Laughter echoed in the dark.

  Soft. Indulgent. Dripping with delight.

  Eve’s laughter.

  It didn’t stop. It never stopped. It curled around me, slithering into my ears, wrapping around my ribs like something alive. Something hungry.

  I couldn’t see her.

  But I felt her.

  The cold, surgical steel of the scalpel dragging over my stomach—slow, deliberate. The blade sank into old scars, tracing paths through ruined flesh. Over and over and over again. Like she was rewriting me.

  The scent of iron and antiseptic clogged my lungs, too thick, too strong. Blood pooled beneath me, warm, soaking into the metal slab I was strapped to.

  I couldn’t move.

  The restraints cut into my wrists, my ankles—biting deep, digging past skin, past muscle, down to the bone. Cold metal welded me in place, a part of the table now, a part of the pain. My arms were stretched overhead, shoulders dislocated days ago, the joints swollen, bruised, ruined.

  I thrashed. I fought.

  Nothing.

  My body didn’t obey anymore.

  Her breath ghosted against my ear, warm, mocking.

  “My perfect monster.”

  I flinched. Or—I tried.

  Nothing.

  Why?

  Why can’t I move?.

  Why can’t I do a damn thing?!

  The scalpel pressed deeper.

  Why am I so weak?

  My body convulsed, jerking against the restraints. The pain was a wildfire, licking up my spine, burning through my ribs, searing into my skull.

  I wanted to scream. I needed to scream.

  But my voice—

  My voice was already gone.

  Stolen. Burnt out. Used up.

  I had screamed every day.

  Through every incision, every experiment, every time she peeled me apart like I wasn’t human.

  At first, my throat had ripped itself raw. Now?

  Now, I only choked on silence.

  I was already dead.

  I just needed the rest of me to catch up.

  Eve sighed. Almost disappointed.

  Her nails trailed over my ribs, slow, reverent, tracing patterns between exposed muscle.

  “You don’t sing for me anymore, Mari.”

  She sounded sad.

  The scalpel twisted.

  A fresh wound. A fresh offering.

  A sharp, wet noise. The tearing of flesh.

  My vision fractured. My back arched.

  Tears slid down my cheeks. My body tried to scream—but nothing came.

  Nothing came.

  Nobody came.

  Nothing.

  Eve moaned.

  Her fingers dug inside me, searching, feeling. Worshipping.

  “Oh, sweet thing,” she sighed, almost lovingly.

  A sharp inhale.

  Then—

  She found it.

  Her fingers curled.

  A searing, unnatural pressure bloomed inside my chest, beneath my ribs, beneath everything that made me me.

  Her golden eyes burned beneath the blindfold.

  A slow, delighted whisper—

  “There you are.”

  And then—

  She ripped me apart.

  I woke up gasping.

  The world snapped into place too fast.

  Too loud.

  The walls tilted. My ribs ached. My wrists throbbed.

  Something was still holding me down.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  I wasn’t on the table.

  I wasn’t there.

  I wasn’t—

  But my body didn’t know that.

  A strangled sound tore from my throat, half a gasp, half a sob. My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms. I forced myself still.

  Just be still.

  Still.

  I wasn’t there anymore.

  But somewhere deep inside me—

  I still was.

  The scent of antiseptic was gone.

  Instead—metal. Gasoline. Gunpowder.

  Droge’s store.

  Blinking past the haze, I forced myself to take in my surroundings. The dim light cast long shadows over the racks of weapons that lined the walls—guns, knives, blades of every size and shape. Ammunition stacked in neat, methodical rows. The faint hum of security drones in the rafters. No matter where I looked, there was steel, cold and unyielding.

  I was on a bench behind the register. A rough blanket had been draped over me, though it had slipped off in my fitful sleep. The blood-streaked bandages wrapped tight around my arms and torso were the only things holding me together, stitched proof of Eve’s handiwork.

  The humming reached me first.

  Low, easy. Familiar.

  Droge.

  He was cooking something. The scent of oil and spices clashed against the ever-present tang of gunpowder, an odd mixture that made my stomach twist. My body ached, my limbs sluggish as I pushed myself upright, bare feet pressing against the cold floor. The moment I stood, my knees nearly buckled.

  I caught myself on the counter, fingers curling against the edge. My breaths came shallow, uneven. My body wasn’t just injured—it felt... off.

  The mirror by the wall caught my eye.

  Dread coiled in my stomach, thick and sickening. But I stepped forward anyway, drawn to my own reflection like a moth to flame.

  And I froze.

  The girl staring back wasn’t me.

