Kalen chose his target carefully.
That decision alone marked a change.
Before, scavenging had been about opportunity—what could be taken, what could be avoided, and what threats needed to be removed quickly. Now, every choice carried a new, invisible weight. The Echo system—no, the Residual Echo Framework, as his mind had begun to label it—had turned killing into an irreversible experiment.
He needed certainty.
Which meant he needed repetition.
The outskirts of Sector Nine were quiet at this hour. Too quiet. Most scavengers preferred the early morning, before patrol rotations shifted and before the deeper zones began to stir. Kalen moved against the flow, slipping between half-collapsed structures and rusted barricades, his steps soundless on broken concrete.
He wasn't looking for monsters.
Not yet.
He found what he needed near an abandoned transit station, its entrance sealed by warped metal doors that no one had bothered to reopen. A temporary shelter had been erected nearby—plastic sheeting, scrap metal, and scavenged insulation lashed together into a crude lean-to.
Someone lived there.
Kalen watched from across the street, concealed behind the skeletal remains of a transport vehicle. His lamp remained off. The fading daylight was enough.
A man emerged from the shelter, hunched and thin, carrying a bag slung over one shoulder. His movements were cautious, practiced. A survivor.
Kalen's jaw tightened.
I don't want this, he thought.
But wanting had never mattered much in Ashfall City.
He followed at a distance, steps measured, keeping to shadows. The man headed toward a debris-choked alley that led deeper into an unmonitored zone.
No witnesses.
Kalen stopped at the alley's mouth.
The familiar tightening brushed against his awareness—the Echo's faint sensitivity to danger. The space ahead felt… stable. No immediate hazards.
That wasn't what bothered him.
It was the other sensation, quieter and more unsettling.
Expectation.
Kalen exhaled slowly and stepped into the alley.
"Hey," he called.
The man froze, then turned sharply, eyes wide. He was older than Kalen had expected, his face weathered and scarred. His hand went to his belt, fingers brushing the grip of a concealed blade.
"Back off," the man said hoarsely.
Kalen didn't raise his weapon. "I'm not here to rob you."
The lie tasted bitter.
"Then why are you following me?" the man demanded.
Silence stretched between them.
Kalen saw it in the man's eyes—the calculation, the readiness to run or strike. He recognized it because he'd worn the same expression countless times.
"I need you to listen," Kalen said finally.
The man laughed, short and humorless. "You think I'm stupid?"
"No," Kalen replied. "I think you're scared."
The word landed like a blow.
The man's grip tightened.
"Last chance," he said. "Walk away."
Kalen hesitated.
This was wrong. Every instinct screamed it. This wasn't survival. This was curiosity dressed up as necessity.
If I don't do this, he thought, I'll never know.
And not knowing was worse.
"I'm sorry," Kalen said quietly.
The man lunged.
Everything happened at once. The blade flashed. Kalen twisted aside, feeling the air part where steel had been a heartbeat earlier. He drove his iron rod forward, not aiming for a killing blow—but the man stumbled, momentum carrying him into it.
The rod punched into his chest.
The man gasped, eyes widening in shock rather than pain.
Kalen caught him as his legs gave out, lowering him awkwardly to the ground.
"I didn't—" Kalen began.
Blood bubbled at the man's lips.
…so tired…
The words weren't spoken aloud.
They surfaced inside Kalen's mind, raw and exhausted.
The man's hand twitched once, then fell limp.
Kalen recoiled as if burned, scrambling backward.
"No," he whispered. "No, no—"
[Residual Echo detected.]
The sensation hit harder this time.
It wasn't just a voice—it was a collapse. A rush of impressions slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Hunger.Cold nights.The constant calculation of risk versus reward.
Just one more day…
Kalen clutched his head, teeth gritted as the Echo pressed in.
This one was different.
Not fear.
Weariness.
A crushing, endless fatigue that settled into his bones.
He felt the man's resignation, his acceptance of a life measured in scraps and stolen hours. The echo didn't scream or beg.
It simply endured.
Then it fractured.
The pressure eased, leaving behind a dull ache behind Kalen's eyes.
[Echo stabilized: Endurance Residue.]
Kalen sat there, trembling, staring at the lifeless body.
His chest burned.
"This wasn't supposed to—" He cut himself off.
There was no supposed to.
The system had responded exactly as before.
Kill.
Receive Echo.
Different person. Different fragment.
Same rule.
Kalen rose unsteadily and backed away, bile rising in his throat. He retched against the alley wall, body heaving until there was nothing left.
When he wiped his mouth, his hands were shaking violently.
"That's it," he said hoarsely. "That's proof."
The system was real.
And it was consistent.
He staggered away from the alley, not daring to look back. The city felt oppressive now, every shadow heavy with implication.
Two deaths.
Two Echoes.
Two voices lodged inside him.
The walk home passed in a haze. Kalen barely remembered locking his door, barely remembered collapsing onto his cot. He lay there, staring at the ceiling as twilight bled into night.
Inside his mind, the Echoes stirred.
The first—the Fear Fragment—flickered with anxious impressions whenever he moved too quickly.
The second—Endurance Residue—sat like a weight, a constant reminder of exhaustion and stubborn survival.
They didn't speak at the same time.
But they did not fade.
Kalen closed his eyes.
"How long do you last?" he asked quietly.
No answer came.
Minutes passed. Then hours.
Sleep did not come.
Instead, the Echoes began to interact.
The Fear Fragment reacted to the Endurance Residue with something close to irritation. Panic clashed against resignation, sending ripples of discomfort through Kalen's thoughts.
He groaned and pressed his palms to his temples.
"Stop," he whispered.
The conflict subsided slightly—but not completely.
Understanding dawned slowly, cold and unwelcome.
"They don't disappear," he murmured.
Not on their own.
Echoes accumulated.
And worse—they conflicted.
Kalen sat up abruptly.
"If this keeps going," he said, voice tight, "I won't be able to think."
The system responded, as if acknowledging the realization.
[Stability: Strained]
Kalen stared into the empty air.
"That's it?" he snapped. "You're just going to warn me?"
No guidance followed.
He laughed bitterly.
"Figures."
He stood and began pacing, trying to organize his thoughts.
If Echoes stacked endlessly, then killing was not power—it was corrosion. Each death added weight, noise, instability.
Which meant—
"Monsters," he whispered.
Monsters weren't just threats.
They were Echo factories.
Kalen stopped pacing.
The implications spiraled outward, horrifying in scope. Entire dungeons full of accumulated deaths. Layers of Echoes bleeding into reality.
No wonder people went mad down there.
No wonder some never came back.
Kalen sank back onto his cot, heart pounding.
"I can't keep doing this," he said.
But the alternative—remaining ignorant—felt just as dangerous.
The Echoes shifted subtly, as if listening.
Kalen met the empty air with a steady gaze.
"If I'm stuck with you," he said slowly, "then I need rules."
No response.
"Fine," he continued. "I'll make my own."
He raised a finger.
"First rule: I don't kill unless I have to."
The Fear Fragment stirred approvingly.
"Second rule: I observe before I act."
The Endurance Residue remained silent, heavy.
"Third rule—" Kalen hesitated. "I find out how to get rid of you."
The Echoes reacted sharply.
A spike of resistance flared inside his skull, brief but unmistakable.
Kalen winced.
"So it is possible," he murmured.
The resistance faded, replaced by uneasy quiet.
Kalen lay back and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would go deeper.
Not to kill.
To understand.
And that, he suspected, was far more dangerous.