The rain hadn't stopped since he ran.
Each drop hit the pavement like a whisper, cold against his fur, soft against the roaring silence in his head. The world outside was nothing but black — the kind of darkness that swallowed sound and shape — but Aaron saw everything clearly. His eyes cut through it easily, and the faint glow of his fins painted the wet street in streaks of blue.
He didn't know where he was going. He hadn't thought that far ahead.
The idea of running had come all at once — raw, unfiltered instinct — and now, with the night stretched endless before him, that impulse felt empty. Hollow.
Water streamed down his face, matting the fur along his cheeks. The cold seeped through his clothes, but his thick coat held the worst of it back. He kept walking anyway, head low, tail dragging behind him. Each step echoed faintly in the puddles.
You're lost again, aren't you?
The voice was soft this time. Not the sharp, venomous snarl it used to be — not the one that clawed at his mind and pushed him toward violence. This one was calm, almost gentle.
Aaron stopped in the middle of the street, ears twitching.
He hadn't heard that voice since the lab. Since the blood.
He waited for the bitterness that usually followed it — the anger, the control — but none came. Only a strange quiet.
You shouldn't stay here, it whispered again. Keep walking. This way.
Aaron's eyes narrowed slightly, though he didn't know at what — the darkness, or himself.
"Why should I listen to you?" he muttered.
Because you don't know where else to go.
He wanted to argue, to shout that it was wrong, but he couldn't.
Because it was right.
So he walked.
The streets began to fade behind him, the glow of distant houses vanishing into the rain. Puddles deepened into small rivulets as the ground sloped downward. Trees began to appear — silhouettes against the pale flashes of lightning. The air grew saltier, colder. The voice said nothing more, but somehow he knew where it was leading him.
By the time the road turned into rocky ground, the rain had softened to a mist.
He could hear the sea now — low, constant, restless — waves crashing against stone and retreating with a hiss. The sound filled the world.
Aaron climbed over the last slope and stopped.
The coastline stretched before him, jagged and wet. There were no sandy shores here — just black rock jutting into the sea like the spine of something ancient. He stepped closer, his glowing tail reflecting faintly off the slick surface. The water below churned and shimmered with traces of foam that almost looked alive, glowing faintly where lightning flashed above.
For the first time since he left, Aaron exhaled. Not relief. Not calm. Just air he hadn't realized he was holding.
He sank down onto the rocks, legs pulled close, the rain dripping quietly off his fur. The voice was still there — faint, patient.
You remember this sound, don't you?
He nodded once, barely. "Yeah," he murmured. "Feels... familiar."
Home, it said softly. Or close enough.
Aaron stared out at the waves until the horizon blurred with the clouds.
The sea didn't answer, but it didn't need to.
Back at the house, the rain hadn't eased. It beat against the windows in sheets, blurring the lights of the street beyond. The clock on the kitchen wall ticked too loudly, each second a reminder that Aaron still wasn't home.
Catherine sat at the table, her hands wrapped around a cold mug of tea she hadn't touched. Her eyes were red, the kind of raw that comes after crying long past exhaustion. Across from her, David stood near the counter, phone in hand, its screen lighting his face with a pale glow.
Neither spoke. The silence was worse than the rain.
Finally, Catherine broke it. "You said he'd be safe," she whispered, her voice trembling.
David didn't answer right away. He kept staring at the phone, scrolling through lists of useless numbers, his thoughts running in circles. "I said I'd try to keep him safe," he murmured.
She looked up sharply. "He's our son, David."
He met her eyes — just for a moment — before looking away. "He's more than that now. You know what he is, what he can do. If anyone sees him—"
"Don't," she snapped, pushing her chair back. "Don't turn this into some lab report."
David sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. "You think I don't care? You think this doesn't keep me up every night? Catherine, if they find him, it's not just about him anymore. It's about everyone."
She stood there, trembling, tears welling up again. "He's not an experiment, David. He's our son! You and your damn research—"
Her voice broke, and for a moment the words she wanted to say almost slipped out: You ruined us.
David's face tightened. He didn't respond. There was nothing left to say that wouldn't make it worse.
After a long moment, he turned the phone around. "There's still one thing we can try."
He opened the tracking app — the one he'd installed months ago, back when he worried about Aaron sneaking out during the night. Catherine leaned closer, a flicker of hope crossing her face for the first time in hours.
But when the screen loaded, all it showed was a gray icon and the words Location services disabled.
David's jaw clenched. "He turned it off."
Catherine sank back into her chair, her hands covering her mouth. "He's really gone…"
For a while, the only sound was the rain and the soft hum of the fridge. Then Catherine's voice came again, small and broken.
"I should've protected him. I should've been there instead of you."
David froze. He wanted to argue — to say it wasn't her fault, that none of this was — but the words caught somewhere in his throat. Because part of him agreed. Part of him believed that everything she said was true.
Lightning flashed outside, painting the room in white for an instant. In that heartbeat of light, the world looked empty — two broken parents in a house that felt too large, too quiet.
Then the thunder rolled in, deep and distant.
David turned away first, pocketing his phone. "We'll find him," he said, though it sounded more like a promise to himself than to her.
Catherine didn't answer. She just stared out the window, watching the rain blur the night, whispering, "Please come home, Aaron… please."
The sea was louder now. The waves crashed harder against the rocks, spraying salt and mist across Aaron's face. The rain had softened, but it still fell steady — a fine, cold drizzle that clung to everything.
He sat there for a long time, staring at the water until it stopped looking like water. Just motion. Just sound. Just another storm to match the one inside his head.
