

Watched.

Waited.

And then—almost too faint to notice—Prion's fingers twitched.

Not random.

Precise.

A pattern.

2-1-7-3.

Eros froze.

That was a command code.

Old one. Pre-wipe era.

He dropped to one knee beside him, catching the next movement.

5-4-5-7.

A counter-sequence.

Prion wasn't dreaming.

He was… trying to stabilize himself.

"You're not even conscious," Eros whispered, "…and you're still fighting."

He stood, crossed the room to the desk, and began checking the remaining med tech. Outdated, but functional.

Stabilizers. Memory dampeners. Rehydration serum.

He opted for the neutral stabilizer. Non-invasive. Wouldn't clash with his internal rewrites.

He returned to the cot, injected the serum into Prion's upper arm.

Prion stirred slightly.

Frowned.

Then… relaxed.

Just a little.

Eros sat beside him.

Back against the wall.

Let the silence close in.

And for the first time, he allowed himself to think something that had been clawing at the edge of his mind since the cartridge playback:

What if I'm the one who was always meant to fail?

He looked down at Prion.

Unmoving. Pale. Code-brilliant and unreadable even in unconsciousness.

He remembered the recording.

You're not just his killer, Eros. You're his anchor.

What did that even mean?

How could you anchor someone you didn't even know?

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he always had.

A sudden sharp knock broke the thought.

Not at the door.

Inside his head.

Pain. Needle-precise. Centred between his temples.

[Override command initializing…]

His spine locked.

His breath hitched.

Not now.

Not now!

He bit down hard on his tongue. Drew blood. Focused on the pain.

And then—

The voice.

Female.

Clipped. Cold. From somewhere deep in the neural interface.

"Report, Subject Anchor. Location compromised. Echo reading stable. Begin termination sequence."

His eyes glazed for a second.

Blade hand twitched.

Turned toward the cot.

To Prion.

Ready for another kill attempt.

But then—

He remembered the cartridge.

The words.

If you betray him again—I'll kill you myself!

And with a grunt of defiance, he slammed the base of his palm against his own temple.

Hard.

Again.

Again.

And again.

Until the voice scrambled, static burst through his neural port—

And went dead.

He slumped forward.

Breathing heavy.

Chest heaving.

Then a quiet voice broke the silence.

Hoarse. Weak.

But real.

"You fought it again."

He looked up.

Prion's eyes were barely open.

But he was watching.

And for the first time, Eros didn't look away.

The override isn't gone—it's buried. And it'll come back stronger. Unless Eros can sever it permanently.

Prion didn't try to sit up.

Didn't flinch when Eros leaned closer, scanning for signs of a relapse.

He just stared.

Bleary. Detached.

But not empty.

There was something new in his gaze now.

A sliver of something raw.

"I wasn't supposed to be awake yet," Prion said softly.

"You were stabilizing."

"No." A pause. "I mean this version of me. I wasn't supposed to survive the drift."

Eros frowned.

"You're not making sense."

"I know." Prion shifted slightly, winced, then settled again. "But I'll say it anyway. Before they wipe you again. Before I lose the chance."

He closed his eyes.

Breathed out.

And when he spoke next, the words felt rehearsed.

Like he'd said them dozens of times before.

But maybe never to this version of Eros.

"You weren't just designed to kill me."

"You were designed to make me feel."

Eros didn't respond.

Didn't move.

But something in him shuddered.

"You're saying I was… programmed?"

"Not you." Prion opened his eyes. "Your existence. Your proximity. Your voice, your patterns, your presence. All of it was calculated input. Emotional architecture."

"So I was a control tool."

"You were the only one that ever worked."

Eros stood, tension tightening his shoulders.

His hand moved toward his weapon again, but didn't draw.

Not this time.

"And you let them use me like that?"

"No," Prion said quietly. "I tried to stop them."

"Then why didn't you destroy the program?"

"I did."

"Then what's left?"

"You."

The silence cracked between them.

Hard. Tense.

Fragile.

Eros looked at him.

Truly looked.

Prion wasn't lying.

Not with those eyes. Not with that expression.

He looked…

Not sorry.

Not pleading.

But tired.

The kind of exhaustion you carry across too many lifetimes.

"You said I made you feel," Eros said at last.

"Back then… when I didn't know you. When they brought you in as just another subject. I didn't expect it."

