Chapter 22: The Ones They Lost

The ventilation corridor opened into a disused access junction—low ceilings, rusted grates, and wires exposed like veins under concrete skin. The lighting was faint, bleeding amber through old warning strips that hadn't flickered in years. Not many remembered this place. Not many were supposed to.

Prion moved slowly.

Each step was careful, measured. He didn't stumble, but he wasn't steady either. His skin had paled again, and the hollowness under his eyes was worse now—shadows sunken deep from something more than physical strain.

He was burning out.

And Eros knew it.

He didn't say anything. He just walked behind him. Not guiding. Not pushing. Just there.

Prion finally stopped in front of a sealed maintenance door. His fingers hesitated over the interface pad.

"Still encrypted," he murmured. "But old."

"Old means yours?"

"Old means no one checked it since the fracture began."

A pause.

Then Prion tapped the panel three times—pause—twice more.

The lock clicked.

The door creaked open with the hiss of stale air releasing secrets.

Inside was nothing.

Just dust.

And an old chair, bolted to the centre of the room.

It wasn't just a maintenance space.

It was an observation cell.

Eros stepped inside, expression unreadable.

"What is this place?"

Prion walked to the chair. His hand hovered just above the restraint cuffs, then pulled away.

"They used to bring me here," he said quietly. "Not to test. Just to see how long it would take before I broke without input."

"Input?"

"Sound. Touch. Eros."

The name fell out too easily. It wasn't intentional.

But Eros didn't flinch this time.

He stood in silence, staring at the chair, then at the small, broken screen embedded in the wall beside it.

Prion sat—not in the chair—but on the floor, knees drawn up slightly, back to the wall.

Eros didn't follow. He remained standing.

"They stopped erasing you," Prion said after a moment.

"I know."

"Not because they trust you. Because they want to see what I'll do."

Eros's jaw clenched.

Prion looked at him, eyes sharp beneath exhaustion. "They think if they leave you intact long enough, I'll say something I shouldn't. Reveal a backdoor. Compromise the system."

"Would you?"

"No."

But something flickered in his gaze—something close to regret.

"Then why are we here?" Eros asked.

"Because this was the last place I remembered your voice clearly."

That did something.

Eros shifted, almost stepped forward—but didn't.

"You told me once," Prion continued, "that if I ever forgot who I was, you'd remind me. So I came back here after the thirty-fifth attempt. Sat in that corner. And tried to remember the sound of you. Not your name. Not your mission. Just your voice."

A beat.

"I don't know why," Prion admitted, barely above a whisper. "But it helped me rewrite."

That was the difference.

Not just survival.

Not just brilliance.

It was that Prion refused to forget. Even when it shattered him.

Even when Eros did.

Outside, a soft hum triggered—a motion sensor warning. Something was moving beyond the junction.

"They're tracking us again," Eros said.

"No," Prion said, pushing himself up slowly. "They're pushing us. Herding."

"Herding us where?"

"To whoever they sent this time."

Eros drew his weapon. "Another hit team?"

Prion's smile was thin. "No. Not a team."

He turned.

"They're only sending one now."

The sensor's hum tapered into silence.

A stillness crept into the corridor—not emptiness, but something watching. Calculated. Cold. The kind of silence that came before something irreversible.

Prion didn't flinch.

He pressed one palm flat against the wall, tracing the old circuitry lines under faded paint. "There's only one direction they want us to go," he muttered.

Eros scanned the exit routes. "It's a funnel. They closed off every auxiliary duct."

Prion's voice was calm. "Which means they're confident. Overly confident."

"Or they think one is enough."

Prion nodded once. "Because this time, they're not sending a team to kill. They're sending someone to prove I can still be corrected."

The corridor narrowed ahead—less a path, more a test chamber dressed in decay. A trail of smeared black marks lined the floor, leading forward.

Eros didn't like it. His grip on the blade shifted.

They walked in silence, until the corridor spilled into a chamber too wide for its walls—a former containment hall, stripped of its data ports and restraints. All that remained was the echo of ghosts.

And in the centre—

A single figure.

Not masked.

Not armoured.

He stood barefoot in the dust.

His hair was cropped, clean. His eyes dark, unreadable.

But it was his posture that set the alarm bells off.

Too still.

Too precise.

Like every breath he took was scripted.

Eros stepped forward slightly.

"Who are you?"

The figure tilted his head, then smiled—but it was wrong. Too symmetrical. Too polished.

"Subject Twelve," he said.

Prion's chest tightened.

He recognized that tone.

They'd failed Subjects 0 to 6.

