Rain smeared the neon outside, dragging blue and green across the walls, staining the white of his apartment. Jared slammed the door. The sound echoed, sharp and final. He pressed his back to it, head tipped, eyes closed. Adrian. The name pulsed, searing. The memory of hands, too careful, too knowing, lingered on his skin, tracing the lines of his ribs. Not clinical. Not detached. The invitation had been there, silent and heavy in the air. He had seen it in Adrian’s eyes. He had heard it: “My shift ends in twenty minutes.”

He had said no. Duty. Professionalism. The old armor. Now, in the hush of his own apartment, cold pressing in, it felt like a wound. A mistake that throbbed.

He peeled himself from the door, every movement tight, restless. The apartment was a map of his mind: books splayed open, diagrams twisting across pages, pieces of machines scattered, dataslates scrawled with half-thoughts. He moved through the mess, not seeing it. The fridge opened with a hollow click. Only a single nutrient pack glowed inside. The cupboards offered nothing but dust and a bottle of whiskey, half-drained, a memory of a night he couldn’t recall.

He sighed, sharp and empty, and ordered food. Something healthy, something he didn’t want. He paced, back and forth, the room too small for the storm inside him. The hum of the building pressed in, a siren’s wail slicing through the night. Every sound a memory. Every sound a threat.

The psychic scream of the Mind Flayer, a wave of pure malice that had slammed into his mind. The sight of the man chained to the wall, his eyes wide with terror, an instant before the thing’s tentacle wrapped around his face. The smell of ozone and burnt flesh, the recoil of his Darkslinger as he’d poured Shadow-energy into the monstrosity.

He’d contained the Shadow breach. He’d saved most of them. But not all. Never all.

The food arrived. He took it, barely mumbling thanks, set it down on a patch of counter not buried in chaos. He picked at the chicken. Ash. Guilt pressed into him, heavy and cold, a stone lodged deep. He was supposed to solve things. To save them. He gripped the counter, head bowed, shoulders caving in.

I’m on the edge. I’m falling.

He jerked upright. Pacing. Bedroom to kitchen to the mess of research and back again. As if movement could outrun the thoughts clawing through his skull.

You could have saved more.

You were too slow.

You liked the power too much.

You let it take you.

He stopped at the counter. Breath caught. Hands curling, nails biting into his palms.

He opened the drawer. The knife waited. Not hidden. Not displayed. Just there. He picked it up. Turned it over, feeling the cold bite of the handle, the clean gleam of the blade. He drew in a long, slow breath. Forearm on the counter. Blade pressed to skin. The cut was shallow. At first. Just enough for red to bloom. He pressed harder, dragging the blade along his arm. A thin line split open, seam unraveling. Blood welled up immediately. Warm. Real. Grounding. Breath shuddered out of him.

Pain snapped the world silent.

The Dark surged, thick and restless, pressing at the wound, trying to slip through the split in his skin. It pulsed outward like ink pressing into paper, oozing in thin tendrils from the edges.

He watched. Mesmerized. Horrified. Relieved.

“Stay… stay down,” he whispered to it. “Please.”

The Dark prickled, swirling, crawling over his shoulders, a phantom weight. Not attacking. Just circling. Restless. Like an animal scenting blood.

He grabbed a nanobot-injector from the counter. One of many. Always within reach. Cap snapped off. Injector pressed to the wound. Skin sealed. Instantly. Clean. Perfect. Only a faint mark left behind. He exhaled. Straightened. For a moment, still. Five seconds. Stillness.

Then the knife again. His hand found it, almost without thought. Blade pressed to new skin. Another cut, slower. His jaw trembled, but the sound was not pain. Relief. Pain anchored him. Something solid to hold while everything else inside threatened to slip away.

Dark surged again, sliding beneath his skin, threads curling over the wound. Almost alive. Almost hungry.
He leaned into the counter, head bowed. Sweat traced down his temple.

“I’m fine,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m fine. I’m… fine.”

He was not.

He knew it.

He healed that cut too. Nanos pressed in, flesh sealing, Dark pulling back, slow and reluctant.

Knife dropped in the sink. Both hands braced on the cold metal counter. Breath coming hard. His reflection stared back from the microwave door. Eyes rimmed red. Hair plastered to his forehead. Jaw clenched, tight enough to crack teeth.

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