I didn't open the door. I couldn't.
My heart was hammering an uneven, stuttering rhythm that made my vision pulse. I leaned over the sink, retching a bitter, silver-tinted fluid that hissed against the porcelain like acid.
I'm losing my mind, I thought, my fingers slipping on the marble. The poison. I'm hallucinating a voice because my brain is starving.
[Warning: Host Integrity—Critical—]
[Cardiac Output—Insufficient—]
A sudden, white-hot jolt of electricity snapped through my chest. My back arched, my spine slamming into the vanity with a crack. It wasn't a "fix"; it was a brutal, internal jump-start that left me gasping for air that wouldn't come.
[External Threat—Proximity—High—]
"Shut up," I wheezed. "Get out of my head."
The heavy, synchronized tread of Julian's private security echoed from the hallway. This wing was a restricted zone—a silent tomb Julian had hand-picked for me. I scrambled into the furthest stall, fumbling with the lock as the main door creaked open.
"Check the stalls," a voice muttered. It was the waiter. The subservient "sir" was gone, replaced by a flat, murderous chill. "If he's still twitching, finish it."
I watched through the sliver of the door. My hands were shaking so violently I had to bite my own lip to keep from crying out. I wasn't a fighter; I was a man who had died four minutes ago.
The guard stopped in front of the sink, staring at the silver-red mess I'd left behind.
"What the hell is—"
I didn't wait. I threw my entire weight against the door.
The metal slammed into his face, but I slipped on the wet tile. The guard didn't go down—he stumbled back, blood pouring from his nose, reaching for the suppressed pistol at his hip. I lunged, not with skill, but with the desperation of the damned. I tackled him, driving my shoulder into his gut, and we both crashed into the vanity.
I grabbed a heavy glass soap dispenser from the counter and swung it like a flail. It caught the waiter across the temple with a sickening thud. As the guard clawed at my face, my arm moved—not of my own will, but with a mechanical, bone-deep force—slamming his head into the marble.
Silence.
I stood over them, breath coming in ragged, wet hitches. I splashed cold water over my face and scrubbed my hands until they were raw. I didn't look like a murder victim anymore. I just looked like a different kind of problem—haggard, dangerous, and vibrating with a frantic energy.
I dragged the bodies into the supply closet and clicked the lock.
Walking back into the ballroom, the sensory overload hit me like a physical blow. But as I moved, something shifted. My eyes began to map the room—not in panic, but in cold, geometric patterns. I saw the exits, the sightlines of the security guards, and three different ways to kill the man standing nearest the door with a fountain pen.
I wasn't just hiding. I was stalking.
I saw Julian at the bar. Waiting for a signal. I stepped into his line of sight for one heartbeat.
Julian's glass stopped mid-air. The color drained from his face. His eyes blew wide, fixed on my sweat-soaked, pale face. He looked paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of my existence. I didn't blink. I kept walking, leaving him drowning in his own terror.
I reached the balcony, the cold air hitting me hard.
"Evan?"
A hand clamped onto my elbow. Aunt Elena. Her grip was white-knuckled, her gaze immediately beginning a clinical sweep of my body. It snagged on my right cuff—where a smear of silver-red blood had soaked into the fabric.
She leaned in, a low, dangerous hiss. "I saw Julian's personal waiter trailing you. Now you reappear looking like a ghost, your knuckles are shredded, and you smell of industrial soap."
She shielded me from the room, her expression carved from ice. "Julian's men don't leave witnesses. The only way you walk out of that corridor is if you fought your way through them." She probed my dilated pupils. "You've been poisoned, or you've killed someone. Which is it?"
"I... I'm sick," I managed.
"Don't lie. It's a waste of the time you have left." She pulled me toward the exit, her hold bordering on painful. "A dead nephew in the hall is a mess Victor would use to bury us all. Get in the car."
She shoved me into the back of her town car. As she climbed in, she looked at my shaking hands with visible irritation. "Idiot. You always were too fragile. Stop bleeding on my leather and start acting like a Cole."
The drive was a blur of shadows. She spent the trip staring out the window, jaw set tight. When we reached my room, she didn't help me out. She stood by the car, silhouetted against the moonlight.
"The wolves know you're alive, Evan," she called out softly. "And wolves don't stop until the meat is cold. Don't make me regret this."
I slammed my door and locked it, collapsing against the wood. The room was pitch black.
[Energy—Capacity—8%—]
[System—Hibernation—Imminent—]
[Note: The cost of survival is unpaid.]
"What cost?" I whispered. "What are you?"
[Origin—Encrypted—]
[Current—Priority: Consume—]
I closed my eyes, but the dark brought no peace. A soft, rhythmic scratching started at my door. Not a knock. A scratch.
My phone vibrated. A text from an unknown number.
I saw you.
I stared at the screen, the blue light reflecting in my gray eyes. The scratching grew louder.