Chapter XVII: Echo
Morning came reluctantly.
Nathaniel Cross stirred awake on the couch, his neck stiff from a night spent in half-sleep, half-watchfulness. The flat around him smelled faintly of melted candle wax and cold metal, traces of last night's vigil. He had fallen asleep with the wrench still on the floor beside him, as though it could ward off whatever phantom had stared at him through glass and silence.
The laptop remained dark. He almost expected the screen to flare back to life the moment his eyes met it. But it stayed black, reflecting his pale face and the dim gray daylight pushing through the blinds.
For a moment, Nathaniel let himself hope it had been a dream.
But the scar throbbed—low, steady, insistent.
Not a dream.
Classes were still suspended. King's College had gone silent without its professors, a ghost campus. Theo had texted late in the night:
[Theo]: Bro. Sleep until noon. Best week ever. Don't touch that econ assignment. Promise me.
Nathaniel hadn't replied.
He had no intention of touching economics. Or AutoCAD. Or differential equations. The ordinary world of students and deadlines felt absurd now, as though it belonged to someone else's life.
His world was this flat.
The blinds drawn.
The notebook filled with test results.
The silence heavy with presence.
And yet—he loved it.
He relished the stillness, the absence of professors, the luxury of being sealed away like a recluse. No one watching—except the things that were.
Like a NEET, he thought again, bitter and amused at once. A hermit with broadband and too much time. Except his games betrayed him now, his body betrayed him, and the walls whispered.
By noon, Nathaniel could no longer avoid it. He needed to know more.
He sterilized a needle from his engineering kit—once used for delicate circuitry work—and pricked the side of his finger. The sting was minor. What came out was not.
The blood glimmered.
Not crimson. Not the dull iron scent he had known all his life. This was liquid mercury threaded with red, shimmering faintly like oil on water.
He let a drop fall onto a sheet of white paper. It spread, but not like normal blood—it curled into a perfect circle, holding shape unnaturally.
He wrote in the notebook, heart hammering:
Blood: altered. Metallic composition? Magnetic properties?
His scar seared at the sight, as though warning him to stop. But Nathaniel could not. He pressed a magnet near the droplet, breath caught in his throat.
The circle trembled. It leaned—pulled, ever so slightly, toward the magnet.
"God..." he whispered. His pen scribbled furiously.
Blood exhibits magnetic response. Not entirely biological. Hybrid? Synthetic integration?
He shut the notebook. He had to shut it before the words became too real.
By late afternoon, Nathaniel fled into games again. It was easier. He slouched on the couch, controller in hand, blinds tight, the glow of pixels washing his face.
The comfort was intoxicating—mindless battles, orchestrated chaos, the feeling of agency in a world that followed rules. In games, there were no scars that rewrote your blood. No silver veins. No laptop screaming impossible symbols.
For a while, he even laughed.
But the illusion cracked.
He noticed himself reacting before enemies spawned, as though he saw the future written in code. His fingers pressed the right buttons before his brain fully registered the image.
Too fast. Too sharp.
He set the controller down. His smile collapsed.
The game was no refuge anymore. It only reminded him of what he was becoming.
Evening deepened. The city's orange haze seeped faintly through the blinds. Nathaniel leaned against the desk, flipping through his notebook. Every page felt like a manifesto of someone unraveling: blood tests, vision logs, sketches of impossible structures.
He rubbed his face. He needed food. Tea. Something grounding.
And then—
Knock. Knock.
His body froze.
He never received visitors. Theo texted before coming. No one else ever appeared unannounced.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Slow. Even. Deliberate.
Nathaniel's scar pulsed like a drumbeat under his skin. His hand reached instinctively for the wrench again.
He crept to the door. Every step echoed too loud in the silence. He pressed his eye to the peephole.
Nothing.
The corridor was empty.
He stood there, breath shallow, every muscle taut. Minutes stretched. Finally, he cracked the door open, heart hammering.
Empty.
Only the faint hum of the building's lights. Only the quiet stairwell.
He closed the door, locking it fast, pressing his back against it. His scar burned hotter, as if mocking him.
And then—
From his desk, his laptop flared to life.
He spun, wrench raised.
The screen glowed with the same alien code. Symbols swirled, spirals bending into jagged shapes that his mind half-understood and half-rejected.
His scar throbbed in unison with the flicker of the screen.
The symbols twisted. Rearranged. Formed words.
DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR
Nathaniel's breath hitched. "What?"
The words dissolved, replaced with new spirals.
THEY KNOCK TWICE.
And then the screen went black.
Nathaniel staggered back, knees weak, notebook falling open on the floor. His own handwriting glared back at him—blood tests, visions, reflex logs. Evidence of a man turning into something else.
The scar pulsed harder than ever, heat spreading through his chest.
That night, sleep refused him. He lay awake on the couch, blinds drawn tight, wrench clutched against his chest.
The city outside moved on—sirens, laughter, the rumble of buses. But Nathaniel's flat felt cut off, a capsule sealed against the world.
He stared at the ceiling until fractures in the plaster became constellations. He heard wires in the walls hum like insects. He smelled the metallic tang of his own altered blood lingering in the air.
And in the silence, he swore he heard it—
A whisper.
Not words. Just the cadence of something waiting.
Nathaniel turned on his side, trembling. "I'm losing my mind..."
But the scar answered in silence, pulsing like a second heart.
When dawn came gray and wet, Nathaniel did not feel relief.
He dragged himself to the desk, notebook open, pen in hand. His writing had grown more jagged each day, as though his own mind resisted documentation.
He forced the words anyway.
Subject unstable. Symptoms escalating. Outside contact compromised. Surveillance suspected.
He paused. His hand cramped around the pen. He realized, with chilling clarity, that his notes no longer read like tests.
They read like warnings.
Warnings for himself.
Or for whoever found them after he broke.