Chapter 9: Residual Loop

Eros didn't sleep.

He couldn't.

Even after the override faded, the taste of it lingered. Like a static hum in the back of his skull, just quiet enough to pretend it wasn't real.

He sat against the wall. Rifle beside him. Palm open. Resting.

Watching Prion.

The pale figure on the cot hadn't moved much in hours.

Not just tired—depleted.

But not broken.

That, more than anything, bothered Eros.

How was he still breathing?

New Era had tortured subjects for less.

System loops, deprivation cells, emotional rewrites. Prion had seen all of it—and somehow, the boy who should have shattered was still here.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

Still… smiling sometimes.

And that smile wasn't smug.

It was worse.

It was knowing.

The lights buzzed once—then stabilized.

Eros glanced at the signal panel. Jammed.

Good.

That meant whatever came next wouldn't be remote-controlled.

It would be human.

"You should sleep," Prion murmured suddenly.

Eros didn't reply.

"I can hear your thoughts pacing," he added, without opening his eyes.

"You can't hear thoughts."

"No," Prion said softly. "But I've heard yours enough times to know how they sound."

Eros's jaw flexed. "You've been inside my head?"

"Only when they let me."

That made Eros pause.

"What does that mean?"

Prion didn't elaborate.

He sat up slowly, eyes still tired but sharper now.

He adjusted the edge of his sleeve, revealing a black mark along his forearm—faint, like ash sealed beneath the skin.

A burned-in code seal.

"You know what that is," he said.

Eros did.

Seals like that were only given to data-class anomalies. Subjects they didn't want to kill—just contain. Because their minds were more valuable than their bodies.

"You rewrote something," Eros muttered.

Prion met his gaze. "I rewrote everything they told me to forget."

Silence.

Then a subtle tension flickered behind Eros's eyes.

That means… he remembers more than I ever will.

More than I was allowed to keep.

More than I even know how to ask for.

Before he could respond, a soft beep registered from the eastern wall.

Motion alert.

Perimeter breach.

Eros stood in one movement, weapon in hand.

Prion didn't flinch.

"It's not a kill team," he said.

"How do you know?"

"They're not subtle enough."

The motion stopped.

Eros flicked the rifle safety off and approached the doorway. His steps were precise, silent—reflexes drilled so deep he barely thought about them anymore.

But as he reached the edge—

A shadow moved.

Someone was already inside.

"Don't."

The voice was low. Rough.

And unfamiliar.

From the darkness stepped a figure in black, face partially masked, holding up what looked like an old memory spool.

A data fragment.

Wired in blood-red tape.

"You're not the only one who heard your voice," the stranger said, looking at Eros.

"But you're the only one who still doesn't remember saying it."

Eros aimed the rifle at their chest. "Who the hell are you?"

The figure tilted their head.

And then looked past Eros.

Straight at Prion.

"I told you it wouldn't hold," they said to him.

Prion didn't react. Didn't blink. But his hands were tight in his sleeves.

The one who just arrived isn't a threat. He's a fracture—one New Era forgot to erase. And he remembers everything.

The man didn't blink. His stare wasn't hostile, but it wasn't whole either. There was something disjointed about him—too still, too quiet, like he was holding himself together out of sheer habit.

Prion didn't move from his place by the wall.

Eros kept his hand near his weapon.

"Subject 4," Prion murmured, voice devoid of surprise. "They said you were terminated."

"They did terminate me," the man said, voice flat. "But parts of me stayed behind."

He turned to Eros then—head cocked slightly, as if curious.

"You've changed," he said. "They used to wipe you cleaner. This time they left residue."

Eros stiffened. "I'll ask again, who are you?"

"A warning," Subject 4 answered, lips curling faintly. "Or maybe… a reflection."

He stepped closer, but Eros didn't step back. The air between them thinned.

"You don't remember the first loop, do you?" the man asked softly. "The real first one. The one where you screamed when they ordered you to kill him. They wiped you so hard it nearly fried your spine."

