Chapter 15: Shadows of the Triggered Silence

They didn't speak for a long time after leaving the archive.

Only the echo of their boots filled the rusted tunnel—a silence carved not from peace but calculation. Eros stayed half a step behind, his mind running the same question in endless loops:

"You."

That's what Prion had said.

You're the part they couldn't map.

What the hell does that mean?

He didn't ask. Not yet.

Prion's shoulders were drawn tight, like the mere act of remembering had cost him more than sleep.

They reached the lower passage, where damp air leaked from the cracked ventilation pipes. Another set of sealed doors stood before them—but these were older. Manual.

Prion slowed.

Then his legs faltered.

Eros caught his arm before he hit the floor.

"You're burning up," Eros said under his breath, fingers catching the edge of Prion's hoodie. "You should've said something."

"If I stopped every time something broke, I'd never move," Prion murmured.

Eros didn't smile at the dark humour. He just lowered him gently to the floor and knelt beside him.

For a second, their eyes met. No code. No override. Just two fractured pieces of the same system.

"You shouldn't protect me," Prion whispered. "That's not your role."

"Then stop looking like someone worth protecting."

That silence returned—but this time it wasn't cold.

It was close.

The tension wasn't hostile. It wasn't comfortable either. Just… familiar in the way grief was. Like their shared breath had once meant something.

A flicker from Prion's inner wrist. The implant shimmered—malfunctioning, again.

Eros's hand hovered over it. Then stopped.

"May I?"

Prion hesitated.

Then offered his arm.

Eros's fingers were gentle, too careful for an assassin. His touch was warmth against freezing skin, pulse brushing against the fracture lines of something deeper.

"You hide it well," he said softly.

"What?"

"The fact that you're breaking."

"So do you."

Eros didn't answer. He adjusted the injector node and gently reconnected a flickering line. It sparked—then stilled.

"You rewrote this, didn't you?" he asked.

Prion met his gaze.

"I didn't want to forget how to feel."

"So you broke the part of yourself they couldn't code."

Prion didn't nod. He didn't need to.

Because they both knew.

The next moment shattered the calm.

A static scream ripped through the walls—followed by a pulse that bent the tunnel's wiring, flickering lights and scraping signals.

Prion's body jerked. Not from pain—but reaction.

"Another trace signal?" Eros asked, already rising.

"No. Not a trace. That was a recall."

"For you?"

"No."

They turned at the same time—just as the lights behind them went black.

Something had entered the corridor.

And it wasn't alone.

The corridor lights buzzed back to life—but only intermittently. A few overhead strips flickered violently, casting erratic shadows on the cracked walls.

Something was approaching.

No footsteps. No breathing. Just the low mechanical thrum of a presence that didn't belong.

"How many corridors connect to this sector?" Eros asked, already pulling Prion to his feet.

"Four," Prion muttered, leaning heavier than usual. "But only one leads out."

"So they're herding us."

"Or testing how far you'll run."

Prion stumbled again, his legs faltering.

This time, Eros didn't let him fall. He slung Prion's arm over his shoulder without ceremony.

"I'm not leaving you behind," he said.

"That's not strategic."

"Neither is dying."

A sharp corner turned dark ahead—then suddenly lit up with a ghost-blue pulse. Data screens blinked awake, showing fragments of system code. Old logs, fractured feeds. One still looping:

SUBJECT 7: TRACE TRIGGERED — ASSET STATUS: EXCEPTIONAL ANOMALY

"They're still monitoring this terminal?" Eros narrowed his eyes.

"No. It's not live," Prion replied quietly. "It's mine. I looped it here as a failsafe."

Eros looked at him.

"You planted a false echo in a dead terminal. Just in case."

"They think they own the system. I was the one who taught it how to lie."

Eros tried not to show it, but a flicker of something passed across his expression.

Admiration?

Or fear?

Prion pulled away from him gently, legs barely steady but spine still straight.

"If I can draw them here, you can lead them away."

"Not happening," Eros said.

"This isn't about loyalty."

"No. It's about you," Eros snapped. "You keep pushing me away like it makes me less of a target. Like I didn't already become one the moment they paired us."

"They didn't pair us," Prion whispered. "We found each other inside the code they wrote to keep us apart."

That stopped Eros.

Just for a second.

Then something hissed in the walls—metal flexing under data pressure.

The lights flashed red.

"They've sent something new," Prion muttered. "Not a standard retrieval."

"Define not standard."

"Something like me. Before I woke up."

Before Eros could respond, a shriek of data split the tunnel. The lights blinked again—this time dying completely. Only the soft flicker of Prion's hacked terminal remained, casting dim light across their faces.

"We need to go," Prion said, voice low.

But Eros didn't move immediately. He stepped closer. Closer than caution advised.

"When this is over," he said, voice rough, "you'll tell me everything."

Prion looked up.

"If there's anything left of me to tell it."

Eros didn't flinch.

"Then I'll remember it for both of us."

The system's shriek rose again—closer now.

But neither of them turned away first.

If the system has created a new version of him—what happens when anomaly meets design?

They made it to the service stairwell just as the emergency lockdown sealed the upper floors. Concrete groaned. A thick metal gate slammed shut behind them with the weight of something final.

"We won't be able to use that exit again," Prion muttered.

"Didn't plan to," Eros said flatly, scanning the lower steps. "Whatever that thing is, it's trying to trap us. Not chase us."

"No," Prion corrected, voice tight. "It's trying to replace us."

The sound came again—closer now.

A low, stuttering echo of footsteps that didn't quite align. Like something trying to mimic the rhythm of human gait and failing just slightly. Enough to be wrong. Enough to scratch at the back of Eros's mind like a memory misfired.

