It's been one day since I sealed myself inside this place.
The walls haven't changed. The air is still still. Time drips here, slowly — like poison down a blade.
But the silence… that's what cuts me deepest.
It always speaks.
Whispers like the hiss of steam after a fire's been doused. They creep into the cracks of my thoughts, curling like vines around the memory of what I did.
"You killed him."
"You crushed the one who loved you most."
"For power. And what did you gain? Nothing."
"Monster."
"Monster."
I clutch my head. I slam my back against the cold, metallic wall. "Shut up! Shut up! I didn't know! I didn't know it wouldn't help!"
But I did.
His name was Syris.
He was the kindest. The gentlest. Of all six, it was Syris who stayed by me through the adaptations, who never looked away when my skin shed in patches or when my bones cracked under sudden stress. He read to me. Held my hand during mutation spasms. Even taught me how to draw stupid little creatures in the dirt with a stick.
And I… I chose him.
The whispers change tone. Softer now, like they're leaning in close.
"Maybe you wanted him gone."
"Maybe deep down you hated his kindness."
"Maybe you envied it."
"You didn't just kill him for power. You killed him because he reminded you of what you could never be."
I scream until my throat burns. My knuckles split open as I pound the ground. The pain makes me feel real again — even if only for a moment.
There's a part of me that still fights. Still wants to believe I was tricked by instinct. That the Victinion blood in me — built to survive — surged in a moment of desperation. But that's a lie.
Because I had a clear choice.
I remember Syris's eyes when he saw me approaching with the makeshift blade made from my own adaptions.
He smiled.
He knew.
And he let me.
The chamber is dark, but I swear the shadows move sometimes. I catch glimpses of Syris in the dark corners — not his body, but the memory of his form. The guilt animates him like a puppet.
He never speaks.
That's worse than the whispers.
I pace. I starve. I thirst. But my body adapts. That's the curse. Hunger comes and fades. Thirst claws at me but never kills. I can go on like this forever.
But my mind… my mind doesn't adapt. Not to this. Not to guilt.
I curl into the corner. My knees to my chest.
"They'll come for me," I whisper to no one. "Joma, Yureth… the others. They'll find me. Maybe they'll kill me. Maybe they should."
Silence answers.
Or is it Syris?
I miss his voice. I can't remember the sound anymore. Just the feeling of it — like a warm breeze after months of bitter cold.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the dark. "I'm so, so sorry."
No answer.
I try to scream again, but the sound catches in my throat. Instead, I break into sobs that shake my whole body.
Hours pass. Or maybe days. Time feels fake here.
Sometimes I pretend I'm back before it all. Before the war training. Before the adaptation labs. Before I had to be anything other than a scared little girl trying to understand why everyone around her disappeared.
"Maybe this is your punishment," the voice hisses again.
"Maybe you'll stay here forever."
"Maybe you want to."
I lean against the wall. Let the cold seep into me. Let the guilt and whispers wrap around me like a second skin.
Now it's been about a month.
I don't know why, but everything around me has developed so fast.
The shadows seem thicker. The air is heavier. Even my heart feels denser — like it's preparing to stop.
I feel like I'm never going to forgive myself.
And maybe I shouldn't.