Chapter 49 #2
Henrik’s voice breaks. “I knew the consequences,” he admits, tears streaking down his face.
“I knew it was unstable. I warned him. I told him it could destroy a nervous system, that it could… distort everything it touched. I did not know—” his breath shudders— “I did not know he would experiment it on you. I didn’t know ásgeir would experiment on his own son. ”
Lucan’s hands curl slowly into fists.
Henrik keeps talking, desperate now, trying to build a bridge out of words while the floor is on fire. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I am so fucking sorry. I can’t undo it, I can’t—”
Lucan takes a step forward.
The air in the room feels like it tightens, compressing around him, around the words that have just been spoken. I made it. The confession hangs there, poisonous, irreversible.
Something in Lucan fractures.
Not explosively. Not loud.
It’s worse than that.
His shoulders roll back slowly, like a predator resetting its stance.
His breathing deepens, not ragged, not panicked, but heavy, deliberate, every inhale dragging fury into his lungs and every exhale bleeding restraint out of him.
His hands curl into fists so tight the tendons stand out, cords pulled taut beneath skin.
“You made it,” he says through the filter which hums.
His voice is low. Flat. Deadly.
Henrik nods frantically, tears streaming unchecked now. “Yes,” he whispers. “I did. I did. And I—”
Lucan moves.
In a blink he’s at the counter, fingers closing around a familiar vial and syringe with terrifying certainty. The same liquid he chose before. Clear. Thick. Faintly shimmering silver when it catches the light.
Eidolon.
My stomach drops through the floor.
Henrik sees it and breaks.
“No—no, please—” he sobs, thrashing against the restraints, chair screeching against metal as panic finally obliterates whatever composure he had left. “Vapor, please—don’t—don’t do this. Don’t be like me—”
Lucan turns back toward him slowly, vial held up between two fingers like something precious.
“You built this,” he says calmly.
Henrik shakes his head violently. “I didn’t know it would be you—”
Lucan steps closer.
“Then you should know what it feels like,” he says, and there is no rage in his tone now. Just certainty. “What you made.”
Henrik screams.
A raw, animal sound tears out of him as Lucan stops directly in front of the chair and presses the needle tip lightly against the skin of Henrik’s neck. Not piercing. Just resting there. A promise.
I scream behind the tape, my body bucking forward instinctively, the rope biting so hard into my throat that black spots explode across my vision. My wrists burn. My knees slip on blood-slick metal. None of it matters.
Lucan’s attention never leaves Henrik.
“You should feel it where it matters,” Lucan murmurs. “Close to the brain. Close to the spine. Let it eat you the way it eats me.”
Henrik sobs uncontrollably now, breath hitching, chest heaving. “Please,” he gasps. “Please, Vapor—I’ll do anything—anything—just don’t—”
Lucan leans in.
The needle presses harder.
And then—
Henrik moves.
It’s ugly. Desperate. Not clever—just fueled by the kind of terror that breaks bones before it accepts death. He jerks violently to the side, wrenching his arm against the restraint with a scream of pain as something gives.
A wet, sickening crack fills the room.
Henrik’s wrist twists at an impossible angle.
He howls, but his hand is free.
In the same motion, with shaking fingers slick with sweat and blood, he rips a small injector from where it’s been hidden against his thigh, clutched in his palm this entire time like a last prayer.
Lucan barely has time to register it.
Henrik lunges forward with every ounce of strength left in him and slams the injector into Lucan’s side, driving it home with a sobbing, broken scream.
Lucan grunts.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just a sharp, involuntary sound as the counteragent floods into his system.
Henrik collapses back into the chair, gasping, wrist hanging uselessly, eyes wild with terror and hope. “The antagonist,” he pants. “Counteragent—please—please work—”
Lucan stumbles back one step.
Then another.
His hand flies to the injection site, fingers clawing at his own flesh like he can rip the chemical out. His breathing fractures instantly; deep control shattering into harsh, uneven gasps.
“No,” he growls, voice warping. “No—”
The syringe slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor.
The change is immediate and violent.
Lucan’s posture collapses inward, shoulders jerking as tremors tear through his frame. His jaw clenches so hard I hear teeth grind. Veins stand out along his neck as his nervous system revolts, amplification crashing into suppression in a brutal collision.
He staggers.
His knee hits the floor with a heavy thud.
I sob behind the tape, chest convulsing, unable to look away, unable to stop watching him break.
Lucan’s hands slam against the metal floor, fingers splayed, body shaking uncontrollably now. His breath comes in ragged pulls, like his lungs can’t decide whether to fight or surrender.
“Lucan,” I try to scream.
It comes out as a muffled, broken sound that tears at my throat.
He lifts his head once, eyes wild and unfocused, fury and pain and something terrifyingly human warring in his expression.
Then his arms give out.
Lucan collapses fully, his body hitting the floor hard, limbs jerking once, twice, before going still.
The emergency lights continue their steady red pulse.
My father sobs openly now, shoulders shaking, his broken wrist dangling uselessly as he stares at Lucan’s unmoving form like he can’t decide if he’s just saved us or condemned us all.