He couldn't.
His body stood rooted to the floor of the burning room, trembling uncontrollably, as if every muscle had locked itself in pure terror. His breath came out in short, broken gasps. Smoke stung his eyes and scraped down his throat, but he did not blink, did not cough, did not even lift a hand to wipe his tears.
He could only stare.
Aron—his father—lay sprawled on the charred wooden floor, flesh burned, torn, half-consumed, choking on his own blood as the flames danced around his dying body. His voice shook the room with a broken, wet rasp.
"A-ahh… Tor… r-run…"
The sound barely formed itself into words. It was a plea shaped by pain more than speech.
But Tor did not run.
He couldn't move.
His mind, usually so calm and observant, simply… stopped. Every thought shattered under the weight of the sight before him. His legs froze. His fingers twitched helplessly. Sweat beaded down his forehead and slid past his temple.
His body tightened, as if refusing to accept what his eyes were witnessing.
Then Jude—once Aron's friend, now a monstrous host for a parasite—slowly turned his head toward Tor.
The creature that had been Jude smiled.
Thick, yellowish ear-wax-like fluid dripped from his ears. His jaw stretched unnaturally, the skin around it tearing slightly as he tilted his head, observing Tor with a grotesque curiosity—like a beast watching a trembling animal cornered against a wall.
The parasite's wings, newly grown, flicked once in irritation—uneven, malformed things like fleshy blades sprouting from his back. One wing scraped against the ceiling, sending dust and plaster raining down.
Tor's breathing hitched.
Run.
The instinct finally broke through the paralysis.
His body jerked like a puppet suddenly pulled by invisible strings. He stumbled backward first—not a controlled step, but a frantic, unbalanced retreat. His heel slid against a spilled pot from the kitchen table, nearly sending him crashing to the floor.
Jude lunged forward.
Tor didn't think.
He turned and fled.
His feet pounded the wooden floor. His hands brushed against walls, corners, furniture—anything in his path—leaving sweaty, frantic smears across the surfaces. He didn't feel the sharp metal edge of a broken shelf slicing into his palm. Blood dripped down his wrist unnoticed.
He only ran.
Behind him, Jude crashed forward with terrifying speed—but with none of the coordination he once possessed as a human.
The parasite was still learning the body.
Still adjusting.
Still mutating.
The first crash came when Jude's shoulder slammed into the wall. The impact cracked the wooden panel, sending splinters flying. Jude screeched—a distorted, animalistic sound—as he pulled himself free.
The second crash came when Jude misjudged the width of the hallway and collided head-first with a stacked set of cardboard storage boxes. The boxes exploded into dust and debris.
But he did not stop.
Every time the creature stumbled, it regained its footing faster.
Every second it grew more stable.
More efficient.
More predatory.
Tor sprinted toward the back door—the only exit that wasn't blocked by fire. His heart hammered so violently it felt like it would burst through his ribs. His vision blurred with tears, smoke, and panic.
He could hear Jude's footsteps pounding the floorboards behind him—heavy, uneven, but rapidly becoming frighteningly coordinated.
Tor's bare feet nearly slipped as he turned the corner into the narrow hallway leading to the back door. His cut hand smeared blood along the wall as he used it to steady himself.
Just a little farther…
Just a few more steps…
He could see the metal latch of the back door. Hope—small, fragile, desperate—lit for half a second in his chest.
Then Jude appeared.
The creature slammed into view from the adjoining corridor, blocking the hallway for a split moment. Its distorted face twisted, jaw unhinging wider than any human jaw could. A green, acidic substance dripped from its lips and sizzled as it hit the floor.
Tor's stomach churned.
But before Jude could pounce—
The creature slipped.
The parasite's feet skidded across a puddle of spilled oil that had leaked from a cracked lantern earlier that night. Jude's legs shot outward from under him. His arm swung wildly, colliding with the electric panel on the wall.
