Chapter 21
Lionel followed Mads without really feeling his feet hit the carpet. The building was too quiet now. Each of his breaths echoed off the wallpaper like it didn’t belong to him. His mind had gone fuzzy, a fog stretching over each thought before they could fully land.
Mads’ hand was warm around his, his thumb tracing idle circles into Lionel’s skin, and every few steps he glanced over with that unsettling, pleased smile. It looked wrong in the middle of all this ruin.
“Almost there,” Mads hummed.
Lionel didn’t ask where ‘there’ was. He didn’t find that he really cared.
His eyes slid over the numbered doors, the familiar scuffs on the molding, the faint scratches he’d once promised to repaint.
Everything looked the same, but off, as if someone had gutted the building and filled it back up with the idea of an apartment complex instead of the real thing.
A scream tore down the hallway. Lionel’s head jerked in the direction automatically, but he didn’t stop.
A man was half in, half out of the wall and clawing at the plaster with bloodied fingers, his chest heaving.
Lionel knew him. He lived in unit 708 and always complained about his AC filters.
Hank, or maybe Harold—Henry? Lionel couldn’t remember even as the man locked eyes with him, his mouth working around a sob.
“Please,” he rasped, stretching a hand toward Lionel. “Help me—”
Lionel kept walking. His body didn’t even twitch toward the man, his gaze only flicking over the scene the same way he’d skimmed gore on a movie screen. His stomach didn’t turn. He only noticed Mads squeezing his hand tighter, humming faintly under his breath.
Behind them, the sound cut off with a wet crunch. Lionel didn’t look back.
They passed another door where there were screams again, higher-pitched this time.
It had been a while since Lionel had heard screams like this, like the first day of this apocalypse when they were filled with not only pain but terror of the unknown.
The monsters must have been coming out of the woodwork again, probably sick of the slow process of tricking humans into trusting them in order to destroy them.
Mads tugged gently on his hand. “Don’t get stuck staring.”
Lionel blinked, realizing he’d stopped in the hall, looking into an apartment with the door hanging open. He caught Mads’ red eyes, soft and amused. The smile hadn’t wavered.
“You shouldn’t be worried,” Mads said, answering a question Lionel hadn't asked, leaning closer as though sharing a secret. “They won’t attack you if you’re with me.”
Lionel swallowed and nodded, though the motion felt disconnected from the rest of him. His voice rasped out, foreign in his own throat, “Guess you’re right.”
They kept moving even as another shriek rang out.
Lionel knew he should care, should tense, should feel the urge to run, but all he felt was the pressure of Mads’ fingers laced through his.
When they reached the end of the corridor, Mads stopped.
He turned to Lionel fully, cupping his face with one cool palm.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, eyes bright.
“I knew you would.” Lionel didn’t ask what that meant.
He only stood there, dizzy and quiet, while another survivor’s screams thinned out into silence somewhere behind them.
Mads finally stopped in front of a door Lionel didn’t recognize. He had been through every unit in this building at one point or another, fixing leaky faucets and bad wiring, but this one didn’t spark any memory. The number plate had been rubbed blank, the metal scratched smooth.
Mads let go of Lionel’s hand just long enough to twist the knob, and the door opened without a sound.
Inside was ordinary: a living room, clean and bright, with a faint scent of citrus. It looked untouched by the chaos outside, as if the world had ended in every apartment but this one. Books lined neat shelves, the couch cushions were fluffed, and a lamp glowed warmly in the corner.
Lionel stepped inside on autopilot, his body sagging under the strange, manufactured calm. The door clicked shut behind him.
Mads guided him toward the couch, pressing gently on his shoulder until Lionel sank down. Then he perched beside him, close enough their knees brushed, still smiling that too-bright smile.
“See?” Mads said softly. “Safe.”
Lionel stared at the carpet fibers. His hands were empty now, and they twitched against his knees like they didn’t know what to do. His mouth worked for words, but all that came out was, “People are dying out there.”
Mads tilted his head, expression almost puzzled. “Yes.”
Lionel waited for more—for fear, for grief, for anything he could mistake for human in Mads’ expression—but Mads just reached over and took his hand again, intertwining their fingers. His thumb traced slow circles against Lionel’s knuckles.
“You don’t have to watch them anymore,” Mads murmured. “You don’t have to save anyone. Just stay here until it's all over.”
Lionel’s chest tightened, but not with panic. It was something hollow. He thought he should argue, insist he couldn’t just sit here while those people screamed—but he couldn’t summon the words. He had seen the faces, the hands reaching, the bodies torn apart, and he hadn’t moved.
Mads leaned closer, close enough that his pale lashes brushed Lionel’s temple. “You feel it, don’t you?” he whispered. “It’s safe here, I promise.”
Lionel’s throat worked. He wanted to deny it, but the silence of the apartment pressed soft and heavy around him, drowning everything out.
The couch dipped as Mads shifted even closer, thigh pressed firm against Lionel’s.
He hadn’t let go of his hand. If anything, his grip had grown tighter, afraid Lionel might slip away if he loosened his hold.
Lionel stared at the opposite wall. The picture frames there weren’t familiar. He didn’t know whose apartment this was supposed to be. For a moment, he thought maybe he had done repairs here once, but the memory slid away when he reached for it.
“You look tired,” Mads said gently.
Lionel blinked at the wall. His tongue felt thick. “I guess.”
“Rest, then. You’ve done enough.”
Lionel almost laughed at that, but the sound caught in his throat.
Enough. He’d fixed pipes that never stayed fixed, patched drywall where cats clawed through, painted over stains that bled back within days.
And now he’d walked past those neighbors with their hands outstretched, their voices breaking against his silence.
His eyes dropped to their joined hands. Mads’ skin was pale, the veins faint and delicate beneath. His thumb stroked rhythmically across Lionel’s knuckles, steady, unrelenting, like the tick of a clock.
“Why are you smiling?” Lionel asked finally, voice low.
Mads turned toward him, grin softening into something that looked almost tender. “Because you’re still here.”
Lionel exhaled through his nose, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s all it takes?”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched. Lionel listened to it, the way it pressed against his ears. His body sagged against the couch, too heavy to hold upright. Mads leaned in when his shoulder slumped, guiding his head to rest against him, and Lionel let it happen.
“You don’t have to carry any responsibility anymore,” Mads murmured, voice close to his ear. “You don’t have to do anything.” He let out a soft laugh. “This isn’t actually a horror movie, Lionel, you don’t have to be the hero.”
Lionel’s eyes drifted shut, lids gritty with exhaustion. The hand that wasn’t clutched in Mads’ curled loosely against his thigh. He felt like he was floating, like maybe he wasn’t in his body at all, just like the building.
Somewhere in that haze, Mads pressed his lips lightly to his hairline. The touch was brief, almost reverent. “You’re mine,” he said softly.
Lionel didn’t argue.