Chapter 23: Cracks in the Mask

The corridor lights had died the moment the seal locked.

Now, only the low emergency strips along the floor lit the narrow passage in flickers of fading orange—like the heartbeat of a system suffocating beneath its own safeguards.

Prion sat with his back against the wall. Still pale. Still silent.

But his eyes were open.

Watching.

Calculating.

Eros remained standing, arms crossed, facing the door as if daring it to open again. Minutes passed. Then more.

Finally, Prion spoke.

"They sent a twin-pattern."

Eros glanced over. "You mean one of them was me?"

"No." A pause. "Worse. It was you… reconstructed."

Eros's jaw clenched. "So they've been backing up my data this whole time."

"Since before the first attempt." Prion's voice was quiet, but there was something razor-sharp under the calm. "They never cared which version survived. Only that one obeyed."

"And me?"

Prion looked at him now—really looked. "You're the only one who kept hesitating. Even when they stripped everything else. Even when they tried to rewrite you to the core."

Eros said nothing.

He didn't need to.

Because somewhere in his bones, the silence answered for him.

He still wasn't sure what Prion was.

Not exactly human. Not exactly machine. Something in-between. Something that evolved while others collapsed.

But when he looked into Prion's eyes, even now—he didn't see control.

He saw someone surviving.

And there was a difference.

"You think they'll keep sending doubles?" he asked, voice lower.

"No," Prion said. "They'll escalate."

"How much worse can it get?"

"They'll send Subject Z… again."

Eros didn't flinch—but his hands curled slightly at his sides.

"He's the fail-safe. Built from my fracture logs. A backup in case I ever broke containment."

"He was activated five days ago. I intercepted a heartbeat signature through the ghost protocol. Just once. A pulse. Enough to know it was him."

Eros frowned. "And he's tracking us now?"

"No," Prion said. "He's not tracking us. He's tracking me."

A beat passed.

And then another.

And then Eros did something he hadn't done before.

He sat down beside Prion—shoulder to shoulder.

"I'm not running," Eros said quietly.

Prion didn't look at him. "I know."

"You should've told me sooner."

"If I had," Prion murmured, "would you have stayed?"

"…No."

They both stared ahead.

The lights flickered again. Somewhere above, the alarms quieted into hums.

Eros tilted his head slightly. "That blind spot you used earlier. You built it, right?"

Prion's lips curved faintly. "I adapted it."

"You always say things like that."

"Like what?"

"Like nothing you do matters."

Prion looked over at him now. "If I mattered, they wouldn't have tried to erase me thirty-seven times."

Eros leaned back against the wall, shoulder brushing Prion's. "Or maybe it's because you matter… that they keep failing."

Silence.

But it wasn't empty.

It held something heavier than words.

The air in the hallway was growing colder, and not from the temperature.

Eros felt it in the static rising along his skin. A tension buried in the walls—like something dormant was slowly waking.

He scanned the corridor again.

Still quiet.

Still nothing.

But Prion hadn't moved. He sat, arms wrapped loosely over his knees, hoodie falling over his eyes. And yet, Eros knew he wasn't resting.

His mind never rested.

"You're still processing something," Eros said finally.

Prion didn't answer immediately.

Then, soft, like it didn't belong in the deadened hall:

"Subject Z was modelled from me. But without memory. Without emotion. Just logic. Cold replication. No fail points."

Eros narrowed his eyes. "You mean, no you."

A faint smile touched Prion's lips. "Exactly."

"And they think he can take you down?"

"No," Prion said quietly. "They think you will. That I'll hesitate long enough for you to fail me again."

That stung more than it should have.

Eros looked away. His voice came rougher than intended. "Then maybe they should've sent someone who doesn't dream of your name at night."

That startled Prion.

Not visibly.

But Eros felt the change in the quiet—like a skipped beat in a system. Like Prion's mind froze for the briefest second.

Eros didn't look at him.

Couldn't.

"Tell me," he said after a moment. "The fracture protocol. How much of it… was real?"

Prion exhaled, long and slow.

"They paired us for field testing after the fourth loop failure. I was collapsing too fast. Emotion was bleeding through the resets. You were designed to anchor me."

Eros's voice lowered. "Not designed. Chosen."

Prion finally turned to look at him.

"You always insisted on calling it that," he said.

A pause.

Then Prion added, "The first time we stabilized… you said something. It wasn't recorded."

"What was it?"

"You whispered, 'Then don't break.' And I didn't. Not that time."

Eros's throat tightened.

He didn't remember it. But the words settled in his chest like they'd lived there all along.

He looked at Prion again.

Up close, the damage was clearer.

The faint tremor in his fingers. The strain under his eyes. He was breaking—but not outwardly. Quietly. From carrying everything alone.

And Eros hated it.

"You're not just data, Prion," he said.

Prion's eyes flicked to his. "Then what am I?"

Eros didn't answer.

Instead, he shifted—closer. A breath closer. His shoulder pressed more firmly against Prion's. It wasn't a touch of comfort.

It was a touch of defiance.

"I don't care what New Era says," Eros muttered. "I'm not letting them to try killing you again."

Prion's lips parted slightly.

But no words came.

Because this time, silence said everything.

The silence didn't last.

Because the ceiling hummed.

Not loud—just a low-pitched vibration that set Eros's teeth on edge. Like machinery spinning awake somewhere above. Far away, yet intentional. Like a warning.

Eros stood fast, hand already on his blade.

Prion's fingers barely moved, but Eros caught the motion—a twitch at his temple. Not pain exactly, but the precursor to it. The cost of too much memory bleeding through again.

