Lance hadn't slept. Not really. His body felt like a fragile sculpture balanced on wire, the edges fraying as the night stretched on. His eyes darted to shadows that weren't there—or maybe were. Every flicker of streetlight twisted into something else, something cruelly watching.
The city's heartbeat thudded unevenly beneath his feet, echoing inside his chest where the symbiote's pulse whispered louder, like a second rhythm he couldn't ignore.
He stepped out into the cold air, the wind slicing thin and sharp against his skin. Dario padded quietly beside him, tail low, nose twitching at scents Lance couldn't name.
The world was… wrong.
Sidewalk cracks bled black veins, twisting into patterns he recognized from memories he didn't have. Street signs warped, letters sliding like they were alive. Faces in passing windows warped too—sometimes flickering into Rico's smooth grin, sometimes Lance's own haunted stare.
He blinked hard, shaking his head.
This isn't real.
But the voice inside was growing louder.
You're almost there. Let me in. You'll be better. You'll be whole.
Lance clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Not yet.
The neon glow of a nearby bar pulled him like a magnet. The "Sector Delta" sign buzzed flickering above a heavy door that looked older than the city itself.
He hesitated but then pushed it open.
Inside, the air was thick with stale smoke and something colder—metal and menace. A few patrons glanced up but quickly returned to their drinks and hushed talks. The bartender, a silent figure with too-sharp eyes, slid a glass toward Lance without a word.
Before Lance could settle, a voice cut through the room.
"Lance Mercer."
The sound was calm but heavy—like a weight dropped into a still pond.
A man stepped forward. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His coat was dark, nearly blending into the shadows, but his presence filled the room like a storm gathering.
He curiously turned his head toward his direction, taking in his look. "How could you tell?"
Harrow's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, voice low but deliberate. "You know who I am, Lance. Or.. the other side of you does. I run Sector Delta—the containment site your allies Dani and Kenton were part of before… well, before things got messy."
Lance blinked, trying to focus through the fog inside his head.
"Sector Delta isn't your typical facility," Harrow continued, voice calm like he was stating a fact everyone should already know. "We handle the hard cases—the anomalies that warp reality, twist minds, break physics. The stuff that can tear this world apart if it gets loose."
He let the words hang for a moment.
"You and that symbiote you carry? You're exactly the kind of problem we were built to stop. That's why we want you in chains. Not out of hate—out of necessity."
Lance's jaw clenched.
"You think I'm dangerous."
Harrow smiled, slow and cold. "You are dangerous. But you can choose to be something more. Or you can become what everyone else fears."
Lance's breath hitched.
Harrow's eyes didn't waver, even as Lance's expression shifted—one moment tense, the next slipping into that cool, nonchalant Rico-smile.
"You're either very brave or very stupid to show yourself here." He said, voice low, almost amused.
Lance tried to speak but Rico's voice tangled with his own, slipping out sharp and casual.
"Maybe a little both," the voice said, lips curling.
The flicker caught Harrow's attention—his brow lifted in that thin line between confusion and something like… enjoyment?
"Ah, the parasite's awake. I hear it likes to take over the conversation." He circled Lance slowly, predator inspecting a curious new toy. "But don't get comfortable. You're not welcome. Not here, not anywhere."
Lance's heart thundered. The room seemed to shrink. His fingers trembled on the glass in front of him.
Harrow paused, then smiled—a flash of teeth that didn't reach his eyes.
"But I'm willing to make a deal. Turn yourself in. Work with us. Control it."
He tapped the side of his temple. "Because if you don't, you'll become a monster they fear. Alone. Isolated. And that… that breaks people faster than any symbiote ever could."
Lance swallowed, the pressure inside him twisting.
"I'm not that man anymore," Lance said, voice breaking.
Harrow's smile sharpened.
"That's what they all say."
The bar seemed to hold its breath.
Rico's voice flickered in Lance's mind, cool and amused.
"Let's see how long you can keep that up."
Lance staggered back, clutching his head.
The world spun—neon lights fractured into a thousand shards, whispers echoed from nowhere and everywhere.
Harrow watched silently, eyes dark and unreadable.
"Decide soon, Lance," he said quietly. "Because the world's waiting to be afraid."
The dim light flickered again as Lance swayed slightly, eyes fluttering shut and then open, sharper—slick with an unsettling confidence that wasn't his own.
"Bartender," the voice slid out smooth, rich and rehearsed, not Lance's. "Gimme a whiskey. Neat."