Subjects 8 and above weren't meant for fieldwork.

But Subject Twelve—

He was built for override.

"He's a sleeper," Prion said quietly. "One of the newest branches. Emotional mimicry layered with real-time override potential. They've been holding him back."

"Until now."

"Until me."

Eros stayed close, positioning himself slightly ahead of Prion.

The figure's gaze flicked between them.

"You shouldn't be alive," Subject Twelve said. Not with anger. With certainty. "You're a deviation. A fracture. Your data was meant to be stored, not walking."

Prion didn't respond.

"You caused a ripple," Twelve continued. "Now I'm the answer."

Then he moved.

Fast.

Not like an assassin—like something engineered to break the rhythm of instinct.

Eros barely intercepted the strike—steel clashed, a sharp grind of friction and force—and Twelve stepped back, unfazed.

"Did you think he could protect you forever?" he said, looking past Eros, directly at Prion.

"He already has," Prion replied, tone cool.

Twelve smiled again and looked eerily to Eror, "Then he'll die first."

And he launched forward.

This time, he wasn't aiming for Eros.

He was going for the back line.

Prion.

But Eros blocked again—barely.

Each movement from Twelve was calculated, always two beats ahead, as if he were reading Prion's responses through Eros's body.

"You're synced," Twelve murmured during the next clash. "That's inconvenient."

Eros gritted his teeth. "Then why aren't you winning?"

A flicker of surprise broke Twelve's mask.

Then Prion's voice cut through the chaos—sharp, commanding.

"Fall back two steps, left pivot."

Eros didn't hesitate.

He moved—precisely—and Twelve's next lunge missed by inches, hitting a loose panel that Prion had powered remotely with a flicker of his fingers.

Electric current surged.

Twelve stumbled.

Not much.

But enough.

Eros struck.

His blade landed clean across the mimic's chest—but there was no blood. Just a hiss. Synthetic flesh peeled slightly.

Twelve fell back, eyes narrowing.

"This isn't over."

He vanished in a blink—phase-shifting tech embedded under his skin.

Silence returned.

Eros exhaled slowly.

Then turned to Prion.

"You set that trap."

"Calculated range. Based on how far you'd be willing to trust me."

Eros stared at him.

Then, reluctantly—almost too quietly—said, "I did."

And for the first time since they entered the corridor—

Prion smiled.

A slow, faint curve.

It was sharp. Dangerous.

And beautiful.

Like a mind that had just won again—not by force, but by understanding.

The corridor quieted again—but it wasn't peace.

It was the aftermath of something sharpened and unfinished, a lingering pressure in the air, as if Subject Twelve could reappear at any moment with a different strategy, a new algorithm, a revised mission.

Eros glanced back at the scorch mark on the wall where Twelve vanished.

"He wasn't like the others," he said, blade still drawn. "He adapted mid-fight. Read our distance, my stance, your timing—"

"He learned your rhythm in seconds," Prion finished, tone clipped. "That's not instinct. That's code refinement. They're testing his override compatibility… against us."

Eros turned to him, frowning. "Why not send him first?"

"Because they thought you would kill me before they needed him," Prion replied. "But now you've hesitated too long. They're recalibrating their entire control model."

"You mean—?"

"They're watching," Prion said flatly. "They're studying our bond. Our hesitation. Every deviation is logged."

The silence stretched.

Eros looked away.

"They always said emotional interference was a flaw," he muttered. "But they're still using it."

"They're desperate," Prion said. "They're trying to reproduce a phenomenon they can't replicate."

Eros glanced at him sharply. "You mean you."

Prion didn't deny it.

"They want to rebuild the protocol," he said. "But they need a stable Echo. Someone who can rewrite—not just remember."

"And they can't do it without you."

"They've tried," Prion said. "But everything they make is hollow. Even Subject Z—the perfect reconstruction—can't feel the code. He mimics. I overwrite."

It was the first time Eros had heard Prion speak of himself like that—openly, not from defence, but truth. Unapologetic.

It shook something loose.

Eros stepped forward, voice lower now.

"And you're still doing it."

"What?"

"Taking the hit."

Prion's jaw clenched slightly.

"You deflect the overrides. You reroute memory damage. That's why you're exhausted. That's why you collapsed."

Still, Prion didn't answer.

"You said once," Eros continued, "you weren't built to last. But what if you weren't built to break either?"

Prion's expression flickered—barely—but enough.

Then he turned, stepping back toward the path. "This way."

Eros didn't follow immediately.

His voice was quieter now, but not hesitant.

"You keep saving me."

A pause.

"I always have and will always do," Prion said.