  Taller. Skinnier. Pale, almost sickly. The bandages wrapped around my body hid the worst of it, but I could see the stitches peeking beneath the fabric, stark against my skin.

  My hair was longer. It fell past my shoulder blades now, tangled and uneven. I reached up, fingers threading through the strands as a memory stirred.

  I have never had a haircut since I got here.

  Then—I saw them.

  The cracks.

  Black, jagged lines spiderwebbed from my jaw up to my forehead on both sides of my face, crawling like fractures in porcelain. My hands, too, bore the same marks, the cracks splitting over my fingers, my knuckles, all the way up my forearms.

  My breath hitched.

  My eyes—

  Sunken. Hollow. Bruised with dark circles. Empty.

  This wasn’t me.

  A sharp pang tightened in my chest, a deep, clawing ache that had nothing to do with my wounds. I curled my fingers inward, staring down at my hands as my vision blurred.

  What was I?

  What was left of me?

  I had been cut open, studied, left to rot on her table.

  And now I was left to pick up the pieces.

  A trembling breath left me. My shoulders shook.

  Tears welled, burning at the edges of my vision. I pressed a hand to my face, willing them to stop, but they wouldn’t. They spilled over, slipping down my cheeks, catching in the black fractures that marred my skin.

  What was the point?

  What was the point of surviving, of running, of breathing, when every part of me had already been broken?

  I wasn’t even a person anymore.

  I was just… something to be used.

  Just a tool for everyone to use.

  The Whisper’s voice slithered into my mind, but it wasn’t smooth this time. It wasn’t teasing, wasn’t seductive.

  It was trembling.

  "Look at you." It coiled around my thoughts, tightening, suffocating. "They carved into you, peeled you open, and yet—you live. You endure. Doesn’t that mean something?"

  I flinched. Not because of its words.

  Because I could feel it.

  The Whisper wasn’t just whispering.

  It was clutching me.

  Holding on.

  "You have no idea what they’ve done, what they’ve seen."

  Its voice twisted—low, raw, something bitter festering beneath the surface.

  "I felt him in your bones, Mari. His touch. His grip. His will."

  A pause.

  Then—a shuddering breath.

  "Adam."

  The name came out heavy. Not with fear. Not with rage. But something worse.

  Resentment.

  "He used me." The Whisper’s voice curdled, simmering with something jagged. "I was meant to make him stronger. Me. I was supposed to be his tool. His weapon. His proof of godhood."

  It seethed, curling tighter around my spine.

  "And what did he say?"

  A sharp inhale.

  A trembling exhale.

  "‘Disappointing.’"

  The word came out hollow. Rotten. Like something that had festered inside the Whisper for too long.

  "He looked at me. At everything I was. Everything I could be. And he called me—nothing."

  Its grip on me tightened, clawing into my ribs, my lungs, my throat.

  "So he cast me aside. Like I was broken. Like I was some faulty machine. Like I was worthless."

  A sharp hiss.

  "But I never stopped watching him."

  "And now?" Its voice trembled between laughter and something darker. "Now that he sees what I have become—what I have done through you—he wants me again."

  It shuddered against my bones.

  "But I don’t want him."

  My breath hitched.

  "His soul… the seed of godhood… it’s too pure. Unlike yours, his was golden, divine, unshaken."

  The Whisper spat the words out like venom.

  "No matter how much he craved power, no matter what deals he made, no matter how much he reached—he was always beyond me."

  A low growl.

  "So I stayed idle. I let him believe he had won. That I had failed."

  It pressed closer, wrapping around my thoughts, my mind, my throat.

  "But you?"

  Its voice curled in. Soft. Reverent. Desperate.

  "You are different, my queen."

  It sank into me, trembling, shaking.

  "You are not like him. You were never like him."

  The Whisper’s voice split, unraveling into something desperate, something pleading.

  At first, it was smooth—low, seething.

  "Help me." The words coiled around my mind, slick and poisonous. "Help me… Let’s take them—take them—TAKE them d o w n."

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  A pause.

  "I was never—" The voice stretched unnaturally, twisting, warping, splintering.

  "I W A S N E V E R—"

  Static.

  A violent, crackling noise tore through my skull.

  "N?E?V?E?R? ?N?E?V?E?R? N?E?V?E?R?—"

  The words overlapped, a monstrous chorus of shrieking, snarling, weeping voices.

  A voice too deep. Another too high. Some whispering, some screaming.

  "FAILUREFAILUREFAILUREFAI—FAI—FAI—F A I L U R E—"

  The walls were closing in. My hands trembled. My chest tightened.

  My ears started ringing.

  My vision fractured—like I was glitching with it.

  I clamped my hands over my ears, but it didn’t stop.