The voice broke the silence first.
You always end up here.
Aaron's ears flicked. "You again."
You say that like I ever left.
He frowned slightly. "I thought you were gone. After… what happened."
You wanted me gone, it said, tone quiet — almost remorseful. But I was never separate from you. Not really. I'm just the part you didn't want to hear.
Aaron pulled his knees closer, the chill sinking in now that the adrenaline had faded. "You mean the part that killed someone?"
There was a pause — not silence, but hesitation. When it finally spoke, its voice was lower, steadier. The part that tried to protect you.
Aaron's tail twitched, scattering droplets into the dark. "That's not what it looked like."
I know.
The words echoed in his mind like the sea — rhythmic, constant, impossible to ignore.
For a while, neither spoke. He listened to the wind shift, the faint hum of distant thunder, the scrape of water against stone. The glow from his fins reflected faintly off the tide, dimming as his pulse slowed.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer. "What do you want from me?"
Nothing.
He blinked. "…Nothing?"
I exist because you do. Because of what they did to you. You can't destroy what was made to survive.
Aaron's breath caught. The words weren't cruel — they were simply true, and that made them hurt more.
"So you're just… me?"
Part of you.
"Then why talk like you're separate?"
Because you still need me to be.
He didn't answer. He didn't know how. The cold had started to sink deeper into his fur, his fingers numb when he brushed the water from his face. For the first time since he'd left, the exhaustion hit him all at once — body, mind, and heart.
"This was stupid," he muttered finally. "Running away like that. I didn't even think."
You needed to breathe, the voice replied gently. But you don't have to keep running. Go home.
Aaron gave a quiet, tired laugh. "You really think that's a good idea?"
It's the only one that makes sense.
He sighed, pushing himself up from the rocks. His legs ached from the cold, but the moment he stood, something eased inside him — a small, weary acceptance. The sea hissed below, as if agreeing.
"All right," he said quietly. "Home, then."
I'll show you the way.
The voice didn't sound commanding this time. It sounded almost… kind.
Aaron started walking back, the faint blue glow of his fins lighting the path through the mist. The rain had turned to a drizzle now, soft and rhythmic, like it was following him home.
And somewhere in the back of his mind — beneath the exhaustion, beneath the fear — he could feel it: the quiet, steady pulse of something still alive, still part of him, no longer fighting for control.
Just guiding.
The house was quiet when the knock came.
So soft that at first, it didn't sound real — just another sound from the storm outside. But then it came again, faint and deliberate.
Catherine froze mid-step. The mug slipped from her hands and shattered on the kitchen floor, tea splattering across the tiles. She didn't notice.
David looked up sharply, his pulse stuttering. For a long second, neither of them spoke. Then Catherine was moving — running before she even realized it, her heart pounding so hard she could barely breathe.
The hallway felt endless. The dim light flickered as thunder rumbled somewhere far away. When she reached the front door, she could see nothing but the rain, pouring hard enough to blur the world into streaks of gray and silver. But beneath the porch light, something faint glowed — a pale blue shimmer, trembling slightly in the dark.
Her hand shook as she reached for the latch.
When the door swung open, Aaron stood there.
He looked smaller somehow, hunched against the cold, his fur soaked through and clinging to his frame. The glow from his fins and tail flickered weakly, like it, too, was tired. Water dripped from his hair, his scarf, his hands — puddling around his feet as he stared up at her, breath shivering in his chest.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then his voice came, small and cracking. "Mom…"
That was all it took.
Catherine rushed forward and pulled him into her arms, the force of it nearly knocking him off balance. Aaron didn't resist — he clung to her instantly, burying his face against her shoulder as his body trembled with quiet, broken sobs. The cold from his fur seeped through her clothes, but she didn't care. She held him tighter, fingers running through his damp hair, whispering his name over and over like a prayer she'd almost lost faith in.
David appeared behind her, stopping just short of the doorway. For a moment, he could only watch — the two of them locked in the kind of embrace that words could never fix or describe. Then his expression softened, and something in his chest finally gave way. He stepped closer, laying a hand on Aaron's shoulder.
Aaron turned his head slightly, meeting his father's eyes through the haze of tears and rain. No one spoke. But that small, shaky look — a flicker of recognition, of forgiveness — said everything they needed to say.
Catherine finally pulled back enough to cup Aaron's face, her thumbs brushing away the tears that mixed with the raindrops on his cheeks. "You're freezing," she whispered. "Come inside, sweetheart."
He nodded, too exhausted to answer.
David quietly closed the door behind them, shutting out the storm. The sound of the rain dulled, replaced by the soft ticking of the kitchen clock and the faint hum of the heater. The warmth hit Aaron like a wave, steam rising faintly from his soaked clothes as he stood there in the doorway, dripping onto the floor.
Catherine didn't care about the mess. She guided him toward the living room, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, her hands trembling as she tucked it close.
Aaron's tail drooped limply under the blanket, the glow from his fins flickering faintly. His eyes were red, but calmer now. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible.
"Shh," Catherine said softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You're home. That's what matters."
David sank into the chair nearby, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The tension in his face was gone now — replaced by something quieter, heavier. "We were so scared," he murmured. "Both of us."
Aaron glanced between them, guilt flashing across his face. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," David said gently. "I know."
For a while, the three of them just sat there — the storm still whispering outside, the air filled with the soft sounds of rain and breathing. Catherine kept a hand on Aaron's back, steady and warm, as if afraid he might vanish if she let go.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, the house didn't feel empty.
Just fragile. Healing. Alive.