Chapter 53
Questions (2)
A grunt of surprise escaped as IAM snapped awake, clutching his head in both hands like it had been split open.
The pain was sudden. Sharp. Like something had smashed into the back of his skull with a hammer made of light. He winced and shut his eyes, curling forward slightly, elbows on knees as the pounding in his head echoed like a heartbeat.
He stayed like that for a moment—still, silent—letting the dull ache settle into something tolerable. Then he exhaled shakily.
What just happened?
Why did his limbs feel like rotting iron?
Why did his soul feel scraped raw?
It took him a moment to remember: he had just used a Start Method. Only a few minutes ago. But for some reason it had felt like hours had passed. Or maybe more. Maybe lifetimes. His entire body sagged under an invisible weight. His bones ached. His skin felt too tight. His soul… exhausted.
He didn't understand it. Methods didn't usually leave him like this.
He tried to stay upright, but the heaviness behind his eyes betrayed him
His thoughts lagged behind themselves. Every movement, every blink, was a slow, exhausting effort.
Still seated on the edge of the bed, he shut his eyes for what he thought would be a blink.
Sleep took him instead.
Not gentle. Not soft. But like something dark had reached out and pulled him beneath.
When he woke again—just moments or maybe hours later—the tent was silent. Unnaturally so.
The space was empty.
Kepa was gone.
Hen. Ryan. All of them.
IAM was alone.
There were no sounds of movement, no light snoring from the far beds, no faint murmurs of late-night whispers or restless shifting.
With a long, strained exhale, he slid down from the bed, He yawned, the motion cracking his jaw slightly.It felt like something dragging its claws through his lungs.
Everything felt... off.
He shuffled out of the tent and into the main path that ran between the living quarters, his eyes squinting... The world around him looked as it always did out here, familiar even, but somehow twisted—like something was wearing the shape of his world but couldn't quite wear it right.
He didn't know what was wrong. But the wrongness was there.
Something itched at the base of his spine. A quiet anxiety.
He told himself it was nothing. Just exhaustion.
Just stress.
He turned toward the showers, entering the facility with a sluggish pace, the door hissing as it sealed behind him. Stripping down mechanically, he stepped under the icy stream of water.
The cold bit into his skin, a thousand needles waking up his nerves.
He stood there, letting the water pour down over his head, trying to wash away the haze clinging to him like a second skin.
And then he tried to recall it.
The dream.
It had been there. Just moments ago, it had filled his mind. Heavy. Horrifying. But now, it slipped through his mental fingers like smoke. The more he tried to focus on it, the more it faded, until all that was left was a hollow unease—like he'd just been told something vital and immediately forgotten it.
IAM sighed.
He dried himself off and changed into the uniform—his hoodie and black cargo pants.
As he pulled the fabric over his arms, something flickered inside him.
A small smile twitched at his lips. Not joy. Not happiness. But something like pride.
But the smile faded.
His hands clenched. His breath caught.
He didn't know why.
He couldn't explain it.
But something wasn't right.
Something was terribly, undeniably wrong.
He walked out of the showers and headed toward the Hub.
The Hold's interior felt unfamiliar in that moment—like walking through a childhood home after decades had passed. The steel, the faint scent of oil, and sterile air greeted him as the doors slid open. The hallways stretched long and hollow, each step echoing far louder than it should.
The lights overhead hummed faintly, but it wasn't enough to chase away the dread building in his chest.
Something's wrong.
IAM's feet carried him forward anyway.
The hallway curved, and he followed it with hesitant steps until he reached the back of the Hold, where Raj's workshop stood nestled in the far corner. The blue pad beside the door blinked, awaiting his touch.
He raised a hand.
Paused.
His fingers hovered above the pad.
Then it hit him.
Like a bullet of cold reality slamming into the side of his head.
Where was everybody?
The thought paralyzed him.
He hadn't seen anyone.
Not just in the tent.
Not on the walk.
Not in the shower. Not in the Hub.
No voices.
Just him.
Alone.
Why was he alone?
His hand, despite his pounding heart, pressed the pad.
The door hissed.
Opened.
What was on the other side—
Was not Raj.
It wore blood.
Red. Wet. Soaked into its skin.
Its face—a black mask, empty.
Its hands—claws, twitching with impossible anticipation.
The moment the door opened, it moved.
Like lightning.
Like a thought made flesh.
It vaulted the counter like it had been waiting for IAM. Waiting just for him.
Its claws extended-glinting, eager to tear, to shred, to silence.
And then—
Right before impact, it changed.
The claws dissolved into hands. Pale, shaking, smeared with blood.
The black mask collapsed into bone-white hair.
And it reached.
Not to kill.
But to beg.
The creature became human.
And it terrified IAM more than anything else ever had.
Because it was wrong. Not in the way of claws and teeth, but in the way it knew him.
It was something deeper.
Something intimate.
It was a pleading memory made flesh.
IAM didn't scream.
He didn't flinch.
He froze.
His lungs locked. His blood turned to ice.
He knew that hand.
Knew that face.
Even if it didn't have one.
Something deep in his marrow recognized it.
A violation of logic.Of sanity.
She was dying—still dying—frozen in that final moment of terror, her hand outstretched, begging for salvation. Her face contorted into something worse than horror. It was despair. Raw, blinding despair.
Her mouth opened.
No scream came.
Only silence.
IAM couldn't move. His body refused to listen. The terror clawed up his throat like bile.
For some reason, it terrified him far more than the abomination before.
Her fingers brushed his cheek.
The touch burned.
IAM gasped, his eyes snapped open in the bed.
No screams.
No flailing.
His body was stiff, his eyes wide open and empty. As if he had accepted his fate before even waking.
He always knew he was going to have nightmares.
He laid on one of the most innermost beds in the health ward.
Again.
He stares at the ceiling.... Hoping sleep doesn't pull him back into it's cruel embrace.