They moved like ghosts through the deepening jungle twilight, putting miles between themselves and the pillar of smoke that marked Lily's former tomb. The only sounds were their footfalls, the distant, dying alarms, and Lily's shallow, ragged breathing.
Maya walked beside Wolfen, her gaze not on the path, but on his profile. The usual lazy amusement was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out intensity that was somehow worse than anger. It was the look of a bomb after the explosion, just the casing and the silence.
"Wolfen," she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. "What did you see in there?"
He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on the darkening path ahead, but he didn't ignore the question. He knew everyone was listening, their breaths held.
"I was reminded," he said, his voice so flat it seemed to drain the warmth from the air, "why I was created. And why I'm still alive."
The words hung in the humid air, simple and devastating. No elaboration. No dramatic story. Just a cold, hard truth that settled over the group like a leaden cloak. No one asked for more. They had seen Lily's eyes. They could imagine the rooms that made eyes like that.
They walked until the moon was high, driven by a silent, shared urgency. Finally, in a small, hidden clearing by a trickling stream, Wolfen stopped. "Here."
He didn't create fire with a thought or a snap. He knelt, gathered dry tinder and wood with his hands, and started a fire the old way—with focused friction from a piece of Umbralite against stone, creating a shower of intense, focused sparks. The physicality of it, the mundane effort, was more unnerving than any display of power. It was a man forcing himself to do something simple to keep from doing something cataclysmic.
They sat around the fledgling flames. Lily huddled against Eva, shivering despite the tropical heat, her eyes still glazed but now occasionally tracking the firelight.
Without a word, Wolfen stood and melted back into the jungle. He returned half an hour later. In his hand was a single, lean rabbit. No fanfare, no hunting story. Just protein.
He forged a simple, dark Umbralite pot, filled it with water from the stream, and began to prepare a stew with the rabbit and some pungent, edible roots and greens he'd foraged. His movements were precise, efficient, devoid of any of his usual theatrical flair. He was providing sustenance, not putting on a show.
When it was cooked, he silently handed the pot to Eva.
Eva carefully fed Lily small spoonfuls. The girl ate mechanically at first, then, as the warm, simple broth hit her system, a faint, desperate hunger seemed to awaken. She ate more eagerly, a tiny flicker of animal need in the vast emptiness of her shock.
Through it all, Wolfen sat apart, staring into the heart of the fire he'd built with his own hands.
And they all saw it.
The rage.
It wasn't a hot, shouting anger. It was a cold, bottomless, geological hatred that burned in his golden eyes, reflected in the flames. It was the hatred of a foundational force for the corruption built upon it. It made the air around him feel thin and charged. The jovial, sarcastic guide was gone. In his place sat something ancient and vengeful, using the simple acts of making fire and stew as anchors to keep from unraveling the world.
They felt it then—a monstrous presence. Not the shambling horror of the infected, not the calculated evil of the Architects, but something purer and more terrifying: purpose. A will so absolute it had its own gravity.
Maya, the one most intimately acquainted with inner monsters, felt a jolt of primal fear. The entity within her, the Omega, didn't stir with challenge, but with a warning shriek that echoed in her soul: RUN.
But the source of the monstrous presence wasn't lurking in the trees. It was sitting right there, across the fire.
It was Wolfen.
He was planning. The jokes were armor, and the armor was off. The lazy power was being gathered, focused, and aimed. He was looking into the fire and seeing not logs, but blueprints for ruin. The rescue of a single broken girl had not been an act of mercy. It had been the lighting of a fuse.
He had been reminded why he was created. To break things. And now, with a cold, clear hatred they had never seen before, he was remembering how.