The witch moves like a shadow stitched into the room. Every step calculated, deliberate. Her eyes catch his before he even realizes she is there. A flash of recognition — predator sizing prey — before she lunges.

  Alan reacts. Muscle memory, reflex, instinct. He strikes first, fists driving into the creature’s chest, then into her face, the force sending her skidding across the debris-strewn floor. The impact echoes. She stumbles, surprised — not used to being matched, even briefly.

  He thinks, I’m going to die. I have to die. But something in his chest refuses to accept it. He lunges again, fists and feet driving, a blur of motion fueled by adrenaline, assimilation, survival.

  The witch halts mid-lunge, nose twitching, head tilting slightly. She sniffs him. He freezes. The scent of fresh assimilation radiates from his body — the bodies he consumed earlier, the raw mass of other humans incorporated into his own. It marks him, signals to them: he is infected.

  Something clicks in his mind. Brief flashes of memory — instinctive knowledge, like a whisper through his neural pathways. Witches can sense. They read strength, reaction, intent.

  “Are you human?” her voice hisses, smooth, almost melodic, but laced with sharp edges.

  Alan doesn’t hesitate.

  “No,” he says. Voice raw, breath ragged. “I’m not human.”

  The witch pauses. Eyes narrow. The scent of pheromones thickens in the air, and then movement — faster, sharper. The Aries from before appears, a figure almost his age, muscles coiled, eyes calculating. He’s young. Too young. Alan swallows. If these are the youth… the adults must be something else entirely.

  The witch tilts her head toward him, voice calm but commanding. “Come with us. You will not be harmed.”

  Alan scans. Sunlight peaks at the edge of the building. Shadows ripple across the courtyard. Infected linger there, but they hesitate, drawn to shade, bound by instinct. His body tenses. He realizes they can’t follow him in the sunlight yet. Not fully developed.

  He steps into the sun. Heat strikes his skin, warm but not burning. The humans watching him from the edges flinch — expecting pain, vulnerability. He grabs a shard of mirror, reflects the sunlight toward the witch. She screeches, recoils.

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  A vehicle engine roars from the distance. Alan doesn’t wait to think. He runs.

  The courtyard is empty except for the shaded infected. The sunlight shields him. The witch and the Aries hesitate, testing the limits, calculating. But Alan doesn’t stop. He moves like a shadow slipping into reality, muscles coiled, instincts sharp, assimilation humming in his blood.

  Buildings loom ahead. He ducks inside one, shadows thick, corners dark. His heart hammers. Human voices follow, alert, tactical. They are organized, professional — a squad with hyper-lethal weapons. Assault rifles, pellet shotguns, precise coordination.

  He doesn’t hesitate. The nearest window offers escape. He breaks it. Metal groans. Glass shatters.

  A pulse hits his back. Electric prongs. The taser fires. He convulses, muscles clenching. Pain radiates, but he forces his body, softening the impact just long enough to slide the prongs free. Flesh bristles, then stiffens. His body braces, absorbs, adapts. He’s alive.

  Sunlight strikes fully. The squad pauses, astonished. Their protocols assumed infection vulnerability to sunlight. Their calculations were wrong.

  Alan rolls. Heart hammering. Eyes dart. They speak, shouting orders, weapons raised.

  “Stop! Stop right there!”

  A man steps forward, shotgun in hand. Hyper-pellets glint in the sun. Six others — rifles, assault weapons — trained, ready. Two are female. Two almost his age, another sign that these are the young elite, humans conditioned to hunt.

  Alan’s mind races. He’s cornered. He’s weak. He’s fast, but how long before they adjust?

  He ducks, weaving between pillars. Bullets chew into concrete. Dust erupts. Windows shatter. Every instinct screams: run, survive, assimilate, adapt.

  He glances behind. They follow, methodical, strategic. Not infected, but humans. He is marked — both predator and prey.

  A flash of comprehension hits. The younger humans assumed his genetics are strong — a high likelihood of mediator potential, perhaps even royalty. That is why he is valuable. That is why they chase.

  He pivots through a narrow corridor. An opening above — another window. It’s risky. But the only option. He jumps. Impact. Pain sears. Momentum carries him.

  Another shot. Close. He rolls. Sunlight bathes him. They hesitate. They cannot risk the open sun, the unknown exposure. Alan tastes victory, fleeting, fragile.

  He moves, keeping low, weaving through alleys. The infected are silent now, confined to shadow. He notices more signs — the virus alters behavior subtly, learned from him, observing, tracking, coordinating.

  Alan’s body hums with assimilation. Each step fuels adaptation. Muscles tighten. Reflexes sharpen. He is no longer merely human — the phrase echoes in his mind. No, I am not human.

  Every sound, every shadow, every flicker of movement is a signal. The humans call, shout, coordinate, but sunlight shields him. He disappears into the city, a blur against the dawn.

  And somewhere behind, the witch watches, Aries at her side, eyes like knives cutting through the day. She whispers to the wind:

  “He is strong. Not fully one of us, but he is… more.”

  Alan doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t need to. Survival is all that matters. For now.