Capítulo 13: Chapter 013: Top ranked personality benders.

Exhaustion clung to me like a shroud as I parked the last supply crate. My bones creaked with every movement, muscles protesting their relentless labour. Dusting my calloused palms, I bid a silent farewell to the sturdy truck and finally called it a day.

The agency, buried in the glow of circular moonlight, seemed a distant echo of the day's trials. Bidding farewell to my comrades, I navigated the throngs of downtown, the city's chaotic pulse a stark contrast to the quiet whispers of the forest we'd left behind. A taxi, a blur of yellow against the twilight, became my chariot homeward.

As I surveyed the cluttered cityscape from the back seat, a nagging itch stirred in my gut. I needed a car. Something sturdy, dependable, a metal steed to carry me through the ever-thickening jungle of concrete and chaos. The prospect, a whispered promise to myself, soothed the raw edges of my fatigue.

The apartment, a familiar haven, greeted me with the stoic silence of the unlived-in. The clock blinked accusingly, 23:19. My usual routine, honed in the crucible of countless missions, kicked in. Stepping into the shower, I let the tepid water cascade down, a weary warrior seeking solace in the mimicry of rain. A full-body massage, I mused, would be pure heaven right now.

Emerging, towel precariously draped around my waist, I met my own reflection in the fogged mirror. The familiar lean frame, the wiry muscles, the map of scars etched on my skin. Darkness, a cloak woven from years of clandestine operations, held me close. The room, as always, remained unlit, a haven from the city's garish glare.

Without flicking on the light, I approached the wardrobe, fingers trailing along the worn wood.

"Never seen a half-naked male look so distant," a voice, sardonic and unexpected, cut through the quiet. My head whipped around, muscles taut, heart hammering a discordant rhythm against my ribs. The towel, forgotten, threatened to slip.

Two emerald eyes, glinting with amusement, met mine. My irritation, simmering beneath the fatigue, flared. "Couldn't you use the door, and haven't you heard of knocking?" I spat, the words tasting metallic on my tongue. His sudden appearance, a ghost in the shadows, was the last thing I needed. This Phase Two, this constant vigilance, was chipping away at my reserves, leaving me frayed and vulnerable.

He shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that only added fuel to my ire. "Never heard of that word," he deadpanned, pushing himself away from the window where he'd been perched like a predatory bird. His long limbs stretched as he sauntered towards his usual spot, the worn sofa in the corner.

Suspicion lingered, but exhaustion demanded action. "Lazaros," the name tumbled out, laced with annoyance. He met it with a smirk, a sly grin that sent a shiver down my spine. He was enjoying this, the little devil.

With a sigh, I excused myself, the fabric of the towel whispering against my skin as I retreated into the bathroom. Each step was an effort, my body a leaden weight protesting every movement. I emerged moments later, clad in the night's armour of worn cotton, my gaze never leaving his.

"Lazaros," I repeated, the name a challenge now, a gauntlet thrown down. He met it with a raised eyebrow, a glint of something… anticipation? in his eyes. The game, it seemed, was afoot.

Lazaros's voice, smooth as honeyed venom, slithered into the quiet room. "I rather like that furrowed brow, Roman. It's the fifth most fascinating thing I've observed in humans."

I scoffed, refusing his bait. "Cut the games, Lazaros. What do you need?"

He shrugged, a hint of vulnerability flickering in his eyes. "Assistance, perhaps? I require your… expertise for a matter of urgency."

My muscles throbbed in protest, reminding me of the relentless grip of Phase Two. "Sorry, Lazaros, but I'm stretched thin. This 'annoying phase' is sucking the life out of me."

He fell silent, his gaze lingering on my form like a hawk eyeing prey. Minutes stretched into an eternity before he sighed, a weary sound that echoed the weight of unspoken secrets.

"I'm aware of your accelerated phasing, Roman. Those cursed skeletons must have triggered the first stage, catapulting you straight into the second. They're... more than they seem, but that's a tale for another night."

My mind scoffed, the shift in his tone a beacon of his own hidden agenda. "Where have you been?" I challenged, noting the newfound strength in his posture. "You're not the bedraggled mess I last saw."

"Fighting," he muttered, leaning back and resting his head on the worn leather of the couch. "But I'm finished, hopefully."

"Fighting what?" I pressed, suspicion coiling in my gut.

"Lost souls," he mumbled, leaving the question hanging like a half-finished sentence.

Frustration gnawed at me, but I decided to play his game. "Have you noticed the rising death toll among the infected?"

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Isn't that your FBI's… jurisdiction?"

I rolled my eyes, the sarcasm dripping from my voice. "No, Lazaros. Most of them die without a mark, as if from natural causes. But today was different."

He leaned forward, a spark of interest igniting his gaze. "How so?"

"I believe there are other shapeshifters here," I confessed, my voice barely a whisper. "An Agent shot a girl," I began again, my voice dropping to a hushed whisper. "A pale, red-haired girl. But when we got to her, she was different. Brown hair, darker skin, a different build. Someone couldn't have switched her that quickly, not with us right there."

Lazaros's expression flickered, a mix of confusion and grim understanding. He kneaded his temples, his fingers digging into his brow.

"There are personality changers," he finally admitted, his voice laced with annoyance. "Benders, if you prefer. Was it a newbie?"

"Yes," I confirmed, my gut twisting with the implications.

He shook his head, a grim smile playing on his lips. "Newbies can't bend personalities. It takes a high-ranking void to pull that off, and those individuals aren't supposed to be here. The grounds are unstable, unfit for their presence."

He seemed lost in thought, muttering to himself. But through the haze, I gleaned a sliver of truth. Lazaros knew more than he revealed, and the knowledge weighed heavily on him.

"Who are these high-ranking voids?" I pressed, my voice trembling with a newfound dread. I hated being vulnerable. "How dangerous are they?"

He let out a low chuckle, the sound devoid of humour. "They are no one," he said, his eyes distant. "Empty husks who can steal your very essence, your potential. They become you, and you…" he trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

My blood ran cold. They were more than dangerous; they were existential predators. But why target us, the powerless humans of this backwater town?

Lazaros, as if sensing my unspoken question, answered with a chilling truth. "Your bodies," he said, his gaze fixed on me. "For their people."

We were pawns in a game far grander than we could have imagined. The consequences of our existence, the price for our stolen home, were becoming terrifyingly clear. This was no longer just about survival; it was about the very essence of who we were.

And the game had just begun.

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