Dev and Rowan had gotten off the subway and were now walking the last stretch toward Rowan’s apartment. The silence between them was heavy, but not uncomfortable—it carried weight, like both were still processing everything said on the ride over.
Dev’s thoughts lingered on Rowan’s confession. The voice. The guilt. The quiet horror of a man haunted not by screams, but by what was left unsaid. He remembered how, in the old timeline, Rowan had never once taken off his helmet operating behind his alias. Never shared his name. A man begging for forgiveness, yet too ashamed to ask for it.
He died hiding behind that mask, Dev thought, glancing sideways at him. Rowan’s gait was calm, focused—but Dev could see the strain behind it.
Not this time, Dev promised himself. It’ll be different this time.
They reached the base of a weathered apartment complex nestled between a laundromat and a corner bodega.
“This is my building,” Rowan said, stopping just outside the door.
Dev nodded, gaze lingering on the chipped paint and crooked buzzers. “Charming.”
Rowan gave him a look. “It’s rent-controlled.”
Dev made an approving “Hmm,” as if that somehow justified the visible water stains on the ceiling and the eternally suspicious hallway smell.
They entered the building, the door groaning on its hinges, and climbed a narrow flight of stairs. The overhead lights flickered like they were on their last breath.
Rowan paused in front of a scuffed door marked 3C, then pulled out a key and twisted it in the lock.
“Welcome to my humble lair,” he said dryly as he pushed the door open.
The inside wasn’t as bad as Dev expected. A bit sparse—minimal furniture a couch here and a table there with a few chairs around, walls mostly bare save for a wall-mounted TV and a few unframed blueprints taped near the kitchenette—Lived-in. but clean
“I didn’t peg you for the cleanly type,” Dev said, eyeing the surprisingly tidy floor.
“I’m not,” Rowan replied, raising his hand as a thin metal tendril uncoiled from his palm and retracted just as quickly. “The nanites clean. Recycle some of the raw materials to repair themselves.”
Dev pointed at his arm. “That the stuff your armor’s made of? Where did you even get it from”
“Bingo,” Rowan said. “And as for where I got them… you’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Rowan moved to the table, brushing aside papers and empty bowls, doing a cursory search with all the enthusiasm of someone who’d lost their keys for the fifth time that week.
He then turned to the couch and dropped to a knee, rummaging between the cushions. “Where did I put them…”
He stopped as he pulled something out from between the cushions. “There it is,” he murmured, holding up a handful of glowing stones of varying sizes, the largest about the size of a large gumball.
“Okay, here—mana stones,” Rowan said. “Now how is this supposed to help me gain access to the status window?”
“Well, first,” Dev said as he sat down in a chair, “you’ve got to keep your end of the bargain.”
“That wasn’t the deal,” Rowan replied.
“We never said who’d go first,” Dev countered, smirking. “Besides, for me to help you awaken, I need to create a concoction—and I only have enough materials for one dose.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small vial. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, slightly viscous, with an oily iridescence—wraithbeast spit.
“The process of core formation is a two-part thing,” Dev said. “You drink the concoction, and someone who knows how to form a core guides the mana through your body.”
He didn’t mention how, in the old timeline, researchers had developed the formula to let people form cores on their own. In theory, it worked. In practice? Not so much. Most people couldn’t guide the mana properly—it just fizzled out, leaving them right where they started: needing help.
But Dev wasn’t most people. He already knew how to handle mana.
“So here’s the plan,” he continued. “I’ll take the concoction first—form my core, then I’ll help you form yours. Should actually be easier for you anyway, since your armor can channel mana straight into your system.”
He paused, his expression shifting slightly. “But before any of that, I want the body restructuring procedure done. No telling if having a core already formed would mess with it. Better to get it out of the way.”
“The body restructuring procedure?” Rowan frowned. “What even is that? And how do you know all this?”
Dev shrugged. “the body restructuring procedure is the thing that made you so strong without mana and I told you—I saw it in a dream.”
What he didn’t say: he’d invented the damn thing. Patented it. Made a fortune off it in the old timeline before his death.
And yeah, it worked—mostly. The results were best on people who hadn’t awakened yet. After that, it was just diminishing returns. A pile of rare materials and bleeding-edge tech for a few boosted stats, maybe. Hardly worth it for most.
