The screaming had finally stopped.
It didn't fade out. It didn't drift into a whimper. It simply snapped, like a thread pulled too tight, leaving a silence so heavy it felt like it was pressing against my eardrums.
The house didn't just go quiet; it seemed to hold its breath, listening for the sound of my lungs finally giving out.
I lay curled inside a storage closet beneath the staircase, knees pulled tight to my chest. My shirt was a cold, damp second skin against my back. Every breath rattled in my chest like gravel in a tin can. Every cough came up wet, metallic, and hot. I spat into my sleeve, the fabric soaking up a stain that looked black in the dim light.
Two weeks.
That was how long the fever had been eating me from the inside out. By any sane measure, I should have been a corpse rotting in the hallway. Most people were. The world outside had gone silent days ago, the neighborhood turning into a graveyard of locked doors and stale air.
But I was still here.
Not because I was strong. Not because I was some chosen hero of a prophecy. I was still here because something inside me was too stubborn—or too broken—to stop. It wasn't a noble survival instinct. It was just a raw, starving impulse that didn't know how to lie down.
"Elara."
My sister's name felt like a piece of dry glass in my mouth.
Seventeen. Shaking with the same heat. I remembered dragging her into this cramped space when the screaming started. I remembered pushing her gently into the corner, brushing the sweat-soaked hair from her forehead.
"We're lucky," I had whispered, my voice cracking. "We're part of the Ten Percent. We're going to wake up stronger."
I'd watched her eyes brighten with a sliver of hope. I'd hated myself for it.
The truth sat heavier in my gut than the fever. We weren't the Ten Percent—the ones the news called "The Ascended." We were the leftovers. The Ninety Percent. The ones waiting to be sorted... or discarded.
Then, a voice slid across my thoughts. It was smooth, intimate, and as cold as a surgical blade.
—It is time, Host.
The Whisper.
—The vessel has failed. Life leaks away like water through a cracked jar.
I swallowed, my throat burning with the effort. "No," I croaked. "Not yet. I have to find her."
A pause. Then—
—If you die here, she is lost. She has already crossed the threshold into the collective. To find her, you must walk the Waking Grave. You must release the failing flesh.
The voice didn't threaten. It didn't offer comfort. It just stated the inevitable. My hands stopped shaking—not because I had found peace, but because I was simply too exhausted to resist the pull of the dark.
I didn't let go. I just stopped holding on.
The darkness folded inward, and for a second, the pain vanished. Then, the "System" didn't just appear—it branded itself onto my soul.
SYSTEM NOTICE
Host Vitality: TERMINATED
Core Drive Identified: CONSUMPTION
Initial Designation: THE CONDEMNED
The words didn't just hang in the air; they throbbed in my vision, pulsing in time with a rhythm that was no longer a human heartbeat.
The Condemned. Not a title. A sentence.
A red timer ignited behind my eyes, ticking down with a digital hiss that made my teeth ache.
TRIAL PROTOCOL
Consume Essence every 6 hours.
Failure will result in Host Status: EXPIRED.
TIME REMAINING: 05:59:57
Something opened inside my chest. It wasn't hunger—hunger was too small a word. It was a void. A clawing, screaming need for warmth. For breath. For life.
—That is your clock, Host, the Whisper murmured, sounding almost delighted. You will smell it. You will crave it. You will hunt for it.
I forced my eyes open, but the closet was gone. My house was gone.
I was standing on the jagged edge of a rooftop, rain as cold as ice pelting a body that didn't feel like mine anymore. Below me, the city had been remade into a twisted geometry of shadows and black stone.
The Waking Grave.
A movement flickered in the alleyway below. A figure, grey-skinned and twitching, pulsed with a sickly, rhythmic glow.
My gums throbbed with a sudden, sharp pressure. My palms sweat. I didn't just see the creature; I could taste the energy humming inside its chest.
Somewhere in this nightmare, my sister was waiting. And if I had to tear this dead world apart to feed the clock, I would.
The hunger roared. I leaned over the edge.