Eros's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Subject 4's gaze flicked to Prion. "You would know."

Prion didn't answer. Not immediately.

Then, calmly: "You're damaged."

Subject 4 laughed—but it wasn't humour. It was a sound scraped from somewhere too dry.

"We're all damaged," he said. "The difference is… you learned how to polish your cracks. Me? I live in mine."

His eyes cut back to Eros.

"And you," he said quietly, "You think you're free now. You think this bond you're forming with him is yours."

Eros's jaw clenched.

"It's not," Subject 4 said, inching forward. "It's algorithm. It's code. It's synthetic. They wired you to hesitate around him. They wanted to see how long it would take before you broke."

He tilted his head.

"Tell me, Assassin—have you ever actually chosen him? Or… are you still just following your loop?"

Eros's fingers twitched at his side.

Prion didn't interrupt. His expression didn't shift. But his eyes were cold. Unblinking.

"You're not here to warn," he said. "You're here to spread rot."

"I'm here," Subject 4 replied, "because I watched you try to save something that never wanted to be saved. Don't you think it's pathetic."

He turned back to Eros.

"And you? You're still chasing a version of him that doesn't exist. One that maybe never did. Or maybe someone… " then he looked at Prion and continued, "is deliberately creating an illusion for you to believe on something and make that his advantage…"

Eros looked between them. His pulse was sharp behind his eyes.

"He's manipulating me?" he asked slowly.

"Maybe…" Subject 4 said. "Or maybe you're both the experiment now."

A silence settled.

Then Subject 4 turned.

"I won't stop you," he said, walking past them. "But I won't watch it happen again."

He paused at the doorway, casting a last glance over his shoulder.

"Just ask yourself this—if you forget him again, will he still try to save you?"

And then he was gone.

The room was colder without him—but heavier, too.

Prion didn't speak.

And Eros, for the first time in hours, wasn't sure what he believed anymore.

The silence that followed Subject 4's departure was suffocating.

Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that pressed against your ribs, clawed into your lungs, and refused to let go.

The warehouse's broken windows buzzed faintly with the wind, but inside, neither of them moved.

Prion remained where he was, half-shrouded in shadows, his expression unreadable. Calm, as always. Too calm.

And Eros... couldn't stop hearing that voice.

"You think this bond is yours. It's algorithm. It's code. It's synthetic"

His grip tightened around the memory chip in his palm.

He wanted to crush it.

He wanted to listen to it.

He wanted it to be a lie.

"Is it true?" Eros asked.

Prion's gaze flicked to him, still and patient. "Is what true?"

"That I'm reacting this way because they programmed me to. That I was never supposed to protect you. That I was built to hesitate. That everything I'm feeling now—might be scripted."

There was no accusation in his tone. No anger. Just... something brittle. Like he was asking the question to save himself.

Prion didn't look away. But he didn't answer either. Not yet.

Eros laughed under his breath. It was dry. Cold.

"You said I was the one who used to say 'Then don't break.' But what if you just told me that? What if you implanted that idea so I'd question New Era before they could question you?"

Still, Prion didn't react. His calm had always been a shield—but now, it felt like a wall. Unclimbable. Inhuman.

Eros stepped back. "Say something!"

"I can't erase what you're thinking," Prion said quietly. "I could try. But that would prove your point, wouldn't it?"

Eros stared at him. His vision blurred at the edges—not from tears, but from pressure. The pressure of too many fragmented truths stacked on top of each other.

"If you forget him again, will he still try to save you?"

The question looped in his mind, over and over.

His hands shook. Not from fear, but the kind of inner turbulence that used to get wiped clean before he could process it. The kind that made his spine itch—like something old was trying to crawl its way out.

"I trusted you," Eros whispered. "Not fully. Not yet. But something in me... it leaned toward you."

He stared hard at Prion.

"And now I'm wondering if you leaned back. Or if you just calculated the perfect moment to let me fall."

That made Prion flinch. Barely—but Eros saw it.

Finally, a crack.

Eros slipped the chip into the old player, pressed it in. The device clicked softly.

