Janet scrambled backward on the floor, her hands and feet slipping against the hardwood in her panic. Her breathing came in sharp, quick gasps, her eyes locked on Elijah's unseeing face with a mixture of terror and disbelief.
Her hand shot to her pocket, fingers fumbling for her phone. The device nearly slipped from her grasp—her hands were shaking too badly, adrenaline making her movements clumsy and uncoordinated. She managed to pull it out on the second try, her thumb mashing at the screen, pulling up her recent calls.
She tapped a number, bringing the phone to her ear with trembling fingers. The dial tone started—that soft, rhythmic beeping that signaled a connection being established.
*Ring... ring...*
But before the first ring could complete, Elijah moved.
His body launched forward with startling speed, closing the distance between them in two long strides. His movements were fluid but mechanical, like a well-programmed machine executing commands. His right arm drew back, fist clenched, and shot forward in a straight punch aimed directly at Janet's center mass.
She saw it coming—barely. Her body reacted on pure survival instinct, throwing herself to the side. The punch whistled through the space where her torso had been a split second earlier, the displacement of air creating a small *whoosh* sound.
The momentum of her dodge sent her rolling across the floor, and the phone flew from her grasp, skittering across the hardwood with a series of sharp *clack-clack-clack* sounds as plastic met wood repeatedly.
Janet scrambled to her hands and knees, trying to reach for the phone, but Elijah was already moving again.
His head tilted slightly—not a conscious gesture, but the automatic adjustment of someone whose hearing had become hyper-focused. The soft scraping sound of Janet's palms and knees against the floor registered in his ears with perfect clarity, giving his body the information it needed to track her position.
Another punch came, this one lower, aimed at where her body was now positioned closer to the ground. Janet threw herself backward, landing hard on her hip, pain shooting through her side but her body prioritizing survival over comfort.
The phone had stopped sliding, coming to rest near the entertainment center, its screen still lit with the active call.
*"Hello? Janet? Are you there?"* A tinny voice emerged from the speaker, distant but audible in the suddenly quiet apartment.
Elijah's body pivoted toward the sound, his empty eyes fixing on nothing in particular but his head oriented toward the phone's location with eerie precision. He took three steps—measured, even, neither rushed nor slow—and lifted his foot.
"No! Don't—!" Janet's cry was cut short by the sharp *CRACK* of his shoe coming down on the phone.
The screen shattered first, spiderwebs of fracture lines spreading from the impact point. The second stomp bent the device's frame, and the third reduced it to pieces—plastic shards, circuit board fragments, and a battery that slid free from the wreckage.
The voice cut off mid-word, the connection severed along with any hope of immediate help.
---
Inside the other reality—the false one constructed by the neural transmitter—teenage Elijah remained strapped to the metal chair, his wrists and ankles bound by those worn leather straps that had molded to the shape of too many previous occupants.
The speakers in front of him continued their assault, but the nature of the sound had evolved, mutated into something even more deliberately torturous.
The waterfall component now contained distinct layers—the surface rush of water, yes, but underneath it the individual droplets could be heard, each one a discrete impact, thousands per second creating a dense texture of sound that his brain tried desperately to separate and catalog. Within that, even deeper, was the resonance of the water hitting various surfaces—stone, metal, wood—each material adding its own tonal quality to the overall cacophony.
The glass-scraping sound had developed harmonics, overtones that rang out above and below the fundamental frequency. It was as if dozens of crystal glasses were being rubbed simultaneously, but each at a slightly different rate, creating a warbling, undulating screech that his auditory system couldn't adapt to because it never stayed consistent long enough for habituation to occur.
New elements had been added too—occasional sharp reports like breaking glass, low rumbles that he felt in his chest more than heard, high-pitched tones right at the edge of human hearing range that caused physical pain in his inner ear.
The rhythm remained unpredictable, chaotic in a way that suggested hidden patterns his subconscious kept trying to find but his conscious mind couldn't grasp. The volume swelled and receded like waves, except the waves didn't follow any natural pattern—they were deliberately erratic, designed to prevent any adjustment or anticipation.
But even through this overwhelming assault, through the pain and exhaustion and the desperate struggle against his restraints, teenage Elijah could hear other things.
Sounds that didn't come from the speakers. Sounds that were somehow bleeding through from the real world into this constructed nightmare.
The soft thud of footsteps—quick, light, the pattern suggesting someone moving in panic rather than purpose. The sound of fabric shifting, clothing rustling as a body moved rapidly. The sharp intake of breath, the slightly higher-pitched quality of stressed breathing.
He could hear impacts too—something hitting the floor hard, the bounce and roll of an object, the scrape of palms and knees against a hard surface.
