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Chapter 128: Empty
The forest had fallen into an unnatural hush, the kind that made even the wind seem hesitant to pass through the branches. It was as though the vast canopy above had become a theater, and every leaf, every hidden creature in the undergrowth, was holding its breath in anticipation of what might unfold. No birds sang. No insects hummed. The quiet pressed in all around, dense and unbroken, a suffocating stillness that gnawed at the edges of Lucas's awareness.
In that suffocating silence, the figure stood over him, casting a long, jagged shadow across the dirt and leaf litter. It watched him with unsettling poise, wearing a grin that felt less like a smile and more like an empty mask—hollow, cold, and without the warmth of human intention.
"If the wolfsbane blend has done what I intended," the figure remarked, its voice carrying an almost casual tone, as if discussing the weather, "you should be paralyzed from the neck down by now."
Lucas remained as he was—slumped against the gnarled trunk of an old tree. His posture was heavy with resignation, yet his eyes had dulled only enough to maintain a convincing illusion. Beneath that veneer, he waited. Calculating.
"Let's test that, shall we?" the figure continued.
It crouched just enough to pluck from the ground a broken branch—a splintered weapon, thick in girth, one end pointed into a jagged spear by nature's careless carving. Without hesitation, and with the kind of calm that made the act far more chilling, it drove the branch deep into Lucas's left shoulder.
The impact was a brutal symphony of sensations—the sharp crack as wood met bone, the wet sound of tearing flesh, and the metallic tang of pain flooding Lucas's senses. Fire seemed to crawl through his veins, burning like molten wire beneath the skin. Every instinct screamed for him to retaliate, to rip the weapon free and strike back, but he kept absolutely still. This was not his moment. Not yet.
A dark stain of blood began its slow journey down his arm, soaking into the dirt at his side.
The figure bent closer, its voice was devoid of cruelty yet tinged with genuine curiosity, as though studying some rare specimen.
"So the wolfsbane has worked," it murmured. "Then why can't I see any fear in your eyes?"
Lucas's lips twitched upward into the faintest smile, forcing a rasp into his voice. "That's easy," he said. "I'm not afraid of you."
The thing laughed—an unnatural sound that echoed wrong in the air, resonating from somewhere deeper than the lungs of the body it wore. It was a laugh that felt stolen, distorted, as if filtered through layers of something primal and predatory.
"See," it said, amused without warmth, "that's the quality I admire in humans. Even broken, they find new ways to be… surprising."
It lowered itself to a crouch, bringing its gaze level with Lucas's. "You already know I'm not the man standing before you," it said with a faint glimmer of appreciation. "So let's not pretend. It has been a long time since I've spoken as myself—not hidden behind a human facade, not as a host—but as what I truly am."
Lucas tilted his head, the corners of his mouth curling. "Why not?" he said lightly. "It's not as if I have anywhere else to be." His grin took on a teasing edge. "Do you have a name?"
The figure straightened slightly, almost pleased by the civility of it. "Not really," it admitted. "I've always borrowed the names of those I've… inhabited."
Lucas gave a soft, thoughtful hum, his eyes catching the faintest glint. "What about Tony? That seems like a nice name."
The figure paused, considering, and then allowed a genuine smile to creep across its face. "Tony," it repeated slowly, tasting the sound. "I like it. From this moment forward, you may call me Tony."
"Good," Lucas said.
"Now that we're acquainted—" His tone shifted, suddenly razor-sharp.
In an explosion of motion, Lucas struck. His speed was the kind born of instinct and honed by experience, faster than thought, sharper than hesitation. His right arm lashed out, and claws flashed into existence mid-strike, slicing through the thin space between them before burying themselves deep into Tony's chest.
The parasite responded in panic, a hideous jolt of wrongness radiating from within the stolen body—but Lucas had already begun tearing it apart. His claws pierced deeper, past bone and tissue, until his hand wrapped around something that pulsed and writhed—an alien vine-like organism entwined along the length of the spine.
With a violent wrench, he tore it free.
The scream that followed was not bound to human anatomy. It vibrated through the host's nerves, an unholy chorus carried by every fiber of the stolen body.
Lucas did not flinch. With deliberate brutality, he crushed the parasite between his fingers, slicing its tendrils into severed husks. Lightning surged from his claws, flooding into it until the last echo of the scream was extinguished.
The human shell crumpled lifelessly to the forest floor, empty at last.
Straightening slowly, Lucas's breath came steady despite the blood dripping from his shoulder.
He looked down at what was left—both man and parasite.
"Goodbye, Tony," he said quietly.
Then he turned and walked away, leaving the forest to swallow the silence once more.