For a long moment, nothing but static.

Then—

"—Subject Seven unstable. Anchor asset compromised—"

"Do not engage emotionally—"

"He remembers too much. Reset incomplete. Escalation predicted—"

"If the anchor breaks first, Subject Seven will rewrite instinct."

"Sever bond. Sever bond. Sever—"

Eros tore the device off before it could finish.

The echo of those words rang louder than any bullet.

Rewrite instinct.

Was that what this was?

Was that what Prion had done?

He looked up.

Prion hadn't moved. His hoodie cast shadows over his face, darkening the edge of his expression. But his eyes—they weren't cold anymore.

They were... tired.

Like he'd heard those recordings a thousand times.

Like he'd lived through them.

Like he didn't expect forgiveness. Just survival.

Eros stepped back again.

"Do you even care?" he asked, voice cracking. "Or am I just the last part of the code you haven't reprogrammed yet?"

Prion didn't answer.

And that, more than anything, made it worse.

Eros turns away, chip in hand, jaw clenched—but Prion's silence follows like a ghost.

If the bond was broken now… who would bleed first?

The cold returned before the silence lifted.

Not the chill of the wind seeping through warehouse cracks—but the kind that started between two people who had nearly, almost, maybe trusted each other. And then didn't.

Prion didn't move.

He hadn't moved since the playback ended. Since Eros had looked at him with something that wasn't fear, or hatred, but worse—disappointment.

Eros sat on the other end of the rusted bench, hand still clenched around the chip player. He hadn't looked at Prion once since the recording cut out.

"You should've told me," he said finally.

His voice wasn't loud. Not sharp. But it sliced through the quiet.

Prion's fingers flexed slightly in his lap. "Would you have believed me?"

Eros didn't answer.

Because he didn't know.

Would he?

Or would he have heard the words and dismissed them as another soft trap in a long line of controlled behaviours?

"I'm trying to make sense of this," Eros said, voice tight. "But every time… every time I think I've found the thread, something like that—" he gestured toward the chip player "—rips it all apart."

Prion nodded once. Slow. "That's the point."

"What?"

"They designed it that way. To keep you spiralling. Doubting. To make every moment feel like it might be real—or manipulation."

He stood, finally, his body casting a long shadow over the cracked floor.

Eros stiffened, instinct tensing again.

But Prion didn't approach. He turned instead, stepping toward one of the shattered windows, staring out at the rain beyond.

"I didn't break the loop because I fought harder," Prion said softly. "I broke it because I stopped trying to win. I just… remembered."

"Remembered what?"

"That I didn't want to forget you."

Eros's breath caught—but he didn't speak.

Not this time.

Because something in those words felt wrong now. Like they'd been said before. Like maybe they were true. Or maybe they'd been rehearsed in every loop, just waiting for the perfect moment to land.

"You think I'm manipulating you," Prion said without turning around.

"I don't know what to think," Eros replied.

Another silence. But it wasn't empty.

It was thick with the unsaid.

Finally, Prion looked back.

"If I wanted to use you," he said calmly, "you'd already be broken."

The words weren't a threat.

They were a reminder.

Of how far he hadn't gone.

Yet.

Eros stood too. His posture was tense, but not hostile.

"You still haven't told me what your endgame is."

"I'm not sure anymore," Prion replied.

He stepped past him, toward the side exit.

"I thought it was survival. Then I thought it was memory. But now…"

He paused at the door.

"…maybe I just want to see if you'll remember me before they erase us again."

And then he walked out into the dark.

Leaving Eros alone with the chip still clutched in his hand—and a heart he wasn't sure had ever been his to begin with.

Outside, the rain fell harder. Inside, Eros pressed play again—this time, not for answers, but for confirmation. But what if confirmation never comes?

If a memory feels real… but someone tells you it's false—would you still choose to believe in it?

Sometimes, the sharpest weapons are words left unsaid. Prion may not raise a hand, but every truth he lets slip digs deeper. Are you beginning to wonder what's real, too?