Chapter 19: Recalibration

The sky above the ruined facility had turned a pale, chemical grey—neither day nor night, just the dull wash of light that filtered through decades of pollution and control. Smoke still curled from one of the upper floors, faint and bitter. Somewhere in the distance, alarms echoed like old ghosts refusing to die.

Eros stood at the edge of a rusted catwalk, watching nothing.

He hadn't said a word since they escaped.

The silence behind him wasn't empty. Prion was there. Leaning against a console. Breathing shallowly. Still pale, hoodie torn and soot-streaked, one hand braced against the control panel like his weight might slip without it.

They hadn't spoken about Subject Z.

They hadn't spoken about the override.

They hadn't spoken about how close Eros had come—again—to pulling the trigger.

A soft creak of metal broke the stillness. Eros turned slightly, not all the way.

"You're burning out."

Prion didn't answer. Just closed his eyes.

"You jammed a live override," Eros said, tone sharp now. "You didn't have to. You were barely standing and you still…"

He turned fully now. His jaw clenched.

"Do you even care if you survive this!?"

Prion's head tilted slightly. Not in confusion—but detachment.

"You think I haven't calculated the odds?"

"That's not the same…"

A pause.

Then Prion straightened with effort. Each movement precise but strained—like a machine that still functioned but with fraying wires.

"I've rewritten more than just exit codes and surveillance paths," he said. "I've rewritten myself—over and over. To survive. To resist. To stay."

He looked at Eros then. Really looked. And for once, there was no mask. No sharp intellect or biting sarcasm.

Just weariness.

"And every time you're sent after me, I wonder how many more rewrites I can survive before I become one of them."

The silence that followed hit heavier than shouting ever could.

Eros's breath caught. His fists clenched.

"Then why do it?" he demanded. "Why keep protecting me? Why take the hit every time I glitch? Why break for someone who doesn't even remember you?"

A faint smile touched Prion's lips. Faint and cracked.

"I was the first successful subject," he said. "But they didn't expect me to last. They just wanted the data. They thought I'd break."

He took one slow step forward, until the shadows between them shortened.

"They made you my anchor to stabilize me. But they never predicted and expected that I will learn to stabilize myself to save you instead."

Another step.

"Now they fear me not because I'm unstable—"

He reached out, not quite touching, but close enough that Eros could feel the tension thread between them like wire.

"—but because I am not. Because I remember. Because I chose not to break."

Eros didn't back away.

Not this time.

"You could still die from this," he said quietly.

"I could," Prion replied. "But I'd rather burn the whole system down with my last breath than let them take you again."

And there it was.

Not a declaration. Not a confession.

Just truth, laid bare like a crack across the surface of something once unbreakable.

A gust of wind rolled through the broken corridor.

Neither of them moved.

The floor beneath them was scorched and littered with fragments—of code modules, of failed containment glass, of lives engineered to burn out before they could begin.

Eros followed Prion wordlessly down a side hall that had collapsed in one corner, leaving just enough space for them to pass. The walls hummed with dying systems, and the overhead lights flickered with intermittent pulses—alive, but barely.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes.

But the silence wasn't cold.

It was close.

After a while, Prion stopped near a junction of intersecting halls. There, he knelt—not because he stumbled, but because his hands were steady enough now to work. He reached into the base of a broken conduit, revealing a sliver of untouched circuitry behind the grime and static.

"I built this fallback during the third cycle," Prion murmured, mostly to himself. "You didn't know this because you were still following orders then."

Eros folded his arms and leaned against the far wall, watching. "And now?"

Prion didn't look up. "Now you're not sure if following me is worse."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

The light from the exposed panel glinted off Prion's skin, pale and slightly damp. Sweat beaded at his temple, though his hands moved with precision—adjusting the angle of the relay, rerouting a bypass, burning through corrupted code with manual overwrite.

"You're still weakening," Eros said quietly.

"I'm functional."

"That's not what I asked."

This time, Prion looked up.

His eyes were glassy. Not just from exhaustion, but something older. Something he hadn't let surface until now.

"I've already told you, I'm not dying," he said. "Not the way they planned. They made me to collapse predictably. I already rewrote that part."

"And the pain?"

"Residual," he admitted. "The more you remember, the harder the feedback."

"I know I've asked this many times and you showed me proof but there's still a huge part of me asking the same questions over and over again, why me?" Eros asked.

It wasn't sharp. Not aggressive. Just… genuine.