With a sharp, sparking crack—
Three switches flipped on. Two switches flipped off.
The entire house flickered as circuits overloaded. Lights surged, then blacked out. A distant motor hummed to life somewhere beneath the floor.
Tor didn't know what it meant.
He didn't care.
He ran.
His toe caught on the corner of a wooden step, but momentum kept him going. He stumbled, regained his footing, and threw himself toward the back door with all the strength left in his trembling legs.
His hand reached for the latch.
He touched it—
A sudden metallic clang echoed under his feet.
Tor froze.
The floor below him shifted.
A vent panel slid open and collapsed downward beneath his weight without warning.
Tor's eyes widened as his balance vanished and gravity pulled him into the darkness below.
"NO—!"
He fell.
The cold metal walls of the emergency maintenance chute scraped against his arms and legs as he plunged downward. His nails scratched against the surface, trying to find something—anything—to hold onto. The walls were too smooth.
He slid uncontrollably.
Crying. Sweating. Screaming.
His voice echoed up the chute, swallowed by darkness.
Above him, just as his body dropped past the entrance, the metal vent snapped shut with a loud metallic slam.
He was gone from Jude's view.
The creature reached the back door a second later—his misshapen hand clawing at the floor where Tor had been standing—but the vent entrance was sealed again, blending seamlessly into the metal panel.
Jude screeched in frustration.
Tor continued sliding downward, spiraling through the cold, twisting passage, powerless to stop himself.
His tears mixed with sweat and blood on his cheek.
His chest tightened.
His breathing turned shallow and ragged.
Fear—raw, unfiltered, suffocating fear—filled every corner of his mind until thought itself seemed to disappear.
He didn't know where he was falling. He didn't know how deep the chute went. He didn't know if Jude would find another entrance.
All he knew was that his home was burning. His father was dead. And the world he thought he understood had collapsed in a single night.
The chute curved sharply.
Tor's shoulder slammed against metal, sending pain shooting through his arm. The impact stole a gasp from his throat.
He kept falling.
Downward.
Deeper.
Colder.
His screams gradually died into weak whimpers as exhaustion overtook panic. His body began to slow as the chute angled upward, friction finally fighting against speed.
His descent turned into a slide.
A long, trembling slide.
Until—
Thump.
He landed on a pile of old cloth and dust inside a small, pitch-black maintenance chamber beneath the house. The air tasted like metal and mildew.
Tor lay there on his back, chest heaving, soaked in sweat, tears streaking down his cheeks.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
He couldn't.
His hands shook violently. His cut stung with every pulse of his heartbeat. His throat ached from breathing too fast. His vision swam from shock.
His mind finally whispered the only thought it could form.
Dad…?
The silence that followed felt heavier than the entire world.
Tor curled into himself, trembling.
Not because he was weak.
But because anyone—even the strongest, even the bravest, even the coldest—would tremble after witnessing a nightmare like that.
His breathing quieted.
The dark chamber vibrated faintly, as if machinery deep beneath the camp was beginning to shift or activate. Faint echoes of alarms broke through the floor far above him, distant and muffled by layers of metal.
Some part of Tor understood:
The electrical switches Jude struck had activated emergency lockdown systems.
But Tor was too exhausted to process it.
He closed his eyes—not to sleep, but because he could not endure the darkness and the memories at the same time.
The world felt like it had swallowed him whole.
And somewhere above, beyond layers of steel and smoke, the night raged on with fire, blood, and the broken cries of a settlement now under attack.
Tor was alone.
Alive.
Terrified.
And unknowingly slipping into the first moment of the fate that would shape the rest of his life.
---
The flames roared through the remains of the house like a living beast, devouring wood, cloth, and flesh without mercy. Smoke bled through every crack, rising into the dark sky as the settlement burned.
