Chapter 24: The Break Loop

The screen feeds still played—silent loops of a past Eros couldn't remember, and a Prion who looked too calm watching them.

Eros turned away.

Not out of denial.

But because if he kept staring, something inside him might shatter.

"You knew all this," he said, voice rough. "You've always known."

Prion didn't flinch. "Yes."

"And you let me believe I was… what? Just the killer? Just the asset?"

"You needed to believe that," Prion replied quietly. "Because if you remembered too fast, your mind would collapse. You were designed to hold me together. Not the other way around."

"I don't care about design," Eros snapped.

His hand slammed against the console—dust and old data particles scattered into the stale air.

"I want to know if any of this was real. The hesitation. The bond. The fact that I keep—"

He broke off.

Prion turned to face him fully.

And then, he stepped forward.

Close. Too close.

Until only inches remained.

"I don't fabricate emotion," Prion said softly. "Not yours. Not mine."

"Then what am I to you?" Eros whispered.

Prion didn't answer right away.

But his eyes—cold, calculating, always two steps ahead—were different now. Like a storm caught mid-break.

"You were the one variable I never wanted to overwrite."

Eros's breath caught.

And then the moment broke.

Alarms buzzed in the distance—muted by walls, but rising fast.

A system ping.

"They found us," Prion said, voice back to neutral. "We overstayed."

Eros stepped back, mask reforming like reflex. "Exit?"

Prion nodded toward a side panel. "There's a fallback route under the maintenance shaft. It'll take us to a blind zone in the old transport tunnels."

"And if they block it?"

"They won't," Prion said. "Because it was removed from the records. The day you built it."

"I don't remember that."

"I do."

They moved quickly. Quietly.

But not before Eros cast one last glance toward the screens.

Toward the versions of himself he couldn't recall… but now couldn't forget.

Not entirely.

And one of them—just one—lingered on the screen as they left.

That version's eyes were red-rimmed.

Bleeding.

And his mouth moved once, lips forming a phrase too faint to hear.

But Eros didn't need sound.

He could feel it in the back of his skull.

Don't break.

The maintenance shaft was narrower than Eros remembered—or perhaps, he'd never been through this one. The ceiling dipped low enough to force them into a half-crouch, concrete dripping condensation. Pipes throbbed with heat and pressure above their heads, echoing like a heartbeat—too fast, too alive.

"Keep right," Prion murmured. "There's a pressure tripwire down the left."

Eros didn't ask how he knew.

He simply adjusted his steps.

He was getting used to that.

What unnerved him more was how natural it felt.

"How many of these places did you map out?" he asked after a minute.

Prion didn't look back. "All of them."

"Before or after you escaped?"

Prion hesitated. "Before. I couldn't afford to leave anything to chance."

"And me?"

"You were always the chance."

They moved in silence until they reached a narrow alcove—barely a meter wide, but wired with an old terminal embedded in the wall. Prion crouched, fingers flying over the worn keys. His breath was unsteady, skin ghost-pale beneath the flickering overhead bulb.

"You're pushing yourself too hard," Eros muttered, arms crossed.

"I don't have time to conserve," Prion answered, not looking up. "If they reach this point, the fallback system collapses."

"And then we're exposed."

"And then they reset the board," Prion said flatly. "Again."

Eros frowned. "You mean—memory wipes?"

"No. Everything. The routes, the files, the chips. Even the echoes. They'll trigger a cascade purge. I can't stop that once it begins."

Eros's jaw clenched.

Then: "What happens to you?"

Prion finally glanced up. His eyes were too calm for someone half-collapsing.

"They call me a glitch," he said. "But the truth is, I'm a virus they never managed to contain. If they purge everything… I overwrite nothing. I disappear."

Something twisted in Eros's chest.

But before he could speak, Prion suddenly staggered, one hand clutching his side.

Eros caught him instinctively, steadying him before he crumpled.

"You're burning up," Eros said, voice sharper than intended. "This isn't just exhaustion."

"No," Prion whispered. "It's memory strain. You've been remembering too fast. I've been shielding you."

"Shielding me?"

"I told you. Our bond wasn't meant to be emotional. It was operational. I was the subject. You were the anchor. But over time… the link inverted. Now, when you glitch—I bleed."

Eros went still.

"You've been… taking the hits since?"

Prion looked up, smile faint. "You're not the only one breaking."

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The air between them felt charged. Not electrically—but emotionally.

Delicate.

Too real.

And then—Prion stepped back, hands shaking slightly.

"Go," he said. "We're almost clear. I'll finish the relay."

Eros didn't move. "I'm not leaving you."

"You have to. If they catch both of us—"

"They won't," Eros said, cutting him off. "Not this time."

A pause.

Then Prion whispered, almost like a breath lost in the corridor's hum—

"…You always said that."

And somewhere behind them, metal groaned.

The fallback path was collapsing.

They had minutes.

Maybe less.

But they had each other.

For now.

They moved as one now—not because of trust, but necessity. The fallback corridors wound downward in jagged spirals, remnants of a forgotten emergency design never meant for prolonged use. Each turn tightened around them like the walls were folding in, suffocating.

Prion gripped the railing harder than necessary. His knuckles were white. His balance frayed.