"You had to have known they'd break me."

"I did," Prion said. "But I knew you wouldn't stay broken."

He stood slowly, knees shaking slightly. Eros moved—just a step, not quite reaching out, but close enough to catch him if he faltered.

Prion didn't fall. But he didn't move away either.

Their eyes locked.

"You said in the stairwell," Eros began, voice lower now, "that I built the blind spot. That I said I didn't want to lose you again."

"I didn't lie."

"But if it's all just echoes," Eros murmured, "then how can I trust any of it's real?"

Prion took a breath.

Then, without flinching, he stepped forward—until they were almost chest to chest.

"You're asking the wrong question."

A pause.

Eros swallowed. "Then what's the right one?"

Prion's hand rose—slowly—and hovered near Eros's shoulder. Not touching. Just a breath away. The space between them pulsed with tension.

"The question is," he said quietly, "why does your heart race every time I get this close?"

Eros froze.

Then blinked.

Just once.

But he didn't move.

Didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

Because the system's buzz behind them faded into silence. And in the breath that followed, the edge between mission and memory blurred again—just enough for neither of them to pretend otherwise.

Prion stepped back, but the weight of his presence lingered.

"We'll need to move soon," he said, already walking again. "The longer we stay, the more likely they'll send another."

Eros followed—but not with the same suspicion in his stride.

Not anymore.

The hallway curved into darkness, no longer flickering with light—only silent, heatless hums of power running on ghost circuits. Prion walked ahead now, slower than before, but with purpose. He didn't speak, not even when Eros's footfalls trailed closer than necessary behind him.

There was a shift in the atmosphere.

Not hostility.

Not tension.

But something dense. Like the very air between them carried the weight of what wasn't said.

They passed an old biometric scanpad—burned through, but still faintly reacting to Prion's presence with a stuttered green glow.

"Still recognizes you," Eros muttered.

"No. It recognizes what I became," Prion replied. "Not who I was."

They reached a sealed access panel that bore the logo of New Era's first experimental branch. A glyph shaped like an open eye fractured by a lightning bolt. Prion placed his palm flat against it.

It didn't open.

Instead, it spoke.

"Protocol Inversion detected. Subject-7 access requires dual validation."

Eros tensed. "What does that mean?"

Prion didn't answer. He simply turned to face him.

"You have to validate it."

"Me?"

"Because the system thinks you're still part of them."

"But I'm not—"

"Yes," Prion said, voice calm but firm. "You are."

His gaze softened—just slightly. "You're the stabilizer. Even if you don't remember how."

Eros hesitated. Then stepped forward.

The panel shimmered as his hand joined Prion's—side by side.

The door clicked. Then opened.

Behind it was a low, round chamber—a nexus filled with suspended data streams, some still flickering with broken attempts at memory restoration. Black cables hung like arteries. And at the centre, a translucent screen displayed archived labels.

Each line bore a name.

Or rather, a designation.

Subject-0: Deceased

Subject-1: Deceased

Subject-2: Deceased

…

Subject-6: Deceased

Subject-7: [Anomalous—Active]

Eros stepped closer to the console as Prion lowered himself into the lone chair nearby—too familiar with the strain, too exhausted to fight it.

"Why keep this place?" Eros asked.

"It's not for me," Prion replied. "It's where they finalized your override code. The failsafe they built in."

Eros's hand instinctively reached toward the back of his neck.

"They still have it?" he asked.

Prion nodded. "But I've blocked it so far. Every override attempt routes through me now."

"That's why you collapse," Eros whispered. "Every time they try to turn me, you stop it."

"It's a simple reroute," Prion lied.

Eros didn't believe him.

Not anymore.

Not after seeing the way Prion staggered, the way he fought like his body was a cage and his mind the last soldier inside.

"…Why?" Eros asked.

The word hung between them.

Prion's head dropped slightly, his lips parting with something between a sigh and a confession.

"Because if they get you again… I won't be able to stop you."

Eros didn't move.

Didn't speak.

But something cracked—not in the room. Not in the tech or lights.

In him.

That something behind his eyes.

The part of him that had always fought to keep a line drawn between mission and man.

Without thinking, he crouched beside the chair, one hand gripping its side. He didn't touch Prion. But he was there. Close enough to breathe the same air.

"You said I used to be the one who didn't want to lose you," he murmured. "What happened?"

"You were," Prion whispered. "And then… they made you forget."

The console behind them dimmed—cycles ending.