Jude stood amid the wreckage—no longer the man who had laughed with Aron earlier that day. His body twitched with parasitic instability. Thick, yellow wax-like fluid dripped continuously from his ears, sticking to his shoulders, tracing sticky, unnatural lines down his neck. Every drop hit the floor with a faint, sickening pat.
His wings flexed—still uneven, still mutating, scraping sparks from the scorched wooden beams above. The creature tilted its head, as if listening to sounds only parasites could hear.
Then the air shifted.
A presence emerged from between the burning houses.
A second figure stepped into the flickering light—taller, broader, and far more monstrous. His shadow stretched across the flames like a blade.
His hair was black, long, and unkempt. His eyes were pitch black with a small inner gleam of deep crimson. Every muscle in his body seemed carved from stone. His arms were disproportionately long, ending in massive hands tipped with sharp, obsidian claws that gleamed even in the smoke.
From the back of his neck oozed a slow, creeping substance—red and black mixed together like corrupted blood. It dripped down his spine, steaming where it touched his skin. Unlike Jude, he did not twitch or stumble.
He was controlled. Stable. Evolved.
He stopped a few steps away from Jude, his expression unreadable.
"Norcromis," he said quietly. His voice was deep, steady—terrifyingly calm. "Let's go. It's time to raid the next Cracik."
Jude's head snapped toward him. The parasite moved inside him, tightening the expression on his face. His eyes, now almost animalistic, locked on the newcomer.
A pulse of defiance flashed through Jude's alien gaze.
"A boy… escaped," Jude replied, voice cold and eerily emotionless. "He fell into a hidden chamber under the house."
The taller parasite—Norcromis—turned slowly to face him. His eyes narrowed the slightest bit, not in anger, but calculation.
"We don't have time," he said. "Human forces will respond soon. And we have orders. Three Cracik raids today. No delays."
Jude's wings twitched in irritation, scraping the air.
He took a step forward, cutting off the other's reasoning.
"What about the others?" Jude demanded. "The rest of the pack? The ones spread throughout the settlement?"
Norcromis didn't blink.
"They're gone," he said simply. "Every parasite host. Every transformation. Every soldier." His voice did not waver, as if speaking about the dead held no meaning at all. "The entire settlement is finished."
The fire crackled loudly between them, but neither flinched.
Jude looked around the burning ruins—the houses collapsing, the bodies scattered, the sky blackened with smoke. His expression didn't change. But something in the parasite controlling him tightened. Strengthened. Hardened.
So much death.
So much fuel.
"So… all of them," Jude said, almost whispering. "Our whole unit."
"Yes," Norcromis answered. "They served their purpose."
The statement fell with a cold finality.
Jude turned his head slightly as if acknowledging it. Then the creature lifted his chin and exhaled slowly, the wax-like fluid running down faster now. He had no sorrow. No guilt. Parasites did not mourn their own.
Norcromis turned his back to the burning settlement, gazing toward the distant mountains where another Cracik camp lay hidden behind steel walls.
"Move," he said. "We cannot let the night pass without completing the raids."
Jude stretched his malformed wings once, casting a distorted shadow across the flames.
He followed.
Together, the two parasites walked through the burning streets, stepping over bodies without looking down. The fire illuminated their silhouettes—one tall and muscular, the other twitching and unstable, both evolving with each heartbeat.
As they reached the outer gate, Norcromis paused.
He glanced once at the ruined settlement behind them.
"Three Craciks," he murmured. "Tonight… humanity loses another piece."
Then he and Jude disappeared into the darkness—toward their next target.
Toward another slaughter.
Toward the destruction of everything Tor once knew.
---
The fall through the vent had been only a few seconds long, yet Tor felt as though he had plunged through an endless void. When he hit the ground, he barely felt the impact—his body was too overwhelmed, his mind too fractured to register pain.
The chamber around him was dark and cold.
A thin beam of moonlight slipped through the cracks of the metal grate above, revealing a cramped underground room filled with dust and forgotten remnants of human life. Tor slowly pushed himself upright, his breath shaky, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
The smell of rust and damp cloth hovered in the air.
