META'S POV:
The smell hit me first, thick and suffocating. It was the coppery, metallic reek of a slaughterhouse, so potent it scraped the back of my throat and made my stomach churn. My eyes snapped open to a scene of absolute carnage. The room, wherever I was, was a gallery of death. Bodies were strewn like forgotten toys, twisted into unnatural shapes on a floor slick with what they'd lost. One man's jaw was locked open in a scream the world would never hear. Another was slumped in a corner, the wall behind him painted with a grotesque, crimson blossom.
My mind screamed at me to be horrified, to retch, to run. But I couldn't. I was frozen, not by fear, but by a chilling, alien sensation bubbling up from a deep, dark place inside me. It was a low, humming vibration in my bones, a horrifying surge of… excitement. My heart wasn't pounding with terror; it was hammering with a dark, predatory thrill. Why? Why wasn't I scared? Why did this feel so disturbingly… right?
A strange stickiness on my fingers drew my gaze downward. I lifted my hands into the dim light. They were drenched. Coated in thick, cooling blood that was already starting to turn tacky in the lines of my palms. A choked sound escaped my throat. This was my work. Some part of me, some part I never knew existed, knew it instantly. I had done this.
"Impressive work, Metharaj. A true symphony of slaughter."
The voice was mine, but it was wrong. It was deeper, colder, polished smooth by a world of violence I couldn't imagine. I spun around. He emerged from a shadowed doorway as if coalescing from the darkness itself. It was my face, my frame, but twisted into a more brutal configuration. The vicious white scar pulled at his lip, giving him a permanent sneer of contempt.
My throat was dry. "You… you're the man from the beach. The one who saved Thyme." The accusation felt flimsy, childish.
A dry, rasping chuckle echoed in the dead air. "Save that brat?" He took a slow, deliberate step over a corpse, his movements fluid and wolflike. "A curious theory. My goal isn't to save the boy, it's to erase him. Why would I preserve the very variable that causes my own future demise?"
The words were a cascade of ice water, shocking me. "Future death? I don't understand. Why would you kill him? He's just a kid."
He smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. It was utterly devoid of warmth. "He is a flaw in the system. A virus that introduces chaotic, useless emotions. Love. Compassion. Sacrifice." He spat the last word like it was poison. "These things are weaknesses, liabilities that our enemies will use to tear us apart. His very existence is a threat to the power I have built. The power we are supposed to build."
The sheer coldness of his logic was staggering. It was inhuman. All I could see was Thyme's face, flushed with embarrassment, his eyes wide with a ridiculous panic that was somehow endearing. "I won't let you," I heard myself say, the words feeling foreign and brave in my own mouth. "You'll have to kill me first before you touch him."
The scarred man laughed, a genuine, barking sound of pure amusement this time. "You've known him for barely three days, and you're already spouting lines from a cheap drama. Willing to die for him? That!" he pointed a bloody finger at me, "That is the very weakness I speak of. The emotional cancer that boy represents. You still don't get it, do you?"
He was in front of me now, his presence a physical weight. He gestured at my own hands, still glistening red. "You're fighting the wrong enemy. You think I'm the monster you need to stop." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, intense growl. "Look at your hands. Feel the hum in your blood. You're not disgusted by this. You're electrified. The power to extinguish a life, to watch the light fade from their eyes… it calls to you, doesn't it?"
"No," I choked out, but it was a lie. He saw it. He knew.
"I am you, and you are me," he stated, his voice a flat, undeniable truth. "We are killers. It is our fundamental nature. The only difference is that I accept it, and you are still cowering behind a pathetic shield of denial. Sooner or later, that shield will shatter. And when it does, it might not be my hand that snuffs out the boy's life. It might be yours. In the end, it doesn't matter whose hand gets dirty. The result is the same. My plan is absolute."
The thrill in my blood boiled over, transmuting into pure, incandescent rage. "I AM NOT YOU!" I roared, the sound ripping from my throat as I lunged, my hands aiming for his throat.
He just laughed at me, sidestepping my clumsy attack with insulting ease. "I will prove you wrong," I snarled, my body trembling with a fury I couldn't contain. "You will never touch him with your dirty hands."
