The following morning, the Roman Foundation's underground lab sat in a tense hush. Only the low hum of filtration vents and the soft rhythm of cooling fans disturbed the sterile air. Every surface gleamed with obsessive order, every console blinked in silent obedience to the machines that filled the room.
Then came the click of polished shoes.
Chief Damian Roman descended the steel staircase slowly, his reflection slicing through the layers of reinforced glass. The moment he entered, every technician and researcher turned, posture stiffening like soldiers before a commander.
Roman's eyes — sharp, cold, hungry — drifted to the containment chamber at the room's center. The armour stood upright inside, lit from beneath by a pale blue glow. Overnight, something about it had changed. The once-broken surface seemed almost to breathe, a faint shimmer moving beneath the bronze like a pulse under skin.
But it wasn't the body that froze him. It was the headpiece.
"Who authorized its attachment?" he asked quietly, his tone deceptively calm.
No one answered. Silence flooded the room.
Finally, Dr. Evans, the senior technician, cleared his throat. "Sir… it wasn't us. The headpiece was still sealed in its separate crate when we left last night."
Roman turned his full attention on him. "Then explain why it's now attached."
Evans swallowed, his hands trembling as he tapped commands onto a touchscreen. The central monitor flickered to life, showing grainy security footage from 2:14 a.m. The lab was dark, empty save for the armour on its pedestal. The crate containing the headpiece rested nearby.
Then — a flicker.
For two seconds, the feed went to static. When it returned, the crate was open, and the headpiece was gone.
The next frame showed it already fixed atop the armour's torso — seamless, perfect, as if it had grown there.
Roman's voice came out low, controlled. "Rewind. Frame by frame."
The footage slowed. This time, faint blurs appeared — waves of heat or light moving through the room like breath. The sensors twitched violently, unable to focus. And then, for a single frame, something humanoid flashed across the image — molten, bronze, like light bending into form.
The headpiece turned, as though guided by invisible hands, and locked into place.
The room was silent when the playback ended.
Roman's expression didn't change, but his pulse thudded hard against his throat. "You're certain no one was present?"
Evans nodded shakily. "We verified with the entry logs. No movement until the morning shift. But there's something else, sir."
He pulled up a second video — infrared. The armour glowed white-hot in its chest, as expected. But now a second heat source pulsed inside the headpiece.
Roman leaned in. "That shouldn't be possible."
"No, sir. The chamber's vacuum-sealed. No biological material can survive inside. Whatever that heat signature is… it's coming from the metal itself."
Roman stepped closer to the containment glass. His reflection merged with the shape inside — the hollow eyes of the headpiece staring back at him. "So it lives," he murmured.
Dr. Evans hesitated. "Sir?"
Roman ignored him. "You said there were markings."
Evans gestured nervously. "Yes, sir. Along the interior glass."
Roman moved forward. From a distance, the glass seemed flawless. But up close, under the sterile light, he saw them — faint bronze smears, like fingerprints pressed from within. They formed a spiral pattern across the inner surface, ending near the headpiece's face.
He pressed his hand against the glass. It was ice-cold.
For a moment, he saw only his reflection — his tailored suit, silver hair, and eyes hardened by decades of conquest. But then, as he stared deeper, the reflection shifted.
His own face stared back, but the eyes were burning bronze, and the mouth curved into a smile he didn't make.
Roman froze. The image blinked once — and the illusion vanished.
He drew back sharply, his composure cracking for only a breath. Then he straightened, smoothing his coat. "Thermal readings?"
"Still fluctuating, sir," Evans replied. "We're detecting low-frequency pulses coming from the gem — matching your last interaction signature."
Roman arched a brow. "Mine?"
"Yes, sir. The armour appears to have—" Evans hesitated "—recognized you. Its response pattern changed the moment you re-entered the lab."
Roman's lips twitched into a faint, knowing smile. "Good. That means it remembers."
He turned to the rest of the team. "Increase resonance calibration by fifteen percent. I want to see if it responds to voice again."
Evans paled. "Sir, that could destabilize containment—"
Roman's gaze cut him short. "I didn't ask for your permission, Doctor. Proceed."
The technicians moved with trembling urgency, adjusting dials and sequence codes. The chamber lights dimmed to a low amber glow. A bass hum filled the air — the same tonal frequency Roman had used the night before.
The inscriptions on the armour began to shimmer faintly. The headpiece tilted just slightly, the hollow eyes flickering with dull light.
Roman's voice was calm but commanding. "Do you hear me, ancient one?"
The hum deepened. The speakers crackled. Then, faint and metallic, a whisper filled the room — like wind over stone.
"Roman..."
The sound was unmistakable. The researchers froze, horror etched across their faces.
Roman exhaled slowly, triumph curling at the edge of his lips. "Yes. I am here."
The lights flickered violently, shadows twisting along the walls. The voice came again, louder this time, threaded with echoes.
"Bearer of hunger... vessel of the hollow..."
The hum spiked, rattling the glass. Sparks leapt from the control panels as alarms screamed across the lab. Evans shouted, "We're breaching safe thresholds! Shutting it down!"
"Leave it!" Roman barked. "It's speaking to us!"
The voice twisted, warping through layers of static:
"The vessel devours the host... and the host feeds the flame."
A sharp crack split the air. The containment glass vibrated violently — and Roman's hand, still pressed to the control panel, pulsed with pain. He glanced down. A bronze shimmer crept along the veins beneath his skin.
He smiled through clenched teeth. "So... it chooses me."
Evans lunged forward, slamming the emergency cutoff. The hum collapsed into silence. The lights steadied. Everyone froze.
The armour was motionless again, the headpiece dark.
Roman stood still, breathing hard. Then he turned, eyes gleaming with quiet madness. "Seal the chamber. Triple the field strength. No one enters without my authorization."
He walked toward the exit. At the doorway, he paused, looking back one last time.
The armour was still, lifeless. But the faintest reflection rippled through the glass — the headpiece turning ever so slightly to follow him.
Roman smiled. "Soon," he whispered.
As the doors sealed shut behind him, the cameras continued to record. In the silent lab, the armour's eyes flickered once, faint amber returning. The bronze handprints on the glass began to shift — dragging slowly, like something waking inside.
And somewhere deep within the chestplate, the gem pulsed once more — a heartbeat syncing perfectly with Roman's own.