Chapter 13: The Trace and the Glitch

The corridors narrowed.

Concrete walls bled static.

Pipes hissed with the kind of pressure that didn't belong to water.

Each step further down felt like stepping into an echo that hadn't decided if it was past or present.

Prion walked ahead.

No flashlight.

Just his fingers trailing along the wall—tapping once every seven seconds.

Eros counted.

He didn't know why.

He told himself it was for rhythm.

But the silence behind the tapping made his chest feel tight.

They hadn't spoken since Echo-Z fell.

Not because there was nothing to say.

Because every sentence now sounded like it could break something open.

"This place feels wrong," Eros muttered finally.

Prion didn't respond.

His fingers tapped again. One-two-three-four-five-six—pause—seven.

Then a flicker.

The hallway around them changed.

The same space, same structure—

But for a blink, the walls were no longer rusted tunnels but white.

Clinical white.

The kind that swallowed all warmth.

A lab.

Then it was gone.

"What the—" Eros turned. "Did you see that?"

Still no answer.

Prion had stopped walking.

His hand dropped.

His shoulders were too still.

"Prion?"

The other didn't turn around. He just said one word—except it came out wrong.

"Sta–st-ble."

Like a skip in audio.

Like a corrupted line in a file.

"What did you say?" Eros moved forward.

Prion took a step—and stumbled.

Only for half a breath.

But Prion didn't stumble.

Not ever.

Eros caught his arm.

And this time, Prion didn't pull away.

His fingers gripped Eros's sleeve instead, tight enough to bruise.

His breath hitched—like static cut through his lungs.

"It's residue," Prion whispered. "Echo-Z… his presence was a carrier. Not just a shadow—he left a trail."

"Trail of what?"

"Trace code. Fracture dust. Memory threads."

His voice dropped. "The system's bleeding."

Eros didn't fully understand—but he didn't need to.

He just needed to see what was in front of him:

Prion. Shaking. Pale.

Eyes trying to hide something and failing.

"You need to rest."

"I can't."

"Why?"

Prion looked up.

His voice barely above a breath.

"Because if I stop now… I'm afraid what's left of me won't come back."

What happens when even the one who never flinched… starts to fall?

The air grew denser as they walked.

Not with heat. Not with dust.

With something that felt like memory.

Residual.

Residual from him.

Prion's steps returned to rhythm. His expression returned to stillness.

But Eros knew it wasn't real.

That stumble had meant something.

That grip on his sleeve hadn't been mechanical.

And now Prion wouldn't meet his eyes.

"That won't happen again," Prion said quietly, voice steady but flat.

It wasn't reassurance.

It was a dismissal.

Eros didn't answer.

He just followed—close enough to catch him if it happened again.

Eventually, the tunnel ended.

And the walls opened into something... old.

A curved glass chamber. Observation mirrors cracked. A dozen empty chairs bolted to the floor behind them.

A forgotten lab control room.

"You've been here before," Eros said.

Prion didn't nod. Didn't speak.

Just stepped forward.

And that's when it happened.

The room flickered.

Fuzzy.

Like a static-warped television frame trying to align.

Then—

A screen on the wall buzzed to life.

A white recording room. Clean walls.

In the centre, a boy—barely sixteen—curled up on the floor.

Eros froze.

It was him.

Shivering. Gown half-torn. Eyes wild with something that looked too much like pain.

He was repeating something over and over.

"Where is he. Where is he. Where—where is—"

The feed glitched.

Then the boy screamed.

And the scream wasn't rage.

It was grief.

"Bring him back! You said he wouldn't break! You said he'd—"

Silence.

Then another voice—not on screen. Not audible.

But felt.

The kind that existed only in Eros's spine.

And in the doorway of the present, Prion just stood there.

Watching.

Expression unreadable.

Eros looked at him.

"That was me," he whispered. "That… was real."

Still, Prion didn't speak.

When the screen shut down with a soft electric sigh, he turned and walked away.