"A noble sentiment," he mocked, his grin widening. "But before you commit to your new role as the brat's white knight, I should remind you of the stakes. If I win, if I kill him… you vanish from this world, too. You only exist, in this time, in this place, because I…"
His last words dissolved into a harsh, electronic static. The bloody room began to waver, the image flickering like a dying screen. He gave me one last look—a look of pity, of contempt, of absolute certainty—before the world ripped apart, and I was plunged back into a cold, silent darkness, the monster's final words echoing in the void.
The dream's residue clung to me like a shroud. I woke with a gasp, my skin slick with a cold sweat, the phantom smell of gunpowder and old blood still sharp in my nostrils. The image of my own face, twisted by a scar and a cold smile, was burned onto the back of my eyelids. I am you, and you are me. The words echoed in the sudden, quiet reality of the hotel room.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm. I pushed myself up from the couch, my mind racing to anchor itself. It was a dream. A hallucination. Stress. The excuses felt thin, pathetic. My eyes darted around the room, desperately seeking a focal point, something real. And they landed on the bathroom. Thyme. He was still in there.
A fragile sense of calm settled over me. He was here. He was safe. I let myself relax, slumping back into the cushions. He was probably just enjoying the hot water, taking his time.
But minutes stretched into an eternity. The silence from the bathroom went from peaceful to unnerving. I sat up again, my gaze fixed on the transparent glass wall. I could see the steam, the scattered rose petals floating in the tub, but not him. He must have slid down, submerged. A cold knot of dread began to tighten in my gut.
"Wait… where did he go?" I muttered, leaning forward. The water's surface was too still. He'd been under too long. The knot of dread exploded into pure, white-hot panic. It was the beach all over again.
In a single, fluid motion, I was off the couch and bursting into the bathroom. My eyes locked on the faint, shadowy movement beneath the rose-strewn water. I didn't hesitate. I plunged my hands into the heat, the water shockingly hot against my skin, and my fingers closed around a thin, bony shoulder. I hauled him upward.
"GASP!"
Thyme broke the surface with a violent, shuddering cough, water streaming from his mouth and nose. His eyes were wide, unfocused, and filled with a raw, primal terror that had nothing to do with me. I quickly wrapped an arm around his back, supporting his limp body, pulling his head against my chest.
"Kid, are you okay? Talk to me."
He looked at me then, his gaze slowly clearing from whatever nightmare had held him captive. A flicker of recognition, then a wave of such profound relief washed over his face that it was like watching the sun break through storm clouds. As if realizing he was safe, he lunged, his arms wrapping tightly around my neck, burying his face into the crook of my shoulder. He clung to me with a desperate, trembling strength, as if I were the only solid thing in a world that was trying to drown him.
I froze for a split second, the unexpected intimacy sending a jolt through my system. Then, an instinct I didn't recognize, something fiercely protective, took over. I hugged him back, pulling his soaking, shivering body flush against mine. I didn't care about my dry clothes. All that mattered was the fragile weight in my arms, the frantic beat of his heart against my own. What is this? Why does the thought of him being in danger tear me apart? I couldn't understand myself, but I knew, with an unnerving certainty, that I would go with this flow, wherever it led.
I don't know how long we stayed like that, locked together in the steamy aftermath of his terror. When his trembling finally subsided, I spoke, my voice softer than I intended. "Are you okay now?"
The spell broke. He went rigid in my arms, suddenly aware of what he was doing. He pulled back so fast he almost slipped, his face flaming with a spectacular blush.
"Sorry, your clothes…" he mumbled, his eyes fixed on the dark, wet patch blooming on my shirt. "This is so embarrassing."
A smile touched my lips, but it vanished as my gaze drifted to his neck. "It's fine, I can get another one." My voice hardened with a worry I couldn't conceal. "But first… what is that?" I moved closer, my touch surprisingly gentle as my fingers tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet my eyes. "Why are there faint red marks on your neck? It looks like someone choked you."
He flinched, his eyes darting away. He was hiding something. The lie was written all over his face before he even spoke it. "Thyme?" I pressed, my tone leaving no room for evasion.
"Th-this is just a scratch," he stammered, the words weak and unconvincing. "I felt itchy earlier… maybe from the saltwater." His eyes pleaded with me. Please believe me.
