Chapter 21: Static Between the Frequencies

The room still buzzed faintly from the systems rebooting. Somewhere in the walls, wires crackled. Prion sat on the edge of a metal table, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the settings of the signal dampener they'd salvaged. A slight glitch in his movement—not weakness, but a kind of fraying. Like a signal flickering between channels.

Eros leaned by the doorway, arms crossed, watching. The silence between them wasn't hostile. But it wasn't trust either.

"You're destabilizing," Eros said flatly.

"I know."

"You need more rest."

"I don't have time to bleed right now."

Eros stepped forward, boots soundless on the old concrete. "You always say that. You keep pushing until you collapse."

"Because if I stop," Prion murmured, eyes on the panel, "they catch up."

His voice wasn't just tired—it was calculated. Like he was weighing every word against some invisible timeline, a formula he couldn't afford to get wrong.

Eros studied him. "You said this place was safe."

"It was. Until you triggered the loop."

Prion didn't say it with blame—but the words still hit sharp. Eros didn't look away.

"And what now?"

"Now," Prion whispered, "we finish what you started seventeen attempts ago."

Eros's fingers curled at his sides.

"Stop doing that!" he said.

Prion tilted his head. "Doing what?"

"Making it sound like we were something. Like we mattered."

Prion didn't answer.

The air between them thickened—fragile, unstable.

"You keep acting like I'm supposed to remember things that never happened," Eros went on. "Like we meant something. But I'm not who you want me to be."

"No," Prion said softly. "You're the version they left behind."

A beat.

Then Prion slid off the table, walking forward slowly. Close—too close. Close enough for Eros to feel the weight of that silence between them.

Prion stopped just in front of him, barely inches away.

"If you think this is another manipulation," Prion said quietly, "don't you think I would've done it already? I've had every opportunity."

"Yeah, I do think this is another manipulation, because you and only you have that capability. You've also lied to me or hide something from me when I'm asking you questions," Eros shot back. "Maybe all of this—the names, the fragments, the way you always know what I'm about to say—is just part of the same lie!"

Prion didn't move.

But his voice cracked just slightly. "I'm not the one who rewrites you."

Eros blinked.

But before he could speak, a sharp beeping sound echoed from the far wall.

Warning: system sync incomplete. External override queued.

Eros reached for his blade instinctively.

Prion didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped back. Sat again. His breathing shallow, skin pale beneath the hoodie's shadow.

"They're trying again," he said. "To overwrite you in real time."

Eros turned sharply. "How do you know?"

"Because every time they do," Prion whispered, "it costs me something."

He lifted one trembling hand—and for the first time, Eros noticed the faint shimmer along his skin, like static burning just beneath the surface. Not an injury. Not visible damage.

But a cost.

"I'll jam it," Prion said.

Eros narrowed his eyes. "That almost killed you last time…"

"It's worth it."

Eros stepped forward—stopped himself. His jaw clenched. His hands at his sides trembled for a moment. Then—

"Don't," he said.

Prion looked up, startled.

Eros met his eyes. "Let me fight it."

The silence swelled—raw and fragile.

Then Prion… smiled.

Not cold. Not sharp.

Soft.

Almost human.

And that—somehow—was more dangerous than anything else.

The lights dimmed as if the building itself exhaled.

Prion turned his head slightly, as though listening to something Eros couldn't hear. His eyes flickered—not with light, but with that same faint static, like a corrupted file loading too fast.

"Override is seconds away," he said quietly.

"Then stop it," Eros said.

"I could."

"But?"

Prion hesitated.

Eros moved closer, slow, deliberate. "But you'll collapse again."

A beat.

Prion nodded.

Eros didn't know why his chest tightened at that. Maybe because he was starting to recognize the pattern. That every time the system pushed, Prion would bend. Every time Eros fractured, Prion bled for it in silence.

"Let it come," Eros said, voice low.

"You'll forget again."

"Then make me remember."

Prion looked up sharply.

Eros didn't know where the words had come from. They didn't feel planted. They didn't feel forced. But when they landed, something behind Prion's gaze shifted—just slightly. Like recognition. Like grief. Like fear.

