Chapter 12
Lionel drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind caught in a haze that felt neither like sleep nor true wakefulness.
Some dim, stubborn part of him kept whispering that he should fight it—that it was dangerous to keep his eyes closed for too long in a place like this.
But each time he tried to claw his way up through the fog, his body felt too heavy, sinking deeper into the soft mattress beneath him.
When he finally managed to peel his eyelids open, he found himself in a small room that seemed almost cozy in a way that felt completely wrong.
Heavy curtains blocked out any hint of what time it was, and the candle burning nearby gave off a steady, gentle glow that never seemed to waver.
Lionel couldn’t tell how long he’d been lying there.
A blanket was snug around his shoulders, tucked carefully under his chin.
His head rested on something firm but warm, a subtle weight occasionally shifting beneath him.
It took him several moments to realize he wasn’t resting on a pillow at all.
His head was tucked gently onto Mads’ lap, the man seated cross-legged behind him, knees propped up to support Lionel’s weight.
The flickering candlelight on the nightstand cast long, swaying shadows across the walls, making it impossible to tell what time it was.
The curtains were drawn tight, and the air in the room seemed to hum with an unnatural stillness, like time had folded in on itself.
Lionel blinked slowly, the world swimming out of focus and back in again.
He felt disoriented and slightly feverish; the heat of his own body pooled beneath the blanket clashed with the cooler air on his exposed face.
Every now and then, he could feel Mads shift slightly, just enough to adjust the pressure on his lap without disturbing him.
At one point, Lionel stirred more fully, his body twitching as he instinctively tried to sit up. But gentle hands settled on his shoulders, guiding him back down with surprising strength.
Lionel’s head lolled back slightly, and he finally focused enough to see Mads’ face—tired but serene, his pale skin even paler in the golden light and full of soft lines, shadowed eyes, and his mouth moving in quiet words Lionel couldn’t quite catch.
Long, careful fingers combed through his hair, smoothing it back from his damp forehead.
The repetitive motion lulled him in spite of himself.
Whenever Lionel managed to blink away the blurriness, he stared up at the ceiling where their shadows twisted in the flickering candlelight.
His own silhouette stretched monstrously long, tangled up with Mads’ in a way that made his stomach clench.
For a breathless second, it looked like one of those creatures—too many limbs, shaped wrong, and moving when they shouldn’t.
Lionel’s heart stumbled in his chest. His whole body tensed, muscles going rigid as he prepared to scramble away. But Mads must have felt the sudden coil of panic, because one cool hand slid up and covered his eyes, blocking out the eerie shapes above them.
“Shh,” Mads whispered, his thumb brushing soothingly across Lionel’s temple. “Go back to sleep, Lionel. You’re safe.”
The words washed over him in a muffled wave, more felt than heard.
Lionel let out a shuddery breath, the tension in his shoulders slowly bleeding out beneath Mads’ gentle touch.
Mads’ hand slid down, gently covering his eyes with the soft press of his palm.
The hand over his eyes was grounding, the quiet hushes brushing against his ear too soothing to fight.
“Go back to sleep, Lionel.”
He let out a slow breath and turned his face slightly into Mads’ palm. He didn’t have much of a choice but to listen.
When he pulled himself out of unconsciousness the next time, he found himself propped up on his side with his head resting on an actual pillow. He sat up slightly, groaning as his head spun, and looked around for Mads.
The apartment he was in wasn’t the same as the one he had found—it was a studio, and he couldn’t spot any of their bags.
Lionel rubbed his head, wondering how the hell they even got here—he didn’t think Mads was strong enough to carry him all the way to a different unit.
But why would they leave the one he found to begin with?
The harder Lionel tried to think back on the moments before he passed out, the more his head hurt. He remembered the voice in his head, remembered Mads rushing over to him and holding him close, remembered the panic lacing his veins and the need to get out, he remembered the gun—
Lionel sat up fully at the memory, eyes going wide as he frantically looked around. Mads had to have grabbed the gun before he dragged Lionel here, right? But he couldn’t find it even as he checked all over the space around him. Maybe Mads had it on him, wherever he had disappeared off to.
Lionel nearly stumbled into the wall, his knees almost buckling, as he stood up.
The room spun around him, and he wondered if whatever had been whispering inside his mind had ripped out a chunk of his brain when it left.
Nausea slid up his throat as he steadied himself, but he swallowed it down and took a few steps over to the kitchen to look for water.
This place was far less stocked than the one he had found—it looked like only a single person had been living here before, based on how little food was stored.
But he found a plastic water bottle shoved into the back of the fridge.
It was tepid considering how long the fridge had been turned off, but it tasted wonderful as it quenched Lionel’s throat.
He knew he should save some of it, but in no time at all, the plastic was completely empty.
He sighed as he tossed it into the trash can and leaned his hands on the counter.
Lionel glanced over his shoulder at the front door, chewing lightly on the inside of his cheek.
Mads had been gone longer than he’d expected—long enough for Lionel’s mind to start inventing every gruesome possibility of what might have happened in the hallways outside.
