Lena stood frozen, her back pressed against the cold, cracked tiles of the underground subway wall. The soft echo of dripping water from the broken pipes was drowned beneath the raspy, labored growl that filled the air. Across the dim corridor, illuminated only by flickering emergency lights, stood Ethan — or what was left of him.
His once radiant hazel eyes were clouded now, bloodshot and sunken. His face was pale, streaked with grime and dried blood, but Lena could still see the man she loved beneath it all. The same strong jawline, the slightly uneven nose he once joked about, and the curve of his lips—twisted now by something dark, but still his.
He didn't speak. He couldn't.
His body twitched and staggered in jerks, the virus pulling at his mind like strings on a puppet. His hands, clawed and shaking, hung at his sides, trembling as if they fought themselves. But his eyes… they weren't hollow. They were wet. Red with agony, with confusion. With pain.
Lena stepped forward.
"Ethan…" she whispered, voice trembling.
He growled — low, uncertain — and took a step back.
She blinked. That wasn't an attack. That was fear.
"Ethan, it's me," she said again, firmer this time, letting her tears fall freely now.
His fingers twitched again. His breathing hitched. His head cocked to the side as if trying to process her voice — like it sparked something in the decaying corners of his mind. He tilted his head, and his lips parted.
Nothing came out.
Lena took another step. Her boots scraped against broken glass, and Ethan jerked like he might pounce — but didn't. He slammed his hands against the wall beside him and let out a frustrated snarl.
"Don't fight yourself," she said gently. "I know you're in there."
He let out a groan — part pain, part protest. Then, slowly, he lowered himself to his knees, hands still clutching his head. It was as if the presence of her voice and scent scrambled everything left in him.
Lena crouched near him, just a few feet apart. Her heart pounded, but not from fear. From hope.
She didn't touch him. She knew better. But she sat there, eyes locked on him. "Do you remember," she whispered, "the first time we danced in the lab? You spilled coffee on my notes, and instead of apologizing, you made me dance with you like we were at a ballroom?"
Ethan made a low, soft sound — a whimper. His chest heaved with effort. A tear — a real one — slid down his cheek.
"You're still you," she said, her voice cracking. "You matter. Even like this… you matter to me."
He looked up at her. His face, half-shrouded in shadow, was ghastly — but his eyes shone. They locked with hers, filled with so much emotion it broke her heart all over again.
Then slowly — ever so slowly — he extended one trembling hand toward her, stopping inches before her fingers.
He didn't touch her.
He couldn't.
But the gesture was enough.
Lena reached out and gently placed her hand near his. "You don't have to be alone in this."
Ethan let out a sound — choked, painful, but so human.
The silence stretched between them, thick and sacred. She knew she couldn't fix him. There was no cure. Not yet. Maybe never. But for that moment, in the subway surrounded by darkness and death, they were together.
A human and a monster. But still — Ethan and Lena.
And for Lena, that was enough.