The Prototype

Chapter 11

Maia appeared in New York, the thick fog swirling around her like a shroud, making her every movement ghostly and surreal. The prototype's third piece pulsed in her hand, emitting a strange, intoxicating energy that seeped into her, feeling like power—yet, somewhere deep within, she sensed it was unraveling her.

Each step she took toward her and Ethan's home sent a sharp, static pain rippling through her, a warning her mind seemed too clouded to grasp. In her distorted view, the pain felt like strength, like she was only getting closer to a level of control she'd never before dreamed of.

As she entered their home, the memories enclosed within its walls tugged at her from every angle. She clenched her fists, her gaze drawn to the picture frames, the laughter and love frozen in time, taunting her. But the voices in her mind surged louder, venomous and relentless, like shadows clawing at her resolve.

"End him," they hissed, snaking through her mind.

"He doesn't care about you, or your work. Show them who deserves the power. Make them all regret it."

Maia clenched her teeth, fighting against the taunts, her voice barely a whisper as she spoke to the voices within her. "He did care... he had to... right?"

But the voices only grew louder, their cold laughter echoing in her mind, drowning her attempts to reason. "Don't be weak. Weakness is what brought you here. Now, show them your strength!"

Her hands trembled as she felt the piece of the prototype surge with energy, seeping deeper into her very being, like it was attaching itself to her, feeding on her mind and her spirit.

The power was beyond her control, stronger than she had anticipated. She felt it rush through her like a tidal wave, powerful and painful. It knocked her to her knees, sending her vision spinning as she clutched at the coffee table for support.

Through the blur, her eyes landed on a photo of her and Ethan, the two of them smiling, cuddled close, blissfully happy in a world that seemed so distant now. For a fleeting moment, regret flickered across her face. But just as the memory of her past self began to surface, the piece pulsed violently in her hand, sending a shock through her that made her gasp.

Her body was wracked with a surge of agonizing energy as she screamed, slamming her hand down on the table in frustration. The room exploded in a wave of power, the force of her anger shattering the table and sending objects flying, crashing against walls, scattering glass and wood across the floor.

In the middle of the destruction, Maia stood, her eyes wild and glistening with tears that burned as she fought to keep her composure. She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to close her eyes and block out the raw emotion simmering within her.

When she opened them again, the look on her face was colder, harder. It was as if something inside her had cracked, replaced by an impenetrable shell.

With one final glance at the photograph—somehow unscathed amidst the wreckage—she picked it up, and, with a final sneer, hurled it to the floor. The glass shattered, the image now as broken as she felt. Without looking back, she vanished, leaving their home in ruin.