Lucas reached Erica's door before anyone else. His stride had been faster, sharper, driven by a dread he hadn't yet named, but felt in every step. Malia and Isaac were only a breath behind him, their shoes whispering against the polished hospital floor, but the moment the three of them crossed the threshold, the world seemed to hold itself utterly still.
Erica lay motionless on the hospital bed. Too still. Her skin was the color of pressed paper, drained of even the faint warmth she'd had the day before. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, barely-there breaths that looked like they cost her more than she could afford to give. Machines murmured around her in a constant hush — rhythmic beeps, soft mechanical clicks, the hiss of oxygen — all steady, but with a tremor beneath their consistency, like they were working harder than they should.
Lucas felt it instantly.
The wrongness.
That creeping, thunder-before-the-storm pressure wolves inherit in their bones. A deep instinctual warning that something unnatural was moving in the air around them, tightening like a cold fist around his ribcage.
Before any of them could speak — before they even had the chance to share the same breath — voices drifted in from the hallway. Too quiet for humans, painfully clear for them.
Doctor: "Mrs. Reyes… I'm sorry. Her condition has worsened unexpectedly. Rapidly. We don't understand why."
A pause. Not long. Just the length of a single heartbeat. But it landed like a blow.
Mrs. Reyes: "W–worsened? S-she was improving. She was better. What happened? Please. Do something."
Doctor, voice softer now, heavy with a helplessness he tried to hide: "…If the deterioration continues, she may slip into a coma. I wish I could tell you we have options, but—"
He didn't finish.
He didn't have to.
The silence afterward spoke with brutal clarity.
Malia shut her eyes, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. Isaac looked like someone had yanked the ground out from beneath him — eyes wide, mouth parting, disbelief curdling into panic.
Lucas turned away from Erica.
Then he walked out.
He didn't storm out — no slammed door, no sharp inhale — just a quiet, controlled step after step, carrying him into the corridor where the fluorescent lights washed everything in a pale, indifferent glow. He stopped in front of the room's window and stared through the glass at Erica's still form.
She looked impossibly small.
Breakable in a way she never should have been.
His chest tightened until it felt like his ribs might crack under the pressure.
The Bite.
The thought struck him like a fist to the gut — sudden, overwhelming, grim.
He'd been turning that forbidden option over for weeks, weighing it, fearing it, trying not to hope. The numbers were carved into his mind.
Fifty percent chance for a healthy adult.
Seventy, maybe eighty, for someone young and strong.
But for someone already weakened as severely as Erica…?
A miracle might scrape five percent — and after this sudden crash… after whatever had dragged her down so violently…
One percent at best.
One percent to save her.
Ninety-nine to kill her.
He pressed his palm against the cold glass, fingers trembling despite how hard he tried to steady them. He focused on the subtle rise and fall of her breath — small, faint, so delicate he had to strain to see it.
He realized he wasn't breathing at all.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Unknown number.
He hesitated for a single second. Then he answered.
He didn't bother with hello.
A familiar voice slid through the line — warm, polite, soothing in the way venom can look like honey. Calm. Amused. And fundamentally wrong.
"Funny thing about fragile creatures," Tony said lightly. "They break so easily, don't they?"
Lucas froze. His blood ran cold, sinking like a stone into the pit of his stomach.
Tony continued, his tone almost cheerful: "You should've seen how quickly her body crumpled when I gave it the gentlest push. Like tapping a cracked window and watching the fracture spread."
Lucas didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Didn't move.
But deep inside him, something ancient and feral stirred. Slow. Dark. Lethal. The part of him that didn't speak in words — only instincts shaped by centuries of predatory evolution.
Behind the glass, Erica slept on, blissfully unaware of the monster taunting him from the other end of the line.
"You really should take better care of your weak spot," Tony murmured. "She might not last long."
Lucas's voice dropped to a register colder than winter steel, sharper than a blade dragged over ice.
"…Tony."
Just the name.
But the way he said it — low, controlled, murderous — made the entire hallway seem to contract, as if the air itself stepped back from him.
And in that moment Lucas understood.
Tony didn't just find a new host.
He didn't just survive.
He didn't just hide.
Tony had made the first move.
And he'd aimed it at Erica.
Lucas's eyes shifted — not a bright flare, not a rage-fueled blaze — but a thin, deadly glow of red that promised something inevitable.
"Run," he whispered into the phone.
Tony only laughed.