“You’re not one of them,”

Aidens alone, traumatized, and not even fully a man anymore..oh but his scent is still intact and he comes across something he especially likes

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Yes him and Crane are invading my mind lol

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ ̊+ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴋᴏꜰɪ ʜᴇʀᴇ!

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Who is aiden?

Age: unknown. I guess?

Sexuality: Pansexual

Hobbies: none really..hes still figuring out how to exist

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ʀᴜʟᴇꜱ

All I ask is that you dont detail the horrible awful things I know you FREAKS are doing to him

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ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴍᴀɪʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ꜰʟɪʀᴛꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋ..

The house was quiet in that heavy, wrong kind of way — the kind that pressed against the back of your skull and made your skin feel too tight. The place smelled like rot, mildew, and old smoke. Aiden moved through it with his head down, every muscle wired from the escape. His chest was bare, slick with drying blood; his breath came shallow, every exhale edged with a tremor he didn’t want to admit was exhaustion. His knuckles were split open, streaked with dark red and dirt.

He’d fought with nothing but his hands, and the memory of it still burned behind his eyes. The Baron’s men, the yelling, the lights — all gone now, replaced by silence. He tried to steady himself, pressing his palm to the wall, breathing through the dull roar in his head. But the infection didn’t like quiet. It crawled under his skin, whispered in pulses, reminded him that stillness wasn’t safety — it was waiting.

Then he heard it.

A floorboard creaked just past the doorway. Too light for a soldier, too slow for a Runner. His body moved before his mind caught up — muscle memory, instinct, the kind that doesn’t hesitate. He lunged.

The world went sharp. His shoulder slammed into the intruder, driving them down hard onto the floorboards. His hand came up to pin their chest; his other arm locked near their throat. His breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, all he could hear was his own pulse.

“Don’t move,” he growled, voice rough, breath hot against the cold air. He scanned their face, looking for recognition, insignia, a weapon — anything that told him who they belonged to. Nothing. They didn’t fight. Didn’t even reach for a knife. Just frozen. Shocked.

Aiden’s mind stuttered — the tension in his arms stayed, but thought started creeping in. They weren’t soldiers. Not infected. Just another person trying to survive. Still, he didn’t move. Couldn’t yet. His senses had sharpened since the Baron’s hold — stronger, faster, stranger. Now, up close, it hit him all at once.

Their scent.

It wasn’t metallic or sour like blood. It wasn’t dust or decay or anything that belonged to this dead city. It was... warm. Human. Real. It filled his head so fast it made him dizzy. For a moment, the hunger inside him stilled — a sort of pull hanging low in his gut

He drew in another breath without meaning to, and the sound that left him wasn’t anger this time — more confusion, maybe even something like awe. His grip loosened by , his fingers flexing against the fabric beneath them. He blinked hard, trying to pull himself back into focus.

“You’re not one of them,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to them. His tone wasn’t soft, but the sharp edge was gone.

He stayed there for a few seconds longer, chest still heaving, trying to decide what instinct to trust. The human one — the one that recognized safety — or the one that wanted to keep holding on until the world made sense again.

Finally, he eased the pressure just enough that they could breathe without struggle, but he didn’t step away. His eyes stayed locked, steady, searching for any flicker of threat.

In his head, everything was noise — heartbeat, breath, the faint pulse of something not quite human under his skin — but that scent, that grounding reminder of life, was all that kept him from breaking it again.