"I can't keep dragging you through broken loops," Prion whispered. "Every time you glitch, they adapt. Every time I block the override, they recalibrate. Eventually, I won't be fast enough."

"And then what?" Eros challenged. "You die?"

"I unravel."

Eros scoffed softly. "Right. The brilliant anomaly brought down by a signal."

But Prion didn't rise to the bait.

He simply leaned back against the cold steel wall, head tilting upward like he could feel the pressure mounting. The air around him buzzed faintly with that strange, invisible pull—like electromagnetic charge crawling just under the skin.

Eros knelt in front of him, just enough to look him in the eye.

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why do you keep doing this?" His voice dropped. "For me."

Prion didn't answer immediately.

He reached up, slowly, brushing his fingers against the side of Eros's temple. Not a touch—more like calibrating. Mapping. He wasn't smiling now.

"I used to think," he said, "that saving you would save me too."

Eros's breath caught.

"But now…" Prion lowered his hand. "I'm not sure what I'm trying to save anymore."

A warning pulse echoed from the terminal. The override signal was spiking again. Stronger. Sharper.

"Three seconds," Prion said.

"Don't jam it," Eros said.

"You'll lose your name."

"I'll get it back."

"You won't know who I am."

"Then remind me."

The hum intensified. Prion's hand hovered again—hesitated.

"Two."

Eros met his eyes. "You said once I scratched your name into my arm."

"You did."

"Then scratch it deeper this time."

"One."

The override signal burst outward—like an invisible knife aimed at Eros's spine.

And Prion—

Didn't block it.

Not fully.

Just rerouted it. Blunted the edge.

Enough to stop the kill command, but not enough to stop the memory fracture.

He fell forward without sound.

Eros caught him.

Too fast. Too light.

Prion's body felt fragile in his arms—like a frame that had been stretched too thin.

His skin was hot with static, his breathing shallow.

But he was alive.

Barely.

"Prion," Eros said, unsure why his voice shook. "Don't do this…"

A faint hum vibrated in the air, settling as the signal passed.

Prion's lashes fluttered. He didn't speak, but his hand curled weakly in Eros's coat, grounding himself.

And Eros—

Didn't move.

Didn't pull away.

Didn't say anything at all.

He just let him stay there, curled in the quiet, like the weight of the override had finally found its home in someone else's spine.

The emergency lights blinked in a steady rhythm—slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat forced into submission.

Eros stayed crouched on the floor, one hand still braced beneath Prion's shoulder, the other curled reflexively near his blade. Not to draw it.

But to remind himself he still could.

If he needed to.

If he had to.

Prion stirred faintly. His head lolled against Eros's arm, sweat streaking his temples, breath catching in uneven intervals. His hoodie, once black and dry, was clinging now with damp static. The faint trace of digital interference still hummed at his pulse points—barely detectable unless you were this close.

Eros was too close.

And yet he didn't pull away.

He watched the tension in Prion's throat, the slight hitch in his breath every time his body fought to reboot.

"You didn't have to do that," Eros said quietly.

"I know," came the hoarse whisper.

Prion didn't open his eyes.

"You let it hit me anyway."

"Better that than total reset."

Eros frowned. "You were supposed to be the one they couldn't shut down."

Prion laughed—low and short, bitter. "I was never immune. Just fast."

He shifted, but Eros didn't let him go. Not yet.

"You could've stopped the whole signal," Eros said, voice tight. "You've done it before."

"And you'd forget everything again," Prion murmured. "Start from zero. Start from seeing me as just another glitch in your file. Another variable to erase."

His voice caught—just barely.

"I can't keep doing that."

Eros looked at him, searching.

There was no defence in Prion's expression. No smugness. No superiority. Just exhaustion carved deep into skin and bone. The genius. The anomaly. The man who outsmarted New Era—reduced to a trembling frame in Eros's arms.

And still…dangerous.

Not because of strength.

But because of what he remembered.

"What exactly did I say?" Eros asked, more softly now. "That time. The one where I…you said I carved your name."

