Nana was just drifting off when the growling started.
Her eyes snapped open instantly, hand already reaching for the gun under her pillow. Beside her, Zayne was already sitting up, ice forming around his fingers in defensive spirals.
The sound came from right outside the apartment door.
Demon growls—deep and guttural and hungry. Hybrid shrieks—high-pitched and wrong, like metal scraping against bone. They were *fighting each other* in the seventh-floor hallway, slamming against walls, clawing and biting and killing just beyond the thin barrier of reinforced wood and three deadbolts.
Nana rolled out of bed, both guns in hand, moving to crouch beside the door. Ready. Alert. Every muscle coiled like a spring.
Zayne took position at the window, ice spear manifesting in his palm, watching the hallway through the peephole with his other eye.
They waited.
The sounds escalated—crashing, tearing, something wet hitting the floor. Then a final shriek cut short, gurgling, dying. Silence for three heartbeats.
Then heavy footsteps retreating. The demon, probably, having won its territorial dispute. The sounds grew distant, fading down the stairwell as it searched for more fights, more prey, more *something* to kill in the endless night.
Nana exhaled slowly and lowered her guns.
Zayne's ice dissolved back into his skin.
Neither of them spoke. What was there to say? *Another close call. Another night of near-death. Another reminder that safety was an illusion and they were only alive because they'd gotten lucky so far.*
Nana returned to bed mechanically, weapons still within reach, and closed her eyes.
But Zayne couldn't sleep.
He moved to the window and looked out at Linkon's ruins painted in moonlight and fire-glow.
The chaos still hadn't faded even though it was past midnight. If anything, night made it worse. Vampires were fully active now, hunting in packs, swooping from rooftops like predatory birds.
A group of survivors ran through the street four blocks south—maybe eight people, carrying makeshift weapons and backpacks. They moved in tight formation, trying to stay quiet, trying to reach... what? Safety? Shelter? Some mythical evacuation point?
They didn't make it.
Vampires descended from above in a coordinated strike. The survivors didn't even have time to scream. Just... gone. Torn apart in seconds. Bodies littering the pavement while the vampires fed and fought over the remains.
Zayne's hands clenched on the windowsill.
They'd made a big mistake thinking night was safer. Most survivors did. Assumed darkness meant creatures couldn't see them, couldn't hunt them. But the creatures that came from Avalon were *made* for darkness. Thrived in it. Became more dangerous when the sun went down.
Movement in the sky caught his attention—helicopters. Military units, by the look of the markings, flying low over the city with searchlights sweeping the ruins.
Zayne watched as they descended in the commercial district, soldiers rappelling down with weapons and tactical gear. They moved in practiced formations, clearing buildings, calling out for survivors in amplified voices that echoed through empty streets.
"LINKON EVACUATION IN PROGRESS. IF YOU CAN HEAR THIS, MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE PLAZA. WE HAVE TRANSPORT STANDING BY."
Gunshots erupted almost immediately.
Hybrids attacked from the surrounding buildings, dozens of them, drawn by the noise and lights. The soldiers opened fire—automatic weapons, grenades, coordinated suppression tactics. Some hybrids fell. Others kept coming.
From his window, Zayne watched survivors emerge from hiding—crawling out of rubble, running from collapsed buildings, stumbling toward the soldiers with desperate hope on their faces. Terrified and shaking and so *thin* it hurt to look at them.
The soldiers guided them toward the evacuation zone, forming protective barriers with their bodies, still firing at the creatures that kept attacking. Some soldiers didn't make it—dragged down by hybrids, torn apart by demons that joined the fight. But others held the line, kept firing, kept *moving* toward the helicopters waiting in the plaza.
Zayne saw survivors boarding. Saw helicopters lifting off, banking hard to avoid flying hybrids, disappearing into the smoke-filled sky toward safety.
*Some of them are getting out.*
Relief washed through him, so intense it almost hurt. The outside world hadn't completely abandoned Linkon. The military was trying—risking their own lives to pull people from this nightmare.
He wanted to help. Wanted to grab his medical bag and run to the plaza, treat the wounded, save who he could while the soldiers held the creatures back.
But he was exhausted.
Bone-deep, soul-deep exhausted from fighting all day with Nana. From burning down the supermarket. From weeks of constant survival mode with no rest, no recovery, no *end* in sight.
And Nana—
He looked back at the bed where she'd finally fallen asleep again. Curled on her side, face peaceful for the first time in days, breathing slow and steady.
