He spat out his mouth but didn't swallow. The metallic flavor stayed on the back of his tongue, pennies staying too long in the pocket of a child.
Edward stood frozen, gripping the lip of the water in his hand until his knuckles were white, until his face was no longer his. It glared back at him now—not with venom, but patience. The patience that is waiting for a moment of weakness.
"You said this would not make me who I am," Edward panted.
"I said it would keep you alive."
The disparity stung. He scraped his lip against the crease on the back of his arm, jaws clenched hard, and stumbled off into blackness.
He didn't remember sitting.
The apartment, silently crooked and unlit, was strange. He hadn't switched on a light. Shadows collected near the edge of the ceiling, and for a moment he thought—hoped—he saw one move.
He wouldn't glance again.
Instead, he fell to the ground. Cold ground. Grounding. But that was wrong too. His palms absorbed it all these days—the micro-textures, the dust, the weak hum of vibrations from the street below. His core shifted, as if the world swiveled three degrees in a single movement.
His heart beat not in his wrists, but along his ribcage.
"You feel it?" the Shadow Man inquired. Not sneering—nearly amazed.
"Something's crawling under my skin."
"Rebuilding, not crawling."
Edward rested a hand on his thigh again, trying to regulate his breathing. The muscle underneath wasn't his anymore. It responded too easily, growing tight on mere thought of movement. Overamped nervous system.
He bunched his fingers. Watched the tendons in his forearm stiffen under the skin.
No swelling. None at all.
Just bulk. As if something had sucked out the waste from the tissue with a vacuum cleaner.
"What if I don't want it?" he told her, not to quarrel—but to admit. Still. Truly. A man to walk the edge of something huge.
"You did not ask for it," the Shadow Man told him, almost kindly. "But the moment that you survived what was intended to kill you, your body started. All that I am doing is leading."
Edward exhaled through his nose, slow. "I don't think that makes it any better."
"It makes it real."
Edward had nearly called someone. To hear the ring of a human sound. Out there. But who? Who could look at him and not recognize it—the pain in his bones, the knotting of his muscles, the stretching of his body to a higher octane?
He could hear the refrigerator now, humming along. He knew the electricity hadn't been off before. He had. By himself.
Got up and walked to the fridge. Opened it. Last night's leftover meat inside. Prepared himself for revulsion. But found something worse.
Curiosity.
He reached into the plate and pulled out a morsel of cooked liver. Had cooled, thickened on the edges. Ate it anyway. Chewed. Swallowed. Not that he was hungry—but because his body recognized use.
The act of chewing quieted something.
"You'll need more soon," said the Shadow Man.
Edward gazed at the rest of the liver. Then shut the door.
"Not yet."
No protest this time.
Instead, silence—akin to approval.
Later, Edward was at the window again. The sky remained black, but the edges were fading. Dawn was on its way, slow and gray. The kind of morning that didn't promise warmth, only exposure.
He noticed a man cross the street with his dog. The leash was loose. The dog tugged merrily. The man smiled—something light and fragile in morning quiet.
Edward retreated from the glass.
That man did not have threads trailing behind his ribs.
He showered. Hot water, hotter than he preferred. But it still didn't relieve the stiffness of his back. His reflection behind the steam on the mirror rippled, reformed.
He gazed at it once more.
Still Edward.
Still him.
But the collarbones stuck out more emphatically now. His shoulders were higher, as though the muscle there had strained tight through the night. There were new shadows under his pectorals—not from light, but from form. Tightly packed, lean, sharp.
You'd never see unless you were looking.
But he was.
And the Shadow Man?
He said nothing.
Not for a very long time.
Until Edward lay back in bed, wet hair on the pillow, arms folded across his chest like for burial.
"You'll dream again this night."
Edward closed his eyes. "Will I dream of strings?"
A silence.
"No," said the Shadow Man gently. "Of what they connect to."