Chapter XVIII: Statics
Morning staggered into Nathaniel Cross's flat, not with sunlight but with the pale gray gloom that London specialized in. It leaked through the blinds like smoke, tracing weak patterns across the floorboards. Nathaniel sat hunched at his desk, face buried in his hands, listening to the hum of silence. His wrench still lay within reach, his notebook spread open like a confession he could not take back.
The scar across his chest had not stopped burning since the night before. Its steady pulse reminded him of the laptop's screen, those jagged letters that had carved themselves into his memory.
DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR.
His eyes flickered to the entrance, locked with two bolts and a chain. The echo of the knocking had not faded from his mind. Two slow, deliberate raps against wood. A rhythm meant for him alone.
He had spent the night awake, ears straining, eyes catching shapes in the shadows. The knock never returned. But the warning did, seared into his thoughts.
"They knock twice," Nathaniel whispered. His voice was raw, as though silence had burned his throat.
A beaker to the rod into mixing to make something of anew.
Classes remained suspended. King's College was empty of professors, and his peers wasted their week away in pubs, at home, or buried in assignments. Nathaniel's phone buzzed occasionally with Theo's nonsense texts:
[Theo]: Broooo, day two of freedom. FIFA tournament online tonight. Winner gets takeaway paid. Join or I'll call you an academic hermit.
Nathaniel ignored them all.
His world had shrunk to the walls of his flat. And within those walls, he had one task: learn what he was becoming.
He pricked his finger again, dropping metallic blood into a shallow glass dish. Under the lamp, it shimmered unnaturally, pooling without spreading, holding form like it resisted gravity itself. He pressed the magnet close, watching it ripple.
Stronger this time. The pull was visible, like threads tugging toward the magnet's tip.
He scribbled in the notebook:
Blood magnetism increasing. Composition unstable. Possible inorganic integration. Scar activity correlates with sample exposure.
His handwriting had grown jagged, erratic. Sometimes, when he blinked, it didn't even look like his own.
"Focus," he muttered, gripping the pen tighter. "You're still you. Still Nathaniel Cross."
But his reflection in the dark laptop screen disagreed. His face was gaunter, eyes faintly rimmed with silver, skin pale as if the city's weak sun had abandoned him entirely.
By afternoon, he sought escape in the television again. A new game Theo had begged him to try flickered across the screen, colors bleeding into his dim flat. Nathaniel slumped on the couch, controller in hand.
For a while, it worked. He felt almost human, almost grounded. Enemies spawned; he reacted, fingers pressing buttons with surgical precision. His character leapt, slashed, dodged.
But it wasn't normal.
He found himself moving before the screen showed him what to do. His reflexes were predictive, his actions faster than the frame rate itself. He wasn't playing anymore. He was seeing patterns in the coding, reading the skeleton of the game before it revealed itself.
The realization shattered him.
He dropped the controller, breathing hard. The game's music droned on, mocking. "Not even here," he muttered. "Not even this is mine anymore."
He shut the console off. The silence returned, heavier than before.
And in the silence—something stirred.
It began with the lamp.
A soft flicker. Barely noticeable. Then another. The bulb dimmed, brightened, dimmed again, following a rhythm his scar seemed to recognize.
Nathaniel rose, heart pounding. He grabbed the wrench.
The laptop snapped alive with a hiss of static. Symbols filled the screen again, spirals folding into jagged runes. He felt his chest seize with every pulse of light.
This time, the words were sharper. Clearer.
YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
Nathaniel stumbled back. His notebook fell open on the floor, pages fluttering like wings.
The words shifted again.
LOOK.
His body resisted, but his head turned toward the window. The blinds were shut, but he saw it—a shadow pressed against the glass from the outside.
Tall. Thin. Wrong.
The scar across his chest seared as if a hot brand were being pressed into his skin. Nathaniel gasped, wrench clattering against the floor.
The laptop flared again.
DO NOT LET THEM IN.
The knocking returned.
Two sharp raps against the door.
Nathaniel froze. The wrench lay out of reach. His body screamed to move, but his legs refused.
Knock. Knock.
Slow. Precise.
He forced himself to the door, every nerve alive with fire. He pressed his ear against the wood, heart slamming in his chest.
Silence.
Then—whispers.
Not in English. Not in any language he knew. A chorus of voices, layered and hollow, spilling through the cracks in the frame.
Nathaniel's scar burned hotter, the pulse syncing with the whispers. He bit his lip until metallic blood filled his mouth, grounding him.
"Stop it," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Stop it!"
The whispers grew louder. The chain rattled as if something on the other side had brushed it.
Then, the laptop screamed.
Not code this time. Not words. A shriek of static, loud and violent, filling the flat like a thousand insects crawling through his skull. Nathaniel staggered, clutching his ears. The scar blazed, his vision blurring silver.
The whispers cut off.
Silence.
Nathaniel panted, sweat dripping down his temples. He collapsed against the door, wrench heavy in his trembling hand. The corridor beyond was quiet again.
The laptop dimmed, its screen black once more.
He stayed there for what felt like hours, back pressed to the door, waiting for the knock to return. It never did.
When he finally staggered back to the desk, his notebook awaited him. He forced his hand to write, though the letters wavered, unsteady.
Confrontation with external entity. Behavior: auditory, visual manifestation. Communication unclear. Laptop interference continues. Possible surveillance beyond comprehension.
His pen slipped, scratching the paper. He pressed harder, carving the words like they could tether him to sanity.
Then he stopped.
Because beneath his notes, written in a hand not his own, were new words.
THEY WILL RETURN.
Nathaniel's pen dropped from his hand. His scar pulsed like a drumbeat.
The flat was silent once more.
But he knew—he was no longer the only one writing in his notebook.