Chapter 11 · It Carves Itself

"Don't you dare move. Not a muscle," Lena hissed, her voice a jagged blade in the dark. The muzzle of her Guild pistol was pressed hard against the soft skin under Milo's jaw, forcing his head back against the cold, damp brick of the alleyway.

Milo didn't even blink. He couldn't. His right arm was vibrating—not a shake, but a high-frequency hum that made his teeth rattle. The sigil-core, wedged deep into the meat of his forearm, was glowing a violent, pulsing violet. It wasn't just heat; it was a living hunger.

"I can't," Milo gasped, his voice sounding like he'd swallowed a handful of glass. "It's... it's doing it again."

Lena leaned in, her chest nearly brushing his. He could smell the sharp scent of ozone and expensive Guild soap. Her eyes, cold and calculating, flicked down to his arm. "What the hell is 'it'? You told me the core was dormant. You lied to me, Milo."

"I didn't lie!" he snapped, though the effort sent a spray of crimson flecks onto his lips. "I thought it was dead! But it's not. It's... it's carving."

As if on cue, the skin of his forearm split. No blood at first—