The steel door slammed behind them, final, like a tomb sealing them in. Lance pressed his back against it, chest heaving, cold metal seeping through his damp shirt. His knees threatened to buckle, so he let himself slide down to the floor, eyes wide, ears straining, waiting for a sound that might never come.
Nothing. Just silence.
Dani moved through the room with practiced ease, flicking a hidden switch behind a shelf. Fluorescent lights buzzed to life, stuttering before settling into a dim, sickly hum. The glow barely reached the corners, leaving the edges of the room smudged and uncertain, as if reality itself hesitated to fill them.
The safe house felt alive in its quiet menace. Concrete walls, scrawled with faded chalk diagrams, seemed to lean inward, watching. Rusted shelves sagged under years of dust and forgotten supplies, like weary arms cradling secrets. A cot drooped in the corner, its pillow flattened and stained, and a rusted desk crouched beneath a bank of dormant monitors, each screen reflecting not Lance, but a version of him that looked uncertain, less himself.
Dario padded in, sniffing the edges of the shadows. He claimed the cot with a grunt, curling into a perfect circle, tail flicking like a metronome.
"Glad you're adjusting," Lance muttered. His voice sounded foreign even to him—hoarse, cracked. He wasn't joking. He needed something, anything, to anchor him.
His hands trembled, still tingling from the alley. The memory of shapes that didn't belong lingered beneath his skin.
"What was that?" His voice broke the silence, brittle as dry glass.
Dani locked the bolt with a final clack, then leaned against the opposite wall. Her expression softened, exhaustion cracking the armor she always wore.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Not one of theirs. Too quiet. Too fast."
"Then what the hell was it?"
She didn't answer. The room seemed to breathe in that pause, walls exhaling dust motes that danced lazily in the weak light. Silence wasn't oppressive; it was aware, patient, judging.
Lance pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. Stars bloomed, his vision fractured like shattered glass. His mind felt like a file cabinet flung open, drawers upended, papers drifting like leaves in a storm.
"I wasn't built for this," he said finally, voice low. "I live alone. I fix problems people cause when they forget to turn things off and on again. I rewatch the same shows because new ones stress me out. I have a reusable grocery bag I've named."
He looked up at her. "I'm not the guy who gets chased through cities over eldritch milk."
Dani tilted her head, tired amusement flickering across her face. "What's the bag's name?"
"Gary."
A low, tired laugh escaped her. Humanity, tiny and fragile, flickering in the dark.
"You don't have to be the guy," she said after a pause. "You just have to survive long enough for us to figure out what we're holding."
She crossed to a metal cabinet, pulling out a dusty box labeled FIELD REPORTS – RED, dropping it onto the desk. Faded folders, torn photographs, notes scribbled in margins spilled from it like whispers of past failure.
"Some of us tried to study it years ago," she said. "Thought it was chemical. Maybe advanced nanotech. But then things started shifting. People forgot what they saw. One guy thought it followed him home, even though we had it sealed."
Lance shivered. The safe house seemed to lean closer, shadows curling toward him.
She flipped through the photographs. Black smears on glass. Corrupted silhouettes in mirrors. The images seemed to move when he looked away, like the safe house itself shifted its memory around him.
Dani paused on one photo — a distortion like a face half-erased in motion. "Thing is," she said, tapping the edge of the print, "it doesn't rewrite you right away. It waits."
He blinked. "Waits for what?"
"For context." She slid the photo aside, eyes flicking to the milk jug sitting on the crate like an unexploded bomb. "When it latches, it stays quiet until it sees something — something familiar, something it can hook its narrative into. Then it starts building. Threading memories, swapping faces. It doesn't want control—it wants coherence." She met his eyes.
Lance's throat tightened. The safe house creaked around them, wood straining like it, too, was listening.
He looked again at the milk jug. Shadows stretched toward it, thick and patient, pooling in corners where light refused to linger.
"I almost drank it," he said, voice a bare thread.
"Then you'd be gone," Dani said simply. Not dead. Not possessed. Gone.
The room pressed closer. Every surface seemed to breathe, dust drifting like motes in a slow wind. Lance let the quiet settle into him, filling the cracks of his mind with the weight of what could happen if they failed.
He realized he could almost feel the house breathing around him, stretching and contracting, taking stock of him as much as he was trying to take stock of it. The safe house wasn't just shelter. It was a participant, a silent, patient witness to what had been stolen—and what might come next.
Dario snored softly, ignorant of everything, and for a moment, Lance envied him.
He took a slow breath. Survival wasn't about being ready, or strong. It was about existing inside the impossible long enough to figure out what the rules were.
And the rules had changed.
Lance blinked at the flickering monitor in the corner—static crackled faintly, like whispers just out of reach. The safe house was thick with silence now, but something felt... off.
He glanced toward the small metal-framed mirror Dani had pulled down from the wall. For a heartbeat, his reflection didn't quite match. The man staring back seemed sharper, yes, but something in his eyes flickered—like a glitch in a corrupted image. He shook his head. Probably tired.
Dario sat beside him on the cracked linoleum floor, head tilted at a curious angle. The dog's gaze was fixed not on Lance, but something behind him—or maybe through him. The steady, warm weight of Dario's presence was reassuring, but those eyes made Lance's skin crawl.
Why is he staring like that?
Lance tried to shrug it off, but the unease tightened around him like a coil. He rubbed his temples, struggling to hold onto the solid ground of his own mind.
Then came the flicker.
A sudden flash of a moment—a split second—in his memory. Standing near the refrigerated section in the grocery store. The lights buzzing oddly. Time stuttering like a broken record skipping a beat. The carton of milk in his hands feeling heavier, almost alive.
He hadn't noticed at the time.
Hadn't noticed anything.
