Chapter Eighteen: The Anchor Awakens, The Clone's Embrace
The smell of stale alcohol and street rot still clung to Serena's skin. No matter how many breaths she took, the memory of the alley refused to leave. It hung there — between her ribs, behind her tongue — like the aftertaste of terror.
Elijah stood by the door, retrieving his coat from the floor. He moved with quiet efficiency, as if the night had meant nothing. When he slipped the dark fabric over his shoulders, Serena felt something sharp twist in her chest. The panic wasn't about danger this time — it was about him leaving.
"What happens now?" she whispered. Her voice trembled, raw and almost childlike.
Elijah paused only long enough to answer. "I leave."
She flinched at the simplicity of it. "No." The word came out faster than she meant, desperate and cracked.
He turned, half-shrouded in his coat, expression calm — almost studying her. "You think you need me? Tonight proved you don't. You survived."
Serena rose from the couch too quickly, the sudden motion making her dizzy. The closeness they'd shared moments ago evaporated, leaving only the terrifying space between them. "Surviving isn't the same as living," she said. Her voice shook, but she forced the words out. "You make me feel… real."
Elijah's gaze flicked down to her hand as she reached for him, fingers clinging to his sleeve. He didn't move away, but his face didn't soften either.
"Define 'real,'" he said.
She swallowed. "You don't lie."
That earned a quiet, mirthless laugh. "Everyone lies." His tone was almost gentle. "Even me."
He peeled her hand off his sleeve — not cruelly, but with clinical precision. "I lied about the tea."
Serena blinked, confusion breaking through the fog. "What?"
"The mug on the table," Elijah said, nodding toward it. "There's a sedative in it."
Her breath hitched. The world tilted. "Why?"
"To see if you'd trust me." He nodded toward the untouched cup. "You didn't drink it. So you pass."
Serena's chest tightened. She couldn't tell whether she should feel relief or betrayal. "You tested me?"
He pocketed his hands, unbothered. "Trust isn't given. It's measured."
From his coat, he withdrew a small white card and handed it to her. The cardstock was smooth, blank except for a number in black ink.
"A burner," he said.
"For emergencies?"
He shook his head, almost amused. "For boredom."
Her pulse spiked again. "What does that mean?"
"Don't call unless you're ready to burn your life down."
The door was half open when she said it: "What if I'm ready now?"
He paused. "Prove it."
Her eyes darted around the dim apartment until they found the old jacket — Caleb's. Torn at the sleeves, still smelling faintly of smoke and failure. A piece of her old world.
She hesitated.
Then she didn't.
Serena grabbed the jacket, shoved it into the sink, and poured the first bottle she found — cooking oil, nearly rancid. Her hands shook as she struck a match. The flame caught fast, violent, hungry. Black smoke curled toward the ceiling, carrying the bitter stench of plastic and memory.
Elijah didn't flinch. He simply watched the reflection of fire dance across her face.
"Good," he murmured. He tossed her a cheap flip phone. "Keep it charged."
She caught it. "What's the catch?"
"No catch," he said, already stepping into the night. "Just consequences."
Her voice followed him, small and uncertain. "What kind?"
He didn't look back. "The fun kind."
Then he was gone.
Serena stood there, alone in the smoke-filled room. The fire had already eaten through the jacket, leaving nothing but a blackened crust of synthetic ash. The air smelled like burnt plastic and something else — finality.
She opened the phone, staring at the keypad. The urge to hear Caleb's voice one last time was irresistible. She dialed, waited through the hollow rings, heard his voicemail — that familiar voice that used to mean safety — and hung up before it could finish.
Her hands were still trembling when she sent the text.
Done.
The phone chimed once. Then silence.
————
In the opulent bedroom of the Rurns Estate, the atmosphere was thick with disbelief and a strangely relieved intimacy.
Kelna smiled at Urca, a genuine, warm expression that erased years of practiced formality. "Thank you for telling me the truth," she said softly.
Urca was still processing the shock, his cosmic fear momentarily eclipsed by this domestic terror. "How?" he managed to ask, his voice raspy. "How did you know?"
Kelna admitted she had been feeling strange and stressed all day after he left, the tension of his absence oddly grating on her spirit. "And then, when I was lying here, I just… saw it. It was like I got a sudden vision ability. It showed the illusion, and then it showed you casting it. The dots just connected."
She then gave a demonstration. Without a word, the muscles in her legs suddenly cramped and twisted, folding themselves into the unnervingly crippled state he had first seen her in. The transformation was unsettlingly quick, a physical rejection of her former mobility. Then, with a flicker of intense focus, she reversed it. The muscles relaxed, the blood flowed, and her legs were whole and strong again.
It was clear. This was not psychic awareness; this was physical transformation.
Kelna, seemingly exhausted but satisfied, simply reached out and dragged a still-nervous Urca down onto the massive bed. "It won't be needed anymore," she murmured, snuggling into his chest, her heart beating a steady, soothing rhythm against his fractured ribs.
They lay entwined, the mundane comfort of a bed and a warm body a welcome anchor after the cosmic void. Urca closed his eyes, his mind focusing on the cold, grinding presence of the entity within.
Why, Totem, Urca mentally grumbled, did I not get any Authority Points from my clone's encounter with Serena? That was classic emotional subjugation, and the destruction of an entire life path.
The Totem, now fully rested and amused by Urca's short-sighted greed, responded with a low, mocking resonance in his skull.
Does a pot fill itself with water, little vessel?
Elijah is an extension of your consciousness, a tool. Tools do not earn the currency of sin; only the master who risks his soul earns the pay. The Clone's act merely tilled the soil and made the subject vulnerable. The true Act of Tyranny must be executed by you, the vessel. Go and enjoy the harvest. Then, the pot will fill.
Urca sighed, realizing the logic. The Totem's rules ensured he, the master, would always have to take the calculated risk.
He drifted into a tense, uneasy sleep, one ear listening for the sound of his wife's powerful, strange heart.
———
The next morning was cold and damp. The air was thick with the indifferent rush of the city.
Jasper walked toward the familiar gates of his school. He was physically larger now, his walk no longer the shuffling retreat of a victim, but the smooth, confident stride of a predator who owned the pavement.
His newly purchased Predatory Aura was operating at full blast. He didn't have to look at the people on the street to know the effect he was having. An invisible weight of dominance surrounded him, a silent, psychic sheath that demanded deference.
Pedestrians gave him a wide berth, their eyes flicking away from his as if he were a coiled viper. They saw nothing outwardly threatening—just a teenage boy in a blazer—but their primal fear instincts screamed danger. Two construction workers paused their chatter and instinctively squared their shoulders, only to look down moments later, deciding he wasn't worth the challenge.
Jasper felt the effect like a cold, satisfying wave of strength. He reached the gates of the school, a place that had previously been a bastion of fear and humiliation.
The power was real. The lessons were learned. He was the Aspiring Tyrant, and his domain was waiting. The Active Quest: First Act of Tyranny (0/1) was about to be completed.