The bartender, expression unreadable, nodded without a word and poured.
Rico—whatever part of him that was alive in Lance—leaned into the bar, shoulders loose, that faint crooked smile of effortless charm curling at the corners of his mouth.
Harrow's eyes narrowed but he said nothing. He studied Lance like a hawk watching a snake coil.
"Quite the act," Harrow said slowly, voice low. "You were great at your job. One of the best anomaly hunters Sector Delta ever had. Not many could keep their heads in the chaos."
Rico's smile didn't falter, but a shadow crossed it. "Tiring, though. Walking that line every day. Keeping people safe from things they didn't even want to understand. You get used to the exhaustion—the constant chase, the betrayals, the losses. It wears on you."
He took a slow sip, eyes locking with Harrow's.
"But," he said, voice cool, "someone's got to do it."
Harrow let out a slow breath, like exhaling a secret he'd been holding tight.
"You were damn good, I'll give you that. You and Daniela… you two were the best team we had. But you walked away, didn't you? Or rather, you didn't come back." His voice dipped, edge sharpened. "Ever since you… disappeared, things fell apart. Daniela has never been the same."
There was a flicker—just a twitch—in Rico's mask. A crack.
"I don't like you," Harrow said bluntly, eyes hardening. "Not because of what you did. Because you left a hole no one can fill. Because you made it look so damn easy to be gone."
Rico's smile tightened. "You think I had a choice?"
"Choices," Harrow scoffed, "are a luxury. Especially for those who catch monsters. You brought the fire, but you also left the ashes. I respect your skill, but I fear your ghost."
The bar seemed to close in, shadows deepening, tension thick as smoke.
Rico's laugh was low, almost amused. "Ghosts are what keep the living honest."
Lance's fingers clenched the edge of the bar, a silent war raging inside him.
Harrow's gaze didn't waver.
"This isn't about skill anymore. It's about control. Can you control what's inside? Or will it control you—and the rest of us?"
Rico's eyes gleamed in the dim light.
"Maybe control is just another kind of surrender."
Lance's eyes fluttered open, the smooth mask of Rico slipping away like smoke dissolving in sunlight. His breath came ragged, chest rising and falling unevenly. The room tilted, but the edges of reality sharpened again—the bar, the worn wood grain under his palms, the dull murmur of voices somewhere beyond.
Harrow's gaze was unrelenting.
"Last time I'm asking," he said, voice low but steady. "You come with me—back to Sector Delta—or I let the world know exactly who you are."
The words hung between them, heavier than any chain.
Lance's throat tightened. He wanted to speak but the weight in his chest squeezed the air from his lungs. His mind spun, fracturing into jagged shards of thought.
Dario... A small, fierce voice inside him barked—loyal, protective.
You can't leave me, the dog's presence whispered in a way only Lance could hear, a trembling warmth amid the chaos. Not now. Not ever.
Lance's lips parted, but no sound came.
Before he could find the words, that smooth, cocky grin slid back onto his face.
"No way I'm going back in chains," Rico's voice purred through Lance's mouth. "I've been through worse than Sector Delta's mess. Let them try. I'll burn their little world down before I let them cage me."
Harrow chuckled, a sound low and dry, like gravel sliding over glass.
"Well then," he said, shrugging with a deliberate casualness that belied the weight of his words, "you've made your choice. The world's going to find out about you whether you like it or not."
Lance's heart slammed in his chest.
Inside, a brutal fight tore through his mind—Rico's cocky bravado crashing against Lance's fragile hope for control.
You're not him, Lance whispered inside, barely a breath.
I'm what keeps you alive, the other hissed back, slick and sure.
The two selves wrestled, tearing at the edges of Lance's sanity.
His hands clenched the bar, knuckles white. He tasted bitterness, fear, and something raw, aching.
Then, without warning, Lance crumpled forward, head dropping onto the smooth wood.
Silent tears tracked down his face.
No sobs.
No cries.
Just quiet, shuddering grief.
The bartender, who had been watching from the shadows, stepped closer.
A large hand rested gently on Lance's tangled curls, rubbing soothing circles on his scalp.
No words.
No questions.
Just presence.
Lance stayed there a long moment, the war inside him ebbing to a low, dangerous simmer.
Harrow watched, expression unreadable.
"You're a mess," he said finally, voice oddly soft.
The bartender gave a quiet hum of agreement.
But Lance didn't respond.
Inside him, Rico's voice softened, almost reverent.
We're going to have to be better than this.