But maybe that was when it started.
Not a full infection. Not a takeover. Just... a crack. A breach.
Lance's pulse quickened as tiny moments piled up:
The reflection that lingered a bit too long after he'd moved.
A word that escaped his mouth before he meant to speak it.
Dario's unblinking stare, the way his ears twitched when Lance looked away.
Am I already... changed?
He swallowed hard, feeling the room close in.
Dani's voice broke through the fog. "You're not losing it. It's... reacting."
"Reacting to what?" Lance asked, voice barely a whisper.
"To you."
She stepped closer, eyes scanning the dark corners. "You were near the seal when it cracked. It's not just physical—it's cognitive. The symbiote doesn't have to be inside you to start bending your reality."
Lance felt a cold drop roll down his spine.
"So I'm not infected."
Dani shook her head slowly. "Not yet. But it's watching. Waiting."
The room seemed to pulse with unseen energy, a quiet hunger pressing against his skin.
Lance glanced at Dario again—steady, silent, but somehow more knowing.
He didn't know what was worse: the certainty of infection or the slow, creeping terror of not knowing when the line would be crossed.
Because maybe... the line was already behind him.
He sat on the cot, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the rough fabric, trying to focus on something solid. But every time he blinked, the room shifted slightly—just a fraction—but enough to set his teeth on edge. The edges of the walls blurred, the corners darkened, as if the safe house itself was breathing, watching.
He shook his head sharply, as if clearing static from a radio. No. It's just exhaustion. The chase. The fear. That's all.
But the reflection in the small cracked mirror on the wall didn't lie. His eyes... they weren't quite his. They flickered, like a weak signal fighting through interference.
He caught himself staring for too long, feeling his pulse hammer in his temples. Am I losing it? Or is something else crawling under my skin?
A soft tap beside him made him jump. Dario sat quietly, his gaze unwavering, unblinking, locked onto Lance with an intensity that felt almost human. The dog's tail thumped once, low and deliberate, breaking the silence.
"Hey, buddy," Lance whispered, voice rough. "What are you seeing?"
Dario's eyes didn't waver.
Lance swallowed the lump rising in his throat. If even he sees it...
The room seemed to close in, the stale air thickening like syrup. The faint hum of the lights grew louder, louder—then faded to a near-silence so complete it pressed on his ears.
Memories flickered unbidden—snatches of that grocery store moment. The flickering lights. The sudden weight in his hands. The brief, unexplainable stutter in time.
I was there.
And it saw me.
He pressed his palms against his face, desperate to ground himself. When he pulled them away, the walls looked... different. Edges sharper, but shadows deeper. The floor's cracked linoleum seemed to ripple beneath him.
He forced himself to stand. The room tilted; he grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself.
"Not real," he muttered. "Not real."
But his voice trembled.
Dani's voice called softly from the other side of the room.
"You okay?"
He wanted to answer. To say he was fine. To pretend the twisting in his mind was nothing more than tiredness.
Instead, he just nodded, though she couldn't see it.
He was anything but okay.
The symbiote was there, in the edges of his sight, in the twisting shadows behind his eyelids. It whispered in the quiet, promising things he couldn't quite hear but felt deep in his bones.
And the worst part?
He didn't know if he could trust himself anymore.
Was that thought his? Or was it theirs?
His heartbeat thundered, and he blinked hard—hoping the room would stop spinning, hoping the dog's steady presence was a lifeline in the madness.
But deep down, Lance knew the nightmare had only just begun.
Lance blinked at the flickering monitor in the corner—static crackled faintly, like whispers just beyond comprehension. The safehouse was thick with silence now, but it felt off, as if it were aware of them, watching.
He glanced toward the small metal-framed mirror Dani had pulled from the wall. For a heartbeat, his reflection didn't quite match. The man staring back seemed sharper, yes, but something in his eyes flickered, like a weak signal struggling through interference. He shook his head. Probably tired.
Dario sat beside him on the cracked linoleum floor, head tilted at a curious angle. The dog's gaze wasn't on Lance—it seemed to pierce the shadows themselves, tracking things unseen. That steady, warm presence should have been comforting. Instead, it made Lance's skin crawl.
Why is he staring like that?
The unease coiled tighter, squeezing at the edges of his mind. Lance rubbed his temples, trying to cling to the solid ground of his own thoughts.
Then came the flicker.
A sudden flash—a moment in the grocery store. Fluorescent lights buzzing. Time stuttering. Milk carton in hand, impossibly heavy, almost alive. He hadn't noticed it then. Hadn't noticed anything. But maybe that's when it began—not fully inside him, not yet—but a crack. A breach.
Little moments piled up like broken mirrors:
The reflection that lingered too long.
Words escaping before they were spoken.
Dario's unwavering stare, ears twitching when Lance looked away.
But the reflection in the cracked mirror didn't lie. His eyes... weren't quite his own.
A soft tap beside him made him jump. Dario's tail thumped low, deliberate. The dog's gaze remained locked on Lance, unwavering.
"Hey, buddy," Lance whispered, voice rough. "What are you seeing?"
Dario didn't flinch. Didn't look away.
The room seemed to contract, stale air thickening like syrup. Even the hum of the lights dropped, fading into a near-silence that pressed against his ears.
Fragments of memory flickered unbidden: grocery store lights, the alien weight of the milk, the subtle stutter in time.
I was there.
And it saw me.
He pressed his palms to his face, desperate to anchor himself. When he pulled them away, the room had shifted again—edges sharper, shadows deeper, linoleum rippling beneath him.
He forced himself to stand, gripping the desk. "Not real," he muttered. But his voice trembled.
The safehouse waited, watching, patient, as the nightmare began to settle in.
Deep down, Lance knew—this was only the beginning.