Brooklyn Mid-Tech High School felt like a foreign planet. The lockers slammed with the sound of gunshots, and the crowded hallways felt like a sea of white-eyed puppets pushing against Sloane’s skin.
Sloane sat in the back of her AP English class, her oversized hoodie pulled tight. Even in the 75-degree classroom, she was shivering. She kept her hands shoved deep into her pockets, her fingers interlaced so tightly they turned white. She was terrified that if she let go, they would start moving on their own.
I am happy to be in control of my Master.
The whisper echoed in the back of her skull, unbidden and oily. Sloane squeezed her eyes shut, her knuckles cracking.
"Sloane? Are you with us?" the teacher asked.
Sloane snapped her head up. For a split second, her neck elongated an inch—a reflexive glitch—before she forced it back. "Yes. Sorry. Just... didn't sleep well."
The Guidance Office: 1:00 PM
"The dreams haven't stopped, have they, Sloane?"
Ms. Halloway, the school therapist, was a kind woman with soft eyes, but to Sloane, she felt like another interrogator. Sloane sat on the edge of the velvet chair, her body stiff. She couldn't tell the truth—she couldn't mention the meteorite, the obsidian suit, or the bunker.
"It’s not just dreams," Sloane whispered, staring at a rug that looked too much like the concrete floor of the bunker. "It’s... a feeling. Like I don't own my own muscles anymore. Like someone else has the remote control."
"You mentioned a feeling of violation in our last session," Ms. Halloway said gently, leaning forward. "Can you tell me more about that? You said you felt... watched."
Sloane’s breath hitched. How could she explain it? How could she describe the feeling of being forced to touch herself while a monster watched? How could she describe the "Happy Mantra" without sounding insane?
"In the dream," Sloane started, her voice trembling, "I’m in a dark room. I’m stripped down. And there’s this voice. It tells me I want things I don't want. It tells me to... to hurt myself. To please it. And the worst part isn't the pain."
Sloane looked up, her brown eyes swimming with a raw, agonizing shame.
"The worst part is that in the dream... I’m smiling. I’m saying I’m happy. My body is betraying me, Ms. Halloway. It’s doing things that make me sick, and I’m forced to pretend I love it."
Ms. Halloway scribbled a note. "That’s a very common reaction to trauma, Sloane. The brain tries to protect itself by creating a 'mask' of compliance. It doesn't mean you wanted it. It means you survived it."
But I can still feel it, Sloane thought. Every time her skin brushed against her own thigh, she felt a jolt of phantom electricity. Her body remembered the peaks Desmond had forced her to reach. It was a physical memory she couldn't wash off.
The Warehouse: 4:30 PM
"You’re late," Victor (Metal) rumbled as Sloane walked in. He was lifting a literal engine block to test his strength.
"School," Sloane said shortly. She went to the corner where Rebecca had set up a new training area.
"How was the session?" Rebecca asked, not looking up from her monitors.
"Useless," Sloane said. She pulled off her hoodie. Underneath, her skin was covered in a faint, shimmering sweat. The suit began to flow out, but it was flickering—unstable. "I can't get him out, Becca. I’m sitting in class and I can feel his hand on my neck. I can feel... the urge. The way he made me touch myself. It’s like he left a virus in my nervous system."
Rebecca finally looked up. Her eyes were full of a fierce, protective love. "He didn't leave a virus. He left a scar. And scars can be used as armor."
Sloane closed her eyes. She focused on the center of her chest, where the "symbiote" lived. She didn't think about being a hero. She thought about the violation. She thought about the forced smiles and the aggressive, shameful movements.
She let the rage take over.
The suit didn't just cover her; it spiked. The matte-black material grew jagged, obsidian-sharp blades.
"We’re not waiting for him to heal," Sloane said, her voice dropping into that cold, echoing tone. "Elias (Sound) said he’s moving toward the docks. He’s trying to get on a ship to leave the country."
"We've got a lock on a cargo ship called The Siren," Rebecca said, her fingers flying over the keys. "It leaves at midnight."
Sloane adjusted her new glasses—heavy, reinforced frames Rebecca had built with built-in sensory baffles.
"Tell the others to gear up," Sloane commanded. "Tonight, we don't just stop him. Tonight, I show him what happens when the puppet snaps the strings."
As she turned to leave, her hand twitched again, a lingering ghost of the bunker. This time, Sloane didn't flinch. She clenched her fist so hard the obsidian hissed.
"I'm coming for you, Master," she whispered with a lethal irony. "And I'm not smiling anymore."
52Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhbY0WqRLQh
52Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe4Mo4LrZed
52Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk7vbtYdEat
and then Add to home screen.