But—speak of the devil—the doorknob turned a heartbeat later. The door creaked open, and Mads slipped inside, shoulders tense like he was ready to bolt if something followed him in.
His entire posture changed the instant he saw Lionel standing in the kitchen. His eyes went wide, relief and alarm warring across his face. “Lionel,” he breathed, his voice cracking just a bit.
Before Lionel could say a word, Mads crossed the distance in quick strides and cupped his cheek, the other hand bracing firmly against his lower back like he was terrified Lionel might disappear if he didn’t hold him in place.
His palm was cold, but his touch was gentle, thumbs brushing over Lionel’s skin as if checking for fever or injury.
“Are you okay? How are you feeling?” His voice was strained, slightly hoarse. It sounded like he’d been holding his breath for hours and could finally exhale.
Lionel blinked at the intensity of it, momentarily stunned. “My head hurts,” he admitted after a beat, leaning a little into Mads’ hand despite himself. “But I’m okay. I promise.”
Mads exhaled shakily, and his hands slid down to Lionel’s arms, gripping just above his elbows like he needed to ground himself.
Only then did Lionel really take in the fresh spatters of dark, drying blood on Mads’ hoodie and along his knuckles.
His stomach twisted. His eyes darted up to Mads’ face, searching for any sign of injury.
“What happened?” he asked, voice dropping low.
Mads hesitated, eyes flicking briefly toward the door before coming back to Lionel. He gave a tiny shake of his head, like he didn’t want to burden Lionel with the details. “Sit down, okay? I’ll get you some water.”
“I had some,” Lionel assured him. “How did we get here? What happened?” He repeated, stressing the words.
Mads paused for a moment, and Lionel could see his teeth grinding into his bottom lip. He lingered close, as if he still wasn’t quite convinced Lionel was safe, rocking back and forth on his heels.
“I…” Mads trailed off, seeming to debate his words.
“Remember when I said I think the monsters are adapting?” Lionel nodded in answer.
“They seemed to have realized that their regular shapes aren’t helpful and that they need to look human.
But they also seemed to have noticed that simply murdering and spilling blood isn’t the only way to harm a human. ”
Lionel’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Those voices you were hearing before—I believe they were coming from the monsters,” Mads explained.
“How?” Lionel asked. “There weren’t any around us when that was happening.
“Not that we could see,” Mads muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t know how they were doing it or why they were targeting you, but I think they’re adapting in more ways than before.”
“Did you encounter one?” Lionel asked, looking pointedly at Mads’ clothes again.
Mads nodded, frown hardening on his face.
Lionel suddenly remembered when Mads would only ever smile, remembered just a day ago when he had never seen the man scowl.
“It was shaped like a human and was trying to lure me in with a strange scent—it smelled like food.” Lionel’s pulse picked up at that—so it seemed like they couldn’t trust any of their senses here.
“But, right now at least, even when they look human, I don’t think they can say very much. ”
Lionel nodded. “The one that looked like a woman that I found could only seem to say a few words.”
“I think they can only mimic what they’ve heard.”
Lionel groaned and hung his head, staring down at the counter he was leaning heavily on. “This is fucking insane,” he said and huffed out a humorless chuckle.
“I know,” Mads murmured, stepping closer to him. His arm was warm, a solid weight against Lionel’s waist as he wrapped around him. Mads ducked his head and pressed his forehead to Lionel’s shoulder.
They stood like that for a long time. Lionel had never been one for physical comfort—he had always felt awkward giving friends and family hugs, didn’t like cuddling his partners after the deed was done, and barely even liked shaking a person’s hand.
So he didn’t know why Mads’ presence beside him felt so pleasant, why it had been so easy to touch him even immediately after they met.
“I think we should go down to the first floor,” Lionel said suddenly. He had barely thought the words before he was saying them.
“Hm?” Mads hummed in question.
“I was only told that it was impossible to get out through the doors downstairs,” Lionel said slowly. “I’m sure it’s a long shot, I’m sure they’re locked considering it seems like no one has come in at all either since everything began, but… I want to try for myself.”
Mads raised his head, face barely a couple of inches from Lionel’s as his eyes flicked over his features. He sighed eventually. “Okay, it doesn’t hurt to try, I guess.”
“Where’s all of our stuff?” Lionel asked, straightening up.
“I didn’t grab it,” Mads said sheepishly. “I just… was trying to get you away from the monsters.”
Lionel sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.
How were they meant to get to the first floor without even a single weapon?
He pulled away from Mads and started pulling open drawers, looking for anything that could be a weapon past a couple of steak knives.
Mads seemed to get the hint and walked over to the closets, starting to rifle through them.
Lionel managed to find one decent knife—a chef’s knife with a heft to it—and Mads came out of the closet with a metal valet rod he pulled off the closet wall. They weren’t the best weapons, but they would have to do.
It was only when they stepped out and Lionel saw the number plate on the door that he realized they were on the seventh floor.
He had gotten so turned around that he had no concept of where they even were at this point.
But when they walked out into the hallway, Lionel sighed in relief at how normal it looked.
The stairwell was only a few doors down, and nothing seemed too out of place.
“Let’s go,” Lionel murmured, tightening his grip on Mads’ hand.