Alive

22

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~~~~~~⚫️Chapter 22⚫️~~~~~~
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It wasn't funny.

Not the teasing, not the tension, not the mysterious jokes from Koda or the cryptic stories from Drex. None of it. I felt like a storm that hadn't broken yet, trembling under my skin, brewing black and furious and ready to ruin whatever it touched.

My chest heaved. The air felt too thick, too sharp. My throat burned like I had swallowed glass, and all I could think—over and over again—was that something was wrong with me.

Very, very wrong.

I wrapped my arms around myself, crouching low on the floor like I could tuck my entire existence into a ball and pretend the world couldn't see me. My skin was fever-hot, but I was cold all over. I didn't know what I wanted. To scream. To disappear. To rewind time and go back to before I ever met Koda, before I ever woke up in the mud with a skeleton whispering secrets beside me.

"Hey—hey, easy," Drex said, moving toward me. "You're okay. It's okay."

He reached for my shoulder, gentle, slow.

"Get the fuck off me!" I snapped, my voice raw and laced with something... inhuman.

Drex froze.

And then it happened.

The black veins pulsing under my skin flared outward in jagged, reaching lines—sick tendrils that leapt from my body like they had a mind of their own. They lashed out, licking up his wrist, curling over his arm. For a breathless moment, they clung to him, and his eyes glazed over—wide, unfocused, like something had pulled him deep underwater.

"No—no no no no." I scrambled toward him. "Drex? Oh my god—Drex!"

He groaned.

His eyelids fluttered like he was trying to force them open through sheer will, and when they did, he immediately winced and clutched his temples.

"Shit," he rasped, voice hoarse and slurred. "What the fuck was that?"

I hovered next to him, torn between guilt and panic. "I don't know—I didn't mean to—I didn't even touch you, I just—"

"You didn't touch me," he said, struggling to sit up. "But something did. Inside my goddamn head."

He blinked at me, then recoiled, shifting slightly away. His dreadlocks fell into his face, hiding the raw confusion and something else beneath it—fear.

It hurt more than I wanted to admit.

"I'm sorry," I said, voice breaking. "I didn't mean to—I was just—"

"You were just what?" he snapped, still holding his head. "Losing your shit? Screaming like a banshee? Turning into a goddamn shadow monster?"

I flinched.

He sighed and dropped his hands, squinting at the light. "Shit. My head. Feels like you let a jackhammer loose in my skull."

"I said I didn't mean to—" I started.

"You said that already," he muttered. "Didn't help the brain melt."

A beat passed.

He sat all the way up, groaning like his whole body was made of broken metal, then turned his head slowly, eying me with a sideways look that didn't hide the unease.

"What the hell are you, Aisha?"

"I don't know," I whispered. "I don't know what I am."

He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw working.

Then he stood. It wasn't graceful. He swayed once, catching himself on the wall, and rubbed his temples like he could physically massage the memory out of his head.

"I need—" he started, then stopped. "I need air."

He stumbled toward the door like someone waking from a nightmare they weren't ready to explain. My heart sank as I watched him go, his steps uneven, his posture hunched, like he didn't want to turn his back on me but couldn't bear to stay either.

He didn't slam the door behind him.

That somehow made it worse.

Alone again, I pressed my palm to my face, staring down at the still-dark veins crawling beneath my skin.

I was a danger.

Not just to myself—but to anyone who got too close.