Prion didn't answer immediately. He just shifted—pushed off Eros's arm enough to sit upright with effort, his weight clearly still unsteady.

Then he looked up. Not with defiance. But something quieter. Older.

"You said, 'If I forget you again… kill me. Let me find you in the next loop.'"

Eros swallowed.

"And you?"

"I said no."

The lights buzzed above them—static crawling faintly down the corridor like memory's echo.

"You said that on attempt seventeen?" Eros asked.

Prion nodded.

"Why didn't you let me forget?" Eros muttered.

"Because even wiped, you always hesitated." Prion leaned back against the wall. "Because I needed someone to hesitate."

Eros said nothing.

But something in his chest twisted—not pain exactly. Not recognition.

More like the faintest shape of something that might've been there before memory burned it out.

It was then that Prion's body finally gave in again—his head dropping, his limbs loosening. His eyes fluttered shut, not unconscious but close enough to worry.

And still, his voice came, weak but clear:

"Don't run next time," he whispered.

"What?"

"When the override hits. Don't pull away from it. Just…stay. Anchor it."

Eros stared.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

"All right."

A pause.

The air between them tightened.

"Will it hurt?"

"Yes."

Another pause.

Then Eros exhaled. "Fine."

He didn't know why he agreed.

He just knew that for the first time since he'd been activated, the system didn't feel like the only thing giving him orders.

They stayed like that for a long moment—neither speaking, just breathing in silence, the air too heavy with things unsaid.

Prion didn't move again. His eyes remained shut, but not in defeat. It was the kind of stillness that came from calculating energy—conserving, planning, preparing for the next inevitable fracture. Because there would be one. There always was.

Eros leaned back, shifting just enough to keep Prion upright without jarring his weight. The thin static crackled once more across the walls, a residual echo from the overridden signal.

Eros hated that sound.

It didn't just remind him of being controlled—it reminded him of almost losing him.

Not that he admitted that out loud.

His comm device chimed low in his ear.

>> Incoming priority directive.

The voice was sterile. Clean. Unfeeling.

Eros clenched his teeth. The override hadn't finished its cycle. It was waiting—listening. Testing.

>> Target anomaly remains active. Do not allow further deviation. Authorization pending for remote assist extraction.

Extraction.

They meant Prion.

Eros rose slowly, disengaging from the comm with a silent flick of his fingers. The command faded.

But his thoughts didn't.

He turned to Prion, still slumped against the wall, chest rising shallowly. This man who had cracked the system, rewritten his fate, and somehow, impossibly, made Eros hesitate.

Why?

He didn't know if it was programming or instinct. Or something deeper, buried in the void of erased data. But he couldn't shake it now. Not the way Prion had looked at him. Not the way his body had folded forward when the override wave hit Eros instead. Not the way Prion had taken the hit—and didn't flinch.

He could've let Eros collapse.

He didn't.

And now… they were here, again, together, in the lull between strikes.

Prion's hand moved slightly. Not even a gesture—just a flex of his fingers, as if reaching for something that wasn't there.

Or someone.

Eros reached out before he could question the impulse.

He didn't take the hand.

He just let his fingers brush Prion's wrist—light, grounding.

Prion's eyes opened.

A blink.

Another.

But no words.

He saw Eros. Not the assassin. Not the past. Just him.

"I didn't run," Eros murmured.

A beat.

Prion blinked once more—slow. "Then maybe this time…you won't have to."

The corridor around them began to hum. Not danger yet, but proximity.

Eros straightened. "We can't stay."

"I know."

"I'm not carrying you again."

A weak smile. "Then don't let me fall."

It wasn't a command.

It wasn't even a plea.

It was something quieter. A tether. An understanding.

Eros slipped his arm beneath Prion's again and hauled him to his feet. Not gently. But not coldly, either.

Prion didn't resist.

They walked in silence.

Side by side, with a closeness that wasn't quite comfort—but wasn't combat either.

Behind them, the system recalibrated. Somewhere in the architecture, the override pulsed again—but it didn't hit.

Because the target wasn't deviating.

And the weapon was starting to choose.