He blinked hard, trying to focus.
Around him were piles of old, dirty clothes—some half-rotted, others rolled into lumpy bundles. Canned food scattered across the floor, dented and covered in grime. Broken furniture leaned against the stone walls. Shelves sagged beneath stacks of faded research papers, their edges curled and yellowed with time.
Chemicals in old glass vials sat on a metal table, most of them cracked or tipped over. Dried stains—red, brown, green—spread across the tabletop like the ghosts of experiments long abandoned.
It looked like a storage room. Or a forgotten research bunker.
But Tor could not truly see any of it.
His eyes were unfocused. His vision trembled. His mind was not in the room—it was trapped in the memory burned into him like a brand.
His father's body.
The flames.
Jude's monstrous face turning toward him.
He felt a sudden rush of nausea. His breath hitched. The world around him blurred. His entire body tightened as if bracing against an invisible blow. A drop of sweat slid down his forehead, cold and heavy.
He sat down slowly, his back pressing against the rough wall. Dust rose around him in a soft cloud.
His heart pounded, each beat sharp and echoing in the hollow chamber.
His hands clenched and unclenched without control—his fingers shaking violently.
He tried to breathe, but his chest felt locked.
He tried to think, but every thought was swallowed by the image of his father's ruined face.
Aron's voice, once warm and strong, replayed in fragments in his mind.
"Tor, dinner's ready."
"You're safe here."
"We're doing this for humanity."
He squeezed his eyes shut.
But the memories refused to stop.
He saw his father laughing while teaching him how to hold a fishing rod.
He saw the two of them hiking in the mountains, sunlight shining through the snow-laden trees.
He saw Aron lifting him onto his shoulders during the winter festival two years ago.
He saw his father's tired smile whenever he returned from research—always hiding the exhaustion, always strong for Tor.
And then he saw—
What remained of him.
Tor's breath broke.
His throat tightened as if something was wrapped around it. He pressed both hands over his mouth, trying to stop the trembling. But his entire body was shivering uncontrollably.
He lay down on the cold floor, curling slightly as if trying to protect himself from a blow that had already struck. The dust clung to his clothes, but he didn't care.
His eyes were wide open—dry, blank, expressionless.
Yet tears streamed silently down the sides of his face.
"Dad…" he whispered.
His voice cracked, thin and fragile like a thread on the verge of snapping.
He swallowed hard.
"Dad… what am I supposed to do now?" His whisper trembled, barely audible. "You told me… I'd be safe here. You told me… this place was safe."
Another tear fell, tracing the line of his jaw.
He stared at nothing—at the darkness above him.
"What should I do now… without you?" he whispered again, his voice smaller than ever. "I… can't do anything on my own."
Another tear.
Another.
His face remained eerily calm—expressionless, frozen, blank. But his tears kept falling, one after another, soaking the dusty floor beneath his head.
"I'm sorry…" His voice broke. "I'm sorry for being a useless son."
His shoulders trembled. His breath hitched again. His fingers curled weakly toward his chest.
"I couldn't help you. I couldn't… do anything. I just… ran."
The words fractured into silence.
The chamber felt colder now, as if the darkness itself absorbed his pain without offering anything in return.
Tor did not sob. He did not scream. He did not move.
He simply lay there, tears leaking from empty eyes, his mind drifting between memory and numbness.
How long he stayed like that, he didn't know.
Minutes.
An hour.
Longer.
Eventually, exhaustion pressed down on him. His eyelids grew heavy, his breathing slowing. His heart still hurt—sharp and raw—but his body could not endure more.
He whispered one last time, barely shaping the word.
"Dad…"
Then, surrounded by dust, decay, and the faint cold light of a dying settlement above him…
Tor drifted into a fragile, haunted sleep—face blank, tears still clinging to his skin, swallowed by a darkness deeper than the room itself.