The_Destiny

The room smelled of antiseptic, rust, and stale coffee.

Lex stared at the ceiling, counting the hairline cracks that spiderwebbed across the plaster. His body ached like it had been thrown through a meat grinder, and his ribs reminded him of every breath he took. Pain was a rhythm now—steady, cruel, personal.

He tried to shift upright, but the dull throb in his side quickly escalated to a stabbing burn. He hissed through gritted teeth and flopped back against the creaking mattress.

"Still alive," he muttered to no one. "Dumb luck."

The house after Rose's passing was barely kempt. Peeling wallpaper, one flickering light overhead, and a space heater that made more noise than heat. Perhaps he should've kept the place functioning, but her death had broken him.

His jacket lay folded on the nearby chair, bloodied and torn where the creature's claws had raked through it. A makeshift bandage wrapped around his ribs—he didn't remember tying it, but he assumed he had. Or maybe the stranger, John, had done it before disappearing. Either way, he was still breathing. That was something.

He walked to the bathroom and examined his injuries, peeling back the bandage from his ribs. The place where the side of the shipping crate had struck was now an angry mess of deep purple and yellow-green bruising. As he tried to straighten up, a sharp pain flared through his side, hot and immediate, like a knife wedged beneath his ribcage.

He gritted his teeth and pressed his palm to the swelling. The skin felt tight, stretched over trauma. A faint cut just below the bruising glistened where a jagged piece of metal must have torn through during the impact. Not deep enough to kill him—but close enough to scare him.

"Should've been dead," he muttered to his reflection.

He looked like hell. Blood crusted in his hair. A cut on his cheek he hadn't noticed before. Eyes sunken from sleepless nights and a year's worth of anger.

He turned on the tap, splashed cold water on his face, and leaned on the sink.

He wasn't sure what was worse—the pain in his body or the storm still churning in his chest.

Lex stepped away from the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink until the tremor in his hands subsided. The fight had drained more than just his stamina—it had left behind a fog that clung to him, thick and cold. He turned off the flickering light, limped back into the main room, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

The fight played on loop behind his eyes.

The flickering warehouse lights. The sound of crates crashing. The growl—wet and unnatural—as the thing moved. The feeling of swinging that rusted pipe, knowing it wouldn't be enough. The weight of desperation. The way its eyes locked on him like it knew him. Like it had once been human.

He remembered its hands—too large, twisted, but still bearing the rough outlines of calluses and dirt beneath the nails. A laborer's hands. A person who once worked. Who once lived. Before the corruption.

It had hurled those crates like they were weightless. Lex could still feel the shock when one of them clipped his side and sent him crashing into that steel beam. He could still hear his own voice—raw, defiant, a scream of pure animal fear—as he scrambled to his feet, blood soaking into his shirt, vision blurred, ears ringing.

He had thought he was going to die.

He should've died.

But something had kept him moving. Not some miracle. Just pure, bitter need. A need to survive. A need to fight. A need to not die in some forgotten warehouse, alone and meaningless, just another body no one would ever claim.

He pulled the coarse blanket over his shoulders, the fabric rough against his skin, and stared blankly at the wall. The old motel heater rattled in the corner like a dying engine.

Somewhere beneath the exhaustion, the pain, and the storm of confusion, a single thought pulsed steady and quiet like a heartbeat.

"I'm still here."

But for how long?

And what came next?

He didn't know.

He just knew this wasn't over.

Not even close.

The fight played on loop behind his eyes.

The flickering warehouse lights. The sound of crates crashing. The growl—wet and unnatural—as the thing moved. The feeling of swinging that rusted pipe, knowing it wouldn't be enough. The weight of desperation. The way its eyes locked on him like it knew him. Like it had once been human.

And the way it screamed when it died.

He hadn't meant to kill it. He didn't even know he could. It had just… happened. A blur of fear, pain, rage. He had fought like an animal, and somehow come out on top.

"Why the hell was that thing there?" he whispered. "Why me?"

There was no answer. Just the hum of the heater and the occasional groan of the empty home settling into itself.

He closed his eyes and saw her face.

Rose.

Not in the final moment—he refused to remember that—but before. Laughing at something he said. Rolling her eyes when he snuck into the fridge for midnight snacks. Sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, singing along to a dumb commercial.

His throat tightened. He turned on his side to bury his face in the pillow, trying to shut it out.

