The becoming

**Chapter Twelve: The Becoming**

The stairwell was a blur of rusted metal and flickering red light as they crashed upward, their breaths ragged, their footsteps echoing like gunshots. Below them, Voss's laughter twisted unnaturally—sometimes his voice, sometimes *theirs*, sometimes something else entirely.

Luna's ribs burned where the scalpel had grazed her. The wound wasn't deep, but it *ached*, a slow, insistent throb that pulsed in time with the cold coiled inside her chest.

*We're already inside you.*

She shuddered.

The nameless girl stumbled beside her, her face streaked with tears and sweat. She kept glancing back, as if expecting the shadows themselves to reach for her.

John was ahead, gun still in hand, his jaw set. He didn't speak. Didn't have to.

They all knew the same truth:

They weren't just running *from* something.

They were running *toward* something worse.

---

The hospital's upper floors should have been safe. Should have been *normal.*

They weren't.

The moment they burst through the stairwell door, Luna knew something was wrong.

The hallway was empty.

Too empty.

No nurses. No orderlies. No patients. Just the steady beep of unattended machines and the hum of fluorescent lights.

And the *smell.*

Copper. Salt.

*Blood.*

John slowed, gun raised, his eyes scanning the shadows. "This isn't right."

Luna's pulse hammered in her throat. The cold inside her writhed, whispering things she couldn't quite understand.

The girl clutched her arm. "They're here," she breathed. "The others. The ones he *fixed*."

A door creaked open at the far end of the hall.

Then another.

And another.

Figures stepped into the light.

Men. Women. All of them *wrong.* Their features were too symmetrical, their movements too smooth. Their eyes—

Their eyes were *empty.*

John cursed under his breath. "Back. *Now.*"

They turned—

Only to find more of them blocking the stairwell.

They were surrounded.

Luna's breath came fast. The cold in her chest *pulsed*, spreading through her veins like ice. She could feel them—the lost ones, the ones Voss had *perfected.*

And worse.

She could feel *him.*

Voss.

Or what was left of him.

A whisper brushed against her mind, slick and familiar.

*You can't leave, Luna. Not yet.*

*We have so much to show you.*

The girl whimpered, pressing closer. "What do we do?"

John's grip on his gun tightened. "We fight."

Luna closed her eyes.

And *listened.*

The cold responded.

It *unfolded.*

For the first time since she'd woken up in that basement, she didn't resist it. She *let* it in. Let it fill her. Let it *speak.*

When she opened her eyes again, the hallway looked different.

The walls were *breathing.*

The air was thick with whispers.

And the people—the *perfect* ones—weren't just standing there.

They were *waiting.*

For *her.*

Luna stepped forward.

John grabbed her arm. "Luna—"

She shook him off. "Trust me."

Her voice didn't sound like her own.

It sounded like *theirs.*

The nearest perfect man tilted his head, studying her. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"Hello, sister," he said.

Luna didn't hesitate.

She *reached* inside him.

And *pulled.*

Something *ripped.*

The man screamed—a real, human sound—as his perfect features *melted*, twisting and warping like wax. The others recoiled, their empty eyes widening in something like fear.

Luna didn't stop.

She turned to the next one.

And the next.

Each time, she reached inside them, searching for the thing Voss had buried deep. The thing he'd *stolen.*

And each time, she *took it back.*

The hallway dissolved into chaos.

The perfect ones writhed, their bodies *remembering* what they'd been before. Some collapsed, sobbing. Others lashed out, screaming in languages that didn't exist.

John stared at her, his expression unreadable. "Luna. What the hell are you doing?"

She didn't answer.

She couldn't.

The cold was *everywhere* now, whispering, *singing.* It was too much. Too *big.*

And then—

A hand on her shoulder.

The girl. The nameless one.

She wasn't afraid.

She was *smiling.*

"I remember," she whispered.

And then she *pushed.*

Not Luna.

Not John.

*Herself.*

Straight into the heart of the chaos.

Straight toward the one perfect man still standing.

Straight toward the piece of *her* she'd seen in the tank.

She *grabbed* him.

And the world *shattered.*

---

When the dust settled, the girl was gone.

So were the perfect ones.

The hallway was empty.

Quiet.

Luna collapsed to her knees, the cold inside her receding like a tide.

John was at her side in an instant, his hands on her face, his voice rough. "Luna. *Look at me.*"

She did.

And for the first time since she'd woken up in that basement, she *felt* like herself.

The girl's voice echoed in her mind, faint but clear.

*Thank you.*

Then, from the shadows at the end of the hall—

A slow clap.

Voss stepped into the light.

Or what was *left* of Voss.

His body was a patchwork of stolen faces, his features shifting and melting like a wax doll left in the sun. His smile was too wide. His eyes were too many.

"Beautiful," he rasped. "Simply *beautiful.*"

John raised his gun.

Voss laughed.

And then—

He *wasn't there.*

Just an echo.

A whisper.

A promise.

*This isn't over.*

Luna closed her eyes.

And let the darkness take her.