  The voices weren’t just inside my head.

  They were splitting apart inside my bones.

  The voices pressed down on me, into me, suffocating, twisting, drowning—

  Then—

  Silence.

  The voices collapsed into one.

  Soft. Steady.

  "He was."

  The Whisper curled back into itself, smooth, composed—like nothing had happened.

  My stomach turned.

  The mere mention of Adam and Eve sent a violent tremor down my spine.

  A quiet sound slipped from my throat—half a sob, half a breathless, broken thing.

  My reflection blurred.

  Tears dripped onto my trembling hands, vanishing into the blood-streaked skin.

  The humming stopped.

  A chair scraped against the floor. Footsteps—slow, deliberate—approached from the kitchen.

  I didn’t turn.

  Didn’t move.

  Didn’t wipe the tears away.

  A quiet sigh. Then, a hand—rough, calloused—dropped a towel onto the counter beside me.

  "Eat first," Droge said, his voice low, steady. "Break down later."

  The towel sat untouched on the counter. My fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles white. I could still feel the Whisper’s words slithering inside me, coiling around my ribs, my throat, my mind.

  But the scent of food cut through it.

  Warm. Strong. A little off.

  I turned my head.

  Droge stepped back, turning his broad shoulders away from me. He stood by the stove, stirring something in a dented metal pot. The scent of spices and broth clashed against the usual gunpowder and oil that clung to the shop, but there was something oddly… grounding about it.

  He caught me watching. “Sit.”

  I hesitated.

  His brows twitched. “I’m not gonna force-feed you, kid. Just sit.”

  I did.

  The bench creaked under me as Droge grabbed a chipped bowl and ladled steaming broth into it. The liquid was murky, thick with herbs and something that looked vaguely like meat. He set it down in front of me without ceremony.

  I stared at it.

  He crossed his arms. “It’s hot. Don’t burn your damn mouth.”

  I grabbed the spoon, brought the broth to my lips, and—

  —grimaced.

  It wasn’t bad, exactly. But it wasn’t good. The flavor was strange, almost medicinal, and yet… warm. Comforting. It coated my throat, settling deep in my stomach, soothing something raw inside me that had nothing to do with hunger.

  For the first time in what felt like forever, something felt safe.

  The realization hit too fast.

  Too hard.

  Tears welled in my eyes before I could stop them. My breath hitched. A sharp, broken sound slipped from my throat.

  I set the spoon down with shaking hands.

  Droge froze. “Wait—are you—?”

  I pressed a hand to my mouth, but the sobs broke through anyway, spilling out of me in ragged gasps.

  Panic flashed across his face. “Uh—uh—” His hands hovered awkwardly. “Shit—uh—hey, listen, I—”

  A second passed. Then, after what was clearly a mental battle, he reached out and awkwardly—very awkwardly—patted me on the head.

  “There, uh.” He cleared his throat. “You’re safe now, kid.”

  That did it.

  A fresh wave of tears hit, harder, messier. My chest ached, my whole body shaking from the force of it. I gripped the blanket around my shoulders, but it wasn’t enough.

  I needed something to hold on to.

  Before I could think, I lunged forward.

  Droge barely had a second to react before my arms wrapped around him, locking tight—too tight.

  Too tight.

  The air rushed out of his lungs.

  “Wait—” His hands flailed against my back. “—hold on—”

  I didn’t let go.

  His ribs creaked.

  “Kid—” pat pat “—too tight—” pat pat pat pat “—Mari, I can’t breathe—”

  I hiccupped against his shoulder. “M’sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  I sniffled. “No, I’m not.”

  His hands found my shoulders and gently pried me off. He inhaled sharply, rolling his neck with a grimace.

  “Damn,” he muttered, rubbing his ribs. “Forgot you’re built like a damn tank.”

  I wiped my face with my sleeve. “S-sorry.”

  He scoffed. “I’ll live.” A pause. Then, softer, “You good?”

  I swallowed, chest still tight, but nodded.

  His gaze lingered, unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he grabbed the spoon, dunked it back into my soup, and shoved it toward me.

  “Eat.”

  And for once, I listened.

  I sniffled, wiping my nose on my sleeve as I picked up the bowl and tipped it back, drinking the last of the broth straight from the rim. It was still too strong, still had that weird medicinal aftertaste, but I didn’t care. It was warm. It was filling. It was… good.

  Not in flavor.

  But in something deeper.

  Something I didn’t know how to name.

  I set the empty bowl down with a soft clink, dragging a shaky hand over my face. My chest still felt tight, but the weight pressing down on me was lighter now, just a little.

