"If you want me to talk, I want beef."
Under Ethan Kane’s astonished gaze, Petra Marlowe didn't wait for a response. She dragged her forearm across her face, wiping away the greasy residue of her last meal with a blunt, desperate movement.
She was a walking contradiction. Lost in the ruins of her pampered life, she tried to survive by clinging to a crude imitation of manners, yet she performed them with the back of her hand like a common street rat. The truth was, Petra was unraveling. The realization had finally set in: no one was coming for her. Felix Grayson wouldn't make it here in forty-eight hours, and even if Senior Grayson did somehow track them down, his priority wouldn't be her safety. The cold, calculated tone of his voice on that radio transmission still echoed in her mind. Hope was a luxury she couldn't afford; it was just despair in a prettier dress.
Ethan's harsh words had carved a brutal truth into her: she only had herself. Survival forty-eight hours from now was an abstract nightmare she couldn't solve, but she could manage the next ten minutes.
She snatched the water bottle from Ethan's hand, twisted the cap off with a frantic wrench, and guzzled. The cold liquid rushed down her throat, bringing an unexpected surge of raw, animal satisfaction. Forget dignity, forget etiquette. Eating her fill and washing it down was a primal high that briefly drowned out the agony of abandonment.
She tilted her chin up, a sudden spark of her old defiance returning. "I'm full now. If you're not in a hurry, you can wait until I'm starving again to dangle your scraps. But if you want to know anything now, I set the conditions."
A sharp snort cut through the dark room.
Dean Brennan was leaning against the wall, chuckling. Even in a high-stakes standoff, the rogue couldn't keep his smirk hidden. He had watched the entire exchange, amused by Ethan's desperate attempt to barter his only leverage—rations—for information. But seeing the high-and-mighty Miss Marlowe instantly flip the script and corner the boy? That was pure gold. Dean held a grudge; Ethan's threat from earlier was still raw. Seeing the kid get put in his place was a treat.
Ethan cut a glance toward Dean, his jaw tightening. It wasn't the mockery that annoyed him. It was the collapse of his leverage. He had needed Petra's knowledge of the Lampbearers to figure out their next move. If he could prove his worth, he wouldn't be dead weight. In this cutthroat survival game, he needed Dean and Flint to see him as an asset, not a liability they'd dump at the first sign of trouble. Yesterday's bluff wouldn't work a second time.
With Dean watching like a hawk, the subtle interrogation was dead. Petra hadn't given him enough to piece together a real plan anyway. His understanding of the wider world was too narrow.
Time to pivot.
"Two bags of beef," Ethan said, turning back to her.
Petra's eyes flashed with triumph. She thought she'd won. "What do you want to know?"
"Nothing," Ethan whispered, keeping his voice beneath the threshold of Dean's hearing. "Do you want to sleep?"
Petra froze. A sudden, furious flush crept up her neck, turning her cheeks crimson. "You... you disgusting, shameless bastard!" She lunged, her hand swinging toward his face.
Ethan's hand shot out, clamping around her wrist like a vice. "I'm asking a practical question. Why the hell are you screaming?"
Across the room, Dean's chuckles erupted into a full belly laugh. He couldn't hear the whisper, but Petra's explosive reaction painted a very clear picture. The kid's barely got some meat in his belly and he's already trying to negotiate a bed partner. Even Flint Voss, currently sprawled on the floor and snoring like a chainsaw, let out a muffled snicker. Nobody was actually asleep.
"If you don't want to sleep, I do," Ethan said, letting go of her wrist and keeping his tone flatly professional.
Petra's anger faltered. She blinked, realizing she had misread the room. It was literal sleep. She scowled, convincing herself he was just backpedaling to save face. "Then sleep! Who's stopping you? Why do you need to ask me?"
Ethan leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur. "Two bags of beef. All you have to do is watch me. If I fall asleep and start acting strange—if anything looks wrong, I don't care what you have to do—wake me up immediately."
This was his only play. Since he couldn't offer strategic brilliance, he had to secure his personal power. He needed to dive back into the Voidseep. But the agonizing soreness from yesterday had warned him: his subconscious actions in the dream, like mimicking the devouring maw of the Voidseep, were manifesting in his physical body. If he started convulsing or snapping his jaws in his sleep, Dean and Flint would put a bullet in his head before he woke up.
He had to hide his connection to the Voidseep. Petra—the spoiled "Bandit" who had nowhere else to turn—was the only observer he could trust to act as a shield.
