Echo of Fire

The bedroom they had been assigned was a mockery of intimacy.

It was the "Honeymoon Suite," draped in heavy burgundy velvet and gold tassels. There was only one bed—a massive, four-poster monstrosity that looked like it had swallowed a king.

"I'll take the chaise lounge," Cale said immediately, dropping his duffel bag near the window.

Elion stood by the door, clutching his toiletry bag. The adrenaline from the hallway confrontation had faded, leaving him brittle and exhausted.

"You don't have to do that," Elion said. "The bed is big enough for three people and an ego."

"I don't sleep much," Cale said, taking off his coat. Underneath, he wore a simple black t-shirt that revealed the lean, corded muscle of his arms. "And you talk in your sleep when you're stressed."

Elion stiffened. "How do you know that?"

Cale paused. He didn't turn around. "You look the type."

"Another deduction?"

"A probability."

Elion didn't press it. He was too tired to fight the riddle that was Cale Rion. He changed in the bathroom, brushed his teeth with aggressive force, and climbed into the bed. He stayed on the far left edge, as close to the door as possible.

"Lights out?" Cale asked from the darkness of the corner.

"Yeah."

The room plunged into blackness, save for the faint red blink of the night-vision cameras in the ceiling.

Elion closed his eyes.

Sleep, he commanded his brain. Just sleep.

But sleep was a trap.

The dream didn't start like a dream. It started like a memory.

He was in a kitchen. Not his apartment kitchen. A professional one. Stainless steel surfaces gleaming under harsh lights.

He was chopping onions. He felt the stinging in his eyes. He heard the hiss of gas.

Then, the heat.

It wasn't a gradual warming. It was an instant, roaring inferno. The stove exploded. A wall of blue and orange fire slammed into him, lifting him off his feet.

He couldn't breathe. The air was fire. His skin was tight, blistering, melting.

He tried to scream, but the sound was consumed by the roar of the flames.

Through the smoke, he saw a figure.

A man in a black coat.

The man was running toward him. He wasn't running away from the fire. He was running into it.

The man’s face was twisted in a scream of absolute, shattering agony. He reached out a hand.

"ELION!"

Elion knew that voice. It was the voice of the man who had caught the champagne glass.

It was Cale.

The ceiling collapsed. A beam of burning wood crashed down.

Darkness.

"No!"

Elion woke up screaming. He sat bolt upright, his hands clawing at his chest, trying to put out a fire that wasn't there.

"Elion! Hey! I've got you!"

Strong hands gripped his shoulders.

Elion flinched violently, scrambling backward against the headboard. "Don't touch me! It burns!"

"It's not burning," a voice said. Low. Steady. Anchoring. "You're safe. The room is cold. Feel the air."

Elion gasped, sucking in lungfuls of air conditioned oxygen. He blinked, trying to clear the afterimage of the flames from his retinas.

The room came into focus. The velvet curtains. The gold tassels.

And Cale.

Cale was sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked alert, as if he hadn't been sleeping at all. His face was pale in the moonlight, his eyes wide with a concern that looked too deep, too knowing.

"You were dreaming," Cale whispered.

Elion looked at his hands. They were shaking uncontrollably. He touched his face. No blisters. No burns.

"It felt real," Elion choked out. "God, it felt real. I could smell the gas."

Cale went very still. "Gas?"

"A kitchen," Elion said, the memory already fading like smoke but leaving the taste of ash in his mouth. "An explosion. I was... I was dying."

He looked at Cale.

"And you were there."

Cale’s hands tightened on Elion’s shoulders. "Me?"

"You were running into the fire," Elion said, searching Cale’s face. "You were screaming my name. You looked..."

He stopped.

In the dream, Cale had looked exactly the way he looked right now. Terrified. Devastated. Like he was watching the end of the world.

"It was just a nightmare," Cale said. His voice was rough. "Stress. The new environment."

"It didn't feel like stress," Elion whispered. "It felt like a memory."

He grabbed Cale’s wrist, needing something solid to hold onto.

His thumb brushed against the inside of Cale’s forearm.

He felt something. Texture. Ridges.

Elion looked down.

In the dim light, he saw marks on Cale’s inner wrist. They weren't tattoos. They looked like scars. Seven vertical lines, white and raised against the skin. They glowed faintly, like phosphorescent algae dying on a beach.

"What is this?" Elion asked, tracing the lines.

Cale yanked his hand away. He pulled his sleeve down, covering the marks.

"Nothing," Cale said sharply. "Old injuries."

"They were glowing, Cale."

"It's the moonlight. A trick of the light."

"Stop gaslighting me!" Elion snapped, the fear turning into anger. "First the glass, then the thesis, now glowing scars? Who are you?"

Cale stood up. He walked to the window, putting distance between them.

"I told you," Cale said, his back to the room. "I'm your partner."

"You're hiding something. Something huge."

"Everyone hides things, Elion. You hide your guilt about your brother. I hide my scars."

The room went dead silent.

Elion felt the blood drain from his face. The air left his lungs.

"My brother," Elion whispered.

He had never mentioned his brother. Not in the bio. Not in the interviews. It was the one thing he kept locked in a box in the darkest corner of his mind. The name Alex was forbidden.

"How do you know about him?" Elion asked. His voice was barely a sound.

Cale didn't answer. He gripped the windowsill until his knuckles turned white.

"Answer me!" Elion shouted.

Cale turned around. He looked defeated. He looked like a man who was trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands.

"You talk in your sleep," Cale said.

It was a lie. Elion knew it was a lie. He knew he didn't talk about Alex, even in his dreams.

"Get out," Elion said.

"Elion—"

"Get out of my room. I don't care about the rules. I don't care about the show. I want you out."

Cale looked at him. For a second, Elion thought he saw a flicker of the 'Other'—the thing that had caught the glass, the thing that wasn't quite human.

Then Cale nodded.

"Okay," Cale whispered. "I'll go."

He picked up his coat. He walked to the door.

He paused with his hand on the latch.

"Lock the door behind me," Cale said. "And don't open it for anyone but me."

"Why?"

"Because the dream wasn't just a dream," Cale said softly. "It was an echo."

He opened the door and walked out into the hallway.

Elion stared at the empty space.

Echo? Echo of what?

He scrambled out of bed. He ran to the door and locked it. He engaged the deadbolt. He dragged a heavy chair in front of it.

He backed away, his heart pounding.

He pulled out his notebook. His hands were shaking so hard he could barely write.

Anomaly 4: The Scars. Seven lines. Glowing. Anomaly 5: The Brother. He knows about Alex.

He looked at the last line he had written.

Hypothesis: He isn't new.

He crossed it out. He wrote a new hypothesis, the ink tearing the paper.

Hypothesis: He isn't human.

Elion sat on the floor, clutching the notebook to his chest. He looked at the window, half-expecting to see fire.

He didn't know what Cale was. But he knew one thing.

The game had barely started, and Elion was already playing for his life.