No words. No reaction. No hesitation.

But something about his back felt heavier now.

Eros stayed behind.

One hand resting on the cracked console.

Breathing in the silence.

Realizing—

This wasn't just his memory.

It had always belonged to both of them.

The corridor ahead was dim, riddled with the hum of broken wires and the low hiss of corrupted air filters. The shadows blurred slightly—either from the flickering lights or the way Eros's thoughts refused to settle.

He found Prion sitting on a rusted rail just beyond the broken lab.

Not pacing.

Not preparing.

Just… sitting.

As if the act of doing nothing was the only resistance left to give.

Eros stopped a few feet away.

Prion didn't look up.

"That was the first time I saw it," Eros said quietly. "Proof."

A beat.

"Was any of it ever real?"

The silence that followed wasn't avoidance.

It was deliberate.

And when Prion did speak, it wasn't to offer comfort.

"If you have to ask," he murmured, "maybe you already know."

Eros took a breath, shoulders tense.

"You didn't answer."

"I did."

Prion's voice wasn't cold.

It wasn't warm either.

Just that strange, detached middle ground where truth existed without apology.

Eros didn't press.

He walked over and sat next to him. Not close enough, but close enough to feel the gravity between them.

Their shoulders didn't meet.

But the distance carried weight.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Just the sound of broken systems and humming pipes.

Then—

A small sigh.

Not from Eros.

From Prion.

And not exhaustion, exactly.

Something more tired than that.

"They told me not to feel anything," Prion said. "Said I'd destabilize if I did. Said… I'd collapse."

He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it held the past.

"But it wasn't the emotions that broke me. It was pretending I didn't have them."

Eros looked sideways. His brow furrowed, not in judgment—but in something dangerously close to empathy.

Still, he didn't speak.

Prion stood a few seconds later. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to break the moment before it became anything more than memory.

"We should move. They'll send another trace soon."

Eros remained still a little longer.

Then followed.

Without question.

It started with a flicker.

A pulse on the ruined console—dim red against the blue static.

Eros leaned in first.

Then Prion.

The screen, once blank and rusted into silence, displayed three chilling words:

TRACE SIGNAL SPIKED.

NEW ERA PROTOCOL OVERRIDE DETECTED.

Prion's hand moved before thought.

Wires sparked. His fingers slipped into an exposed panel beneath the terminal, tracing half-melted circuits. A pulse of familiarity followed—like touching the bones of a corpse he once called home.

"They found the heartbeat," he said under his breath.

"Heartbeat?" Eros asked, stepping in.

Prion didn't answer. He was already typing—a sequence sharp enough to trigger a second screen. One that bled data faster than even Eros could follow.

But then—

His hands slowed.

His breath hitched.

The weight of every loop, every memory fracture, every calculated risk caught up in one sharp, unexpected moment.

His knees buckled.

Eros moved without hesitation.

Arms caught him before he collapsed, locking around Prion's frame with more force than grace.

"Prion."

The name left his lips before he could stop it.

For a second—just a second—the world stilled again.

Not because of silence.

But because their closeness shattered it.

Prion's hoodie was damp with sweat. His skin, always pale, had gone borderline translucent. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm as he struggled to steady his breath.

"Too many override pulses," he murmured. "They're not just tracing me. They're testing the collapse radius."

Eros gritted his teeth. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because if I say it out loud," Prion whispered, "it becomes real."

But then his fingers twitched again.

Not away—but toward the console.

Eros guided him back. Didn't let go.

They finished the override together. Hand over hand. Line by line.

And when the last flicker faded, Prion exhaled.

"They're coming fast," he said. "You said you'd protect me."

He looked up.

No smirk. No smile.

Just him.

"Let's see if you meant it."

What do you do when the ghost you're protecting might vanish before the enemy even arrives?

Can loyalty be born in moments where strength falters?

Sometimes, protection isn't about weapons—it's about staying when someone falls.