"What did you feel?"

"Unstable."

It would've been easier to laugh.

But Eros didn't.

Instead, he sat back down.

Not beside Prion this time—but facing him directly.

He didn't speak.

Just waited.

And Prion, remarkably, obliged.

"They wanted me cold," he said. "Calculated. Perfect adaptation with no emotional drift. I almost was."

"Almost."

"Then you walked in."

Prion's gaze didn't waver.

"I didn't even know your name. But I started responding. Not physically. Neurologically. Emotional spike variance. Empathic echoes. Tethering instincts. They monitored everything."

"And?"

"And they started reinforcing the connection."

Eros rubbed his jaw.

Trying to feel something through the numbness.

"Was it ever real?"

"Yes."

"How do I know?"

"You don't." Prion's voice softened. "That's what makes it real."

The words hung between them.

And in that moment, Eros wasn't sure which version of himself was listening.

The assassin?

The anchor?

Or something in between.

Then Prion spoke again.

"I told you something, once. Attempt seventeen."

"What?"

"That if they wiped you again, I'd let you kill me the next time."

Eros stilled.

"I lied."

He leaned forward—just slightly.

Eyes gleaming with something sharp and impossible to read.

"If you try again, I'll still fight. I'll always fight. Even if I have to bleed memory just to reach you again."

Eros swallowed.

"That's not a threat?"

"No," Prion said softly. "It's a promise."

Eros looked away.

Not out of shame.

Not anger.

But because something inside him cracked.

A thin, impossible fracture that wasn't made by blades or code—

But by the way someone said your name like it was the last truth they could afford to believe in.

And for the first time since this entire mission began…

Eros didn't want to finish the contract.

He just wanted to know—

What did they make us give up to become weapons?

Before Eros can answer that, New Era sends something worse than a kill order. They send memories—fragmented and viral.

They didn't speak again for a while.

The silence between them had shifted. Not awkward. Not hostile. But sharp-edged. Like something fragile had cracked open—and neither of them knew whether it was safe to step through.

Eros sat by the cot.

Prion's breathing had stabilized, but he hadn't moved much since the conversation.

His hoodie was half-zipped, the edge of an old scar peeking through near his collarbone—one Eros didn't remember causing, but somehow… knew he had.

That was the worst part.

The knowing.

Like fragments of pain with no origin.

Truths with no proof.

Familiarity that stung like a forgotten wound.

The device on Eros's wrist clicked.

No buzz. No alert. Just a soft chirp—barely audible.

Then the screen blinked.

Incoming transmission. Secure channel: Fracture Directive 003.

Eros frowned.

That directive was dead.

Decommissioned during the last restructure. Nobody used it anymore.

He tapped the screen.

It hissed once.

Then played.

A voice.

"This is Anchor Eros, Loop Seventeen. Fragment Code: Retention Echo – Emotional Tether 4C."

His own voice.

Rough. Flat. But unmistakably his.

Eros froze.

Prion stirred at the sound, but didn't open his eyes.

"If this message triggers, then I failed again. Or… maybe not."

"Maybe I'm finally breaking protocol."

"If you're hearing this, it means Prion survived the last run."

The voice paused.

Then softened.

"He always does."

"That's the problem. He keeps surviving the system."

"And every time, I forget what it cost him."

Eros's hands clenched around the edge of the cot.

"This loop… I saw him smile. Once. It wasn't directed at me. But it wasn't fake."

"I think it was the first real thing I ever saw in that place."

"The rest of it? Blood. Commands. Rewrite codes."

"I watched him get wiped after they used my panic to destabilize him."

"And I— I begged them not to do it."

A longer pause this time.

Faint breathing through the recording.

A tremor.

"I think I cared for him once."

"I don't know if that was programming, or just the version of me that got tired of being used."

"But it felt real."

"And that's why I carved his name into my arm before the wipe."

The air in the room dropped ten degrees.

Eros barely moved.

His face—stone still.

But his eyes—

Raw. Haunted. Shattered.

Prion didn't open his eyes.

But his voice, when it came, was hoarse.

"Seventeen was the first time you called me something that wasn't a number."

Eros turned sharply toward him.

"You remember?"

Prion's lips quirked. Not quite a smile.

"I remember… you."

The device clicked again.

Message ended.

A soft chime.