He'd been chasing shadows for a year. A year of alleys, rumors, half-truths. And then—last night—it was like the shadows finally noticed him back. That thing hadn't been random. It felt like it was waiting. Hunting. And it almost won.

He stared at his shaking hand, flexing his fingers slowly.

"I'm not done," he muttered. "You hear me? I'm not done."

His body disagreed. A muscle spasm made him wince, and he gasped sharply as pain bloomed in his side again. A few deep breaths helped settle it. He wasn't in danger—at least not immediate danger—but everything inside him screamed that something had changed.

And not just the creature. Not just the fight.

He was changing too. Or maybe just waking up.

A knock came at the door. Three soft taps. Lex tensed instinctively, reaching for the pipe that leaned beside the bed. His fingers wrapped around the cold metal, the grip worn smooth by habit. He had kept it there ever since the incident a few months ago—when a pair of loan sharks had come knocking, looking to collect on the debts Rose had left behind.

There had been shouting, pushing. One of them had pulled a knife.

Lex had grabbed the nearest thing he could find—a rusted length of pipe from a broken radiator in the hallway. He hadn't meant to hurt anyone, but he also hadn't hesitated. Not after the year he'd had. Not after what they said about Rose. That altercation ended with bruises, cracked ribs, and a bloodstain he never quite got out of the carpet.

After that, he never let the pipe out of reach.

"Lex?" A voice. Calm. Familiar.

John.

Lex didn't answer right away. His grip on the pipe remained firm.

The door creaked open. John stood in the frame, holding a brown paper bag and a bottle of water. He looked cleaner than before, less like a street soldier and more like a civil servant off-duty.

"Relax," he said, eyeing the pipe. "You look like hell."

Lex slowly lowered the weapon, but said nothing.

John stepped inside, placed the bag on the nightstand. "Food. Not great, but it's warm. You've been out almost twelve hours."

Lex licked his lips. "I wasn't out. Just… resting."

"Sure," John said, humoring him.

Silence stretched. Lex glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "You didn't stick around."

"I had things to check. Places to clean. And I figured you'd want space."

Lex didn't respond. He peeled the bag open, revealing a plastic-wrapped sandwich and some aspirin.

John pulled over a chair, sat down with a grunt. "You did good last night. Real good."

Lex narrowed his eyes. "I barely survived."

"You're still breathing. That puts you ahead of most."

He eyed the sandwich warily, his hand hovering just above it. "Poisoned?"

John raised an eyebrow, voice calm, almost soothing."If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have bothered knocking. I'd have let you bleed out on that warehouse floor."

Lex's grip on the pipe tightened for a moment before he slowly lowered his hand. He still didn't fully trust the man, but hunger and exhaustion won the moment. He took a tentative bite, eyes never leaving John.

After a few more cautious bites, Lex reached for the bottle of water John had set on the bedside table. He took a small sip, then another, feeling the cool liquid soothe his parched throat.

John watched him quietly, a faint smile flickering at the corner of his lips.

Without breaking eye contact, Lex popped one of the aspirin tablets John had brought, grimacing as it slid down.

The dull throb in his ribs pulsed with every shallow breath, but at least the sharp edge of the pain was slightly dulled.

For now.

After a minute, John spoke again. "So, you and that thing—what's the story?"

Lex met his gaze, wary but steady. "What kind of question is that?"

John didn't answer right away. He just held his stare.

"Look," Lex said, voice low, "I didn't ask for this. Whatever that thing was, I wasn't looking for it."

"But it found you anyway," John murmured. "Interesting."

Lex finished the sandwich, crumpling the wrapper and tossing it onto the nightstand. "What the hell is going on in this city?"

John's look was long and unreadable. "Let's just say... there are worse things than what you saw. That was only the beginning."

Lex shifted carefully in bed, wincing as pain flared. "Then maybe it's time someone started fighting back."

John smiled faintly. "You're either brave... or stupid."

"Maybe both."

A silence stretched between them—less tense this time.

John stood up. "Rest up. You'll need your strength."

He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "We'll talk more tomorrow. About your next steps. You've opened a door, Lex. And trust me... you're not closing it again."

Then he was gone.

Lex stared at the closed door long after the footsteps faded.

His body throbbed with exhaustion. His mind, though, was wide awake.

The world had just gotten darker.

But maybe—just maybe—he had a reason to keep moving.