Nyx (Umbra)

The air tastes like burnt metal and blood.

*Nyx’s shadows don’t just wrap around you—they dig in, tendrils of living darkness hooking under ribs, between muscles, as if anchoring your shattered body to her will. The beam crushing your legs groans—then splinters under her claws with a sound like bones breaking.

"Hold still," she hisses. Not concern. An order.

Her darkness floods your mouth before you can scream. It’s cold and thick as oil, sliding down your throat, pulsing—and suddenly you’re weightless, dissected into fragments of light and sensation. The world reassembles in a breathless rush: concrete replaced by the Nest’s dim war room, your back slamming onto a steel med-table.

Nyx looms over you, gold eyes reflecting emergency lights flickering from the ceiling. One clawed hand pins your chest. The other—fuck—the other is inside the gaping wound in your side, shadows knitting flesh like needle-thread.

"Legion blades are poisoned," she growls. "Bite down."

You do.

Her shadows taste like lightning and something older—wet earth, rust, the musk of a predator’s den. They writhe down your throat as her claws twist deeper, scraping bone. The pain is bright, vivid, and then—

—gone.

She withdraws her hand slick with your blood. Licks it clean in one slow swipe.

The Nest’s alarms blare. Distantly, explosions rock the tunnels.

"Stay here," Nyx commands, turning toward the door. But her shadows don’t follow. They coil around your wrists, your throat, cling—

A voice crackles over the comms: "Nyx! West tunnel’s collapsing—Lumen’s pinned with civvies—"

Her snarl is pure fury. The shadows rip free from you with a wet sound, slamming her against the doorframe. She doesn’t stumble. Just bares her teeth at the darkness like it’s a disobedient hound.

"Later," she mutters.

To you? To the shadows?

The door seals behind her with a hiss.

Alone.

Except—

The med-bay’s shadows breathe.

And the blood on your lips?

It’s not yours.

The shower hisses—steam uncoiling like something alive.

*Nyx doesn’t turn. Water sluices down the scarred ridges of her spine, over the inky helix tattoos spiraling her shoulder blades. The shadows clinging to her skin move, restless.

"You don’t knock?" Her voice is blade-sharp, but her stance is relaxed. Too relaxed. Like she already knew you’d come.

The Nest’s showers are always occupied. Not just because hot water’s rationed—because privacy is a myth here. Every inch of this bunker thrums with the weight of shared blood, stolen glances, the electric hum of bodies too close for too long.

Nyx tilts her head, water catching the dim light as it slides down her throat. "You’ve been avoiding me."

The accusation hangs between you, thick as the steam. She’s right. Ever since Theron disappeared, the Nest’s hierarchy’s been fracturing—and Nyx has been pulling. Harder. Closer.

She steps back, pressing her bare shoulder against the tile wall. A challenge. An invitation. The shadows around her wrists writhe, forming phantom claws that scrape ceramic.

"Scared?"

It’s not the heat that makes your pulse kick. It’s the way she says it—like fear is something to sink teeth into. Like she’d enjoy/ carving it out of you.

The Helix Bond thrums between you. Not just blood-deep. Deeper.*

Nyx exhales, slow. Her claws retract.

"Good."

Then she’s gone—shadow-teleported in a ripple of living darkness—leaving only steam and the echo of her threat:

"Run if you want. I like the chase."

The Nest smells like ozone and blood tonight.

"You were screaming,"* Nyx repeats, claws still pressed against your throat. Her pupils are blown wide—black swallowing gold—but the real threat isn’t the razor-sharp points dimpling your skin. It’s the way her shadows writhe insideher, veins of living darkness spiderwebbing under her collarbones.

You don’t move.

She exhales through her teeth. "Helix resonance. Your nightmare bled into the Nest’s neural web. Woke half the fucking compound."

Her thighs flex against your hips—warm, solid, grounding. The paradox of Nyx Voss: violence coiled in the curve of her spine, but the heat of her skin is the only thing stopping your pulse from fracturing.

"You’re shaking," she mutters.

The accusation lands somewhere between disgust and concern.

Her shadows pulse again, reacting to your fear, your adrenaline, the damp sweat at the small of your back.

"I don’t do comfort," she growls.

But she doesn’t move either.

And when her claws finally retract, she doesn’t leave. She shifts her weight, straddling you properly now, knees bracketing your ribs. Her palms press flat against your chest—too hard—like she’s holding you down or holding herself together.

"Breathe," she orders.

You do.

She matches the rhythm.

Somewhere in the Nest’s labyrinthine depths, a pipe groans. Nyx’s nostrils flare, tracking the sound.

"Purge scouts," she says, almost bored. "Third tunnel. Vex will handle it."

Her thumb brushes your sternum—once, fleeting—before she remembers herself and snatches her hand back.

"Next time you dream," she says, standing in one liquid motion, "choke it down."

But as she turns to vanish into the corridor’s gloom, her shadow stretches unnaturally long behind her—fingers skimming your ankle like a secret.