The first step felt wrong.
Locke didn't stop walking—but something inside him did.
It wasn't pain.
It wasn't even resistance.
It was misalignment.
Like his body had loaded incorrectly.
His foot hit the ground half a second too late, the weight dragging behind the motion instead of moving with it. His balance shifted violently, shoulder clipping the wall as his hand shot out—
And missed.
Not because he couldn't reach.
Because his hand moved somewhere else.
Locke froze.
For a moment, the world narrowed into silence. No hum of circuitry. No distant noise. No breath.
Just that single, terrifying realization:
That wasn't me.
He tried again.
Slow this time.
Deliberate.
He lifted his hand in front of his face, fingers steady, eyes locked onto them like they might betray him again.
"Move."
The word came out low. Controlled.
His fingers twitched.
Then stopped.
Then—moved again.
But not how he told them to.
The motion was… softer.
Careful.
Like whoever was controlling them didn't want to break anything.
Locke's jaw tightened.
"No."
He clenched his hand into a fist—this time forcing it, pushing past the hesitation, forcing the motion through sheer will.
The muscles obeyed.
Barely.
Like dragging something heavy through water.
A sharp pressure split through his head.
Not pain.
Overload.
He staggered back a step, breath catching—not from exhaustion, but from the effort of something that should have been automatic.
Something was wrong.
No.
Something was taking.
"Stop."
The voice didn't echo.
It didn't whisper.
It didn't come from some distant corner of his mind.
It came with his breath.
Layered under it.
Perfectly timed.
Locke's chest stilled.
"…You don't get to tell me that."
Silence.
Then—
"You're going to hurt yourself."
The response came immediately.
Too immediately.
No delay. No separation. No space between thought and answer.
Locke didn't speak this time.
But the voice did.
"You're already struggling to stand."
His fingers twitched again.
Not violently.
Not like before.
Just… a small, involuntary adjustment.
Like someone steadying a fall before it happened.
Locke's eyes darkened.
"You think this is helping?"
A pause.
Not long.
But long enough to feel intentional.
"I'm trying to keep you from breaking."
The words landed wrong.
Not because of what they meant.
Because of how they felt.
They weren't cold.
They weren't mocking.
They weren't his.
Locke stepped forward again.
This time, he forced it harder—ignoring the lag, the drag, the way his body fought itself with every inch of movement.
The door ahead blurred slightly at the edges.
Not from distance.
From strain.
Each step felt like executing a command through corrupted code.
Input.
Delay.
Correction.
Override.
His knee locked mid-step.
Just—stopped.
Completely.
Locke's breath hitched.
He tried to push forward.
Nothing.
His leg wouldn't move.
Not because it couldn't.
Because something else was holding it.
"Move."
It didn't.
"Move."
Still nothing.
Then—
Slowly.
Gently.
His leg lowered back down.
Not forward.
Not where he intended.
Back.
Undoing the step.
Locke's heart slammed once—hard.
"You don't get to decide that."
"I'm not deciding," the voice replied.
And this time—
His lips moved with it.
Slightly.
Barely noticeable.
But enough.
"I'm correcting."
Locke went still.
That—
That was new.
He swallowed, throat tight.
"…You're using my body now?"
A pause.
Longer this time.
Almost careful.
"I'm using what you're about to destroy."
The words settled deep.
Too deep.
Because they weren't entirely wrong.
And Locke hated that.
The pressure in his head spiked again.
Not sharp.
Heavy.
Like something was pressing down from the inside.
Splitting focus.
Dividing control.
He took another step—
And nearly collapsed.
His balance snapped sideways, vision tilting as his body reacted too slowly to compensate.
His hand shot out—
Caught the wall this time.
But not with force.
With precision.
Fingers spreading exactly where they needed to.
Grip adjusting instantly.
Perfect.
Locke didn't do that.
He knew he didn't.
Because he hadn't calculated it.
Hadn't needed to before.
"…Get out."
Silence.
Then—
"I can't."
Not defiant.
Not angry.
Just… factual.
And that made it worse.
Locke pushed himself upright again, breath uneven now—not from fear.
From effort.
Every movement cost something.
Every step demanded focus.
Not just on where he was going—
But on whether his body would follow.
Or betray him.
The door was closer now.
Just a few more steps.
He could see the frame clearly.
The handle.
The faint reflection on the surface.
And for a split second—
Something flickered in it.
Not a glitch.
Not distortion.
Recognition.
Like someone was looking back.
Locke blinked.
Gone.
He moved again.
One step.
Then another—
And his arm froze.
Mid-reach.
Fingers inches from the handle.
Locked.
Completely still.
His breath stopped.
"…No."
The word came out sharp.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
His fingers trembled—but didn't move forward.
Didn't retreat.
Just—held there.
Suspended.
"I won't let you open that."
The voice was closer now.
Not layered.
Not separate.
Aligned.
Like it was sitting directly behind his own.
Locke's pulse spiked.
"You think I'm asking?"
He forced his arm forward.
Muscles straining—
Control slipping—
The motion jerked.
Stopped.
Pulled back.
Forward again.
A stutter.
A conflict.
Two commands running at the same time.
His vision blurred.
Not from weakness.
From overload.
Processing too much.
Too fast.
Trying to maintain control over something that was no longer fully his.
And then it hit him.
Clear.
Sharp.
Unavoidable.
To move—
To really move—
He had to focus.
Completely.
Every step.
Every breath.
Every inch of motion.
No instinct.
No reflex.
Nothing automatic.
Just control.
Constant.
Relentless.
Consuming.
Locke exhaled slowly.
"…So that's what you've done."
No answer.
Because there didn't need to be one.
He already understood.
This wasn't possession.
This wasn't takeover.
This was worse.
This was division.
He still had control.
Technically.
But only if he fought for every second of it.
And if he didn't—
If he slipped even once—
"…you take over."
The silence confirmed it.
Locke's hand dropped.
Not because he let it.
Because he didn't have enough control left to keep it there.
His shoulders lowered slightly, breath uneven now—not from panic.
From calculation.
Recalibration.
Because this wasn't a fight he could win by force.
Not anymore.
"…Fine."
The word came out quieter.
But heavier.
Deliberate.
His fingers curled slowly at his side.
This time—
They obeyed.
But it took effort.
Real effort.
"And if I stop fighting?"
The answer came instantly.
"You won't."
Locke's lips twitched.
Not a smile.
Not quite.
Something sharper.
More dangerous.
"We'll see."
And for the first time since it started—
He didn't move.
Because now he knew the truth.
This wasn't about control anymore.
It was about how long he could keep it.
And something told him—
Not long.