But for Dev, right now? It was a head start. And he needed every advantage he could get.
Rowan sighed. “Okay, fine. We’ll do it your way—if you’re so sure about this.”
He extended one hand and began drawing out a mass of nanites from beneath his skin. The silver-black swarm curled outward like smoke made solid, condensing into a sphere the size of a baseball in his palm.
“For your information,” Rowan said dryly, “what made me strong were these nanites. Now, according to us, they should give you the same modifications as me. They’ll go into your body, do their thing, and return to me when they’re done.”
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Dev blinked. “Us?.”
“You’ll figure it out soon. But first,” Rowan added, “you’re going to need to go to the bathtub.”
Dev tilted his head questioningly but followed him to the bathroom without argument.
Rowan turned and gave him a very suspicious-sounding instruction. “Now strip down to your boxers.”
Dev immediately made a face—one that clearly said I don’t swing that way.
Rowan rolled his eyes. “Not like that, you idiot.” He sighed, gesturing vaguely. “The way the nanites altered me happened gradually—over the course of a few months. But for you, they’re going to be performing months of internal changes in just a few hours. So unless you want your clothes messed up, that’s my recommendation.”
“…Fair point,” Dev muttered, reluctantly complying. It was awkward peeling his pants off over the cast, but he managed, then eased himself into the bathtub with a sigh.
Rowan stepped aside as the nanites pulsed faintly in his palm.
“Now, before they go in—any requests?” he asked. “More handsome? Taller? Buffer? Maybe a bigger di—”
“Nothing like that,” Dev cut in quickly, holding up a hand. “I like how I look. I like being human too. Keep all the changes internal if you can.”
Rowan gave a half-smirk. “Suit yourself.”
Without further ceremony, he tossed the compact nanite cluster toward Dev. The silver mass hit his chest and dispersed instantly, slipping through his pores and vanishing beneath his skin like a splash of quicksilver.
Dev jolted slightly as the sensation rippled through him—but then his eyes widened.
Because a voice had just echoed in his head.
"Hello, other Hooman. My name is General Xy’Rosh, Supreme Strategist of the Varnian Dominion—a highly advanced being who you should be very grateful to for doing this."
Dev turned to Rowan, startled. “Am I supposed to be—”
“Yes,” Rowan cut in flatly, already smirking. “He’s just adorable, isn’t he?”
"I understand sarcasm, Hooman," Xy’Rosh’s voice crackled, audible to both of them now. "Watch it. Now, boy—I'm operating this segment of the cluster remotely, so I won’t be in your head for long. I’ll be putting you to sleep shortly and temporarily dulling your pain center so you don’t start screaming and have someone in this ratty complex call the authorities."
Dev blinked. “...Make Sen—?”
And that was all he managed to say before his eyes started drooping and his consciousness faded
At first, there was nothing.
No weight. No breath. No sound. Just the sensation of stillness stretched across an endless void.
Then came the spark.
It bloomed in his spine, a low ember that spread like wildfire. Heat threaded through his nerves, coiling around muscles, winding through ligaments, latching onto bone. Not pain. The kind of sensation that felt like being sculpted from the inside out.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Just Dream
and he could feel.
Tiny things—millions of them—slid beneath his skin. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there. Slithering between muscle fibers. Curling through blood vessels. Reinforcing, replacing, optimizing. Each one left behind a trail of fire and ice. He felt a small pressure in his forearm that disappeared as soon as it came
He felt his muscles pull tight like cables under tension. Fibers weaving into denser threads. Bone hardened like diamond, layer by layer, with a deep humming pressure. Tendons twisted themselves into cleaner shapes. Skin thickening. His heart beat once—then again, stronger, faster, steadier.
His body was being rewritten.
Vision flickered behind his eyelids—shapes, schematics, pulses of light that mapped out a human form not as it was, but as it could be. Something evolved. Precision-forged. Built to endure.
He was floating, suspended in a silhouette shaped like himself but sharper—leaner, heavier, more capable. He felt aligned. As if the bones now knew where to sit, the muscles how to pull, the blood where to go.
Heat surged again, this time blooming behind his ribs like a second heartbeat. His breath caught—not in his lungs, but in the memory of lungs. His body wasn’t moving, but everything inside him was alive.
Then the spark began to dim.
Not fading. Settling. Sinking into place like scaffolding locking in a final piece.