Petra frowned, her brow furrowing. "What do you mean, 'wrong'? Like sleepwalking?"
"Close enough."
"You're not using 'sleepwalking' as a cover to do something creepy, are you?" Her eyes narrowed with deep suspicion.
Ethan let out a weary sigh. He pointed a finger directly at his own cheek. "If I do, hit me. Right here. As hard as you can."
Petra's expression shifted. A flicker of genuine anticipation danced in her eyes. "Deal."
The eager look in her eyes left Ethan with little doubt that she would find an excuse to deck him even if he slept like a baby. But survival didn't leave room for hesitation. He swallowed a few dry mouthfuls of food, leaned back into the dusty corner, and closed his eyes.
Within minutes, his breathing slowed, and he slipped under.
The dreamscape welcomed him with its familiar, suffocating dark.
Before him, the cold ripples shimmered. This was only his third descent into this abyssal space, yet his feet moved with a strange, muscle-memory confidence. He stepped forward and touched the distortion.
The familiar, piercing chill flooded his veins. But where it had once felt like a shocking relief, it now felt... normal. He had adapted to it.
That realization carried a quiet dread. He was slowly shedding his humanity, adapting to the cold of the void.
He raised his palm, and the Voidseep bled outward, pooling in his hand. But this time, as the liquid darkness coalesced into a sphere, those horrific, dual rows of teeth materialized instantly. The power was adapting to him just as he was adapting to it.
Even stranger, the black sphere felt larger now. It throbbed with a stronger, more distinct pulse of vitality.
Ethan kept his fingers still. He didn't dare poke it again; he remembered too well how it had dissolved in offense during their last encounter. The barrier wasn't power; it was communication.
"Thank you for saving me," Ethan said aloud, his voice swallowed by the void.
He didn't know if the Voidseep was slowly hollowing out his soul, but it had pulled his life out of the fire twice. That deserved acknowledgment. Besides, even with cosmic horrors, a little politeness couldn't hurt. Maybe the little sphere would be in a better mood.
The sphere remained silent. The teeth didn't snap or grind, but Ethan felt an invisible, heavy gaze locking onto him. He held his hand steady, enduring the silence.
Eventually, his arm began to ache from holding the pose. That was when the sphere finally moved.
It didn't speak. It opened.
Its internal maw was a deeper, absolute nothingness. From that dark throat, a single thread began to spool outward. It was impossibly thin, like a strand of black monofilament fishing line.
The sight sent a jolt of recognition through Ethan's mind. The Voidstrider.
Before he could analyze it, the black thread slithered onto his palm, winding itself around his wrist and crawling up his forearm. It didn't burn or bite; it simply fused with his skin, leaving a dark, coiled brand.
"How do I use this?" Ethan asked, unable to stop himself.
As expected, there was no answer. The sphere dissolved into a liquid shadow, slipping through his fingers and vanishing into the floor.
Another sudden exit. But Ethan didn't panic.
He sat in the quiet dark, piecing the clues together. The first time, he had fled in terror. The second time, he had put his finger in its mouth and learned the instinct to bite. This time, it had branded his wrist before disappearing.
The entity was teaching him, using its own primitive, non-verbal language.
He turned his wrist, studying the coiled black thread. It looked exactly like the fibrous, writhing tendrils that had made up the anatomy of the Voidstrider he had killed on that first night.
A theory began to take root. When that Voidstrider died, it had left behind a tiny black pearl. Had his Voidseep absorbed it while he was unconscious?
If so, the Voidseep wasn't just a shield—it was a crucible. It could consume the remains of other void creatures and refine them into tools for him to wield.
His heart hammered against his ribs. A spark of fierce, desperate hope ignited in his chest. If this theory held true, then the path to strength was clear: the more Voidstriders he destroyed, the more power he could siphoning.
He couldn't bring himself to kill humans for power. Even with his emotions blunted, he wasn't a monster. But hunting the things that had terrorized his nightmares for eighteen years? He would gladly slaughter them to the last.
But first, he had to make the thread move.
He focused every shred of his willpower onto the branded wrist. Move, he commanded silently. Flicker. Reach.
The black line remained inert, like ink dried onto skin.
Ethan refused to yield. He closed his eyes within the dream, narrowing his consciousness down to a single, hyper-focused point. The mental strain was immense, drawing beads of sweat across his forehead and making his vision swim.
Just as his concentration began to fracture, slipping into a dizzy haze—
The thread twitched.