And underneath all of it, something his conscious mind couldn't quite identify but his body understood perfectly—the sensation of air being displaced, currents created by rapid movement, the subtle pressure changes that happened when mass moved through space.
*It's her. Janet. She's out there. In the real world. My real body is with her.*
The realization brought a moment of clarity even as his teenage form continued its mechanical struggle against the restraints.
*What I'm experiencing here—this chair, this room, this sound—it's all false. Manufactured. A prison built inside my own nervous system using that chip she mentioned. But out there, in reality, my body is moving. Reacting. Fighting.*
He forced himself to focus through the pain, to think clearly despite every stimulus screaming at him to just shut down, to retreat into unconsciousness where the torture couldn't reach him.
*My body can still sense things. Touch, hearing, smell. The sensations aren't being overridden completely—they're being filtered, processed differently, but they're still there. And because my conscious mind is trapped here, something else is taking over. Instinct. The parts of me that don't need thought to function.*
His gut feeling—that indefinable sense that had been with him since childhood, that had guided him through dangerous situations and warned him away from threats—was operating at full capacity. And it was screaming one thing:
*Janet is dangerous. Janet is the threat. Defend yourself. Stop her.*
And his body, running on autopilot, guided by heightened senses and primal survival programming, was obeying that directive with perfect efficiency.
---
Janet backed away from Elijah's advancing form, her mind racing. She needed a weapon, something to defend herself with, something to give her an advantage over this mindless, instinct-driven version of the man she'd been manipulating for months.
Her eyes scanned the apartment desperately, landing on a decorative vase on a side table—ceramic, heavy enough to do damage, within reach.
She moved toward it with as much stealth as she could manage, her steps lighter, her breathing controlled. She kept her eyes on Elijah's face, watching for any sign he was tracking her movement, but those empty eyes remained unfocused, pointed vaguely in her direction but not actually seeing.
*He can't see me. He's blind right now. I can do this.*
She reached the table and wrapped her fingers around the vase's neck. It was cold and smooth against her palm, the weight reassuring. She lifted it slowly, carefully, making as little sound as possible.
Then she began to circle around behind him, her movements measured, her feet placed with precision to avoid making noise. Step, pause, listen. Step, pause, listen.
She raised the vase above her head, both hands gripping it now, preparing to bring it down on the back of his skull with enough force to drop him. Her muscles tensed, her weight shifted forward, committing to the strike—
Elijah's body moved.
There was no warning, no indication he was aware of her presence behind him. But his body suddenly dropped into a crouch and pivoted, the motion so smooth and practiced it looked choreographed.
The vase swept through empty air where his head had been a fraction of a second earlier.
Before Janet could recover from the missed strike, before she could even process what had happened, Elijah's hand shot up and wrapped around the vase, his fingers finding purchase between hers. He yanked it toward himself with controlled force, and the combination of his pull and her own momentum caused her grip to fail.
The vase transferred to his hand, and in the same fluid motion, he tossed it aside. It landed on the couch with a soft *thump*, rolling once before settling into the cushions, intact but forgotten.
Janet's mind barely had time to register the loss of her weapon before her body was already moving into a different attack. If she couldn't strike from above, she'd go low—a technique she'd learned in self-defense classes, the kind that was generally considered dirty fighting but effective when desperate.
She drew her right leg back slightly, then drove her knee upward and forward, aiming for the vulnerable area between his legs. The kind of strike that would drop most men instantly, regardless of their training or pain tolerance.
But again, Elijah's body reacted.
His hand came down with perfect timing, catching her leg mid-strike. His palm pressed against her thigh just above the knee, fingers wrapping around the limb, stopping her momentum completely. It was a textbook defensive move, the kind taught in law enforcement training—intercept, control, redirect.
He held her leg there, suspended, her balance completely compromised now with one foot on the ground and the other captured in his grip.
Janet's eyes widened, panic flooding through her again. She tried to pull her leg free, but his grip was solid, unyielding. She tried to hop backward on her remaining foot, but he moved with her, maintaining the hold.
And then his free hand came around in a wide arc and connected with her cheek in a sharp, open-palmed slap.
The sound was loud in the small apartment—a sharp *CRACK* that echoed off the walls. The impact snapped her head to the side, stars exploding across her vision, her ear ringing from the blow.
He released her leg, and she stumbled backward, her hand flying to her cheek where a red handprint was already forming, the skin hot and stinging. She caught herself against the wall, her legs shaky, her vision swimming slightly.
"You... you... YOU!" The words came out strangled, choked with rage and disbelief and fear all mixed together. She stared at him, at his still-empty eyes, at his neutral expression that showed no satisfaction or anger or anything at all.