And still, neither moved.

Because the feeling between them—whatever it was—didn't come from memory.

It came from residue.

From something that had burned once and never quite died.

The silence in the corridor wasn't peaceful.

It was the kind that came after something snapped.

Eros walked slightly ahead, hand resting loosely on the hilt at his back, though he hadn't drawn it. His expression was unreadable, but every few steps, his eyes flicked sideways—just enough to confirm Prion was still there.

Prion walked slower now. Not out of hesitation, but as if his bones were calculating each step against the growing weight inside him. The last system echo had triggered a bleed—he felt it in the static between his thoughts. In the way his right hand twitched when he wasn't thinking.

They passed a shattered window. Glass crunched underfoot.

Neither of them spoke.

But the silence was doing all the damage.

"You still don't believe me…" Prion finally said. His voice wasn't defensive. Just quietly factual.

Eros didn't answer at first. He kept walking.

Then— "You lied to me a number of times…"

"I never lied," Prion replied. "I just didn't tell you everything."

"Same thing."

They reached the end of the hallway. A sealed door. Card locked.

Eros didn't move to open it.

Instead, he turned to face him. His voice dropped lower. "You said Subject 4 failed. That he wasn't like you. That no one survived."

"I didn't say no one escaped," Prion said calmly. "I said no one survived the way I did. There's a difference."

"And what about him knowing my name? Knowing us?"

"That was intentional. Planted. Fed to him through fracture logs to confuse you."

Eros stared. "Then why didn't you tell me?"

Prion looked up. There was no coldness in his eyes now—only a flicker of exhaustion beneath something deeper. "Because I knew what would happen. I've seen what happens when you doubt me. The hesitation turns into orders. And orders turn into blood."

Eros's hand clenched.

"Don't," Prion said softly. "Don't say you're not capable of it. You are. Thirty-seven times, you were."

"I didn't remember those."

"That doesn't mean it didn't happen."

The hallway lights flickered. Somewhere behind them, the echo of a system hum vibrated through the wall—too faint for normal ears. But Prion heard it. A new sync pulse. Something was getting closer.

"I've said this, and I will say this again, I'm not trying to manipulate you," Prion added. "But I am trying to keep you alive. Even if that means you hate me for it."

"Why?" Eros asked, low and sharp. "Why do you care so much?"

There was no immediate answer.

Then—

"Because every time I tried to save you, I lost something else in me. My memory. My sanity. My chance to escape." Prion's voice didn't shake—but the pause after it did. "But never the feeling. Never you."

Eros stood there, torn. For a second, the suspicion that had been building fractured—just enough to reveal the flicker of something else.

Recognition.

Emotion.

Pain.

But before he could speak, a distant crash shattered the moment. Somewhere in the wing below them, something heavy had broken through the lockdown gate.

A low, corrupted voice hissed through the floor vents.

"Anchor located. Terminate deviation."

Prion's spine straightened. His lips thinned. "They're coming for you now. Not me."

Eros's pulse kicked. "Why me?"

"They think you're contaminated."

The red lights along the wall blinked once. Then again. Then went steady.

Override.

Prion didn't hesitate—he grabbed Eros by the shoulder and shoved him toward the side panel.

"What are you—"

"There's no time!" Prion snapped. "That voice—it's not human anymore. It's override protocol. If it touches you, it will take you back."

Eros tried to argue, but the floor below groaned.

Too late.

The panel behind them burst open—revealing a maintenance shaft barely wide enough for one person. Eros froze.

"I'm not leaving you…"

"You are," Prion said, voice flat. "You have to. Or I'll make sure you regret it."

Eros blinked.

And then Prion smiled—not warm, not cold, just dangerous. That same smile Eros had seen once in a fractured memory. When Prion wasn't the victim, but the one rewriting the rules.

"You want to know why they fear me?" Prion whispered. "Because I never played by their rules. I built new ones. And I'm not done yet."

Then the wall burst behind them.

Prion shoved Eros through the shaft and sealed it from the outside.

The last thing Eros saw before darkness swallowed him—

Was Prion turning to face the echo alone.

Like he wasn't afraid.

Like he wanted them to try.

What happens when the anomaly they fear most stops running—and begins rewriting the endgame?

Can you trust someone who's erased every version of the truth—except the one that still bleeds?

The line between protector and threat is blurring fast. Eros doesn't know what to believe—but Prion's not waiting for permission. The fracture is widening. And the enemy has started adapting.