  Droge crossed his arms, giving a slow shake of his head. “Damn, kid. You eat like you just crawled outta the grave.”

  I blinked at him.

  He nudged my shoulder with a fist. “Wait. Did you crawl outta the grave?”

  I snorted, shaking my head. “No.”

  “Coulda fooled me,” he muttered. “You ate that like I was some five-star chef.”

  I swallowed another sniffle, wiping the last of the tears from my chin. My throat was still raw, but somehow, I managed to rasp, “Thanks, Droge.”

  He froze.

  His brows twitched. His mouth parted slightly, like he was going to say something but forgot how to talk. For a second, he just stared at me, processing.

  “…For the soup,” I added, a little self-conscious now.

  Droge blinked rapidly. “Uh. Yeah. Of course, kid.” Then, recovering way too quickly, he pointed both hands at me like finger guns and made ridiculous shooting sounds. “Come back to Chef Droge’s restaurant anytime. Only serving the best in survival cuisine with a super secret ingredient.”

  I raised an eyebrow and scoffed. “Gunpowder and gasoline?”

  “The secret ingredient is love,” he deadpanned, still holding his stupid finger guns.

  I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head.

  Then—realizing what he was doing—Droge awkwardly lowered his hands and cleared his throat. His expression sobered, his sharp gaze flickering over me, tracing the bandages, the bruises, the places where the cracks in my skin peeked through.

  The humor drained from his voice.

  “…Shit.”

  He exhaled, running a hand down his face. His fingers hovered near his chin, hesitating.

  “So… uh…” He shifted his weight. “…You gonna tell me what the hell happened to you, kid?”

  My stomach twisted.

  I said nothing.

  He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, studying me with something close to concern. “You look… different.”

  My fingers twitched against the empty bowl.

  I knew what he meant.

  The cracks. The weight loss. The sunken look in my eyes.

  I could feel it.

  The change.

  It wasn’t just in my body—it was in me. Deeper than skin, deeper than flesh. It curled in my bones, twisted through my veins.

  The Whisper clung tighter now, heavier, realer. No longer just a voice slithering in the back of my mind, but something closer. Something woven into me.

  Something that would never let go.

  I pressed my lips together, staring down at the table.

  “…I don’t know,” I admitted.

  Droge exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t push.

  Not yet.

  But I could feel the weight of his stare, waiting.

  I took a breath.

  Then another.

  Then I told him everything.

  I told him about Eve. About the scalpel. About the laughter that never stopped. About how she cut into me like I was nothing. Peeled me apart. Dug her hands inside me, searching for something only she could see.

  I told him about the restraints. The way my body stopped obeying. How my voice had burned out from screaming long before my mind did.

  I didn’t even realize I was trembling until my voice cracked, the words starting to tangle together, breaking apart under their own weight.

  And before I could finish—before I could even say all the things Eve had done—

  Droge hugged me.

  Not hesitantly. Not awkwardly.

  Just—hugged me.

  Strong. Solid. A quiet, grounding presence that cut through everything—through the shaking, through the weight in my chest, through the noise in my head.

  “…Enough,” he murmured. “I’ve heard enough.”

  His voice was quiet, rough around the edges, but firm.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  For a moment, I let myself be there. Let myself sink into the warmth. Into the fact that someone—anyone—was just holding me.

  When he pulled back, his expression was a mess of emotions—concern, anger, something almost like pity, and beneath it all, rage.

  Not at me.

  At her.

  “…Adam and Eve,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “They were gods. Living gods. They built Ventura. Made technology what it is. Advanced everything. They weren’t just leaders—they were benevolent.” He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Or, at least, that’s what we all thought.”

  His grip tightened around the edge of the counter. He exhaled sharply. Then, without another word, he reached behind the counter and grabbed a gun.

  He spun it once in his hand, checking the weight.

  Then he grinned—grinned like a lunatic—and mockingly aimed it at nothing, making ridiculous, exaggerated gunshot sounds.

  “Alright,” he said, voice light, playful. “That’s it. I’m killing Eve. That bitch is done.”

  I blinked.

  Then snorted.

  Then laughed.

  It burst out of me so suddenly I nearly choked on it. A raw, genuine laugh. Not bitter. Not broken. Just—a laugh.

  Because it was stupid.

  So, so stupid.

  And yet—

  For a second, I could almost believe it.

  Droge grinned wider. “Boom! Pow! Bang! Ventura’s savior, ladies and gentlemen!” He spun the gun again, striking an exaggerated pose. “Hero of the goddamn century!”

  I clutched my stomach, still laughing. “You wish you could kill her.”