Her face twisted with fury, her features contorting. Her eyebrows drew down sharply, creating deep furrows in her forehead. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in something between a snarl and a grimace. Her nostrils flared with each breath, her chest heaving. Her eyes were wide but narrowed at the same time, the whites visible all around the irises, giving her an almost feral appearance.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, shaking with the intensity of her emotion. Her jaw worked, grinding teeth together audibly. A flush spread across her face—not from embarrassment but from pure rage, the red deepening until it was almost purple.
She pushed off from the wall and headed for the kitchenette, her movements jerky and aggressive. She practically dove toward the knife block on the counter, yanking out the first knife her hand found—a chef's knife with an eight-inch blade, the edge glinting in the overhead light.
But one wasn't enough. She grabbed another, and another, until she had five knives total—held awkwardly in both hands, the blades pointing outward at various angles.
She turned to face Elijah, her face still twisted with rage, and started throwing them.
The first knife whistled through the air, end-over-end, blade catching the light as it spun. It was heading directly for Elijah's chest—
His hand snapped up and caught it mid-flight, his fingers wrapping around the handle as if he'd been expecting it. The blade stopped inches from his sternum, held steady in his grip.
Janet threw the second knife before the first had even stopped moving. This one was aimed higher, targeting his neck or face.
Again, his other hand rose and plucked it from the air, his timing perfect, his movements economical.
The third, fourth, and fifth knives followed in rapid succession, Janet's arm working like a pitching machine, her accuracy surprisingly good for someone throwing in anger and panic.
And one by one, Elijah's body caught them. His hands moved with impossible precision, tracking the spinning blades, adjusting for their rotation, finding the handles at exactly the right moment. Not a single blade touched his skin.
When the last knife was caught, he stood there holding all five—two in his left hand, three in his right—the blades pointing upward like some kind of makeshift metal bouquet.
Then, with the same mechanical precision, he opened his hands and let them all drop. They clattered against the hardwood floor, the sound sharp and metallic, the blades ringing slightly as they settled.
Janet's mouth fell open, her jaw literally dropping as she stared at the fallen knives, then at Elijah, then back at the knives. Her hands came up to her head, fingers tangling in her hair.
"Don't tell me you turned into some zombie kung fu warrior or something!" Her voice was high-pitched, bordering on hysterical. "This doesn't make sense! None of this makes sense!"
Her eyes darted around the room, searching corners, looking at the ceiling, as if trying to locate hidden cameras. "When will they arrive? Director, I know you're secretly watching all this through the bugged cameras! Please, you have to come save me!"
Her expression shifted from anger to desperation, her whole demeanor changing. Her eyebrows rose, her eyes widening with hope and pleading. Her hands came together in front of her chest in an almost prayer-like gesture, fingers intertwining and squeezing. Her shoulders hunched forward, making her look smaller, more vulnerable.
She took small, shuffling steps backward, her body language screaming submission and fear. Her head tilted slightly, exposing her neck—a subconscious gesture of surrender. Her lips trembled, and her voice when she spoke again was softer, almost whimpering.
"Please, Director. I've done everything you asked. I've monitored him, controlled him, reported everything. You said you'd protect me. You promised. Please..."
---
Teenage Elijah, still trapped in his chair prison, could hear every word of Janet's plea despite the torture-sound from the speakers.
Director. She keeps mentioning a director. Someone who's watching, someone who gave her orders, someone who promised to protect her.
His mind worked through the implications, forcing coherent thought despite the pain, despite the exhaustion.
This person, this director—they're pulling the strings. Janet's just a tool, like she was using me as a tool. But who is it? Why go through all this trouble? What's the endgame?
His thoughts raced, connecting dots, building theories.
Janet works at WELB 7 news station. There's a director there—the station director. Could it be that person? But why would a news director be involved in neural transmitters and microchips and mind control? That doesn't make sense. Unless... unless WELB 7 is a front for something else. Or the director there is connected to something larger.
More questions piled up, each one spawning two more.
And this Azaqor entity—the humanoid figure I've been seeing. Is that also designed? Part of this manufactured reality created by the chip? But when it communicated with me, it felt alive. Real. Not like a computer program or hallucination. It had... presence. Intelligence. Purpose.
His mind jumped to Augustine's warnings, to the strange things he'd said about founding families and actors and internal conflicts.
Augustine spoke about actors being used by these families to shape world events. He suggested I might be one. And the Azaqor humanoid, that smoke figure, little Chloe—they all appeared together in that vision. Are they connected? Are they all part of whatever this director is orchestrating?
The puzzle pieces didn't fit together cleanly, gaps and contradictions everywhere he looked.