There was no warmth in the words.

But there was weight.

Eros caught up, walking beside him now—closer than before.

They moved like echoes of the same past, side by side, tension humming between them like an old wound never quite healed.

And then—

A door.

Smaller this time. Manual.

Prion paused.

"This isn't in the main layout."

"I know," he said. "It's older."

Eros frowned. "You built this too?"

"No," Prion said, and this time his smile was faint. "You did."

He opened the door.

Inside—darkness, lined with cables and rusted panels.

Not a lab.

Not a prison.

A maintenance alcove.

But it hummed with residual charge—Prion tapped into the side panel and powered up a dim light that flickered blue.

There was an old mattress. A medical kit. Canned rations. Data drives tucked neatly in a metal box.

Eros stared.

"This is a fallback point."

"One of seven," Prion said. "Mapped from attempt seventeen through twenty-four."

"You planned this?"

"No," Prion murmured. "You did. I just preserved it."

Eros turned to him again. "You keep saying that."

"Because you keep forgetting."

This time, the silence between them was different.

It was thick.

Heavy.

Filled with things neither could name yet.

Eros looked at the mattress. "You should rest."

Prion didn't argue.

He crossed the room slowly, shedding his hoodie, folding it with deliberate care, then sitting down, knees drawn up slightly.

Eros stood by the door, watching him—not guarding, not retreating. Just… there.

And as the lights dimmed—

Neither of them spoke again.

But the air shifted.

Not safety.

Not yet.

But something like it.

The silence wasn't quiet anymore.

Not with the hum of redirected power vibrating through the pipes. Not with the soft mechanical ticks of a system half-alive, old infrastructure awakening beneath their feet.

And not with the way Eros kept glancing toward Prion—like waiting for something to snap. Or disappear.

Prion had fallen asleep.

Or passed out—it was hard to tell.

His breathing was shallow, one hand curled loosely near his ribs, as if protecting something even in unconsciousness. The dim blue light from the wall panel cast long shadows across his face, softening the sharper angles of exhaustion, of wariness.

He didn't look dangerous now.

He looked breakable.

Which somehow made it worse.

Eros stepped closer.

Stopped.

He crouched beside him, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the too-pale skin, the light sheen of sweat across Prion's temple, the faint tremor in his fingers.

"You never say when it hurts," he muttered. "You just keep going."

It wasn't an accusation.

More like something spoken to a version of himself that might've cared, once.

He hesitated, then reached toward the blanket folded at the base of the cot. When he draped it lightly over Prion, the other man didn't stir. Only his lips moved—barely.

A whisper.

Eros leaned in.

"…Seventeen…"

The word was barely audible. Almost a breath. Almost a code.

Eros froze.

He remembered now—faint fragments. Glimpses. A door like this. A chipped voice. A name scrawled against his own arm.

He stood slowly, breath catching against the weight of something impossible.

Then the wall panel lit up.

A low ping.

Motion alert: 300 meters.

Another ping.

150 meters.

The blue glow sharpened to orange.

Prion stirred, eyelashes fluttering as his hand twitched under the blanket.

Eros was already in motion.

He crossed the alcove, sealed the manual lock, then turned back as Prion sat up slowly, blinking into the light.

"They're close," Eros said. "I don't think it's Twelve this time."

Prion pushed upright with effort, gripping the edge of the cot. "How many pings?"

"Two. Pattern mismatch."

"Different models," Prion said grimly. "They're trying combinations now."

He swayed slightly.

Eros caught his elbow without thinking.

Prion stiffened, then relaxed when he realized who it was. That in itself was telling—more telling than anything either of them could've said.

"We can't fight like this," Eros said. "Not with you barely standing."

"We won't have to," Prion murmured. "There's a dead circuit node five levels below. If I reroute power from here and spike the signal…"

"They'll think we overloaded."

"And shut down this corridor for containment."

Eros helped him toward the panel, bracing his arm as Prion typed one-handed into the ancient interface, sweat already forming again along his neck.

"Why do you keep doing this?" Eros asked, voice low. "You know it's killing you."

"Because if they take you again," Prion whispered, "there's nothing left to recover."

The panel clicked.

Lights went red.

A dull hum echoed in the walls as the signal spike triggered.

The system screamed false overload.

Far off—metal locks slammed.

Alarms tripped.

Containment protocols deployed.

Eros turned toward the door, half-shielding Prion as dust fell from the ceiling. Just before the final seal locked into place, he caught a glimpse—

Of two figures standing in the corridor.

Watching.

Not moving.

Not speaking.

Just waiting.

Then the door shut.

And they were alone again.