The night was too quiet.
Arin stood at the far end of the observation corridor, staring through the glass into the sleeping base. The faint blue lights of the control panels blinked in rhythm with his heartbeat. Somewhere below, the generators hummed—a soft, steady reminder that life still existed here. But for him, it was no longer home.
Not after what happened.
Not after what he almost became.
He could still see it—the horror in Shivani's eyes when the corridor bent under his presence, the way Om Sai's grin had finally faltered. Even Perin had trembled against the wall, whimpering when the air itself began to crack.
He had controlled it, barely. But he knew now what that power could do.
And he knew what would happen next.
They'd say it was for safety. For everyone's protection. They'd lock him deeper underground, behind reinforced walls and spiritual seals. They'd call it containment, not a prison. But he knew better.
He couldn't risk it. Not after what he heard laughing inside him.
"Kalink…" he whispered, the name tasting like iron on his tongue.
The lights flickered once, almost in reply. He exhaled slowly and turned away.
He had already made his choice.
Tonight, he would disappear.
The dorm was cold when he entered. The air smelled faintly of metal polish and stale coffee. On his desk, a single datapad glowed softly. He had rewritten the message three times already and still wasn't sure if it said enough.
He sat down and read it one last time.
To Shivani, Om Sai, and Vayushri (if she wakes before I return):
I'm sorry.
I didn't want to disappear like this, but staying here would only put all of you in danger.
I've seen what happens when I lose control. I can't let that happen again—not near any of you.
You taught me how to fight. You gave me a reason to believe I could still be human. But something inside me keeps growing stronger… and darker. If I stay, it'll destroy everything I care about.
So I'm leaving. Not to run away—but to learn control. To understand what I've become.
Tell Vayushri… thank you. She saved me more than once. Tell her she's stronger than she thinks.
Om Sai… I know you act like nothing scares you, but don't risk yourself chasing me. I'll come back when I can look you in the eye without feeling like a monster.
And Shivani—
You told me once that guilt doesn't make me noble. You were right.
But it also doesn't go away. I'm sorry for making you worry again. I didn't mean to. I just… need to make sure I can face myself before I face you.
Thank you—for everything.
—Arin
He stared at the words for a long moment, then switched off the pad. He left it on the table beside his broken wristband—the one still faintly stained with blood from the day of the rampage.
A small sound came from behind him. He turned.
Perin stood at the doorway, tail low, head tilted in quiet confusion.
"Hey…" Arin whispered, crouching down. "You weren't supposed to wake up."
The creature padded forward, pressing its head against his hand. Its fur was warm, trembling. Arin smiled faintly, forcing a laugh that didn't sound real.
"You always know when something's wrong, huh?"
Perin made a low whine.
Arin rubbed its head gently. "Listen, bud… you have to stay here. Protect Vayushri, okay? She needs you more than I do right now."
Perin made a sharp, angry chirp—almost a protest—but Arin shook his head.
"No. I can't take you this time. It's not safe where I'm going."
He pulled out a small pendant—a metal fragment from the containment room's seal—and tied it gently around Perin's neck. "So she knows you're mine. And I'm coming back."
Perin whimpered again, but this time, he didn't stop Arin when he stood up.
"Take care of them," Arin said softly. "And don't let Om Sai feed you junk."
He smiled once—small, tired—and then walked past the doorway.
Perin watched him go, silent, ears low, until the sound of footsteps faded into nothing.
Getting out wasn't easy—but Arin knew every patrol route, every sensor blind spot. He had memorized them over the last two nights, pretending to take late-night walks after "medical recovery."
The main doors were locked with biometric clearance, but the side tunnels that led to the maintenance shaft? He'd helped repair those himself once. No one had bothered updating the codes since.
He keyed in the sequence, hands steady despite the pounding in his chest. The door hissed open quietly. Cold air rushed out like a whisper of freedom.
He stepped into the dark.
The metal of the corridor gave way to rough concrete, then to stone. The further he went, the older the tunnel felt. This was one of the mining shafts that had existed before the base was built—a leftover path from a forgotten project.
The deeper he went, the quieter the world became. The hum of machinery faded, replaced by the distant drip of water and the whisper of his own breath.
He found the exit hatch—half-buried under old warning signs. With a grunt, he twisted the rusted wheel. It creaked open with a groan that echoed like thunder in the silence.
Cold night air hit his face.
He froze for a second.
It had been so long since he'd felt it—real wind, not recycled base ventilation. It smelled of damp earth and wild grass. Above him stretched a sky full of stars, no walls, no barriers. Just endless darkness and light.
He stepped out slowly, boots sinking into wet soil. The world beyond was not quiet—it was alive. Crickets, distant howls, the rustle of leaves in unseen wind. A thousand sounds layered into one living symphony.
For a moment, he just stood there, breathing it in.
Then he looked back.
The metal hatch still hung open, dim light spilling from within. His shadow stretched long behind him, fading as the door slowly began to close.
"This is goodbye," he whispered.
The hatch sealed with a heavy thud.
He was alone.
The forest loomed ahead—tall, massive, half-covered in mist. The trees looked ancient, their roots gnarled and twisted into the earth like they were holding the world together. Some trunks glowed faintly with bioluminescent moss; others were blackened, dead, their bark splitting like cracked bone.
The contrast was eerie—half heaven, half hell.
Arin took his first step in.
The ground was soft, damp. Strange lights flickered between the branches—tiny insects or maybe reflections from something deeper in the woods. Every step sounded too loud.
He adjusted his breathing, staying low, careful. The training Om Sai had beaten into him came flooding back—how to walk without snapping twigs, how to listen more than look.
A sudden noise froze him.
Rustling, close. Too close.
He turned sharply, pulse quick.
Two golden eyes blinked from the shadows.
Arin tensed, ready to strike—until the creature stepped forward. It was small, cat-sized, with six thin legs and translucent fur that shimmered faintly blue under the moonlight. It sniffed the air, tilted its head, and then scampered away into the brush.
Arin exhaled. "Okay… not everything out here wants to kill me. Probably."
He moved again, deeper this time, following a faint slope that led toward the river he had seen on the old maps. The trees thickened, cutting the moonlight into narrow beams. The air grew cooler. The sounds of the base were long gone.
By the time he reached a clearing, exhaustion caught up.
He sank to the ground, resting his back against a tree trunk. His arms ached; his breath came in uneven bursts. But the silence here felt different—not oppressive, not mechanical. Just quiet.
Above him, stars burned like tiny fires through the canopy.
He whispered into the night, voice soft but steady:
"I'll learn. I'll control this. And I'll come back."
No answer came.
Only the whisper of wind moving through the leaves, brushing past his hair like a faint promise.
Arin closed his eyes, letting fatigue pull him under.
Tomorrow, the real fight would begin.