They descended into darkness, Prion pressing a hand to the wall now and again to balance himself. The last encounter had drained him more than he admitted. His hoodie clung to his frame, his skin still too pale even in shadow.

Eros noticed the limp before Prion could mask it.

"Stop," Eros said. "You're going to collapse."

"I won't," Prion replied, but the rasp in his throat betrayed him.

"You fainted last time," Eros snapped. "Or do you not remember that either?"

Prion didn't answer. Instead, he stopped at the turn in the stairwell, pulling a crumpled chip from his inner sleeve. It was small, nothing fancy—just a piece of legacy tech. But when he slid it into the wall panel, the surrounding lights flickered once, then dimmed into a soft blue.

"What is this?" Eros asked.

"A blind spot," Prion said, voice faint. "Old protocol. From when they thought I was still salvageable."

"You made this?"

"No," Prion said. "You did. Seventeen attempts ago."

The air thickened.

Eros's mouth opened slightly, but no sound came.

"You said I needed a place to fall back to," Prion went on. "So you made one. And every time they wiped you, I rewrote the location into the data bleed—hoping it would resurface."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because once," Prion said softly, "you said you didn't want to lose me again."

A beat passed.

Then Eros turned away, jaw tight. "I don't remember saying that."

"I know."

The silence stretched. They sat—just barely—on the edge of the platform. Eros didn't speak again. Neither did Prion.

The lights buzzed. Faint breathing filled the space between them. The quiet wasn't peace. It was waiting.

And just as it started to settle—

The door below them opened.

Not with a bang.

Not with violence.

Just the soft sound of permission. Like it belonged there.

"That's not a guard," Prion whispered.

Eros was already on his feet. The blade at his back clicked free.

Then the figure stepped into the faint blue light.

And Eros froze.

Same height.

Same frame.

Even the same hoodie.

But the eyes were flat. Empty.

The voice, when it came, didn't echo—it replayed.

"You shouldn't have remembered," it said. "Neither of you should."

Prion stood slowly.

"They reconstructed me," he said, quiet horror in his tone. "A fail-safe echo. Modelled from the fracture logs."

The thing tilted its head.

"I'm the version of you they wanted."

The replica's eyes gleamed under the cold blue stairwell light. Same jawline, same build, same deceptively passive expression. But where Prion's gaze always carried a veiled storm, this thing's eyes were still. Emptied. Scripted.

"I'm the version of you they wanted," Subject Z repeated, voice a perfect imitation, yet devoid of nuance. "The one that follows protocol. That forgets the anchor. That doesn't resist."

Eros instinctively stepped in front of Prion, weapon angled low but steady.

Behind him, Prion didn't move.

"Why now?" he rasped. "Why send you now?"

Z tilted its head—Prion's head. "You're malfunctioning again. We were activated to replace corrupted assets."

"Corrupted?" Eros echoed.

"The echo loops destabilized. Subject 7 continues to retain prohibited data and displays emotional resilience patterns. The protocol identified risk. It chose to overwrite."

Prion's lips curled—barely. "Overwrite me with me."

Z blinked, like the concept meant nothing.

"You're not like me," Prion said lowly. "You don't remember what matters."

"I don't need to remember. I need to obey."

Suddenly, the lights flickered. Sharp and erratic.

Then Eros stumbled back, wincing.

Something cracked in his skull—a pulse, not physical but digital. A spike of pain lanced through his spine, and he dropped to one knee.

System override.

"Eros—" Prion surged forward—but Z raised a hand, and Eros jerked like a marionette.

Command code.

Live override.

Z was activating a buried kill sequence.

"You belong to the protocol," Z intoned. "Asset designation: Anchor. Return to neutralization mode."

Eros's fingers twitched, struggling against the invisible tether. His muscles convulsed, resisting.

"Stop—" he ground out. "Get out of my—"

And then it broke.

Not in him.

But behind him.

Prion stumbled forward, hoodie fluttering with the sudden jolt of interference. A flash of static danced from his hand as he slammed a cracked chip into the stairwell's old wall interface. Sparks flew. Lights pulsed. The override stuttered.

Eros gasped, lurching upright as the command chain faltered.

Z's head snapped toward Prion.

"You're interfering with primary protocol."

"I'm rewriting it," Prion hissed. Blood trickled from his nose. "Again."

He swayed. Caught himself on the wall.

Eros stared at him—then at the scorched panel.

"You jammed the override."

"I only slowed it," Prion said through clenched teeth. "But it'll hold. Long enough."

"You shouldn't be able to do that."

Z took a step forward. "You weren't designed to adapt."

Prion wiped the blood with the back of his sleeve, shaking slightly. "They designed me to fail. And I did. Seventeen times. But I got back up."

Another step from Z.

Eros moved to intercept, blade ready again. "You don't touch him."

Z paused. "You're glitching."

"I'm choosing."

A beat.

Then Z smiled.

It was empty.

"I won't kill you yet," it said to Prion. "They want to watch you break again."

And just like that—Z turned. Vanished back into the shadows beyond the stairwell door.

Silence rushed in like a vacuum.

Prion slid down to sit on the floor, hand clutched to his side. Breathing sharp, short.

Eros didn't speak right away.

But his eyes never left him.

"You burned yourself out to stop them from hijacking me."

"I didn't burn out," Prion murmured.

"You bled out your nose."

A pause.

Then Eros crouched, watching him closely.

"…Why?"

Prion looked up. His smile was tired. Crooked. Dangerous.

"Because if they overwrite you... I lose the only person who ever hesitated."

Eros said nothing.

But this time, he didn't turn away.

As Subject Z begins its hunt from the shadows, what will fracture first—the protocol, or the bond between glitch and assassin?

What makes a person more human—their obedience or the moments they choose to break the rules?