My revenge on the Halverns—killing William, framing Viola—I chose to do that. I created the Azaqor persona based on those manuscripts my parents discovered. Or... did I? How much of that was real choice, and how much was manufactured? Were my feelings of rage and desire for vengeance authentic, or were they induced by this neural manipulation?
The thought was terrifying—that his entire sense of self, his motivations, his very personality might have been curated by someone else.
And these warnings about an upcoming battle between pieces—the humanoid said it, Augustine alluded to it. I'm supposedly one of these pieces. But pieces in what game? For what purpose?
He forced himself to stop spiraling into increasingly paranoid speculation and focus on the immediate problem.
None of this matters right now. What matters is getting out of this limbo. My body is moving around out there like an empty vessel, operating on pure instinct. If someone finds me like this, if the police get called, if I hurt someone while not in control... I'll be locked up, or worse.
He looked down at his teenage body, saw the metal chair he was strapped to with renewed focus. The leather straps binding his wrists were worn but strong. The chair itself was bolted to the floor, he realized—looking down, he could see the metal brackets securing it to the concrete beneath the thin industrial carpet.
The speakers continued their assault, the hybrid sound now containing new elements—whispers that might have been words or might have been random noise shaped by his desperate brain into meaning, rhythmic pulses that tried to synchronize with his heartbeat and breathing, tones that seemed to come from inside his own skull rather than from external sources.
He described the sound to himself, trying to anchor his thoughts through the pain: It was like standing inside a massive pipe organ while someone played random notes, combined with being trapped inside a wind chime during a hurricane, layered over the roar of a waterfall viewed from behind the falling water itself. Each component was designed to overwhelm a different aspect of his auditory processing, ensuring no part of his hearing could rest or adapt.
His teenage body continued its mechanical struggle—left wrist pulling against the strap, then right, then legs pushing, torso twisting, a never-ending cycle of futile resistance that burned energy and deepened exhaustion but achieved nothing.
There has to be a way out. This is all in my head, generated by a chip. It's not real. But knowing it's not real doesn't automatically free me from it. I need to... what? Find a flaw in the programming? Override the chip somehow? Wait for for it to run out of power?
Meanwhile, Elijah's body had turned away from Janet and was walking toward the apartment's entrance door. His movements were still mechanical, still guided by that enhanced instinct rather than conscious thought, but they were purposeful now—heading for escape, for exit, for removal from the immediate threat.
Janet watched him go, still pressed against the kitchen counter, torn between relief that he was leaving and terror about what might happen if he got out into the hallway, into the building, into the world while in this state.
Elijah's hand reached for the doorknob, wrapped around it, turned. The lock disengaged with a soft click, and the door swung inward, revealing the hallway beyond.
Except the hallway wasn't empty.
Five men stood in the corridor, arranged in a loose semicircle facing the door. They were all large—not bodybuilder large, but the solid, practical bulk of people who worked physical jobs or trained for function rather than aesthetics.
And they were armed.
Two held wooden bats—not baseball bats, but something heavier, more like the kind used in riots or by people who intended serious harm. Another had a metal pipe, the kind used in plumbing, about three feet long with rust stains at one end. The fourth man held what appeared to be a genuine katana, the curved blade catching the fluorescent hallway lights, though the quality of the sword was questionable—probably decorative rather than functional, but still more than capable of cutting flesh.
The fifth man, standing slightly behind the others, held a machete—shorter than the katana but thicker, designed for chopping rather than slicing, the blade showing nicks and wear that suggested it had been used for its intended purpose.
They all wore street clothes—jeans, t-shirts, hoodies—nothing that identified them as security or law enforcement or anything official. These were thugs, hired muscle, probably the backup Janet had been calling for before Elijah destroyed her phone.
The moment the door opened, their postures shifted into readiness. Knees bent slightly, weight balanced, weapons raised to mid-guard positions. Their faces showed various expressions—some eager, some nervous, one bored, but all committed to the task ahead.
In his prison, teenage Elijah felt the shift in air pressure as the door opened, heard the soft scrape of multiple pairs of shoes on tile floor, smelled cologne and sweat and the metallic tang of the weapons.
His instinct-driven body processed these inputs and understood immediately: More threats. Multiple opponents. Armed. Dangerous.
And teenager Elijah, still strapped to his chair, still enduring the speakers' assault, still trapped in his own nervous system, could only think one thing:
Seriously? Can this weird day get any worse?
The speakers seemed to answer him, the torture-sound swelling to a crescendo, and through it all he could hear the shuffle of feet as the thugs adjusted their positions, preparing to enter the apartment, preparing to attack.
And his body, blind but aware, deaf but hearing, unconscious but responsive, settled into a defensive stance, ready to face whatever came next with nothing but reflexes and heightened senses to guide it.