Chapter 2

The pain was a living thing. It had teeth and claws, and it was tearing her apart from the inside. Ina lay curled on the dusty floor, her fingers digging into the wood so hard her nails splintered.

She forced herself to focus. She had survived interrogations in the wasteland. She had survived radiation storms and raider ambushes. This was just biology.

She stared at a water stain on the ceiling, tracing its brown edges with her eyes. She counted the cracks in the plaster. She recited the serial numbers of her old rifle. Anything to distract her mind from the fire in her veins.

Then, the smell hit her. It was rank, like rotting garbage and sour sweat. She looked down. Her skin was oozing. A thick, black sludge was seeping from her pores, coating her clothes and the floor around her. It was the toxins, the years of drug abuse and bad food the original owner had pumped into this body, finally being expelled.

It smelled like death.

Slowly, the inferno in her bones cooled to a dull ache. The convulsions stopped. "Synchronization with host Ina Richmond increased to 18%," Arno's mechanical voice chimed faintly in the background of her fading agony. Ina lay there, gasping for air, her chest heaving.

She moved her hand. It felt lighter. She pushed herself up, expecting the usual strain on her joints. It came, but it was less. The heavy, suffocating weight was still there, but it had shifted. It felt... looser.

She didn't have time to celebrate. The boy. The two-hour countdown.

She grabbed the edge of the shelf and hauled herself to her feet. Her head swam, but she steadied herself. She snatched the bottle of disinfectant and the gauze from the first aid kit. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

She walked out of the storage room. Her footsteps were still heavy, but there was a rhythm to them now, a purpose that hadn't been there before.

Angel heard her coming. He shrank back into the corner, his body tensing. He pulled his torn shirt up, trying to cover his neck, the most vulnerable part.

Ina stopped a meter away from him. She didn't crowd him. She kept her distance, slowly lowering herself to the ground until she was sitting on her heels, her eyes level with his.

She pulled the bottle of water from her pocket-the only clean water she had found. She twisted the cap off. The plastic crinkled loudly in the silence.

Angel's eyes locked onto the bottle. His cracked lips moved involuntarily, his throat bobbing as he swallowed dry air.

Ina placed the bottle on the floor. She used her fingertips to gently push it toward him. The plastic scraped against the concrete, a soft, scratching sound.

Angel stared at the bottle, then at her. He didn't move. His eyes were full of suspicion. The memories flashed in his mind-the original owner offering him water laced with acid, the burning scars that still lined his throat.

Ina saw the hesitation. She saw the fear. She checked the data Arno displayed: "Subject has history of chemical burns via ingestion. Trust level critical."

She cursed the original owner silently. She reached out and pulled the bottle back. Angel flinched, expecting a blow.

Instead, Ina lifted the bottle to her own lips. She took a long drink, letting the cool water wash down her throat. She let out a breath, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

She placed the bottle back on the floor and pushed it again. This time, she pushed it until it was only two inches from his trembling fingers.

Angel watched her. He stared at her for a full minute, his eyes searching for the trick, the trap. But she just sat there, her hands resting on her knees, waiting.

Thirst won. The primal need to survive overrode the terror.

He lunged. His hand shot out, grabbing the bottle. He tilted his head back, chugging the water like a man dying in the desert. He drank too fast. He started to cough, the water spilling down his chin, his body wracking with spasms that pulled at the wounds on his back. He gasped, tears of pain welling in his eyes.

Ina moved. She tore open a packet of gauze and leaned forward.

Angel reacted instantly. He dropped the bottle, scrambling backward, his hands up to protect his face.

Ina stopped. She raised both hands, palms out. It was a universal gesture of surrender. "Don't move," she said. Her voice was still rough, still sounding like gravel, but the tone was steady. Calm. "I'm just leaving the bandage."

She placed the gauze and the bottle of disinfectant on the floor next to the water bottle. Then, she stood up. She didn't linger. She didn't try to force the issue. She took three steps back, putting space between them.

Angel stared at her. His golden ears twitched. This was wrong. This wasn't the script. The monster didn't retreat. The monster didn't share water.

"Target loyalty increased by 1 point. Current loyalty: -98."

One point. Ina almost laughed. It was a pathetic number, but it was a start.

She pointed at the supplies on the floor. "Bandage yourself," she said, her voice hard. "I'm not in the mood to hit anyone today."

She turned her back on him. She didn't wait for a response. She walked away, her wet, filthy clothes sticking to her skin. She needed to wash off the grime, both the physical dirt and the lingering stench of the original owner's sins.

She found the bathroom. It was small and grimy, the mirror cracked and spotted with toothpaste. She hit the light switch. The fluorescent bulb buzzed to life, casting a harsh, unforgiving glare.

Ina looked at the mirror and froze.

The face staring back at her was grotesque. The skin was sallow, covered in the black sludge that was still oozing from her pores. The eyes were puffy, buried in fat. The hair was lank and greasy. She looked like a monster from a swamp.

She turned on the shower. The water sputtered, then came out in a cold rush. She didn't care. She stepped under the spray, clothes and all.

The cold water hit her skin, washing away the black grime. It swirled down the drain, a dark, dirty river. She scrubbed at her skin, her nails raking over the flesh until it turned red.

As the dirt washed away, she began to see the truth. Underneath the layers of fat and toxin, the bones were good. The frame was solid. This body had potential. It was just buried under years of abuse.

She turned off the water. She stood in the dripping silence, her chest heaving. She looked at her hands. They were still thick, but she could feel the serum working, tightening the skin, rebuilding the muscle.

She clenched her fists. A spark of strength, real and raw, flickered in her muscles. It was weak, but it was there. It was a weapon.

She was going to need it.