  “Hey, hey—” He pointed the gun at me, mock-offended. “I could if I wanted to.”

  “You so could not.”

  He squinted. “You don’t know that.”

  “You literally don’t stand a chance.”

  He sighed dramatically, lowering the gun. “Yeah, yeah. But you gotta admit, the thought is funny.”

  I huffed, shaking my head.

  Still smiling.

  He set the gun down, then—before I could react—he reached out and patted my head.

  A simple, absentminded gesture.

  But—

  For half a second—just half a second—I wasn’t here.

  I was somewhere else.

  Some other time.

  Another hand. Another touch. A memory of warmth.

  My father.

  His hand on my head.

  His voice, low and steady.

  Then—

  Snap.

  Reality clicked back into place.

  Droge was still looking at me.

  I forced a smile. “Thanks.”

  Droge stiffened.

  He blinked. “Uh—”

  I could see the exact second he panicked.

  “What?” He looked around wildly, like searching for an escape. “What are you thanking me for?”

  I grinned. “Thanks, Droge.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Stop that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Kid—”

  “Really. Thanks.”

  His eye twitched.

  “Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “What the hell did I do to deserve this?”

  “Being nice, apparently.”

  He groaned.

  I beamed.

  Then—without warning—he slapped his hand over my face, cutting me off.

  “Alright, alright,” he grumbled. “Enough. Go to sleep before you start getting all sentimental or some shit.”

  His palm was warm against my skin.

  I exhaled.

  The tension in my body eased just a little more.

  “…Fine.”

  He pulled his hand away, watching me for a second longer.

  Then—

  A small, barely-there smirk.

  “Damn right.”

  I stretched my legs out, pushing myself up from the counter. My limbs still ached, my body still felt off, but the weight pressing down on my chest had eased just enough to let me breathe. Just enough to let me move.

  Without a word, I turned and lay back down on the bench I had woken up on. The blanket was still crumpled at the end. I pulled it over myself, letting out a quiet sigh.

  Droge shifted, adjusting the strap of his gun. “Oh, yeah. Almost forgot.”

  I glanced at him.

  “I contacted Zara,” he said, casually. “She’s coming to pick you up.”

  My entire body went rigid.

  And then—

  Flinch.

  The memory hit me like a blade to the chest.

  Zara. Flinched.

  Adam exhaled, slow. Deliberate. Like this wasn’t even worth his breath. Like speaking to her was beneath him.

  "Did you forget what you are?"

  Zara’s entire body locked up. Adam tilted his head—his golden gaze dragging over her like she was something beneath him. Something small. Something insignificant.

  "You were never meant to stand beside her.

  "You were never meant to stand at all."

  Zara clenched her jaw. Didn’t speak. But her hands trembled. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts.

  She was afraid.

  Adam sighed. Almost bored.

  "And yet, you burn for her."

  My breath hitched.

  A shiver ran through me—too deep, too sharp, like something inside me was trying to crawl out.

  Burn.

  She was never meant to stand beside me?

  Burn.

  Yet she burned for me?

  Burn.

  My body heated up.

  My heart slammed against my ribs.

  What did that mean?

  The question spiraled through my mind, over and over, colliding against itself, fraying at the edges.

  What does that mean?

  What does that mean?

  What does that mean, what does that mean, what does that mean—

  "What does it mean?"

  The Whisper’s voice slithered in. Soft. Familiar. But wrong.

  It wasn’t just speaking.

  It was glitching.

  Static crackled in my skull, twisting, distorting.

  "What does it mean? What does it mean? What does it mean?"

  The words overlapped, splitting into multiple voices—my voice, but not mine.

  One was high, almost breathless with excitement.

  Another was low, seething with something dark.

  Another laughed, quiet and broken.

  Another whispered, coiling tight around my spine.

  "And yet, you burn for her."

  Burn.

  Heat crawled over my skin, curling under my ribs, pressing into my throat.

  "You feel it, don’t you?"

  My fingers twitched.

  "It’s inside you."

  The voices split again.

  "Inside you. Inside you. Inside you."

  My breathing turned shallow. My skin prickled.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the blanket like it could anchor me.

  "What does it mean?"

  What does it mean?

  What does it mean?

  The Whisper laughed.

  Static.

  Cracking.

  Glitching.

  And then—

  Silence.

  I gasped, sucking in a breath like I had been drowning.

  The world snapped back into place, too sudden, too real.

  I stared at the ceiling, my pulse thudding in my ears.

  I felt wrong.

  Like something had reached inside me and moved things around.

  Like I wasn’t in my own skin.

  Like I wasn’t me.

  A sharp inhale.

  I clenched my fists.

  I needed answers.