As his body settled, Dev’s eyes snapped open.
For a moment, he just lay there, blinking at the ceiling. Everything felt… lighter. Like gravity had loosened its grip on him. His limbs no longer dragged with exhaustion—they moved, like they wanted to go somewhere. Like they were waiting for his command.
He glanced down and saw a thin line snaking from his arm into an IV bag, now nearly empty. He didn’t remember Rowan setting that up.
Then it hit him.
The hunger.
It slammed into him like a truck. His stomach twisted violently, hollow and growling like it hadn’t seen food in weeks. His heart rate spiked. Adrenaline surged. His body, supercharged and freshly rewired, kicked into fight-or-flight—and it chose fight.
Dev exploded out of the bathtub with a burst of motion that would've made an Olympic sprinter flinch. He skidded into the hallway barefoot, instinct leading him straight to the kitchen.
The fridge door flew open.
He grabbed the first thing he saw—a gallon of milk—and ripped the cap off with his teeth. He chugged it like a man possessed, like his body was trying to absorb the calories before they even hit his stomach.
As the gallon of milk drained, Dev’s vision sharpened—edges crisper, colors brighter. He was still ravenous, but no longer consumed by it. The worst had passed.
Still chewing, he dove back into the fridge, grabbing whatever looked remotely edible. Cold cuts, grapes, half a leftover sandwich—it all went into his mouth as fast as it came out of the fridge.
Mid-bite, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He spun around, cheeks puffed with food, ready to throw hands if necessary—only to find Rowan standing there with one brow raised.
“Hey,” Rowan said dryly, “I’ve got actual food in the living room. I got a large Neapolit—”
The fridge door slammed shut before he could finish.
Dev vanished from the kitchen in a blur, bounding into the living room like his life depended on it.
“—an pizza,” Rowan finished, watching Dev, still in nothing but boxers, drop onto the couch and start devouring the steaming pie like it was the closest thing to ambrosia on Earth. “Extra chicken,” he added, almost to himself.
Rowan sighed, heading into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, grabbed a beer, and cracked it open. Alcohol didn’t affect him anymore but he still liked to pretend it did.
He walked back to the living room, beer in hand, as Dev was working his way through slice number five. By the time he hit six, he started slowing down, blinking like his brain had finally caught up with his body.
“You could’ve warned me I’d be this hungry after,” Dev said, wiping bright orange sauce from his chin, which—dribbling down like blood—made him look less like a guy recovering from a procedure and more like a pizza-hunting vampire.
“Honestly, I had a feeling,” Rowan admitted, flopping into the chair across from him. “But I didn’t think it’d be this bad. For me, it was more of a gradual thing. Appetite spiked over time—not... whatever that was.”
“Makes sense,” Dev muttered, picking at a crust. “Yours happened over months. Mine happened in a few hours. The sudden metabolic shift alone probably put me into a hypoglycemic frenzy. If it weren’t for the IV bags you had hooked up, I might’ve actually died from low blood sugar. Maybe even malnutrition.”
“Yeah, you can thank Xy’Rosh for the tip on those,” Rowan said. “And Mrs. Hernandez upstairs. She’s an ER nurse. Likes to help out some of the people in the building.”
He nodded toward the trash can near the kitchenette. Dev followed his gaze—and blinked at the sight of five discarded IV bags piled inside.
“…Damn,” Dev muttered. “She just had that many on hand?”
Rowan nodded, taking a sip of his beer. “Yeah. She’s also taking care of her grandmother upstairs—lady’s on hospice, so they keep a lot of medical supplies stocked. IV bags, glucose, saline—you name it.”
“Convenient,” Dev said, finishing his seventh slice and reaching for the last.
“Anyway,” Rowan continued, “when you’re done with that, I’ve got a forty-piece box of boneless wings and a mountain of fries. If you’re still hungry after that, there’s a bodega downstairs you can raid. Or, you know, maybe use that magical little device in your pocket and order something.”
“For a guy who didn’t think this would happen, you came prepared, huh?” Dev replied, licking sauce off his thumb.
“The wings were for me, man. I still gotta eat.”
Dev, mouth full, gave a muffled thumbs-up. “You’re a good man, Rowan Pierce.”
“I try to be,” Rowan said with a scoff, cracking open another beer as he slumped into the armchair across from him.