She needed to sleep. Needed to recharge her aether core so she could fight tomorrow. Her enhanced metabolism meant rest was critical—without it, her system would start breaking down despite all the modifications her parents had built into her.
Her parents.
Zayne's jaw clenched as anger flared hot in his chest.
He moved back to the bed and sat on the edge, watching Nana sleep. In the dim moonlight filtering through the window, he could see the faint blue glow emanating from her chest—her aether core, humming steadily beneath skin and bone and engineered tissue.
It looked like a nightlight. Something peaceful and gentle.
But Zayne knew better.
That glow was a *battery*. A power source implanted when she was three years old. Part of a modification program that had started when she was an *infant*—when she was too young to consent, too young to understand, too young to be anything except a helpless child at the mercy of the people who were supposed to protect her.
What kind of parents did that?
What kind of parents looked at their newborn daughter and thought: *Perfect. A blank slate. Let's turn her into a weapon.*
Genetic modifications at age zero. Aether core implantation at age three. Combat training throughout childhood. Enhanced healing, reinforced bones, modified metabolism—all of it done to a little girl who just wanted to be loved.
And then they'd thrown her into Avalon to *test* her.
Watched her die and suffer and fight for survival, all from the safety of their monitoring room with its thousands of screens. Calling her deaths "expected variables" and her pain "valuable data."
Specimen 21.
Not *daughter*. Not *Nana*. Just a number in a program designed to create human weapons.
Zayne reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from Nana's face. She didn't stir—too deep in sleep, too exhausted to wake.
His hand drifted down to rest over her chest, feeling the hum of the aether core beneath his palm. It vibrated like a machine, steady and strong and *wrong* in all the ways that mattered.
Because she shouldn't need this. Shouldn't have a battery implanted in her heart. Shouldn't have to fight and kill and survive just to justify her existence.
She should have been *normal*.
Should have had a childhood. Should have grown up safe and loved and human. Should have had parents who protected her instead of using her.
But they'd taken that from her before she was old enough to know what she'd lost.
And now they were dead—burned in the facility fire, holding each other as the building came down around them. Dead before Nana could get answers. Dead before Zayne could make them face what they'd done.
The anger in his chest grew hotter.
He wanted to scream. Wanted to tear something apart. Wanted to go back in time and stop the specimen program before it started, save Nana from a lifetime of being treated like a weapon instead of a person.
But he couldn't.
All he could do was pull her closer, shifting her carefully so she curled against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. All he could do was wrap his arms around her and hold her like she was precious—because she *was*, modifications and all, weapon and all, broken and fierce and *his*.
Outside, gunshots echoed through the city.
The military fought creature after creature, trying to evacuate survivors even though it was borderline suicidal. Trying to save who they could from the hell that Linkon had become.
Some would make it out. Some wouldn't.
Just like Avalon.
Just like the facility.
Just like everything in this nightmare that kept repeating.
Zayne pressed his face into Nana's hair and breathed in the scent of smoke and blood and strawberry shampoo from three days ago when the world still made sense.
"I'll protect you," he whispered against her temple, quiet enough that she wouldn't wake. "No matter what happens. No matter how long this lasts. You're not just a specimen. You're not just a weapon."
You're Nana. And I love you.
Her aether core hummed against his chest, steady as a heartbeat.
Outside, the military kept fighting.
Helicopters kept evacuating.
Creatures kept hunting.
Bodies kept piling.
and they were still alive.
Still holding on.
Still surviving in a world that wanted them dead.
Zayne closed his eyes and listened to Nana breathe, to the distant gunshots, to the city dying one scream at a time.
And he made a silent promise to her sleeping form:
We'll make it through this. Together. No matter how many creatures we have to kill. No matter how long it takes.
I won't let you face this alone.
Even if it meant fighting until he had nothing left. Even if it meant watching the world burn. Even if it meant becoming a weapon himself—ice evol and enhanced physiology and all the modifications the facility had forced on him.
Because Nana had survived Avalon twice. Had survived losing him over and over. Had survived discovering the truth about her parents.
And he would be damned if he let the apocalypse take her now.
So he held her through the night while creatures prowled and soldiers fought and survivors fled or died or hid in the ruins of what used to be home.
Held her until dawn came again—grey and smoke-stained and wrong.
Another day of survival.
Another day of war.
Another day of choosing to keep fighting when everything else said to give up.
No matter how long it takes.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued.