Chapter 18: Confrontation

Alarms blared through the facility, shrill and unrelenting, echoing off the cold metal walls as Rhys stood over the shattered console. His fist throbbed from the impact, his breath came in ragged bursts, and a flash of clarity cut through the haze clouding his mind.

Why did I do that?

He blinked, his eyes fixed on the broken remains of the equipment at his feet. Punching the console had been irrational. Stupid. A reckless outburst, driven by something he didn't fully understand. The voices in his head—it had to be them. Whispers that slithered through his thoughts, turning his decisions rash and impulsive. He was losing control.

How could I be so short-sighted?

Rhys shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He knew that to find Jax in this labyrinth of cold metal and endless corridors, he would need information. The Necrolythians wouldn't just hand over details, but there had to be a database somewhere. He had to keep moving, find another way to track his friend.

But before he could make his escape, a shadow shifted behind him.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and a chill ran down his spine. Slowly, he turned.

Standing there, illuminated by the dim lights of the control room, was it. The Necrolythian. The Necrolythian that had worked on him, torn him apart, and stitched him back together more times than he could remember. Its skeletal form gleamed, the metallic joints and wires clicking softly as it moved closer.

"You have nowhere to run," the Necrolythian spoke, its voice cold and mechanical, yet disturbingly human.

Rhys's eyes narrowed, his body tensing, the rage inside him beginning to bubble over. He remembered the surgeries—the pain. The way his body had been opened again and again. His fists clenched, the glowing lines under his skin flaring with intensity.

"F*ck you," he growled, and before he could think, he lunged at the Necrolythian.

His fist flew toward its face, but the Necrolythian dodged with precision, its metal body shifting to avoid the blow. "You caught me off guard earlier," the Necrolythian said, its tone mocking. "That won't happen again."

Rhys didn't care. He let the rage drive him, his fists and feet moving faster than he'd ever thought possible. His punches landed with brutal force, each blow sending the Necrolythian staggering back. It couldn't keep up with his speed.

For a moment, Rhys thought he had the advantage. His strikes were relentless—fists and feet hammering into the Necrolythian's body, pushing it further and further back. Every hit landed like a thunderclap, and Rhys felt the rush of satisfaction as he pressed the attack.

But then, something changed.

The Necrolythian began to adapt. Its movements became sharper, more calculated. It started parrying Rhys's blows, its metal limbs moving with precision. At first, it landed only light strikes—annoying but manageable. Then the hits became harder, more frequent, each blow landing with increasing force.

Rhys grunted in frustration, his breath growing ragged. He threw a feint at the Necrolythian's face, only to follow with a powerful kick aimed at its joint. His foot connected perfectly, and the Necrolythian staggered, its leg buckling under the impact. Rhys seized the opportunity and aimed a decisive blow at its head.

But in an instant, the Necrolythian slipped the punch.

Using Rhys's own momentum against him, it twisted its body, setting up a perfect counter. Before Rhys could react, the Necrolythian's good leg shot out, propelling its body forward. Its metal fist slammed into Rhys's abdomen with a force that drove the air from his lungs.

Rhys gasped, clutching his stomach. His mind raced, instinctively throwing a punch in retaliation, but the Necrolythian parried the blow effortlessly, using its shoulder to deflect the strike. In a fluid motion, it aimed a punch directly at Rhys's face.

Rhys brought his hands up to guard his jaw, but the attack was a feint. The real strike came a split second later—a sharp kick to his thigh. Pain shot up Rhys's leg, but he gritted his teeth, ignoring the burning sensation. He'd been through worse in the surgeries. He couldn't stop now.

He swung a wild haymaker, desperate to land a blow. But his legs were off-balance, his stance compromised. The Necrolythian easily dodged sideways, its movements quick and precise. It countered with another brutal kick to Rhys's legs, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Rhys barely had time to register the fall before the Necrolythian delivered a savage soccer kick to his face. The force of the impact sent him crashing through what remained of the control room, his body slamming into the broken console. Blood poured from his nose, splattering the floor beneath him.

Rhys's vision blurred, the pain in his face radiating through his skull. But something snapped inside him. He felt his mind slipping, his last grip on sanity torn away by the searing pain and the whispers clawing at his thoughts.

With a flash of rage, Rhys launched himself off the floor, faster than he ever had before. His body moved in a blur, the luminescent lines beneath his skin flaring as he reached a speed that defied reason. Before the Necrolythian could react, Rhys drove his fist straight through its chest, punching a hole clean through the metal and wires.

The Necrolythian staggered, but it didn't fall. Instead, it chuckled—an eerie, mechanical sound. "A hit to the body," it said, its voice calm, "means nothing to me."

Rhys's bloodlust clouded his judgment. He couldn't think, couldn't see reason through the haze of anger. He should have known that attacking its body wouldn't work, but his fury had blinded him.

Before Rhys could pull his arm free, the Necrolythian moved. Its metal hands gripped his face—one on his chin, the other on his forehead. With a swift, calculated motion, it twisted.

A sickening snap echoed through the room.

Rhys's body went limp, his vision blackening. He slumped forward, his arm still embedded in the Necrolythian's chest. His head lolled to the side, his neck broken, his body lifeless.

The Necrolythian sighed, a sound almost like regret, as it pried Rhys's arm from its chest. "Another failure," it muttered, shaking its head. It dropped Rhys's arm, letting his body collapse onto the floor with a dull thud.

Turning away, the Necrolythian began to walk toward the exit.

But behind it, on the cold, blood-stained floor, Rhys's eyes snapped open.