"I disabled the surveillance routes," Prion said, voice taut. "But something's rerouting them."

"You mean someone," Eros corrected.

They moved.

Back into the corridor, slower now. Eros walked ahead, scouting blind corners while Prion followed, pressing fingertips briefly to the panels as they passed—overriding sensors, scrambling patterns. Not for defence.

For delay.

"You're walking slower," Eros noted without turning.

"Bleed effect," Prion replied. "Too much system contact. It pushes back."

"Then don't touch it."

"If I don't," Prion said calmly, "they'll find us in minutes."

Eros hated that logic.

Because it meant every step forward cost Prion something—focus, energy, stability.

They reached a fork. The path left led to a narrow chamber—a service access tunnel half-shielded by collapsed debris. To the right: steel stairs wrapped in security conduits blinking yellow.

Eros looked back.

Prion was breathing harder now, hoodie dampened by sweat at the back, posture tighter.

"I can hold a bypass for sixty seconds," Prion muttered. "Pick fast."

Eros didn't hesitate. "Left."

They squeezed through the rubble, stone scraping against metal. The tunnel beyond was darker, colder, thick with old insulation dust. The kind of space never meant to be traversed again.

Which made it perfect.

But also dangerous.

They were halfway down the tunnel when Prion suddenly stopped.

Eros turned. "What?"

Prion didn't speak. Just stared ahead.

Eros followed his gaze—and froze.

A long smear of crimson along the tunnel wall. Fresh. Deliberate. Written with fingers, not tools.

"SUBJECT 7 ≠ HUMAN."

Under it, etched into the concrete in blade-scratched grooves, another message:

"ERROR. YOU WERE NEVER MEANT TO FEEL."

Eros drew his weapon instantly, sweeping the corners.

But Prion…

Prion stepped forward.

He stared at the wall, unreadable. The old cold expression returning—not numb, but sharpened. Like a wall going up behind his eyes.

"It's them," he said finally.

"The ones rebuilding Z?"

"No," Prion said. "The ones who gave up on me long before that."

He pressed a hand to the scratched concrete.

And whispered, "I rewrote their rules. They never forgave me for that."

Eros turned toward him. "So they're taunting you?"

"No," Prion murmured. "They're reminding me. That I wasn't supposed to wake up."

Eros stepped closer, voice low. "Then maybe it's time you reminded them why that was their worst mistake."

For a second—just a second—Prion smiled.

Not a warm smile.

A dangerous one.

And that was enough to make the tunnel feel less like a trap—and more like a place they were about to set fire to.

The tunnel narrowed. Lights flickered above them—not system-linked LEDs, but legacy filaments, humming weakly from auxiliary lines. The deeper they went, the more outdated everything became. Wires sagged like vines. Rust flaked beneath their boots.

"I remember this," Prion murmured.

Eros kept his weapon drawn. "This part of the lab?"

"Not officially," Prion said. "It was decommissioned after the failure of Subject 3. But someone kept the signal grid intact."

A pause.

"Me. I kept it."

Eros glanced back. "Why?"

"In case you ever came looking."

There was a pause too long to answer that.

A low throb broke the silence. Not mechanical.

Biological.

Prion suddenly leaned against the wall. His breath stuttered, sharp—his entire body faltered like a machine out of sync.

Eros was there in a blink.

"Prion."

"I'm—fine," he rasped. "It's just feedback. You triggered something."

"I didn't touch anything."

"Not physically. But your recall just spiked."

Eros froze. "So I'm the reason you're glitching now?"

"No," Prion said hoarsely. "You're the reason I'm still here."

But Eros didn't buy the deflection. Not when Prion nearly slid to the ground, knees giving slightly before catching himself. Not when his knuckles were white from gripping a rusted pipe.

Eros stepped forward.

Too close.

He reached out—hand brushing Prion's shoulder, firm but not aggressive. Just enough to steady him.

Prion didn't pull away.

"If you collapse here, I won't be able to carry you," Eros said flatly.

"Then don't."

A beat.

Then a quieter voice:

"But… don't leave either."

Eros's hand lingered a second longer.

They moved again.

Eventually, the corridor spilled out into an old chamber. A control node, maybe once a testing space—now flooded with dormant screens and cracked terminals.

In the centre stood a tall pillar. Metallic. Cold. And still active.

Prion approached it slowly.

Eros didn't like the way the air shifted when he did.

"This is one of the Echo interfaces," Prion muttered.

Eros frowned. "That's the name from the auction file. Reclaimer Asset Directive: Echo."

Prion nodded once. "It's what they used to split identity from memory. Store one. Reset the other."

He reached into his sleeve—and pulled out something jagged and dark. A shard of fractured data crystal.

Echo-37.

"You still have it?" Eros asked.

"I never gave it up," Prion said. "That woman gave you the decoy. I kept the real one. I needed to see if you'd protect a lie."

"You were testing me."

"No," Prion said. "I was hoping you wouldn't fail again."

The pillar beeped.

A low accepting pulse.

And then—screens flared to life.

And every one of them showed the same thing:

Eros.

Dozens of him.

Monitors flickering with silent footage—of training sessions, kills, breakdowns, resets.

And in the corner of each: a timestamp.

Attempt 01. Attempt 09. Attempt 17. Attempt 26… Attempt 37.

Eros staggered.

He hadn't meant to. But the sight—all of them—slammed into him like a freight train.

He didn't remember those faces. Didn't recognize those eyes.

But the fear in his chest told him he had lived them.

Prion didn't say anything. Just stood there, letting him absorb the truth at his own pace.

Because some revelations didn't need explanations.

They just needed to break.