Then a final string of code:

[EMOTIONALLY TETHERED LOOP – MANUAL INTERVENTION REQUIRED]

And one word below that.

One name.

"Prion."

Eros stood.

Walked away from the cot.

Fists clenched at his sides.

He didn't know what was worse—

That the Organization had this much control over him—

Or that somewhere deep inside, despite everything…

He didn't want to kill Prion anymore.

And that meant the program was breaking.

Or maybe it meant he was.

Behind him, Prion whispered:

"It's alright if you don't trust me yet..."

"I just need you to stop trusting them..."

That line hit harder than it should've.

Because deep down, Eros already had.

He just hadn't admitted it to himself.

Yet…

Eros may be slipping, but New Era is already preparing the next override—and this time, they're sending a different kind of assassin.

The air shifted.

Eros knew it before the breach alert came.

A cold pressure slid down the back of his spine—not a physical touch, but something deeper. A presence woven into the walls, the lighting, even the temperature of the room.

It wasn't Prion.

It wasn't external.

It was code.

Layered and invasive.

And it was targeting him.

He stood up fast.

The wristband interface flickered, then went dark.

A soft hum vibrated through the air, like something humming behind drywall—or beneath his skin.

Prion shifted weakly on the cot. "They're trying to override your field again."

"I disabled remote access."

"No, not this one," Prion whispered. "It's embedded. Emotional recall sequencing. They're not controlling you directly. They're rewriting your reactions."

Then came the voice.

"Target reacquired. Initiating reflex alignment."

A soft hiss echoed in Eros's ears. His jaw clenched.

And the world—twisted.

The walls bent inward.

The corners of the room stretched like reflections in shattered glass.

He reached for his weapon—

Only to realize it was already in his hand.

He hadn't drawn it.

Not consciously.

"Eros?"

Prion's voice.

Eros blinked.

The room snapped back into place for a heartbeat.

Then shattered again.

In front of him—

Not Prion on the cot.

But a version of Prion he'd never seen.

Bloodied. Bound. Eyes full of fear.

"You did this," the illusion whispered. "Loop Twenty-Two. You left me behind."

"No," Eros said tightly. "I never—"

"You were the one who said 'then don't break.' But you broke first."

He staggered back.

Hands trembling.

But the hallucination didn't follow.

It watched.

Judging.

Bleeding.

Then it morphed again.

Now it was Eros himself.

Standing across the room, same uniform, same expression—but colder.

More dead.

"You were just supposed to be the anchor," the image said.

"You were never supposed to care."

Eros clenched his fists. "I don't."

"Liar!"

A sharp spike hit his nerves.

His body seized.

For a second, he felt his arm raise.

Weapon aimed—at the cot.

At Prion.

"Eros."

The real one.

His voice—calm, but strained.

A beat of silence.

Then:

"You said you'd never let them make you forget again."

That cracked it.

The pressure inside his skull shattered like breaking glass.

The illusion flickered.

The bloodied Prion, the mirrored self—both gone.

Only the room remained.

Only the real him.

Weapon lowered.

Hands shaking.

He collapsed to one knee.

The override receding.

But not gone.

They'd found a new way in.

Prion pushed himself upright, weakly.

He didn't ask what Eros had seen.

He already knew.

"They've started embedding the residue in your sensory inputs," Prion said. "Loop-back hallucinations. They're not trying to control your body anymore."

"What then?"

"They're trying to break your choice."

Eros looked up, sweat beading on his temple.

"And if it works?"

Prion's gaze hardened.

"Then you'll kill me, and believe it was your idea."

That, more than anything, was what terrified him.

Not losing control.

But thinking he had it when he didn't.

Eros didn't speak.

But when Prion began to slump again, exhausted, he moved.

Silently. Instinctively.

Caught him before he could hit the floor.

Carefully—like it mattered.

Like he'd done it before.

He helped him lie back down.

Repositioned the blanket.

Didn't speak.

Didn't meet his eyes.

But when Prion's breathing evened out, something in Eros stayed beside him.

Just for a little longer.

Just in case the override came again.

Next time, it won't be hallucinations. New Era is sending in a real subject—a rival prototype who remembers too much.

Would you still trust your instincts… if you couldn't tell which ones were truly yours?

The most dangerous weapon isn't a blade or a bullet. It's belief. The belief that your thoughts belong to you.