My analytical mind screamed that it was a lie. The marks were too uniform, too deliberate for a simple scratch. But looking at the sheer terror still lingering in his eyes, I knew pushing him now would only break him. I let out a slow, controlled breath. "Okay." The word felt like a concession, a retreat. "Let me get some soothing cream for you. I'll get out first, you can follow when you're ready."
He gave a small, jerky nod, unable to speak. I left, the image of those marks and the lie in his eyes burning a hole in my mind. After finding the ointment in my bag, I waited. When Thyme finally emerged from the bathroom, he was so lost in thought that he seemed to have forgotten he was wearing nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist.
My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't look away. His body was slender but defined, lean muscle hinting at a strength he didn't know he had. His skin, pale and porcelain, seemed to glow in the room's soft light. I watched, mesmerized, as a single drop of water escaped his damp hair, tracing a glistening path down his collarbone, over the subtle curve of his pectoral, and across the flat, taut plane of his abdomen before being swallowed by the white terry cloth. I swallowed hard, my own throat suddenly parched. Why am I nervous? This kid was making me lose my mind.
Shaking myself from the trance, I grabbed a spare towel from the bed. He was walking slowly toward me, his gaze distant. I met him halfway, my movements automatic. Before he could react, I was using the towel to gently dry his hair, my fingers brushing against the cool skin of his scalp. He froze, a blush creeping up his neck as he stared at me, his eyes wide and questioning. I worked my way down, dabbing the towel along the column of his throat, right over the faint, angry marks.
The silence was electric.
"So… sorry," I managed, my voice rougher than I intended. "I wasn't thinking."
"It… it's fine," he whispered, breaking away and scurrying to the edge of his bed, where he sat, pulling his knees up to his chest.
I followed, the small tub of ointment feeling heavy in my hand. "Let me apply this."
He simply nodded, lifting his chin in a gesture of pure trust that made my stomach clench. His skin shivered under my touch as I carefully smoothed the cool cream over the marks. My gaze was fixed on the task, but my awareness was consumed by him. The scent of his skin, clean and warm. The vulnerable arch of his throat. And then I made the mistake of looking up.
His lips. They were parted slightly, a soft, natural pink, looking impossibly soft. The world narrowed to that single detail. My mind went blank. The internal command center that always ran on cold logic and strategy simply shut down. I was moving before I knew it, my hand coming up to cup the back of his head, my thumb stroking the nape of his neck. Stop. Stop now. This is a bad idea, an awkward situation. But the warnings were a distant whisper, drowned out by a roaring, undeniable impulse.
I leaned in, closing the distance, my eyes fluttering shut as my lips met his.
It was like a jolt of lightning. Soft. Warm. The contact sent a wave of heat through my entire body, a sensation so powerful and so utterly unexpected it stole my breath. I expected him to shove me away, to curse me out. Instead, after a heart-stopping second of stillness, his arms slowly, hesitantly, snaked around my neck.
That was all it took. His surrender broke the last of my control. The gentle pressure of my mouth became more demanding, a question turning into a statement. I tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and he met me with a soft, yielding sigh. My tongue traced the seam of his lips, a silent request, and when he opened for me, my mind short-circuited.
His mouth was sweet and hot, a dizzying exploration. I slipped my tongue inside, and was met not with shy hesitation, but with an eager, curious response. His tongue met mine, a clumsy, electrifying dance that sent shivers down my spine. This wasn't the chaste, life-saving press of lips on the beach. This was hungry. This was desperate. This was a raw, inexplicable need.
I don't know how long we were lost in it. Time ceased to exist. My free hand found his waist, my fingers splaying across his hip, pulling him closer until there was no space left between us. It was only when my lungs began to burn, demanding air, that I felt him push weakly against my chest.
We broke apart, both of us panting, our breath mingling in the charged air. I stared at him, at his flushed face, his swollen lips, his wide, dazed eyes. And I felt a terror colder than any nightmare.
I scrambled back, getting to my feet, putting distance between us. My mind was a chaotic storm. What did I just do? I kissed him. I devoured him. And I had liked it. No, I had craved it. We are both guys. I'm straight. I had loved a girl once, a love that felt like a lifetime ago, a ghost I thought I'd never move past. But that kiss… it wasn't a memory. It was a searing, living thing that had just rewritten my entire operating system. What in the hell is happening to me?