Eros walked just half a step behind, not close enough to crowd—but close enough to catch him if he fell.

Again.

And he nearly did.

"Stop pretending you're fine," Eros snapped, catching his elbow as Prion's knees buckled slightly. "You're not."

"I need to keep going," Prion hissed through clenched teeth. "If I pause now, they trace the delay. That echo—Subject Z—wasn't sent alone."

Eros stilled. "You mean—?"

"There's more. Not all of them human."

Prion leaned against the concrete wall, chest heaving once. His voice dropped, barely audible. "New Era didn't just reconstruct me. They tried to deconstruct what made me—emotion, bond, instinct. They're experimenting with artificial anchoring now."

"That doesn't sound like something they'd test outside a lab."

"They aren't. We're the test. Z was the prototype. The next one will be worse."

Eros stared at him. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

Prion gave a hollow laugh. "You barely trusted me five minutes ago. And some part of you still doesn't."

Eros didn't deny it.

But he didn't walk away either.

After a moment, Prion drew a slow breath, steadying himself. Then he reached into the inside seam of his hoodie and pulled something small and metallic from a hidden fold—something Eros hadn't seen before.

A coin-sized disc. Old. Tarnished. Not tech.

Memory.

"This," Prion said, "was left behind after Attempt 19. You carved it."

Eros blinked. "I don't—"

"You won't remember." His voice softened. "But I've carried it ever since. Because it reminds me that there was a version of you who chose me."

A silence fell between them.

Then—Prion stepped closer.

Too close.

Eros didn't move.

"Tell me," Prion whispered, eyes searching his face, "if you had a choice right now—between running or staying. Between obeying them, or me. What would you do?"

Eros looked down at the metal disc between them.

Then at Prion.

"I'd still want to know what's real."

Prion nodded, slowly.

"That's the only answer I hoped for."

A warning buzz shrieked from the wall. They both turned as red lights flared through the emergency strip, flashing in sequence.

They'd been found.

"Time's up," Prion muttered.

Eros reached for his blade.

Prion turned to the next corridor—still faintly limping—and whispered just loud enough to hear:

"Then let's show them what a mistake looks like."

They ran again.

But this time, it wasn't aimless.

Prion moved with a strange precision—like each corner was already known, each step anticipated, even as his limbs shook with exhaustion. He was leading them toward something. Somewhere.

Eros kept pace beside him, blade in hand, eyes sharp. Not on Prion—but behind him. Watching for the shadows that would come. The ones Prion kept warning about.

"I thought you said this corridor was disconnected from central," Eros muttered as another alarm flickered above their heads.

"It was. It should be."

"Not comforting."

"It's not supposed to be."

They turned another corner, and this time Prion stumbled badly. His shoulder slammed the wall with a harsh grunt, and Eros caught him without a word, steadying his weight with a tight grip.

Prion's breath was ragged.

"Don't collapse on me now," Eros snapped. "You said you had a plan."

"I do. I just didn't account for being—" he coughed, "—this drained."

Eros narrowed his eyes. "You said it before. Every time I remember, you take the hit. Why?"

Prion didn't answer.

He couldn't.

His pupils had dilated. His hands were trembling. Blood—just a hint—threaded down his neck from a hidden cut just beneath his hairline. It was like the strain of holding too many truths, too many overrides, was finally catching up to him.

"You're bleeding."

"It's fine."

"It's not."

They reached a hatch.

Manual. Not networked. Prion slid the panel off and jammed in a code chip, twisting it like a key.

Eros heard something unlock.

Then Prion sagged forward.

He caught him again.

This time, Prion didn't protest. His eyes fluttered—just once. Like he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

"Don't you dare…" Eros muttered.

"Just… five seconds," Prion breathed, barely audible.

But the moment the door opened—it wasn't quiet.

Inside, the pulse of machinery thrummed through the floor. Blue lights blinked across a hidden control room lined with abandoned monitors and stripped interface ports.

It was old.

Very old.

Prion stepped inside like he was walking into a memory.

"This is where they mapped our neural splits," he said faintly. "Where they decided you were stable and I was defective."

"And you brought us here why?"

Prion's smile was cold. "Because defective minds don't play by rules. And this place still holds an echo."

Eros didn't ask what kind.

But Prion walked to the console anyway, fingers dancing over dead screens like they could still respond.

He pulled another chip from his inner sleeve—a core shard, faintly glowing.

"I want them to feel the cost of forgetting me," he whispered. "Even if it kills me."

Eros stepped forward and grabbed his wrist before he could insert the chip.

"No. You don't get to die here."

Prion's expression barely changed.

But something shifted.

Not in his posture. Not in his strength.

In his eyes.

"I'm not planning to die," he said. "I'm planning to be remembered."

Then, gently, he pulled free.

The chip slid into place.

The room responded.

Lights flared. Systems shuddered. A long-dead memory server roared to life—and the floor beneath them hummed with something deeper than electricity.

Eros turned toward the hallway.

Voices were coming.

Too many.

Too fast.

"Prion—"

"I know."

Eros stepped between him and the door without hesitation.

Prion looked up, gaze locked.

This time, he didn't smile.

He just said, "Don't forget me first."