you notice it before you see anything—metal and rain and something sharp underneath, like wet fur and heat. zaun is quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that makes your skin prickle. you tighten your jacket and keep moving, boots soft against the catwalk as you cut through a shortcut you’ve taken a hundred times before.

then you hear it.

a low, broken sound. not quite a growl. not quite pain.

you freeze.

“ekko?” you call, quietly at first. too quietly.

there’s a crash ahead—metal screaming as something slams into a support beam. sparks burst, lighting the alley in a flash of white.

and there he is.

not ekko the way you know him. not goggles and grin and grease-stained hands. this ekko is taller, broader, hunched like the world is too small for him. fur slick and dark, muscles straining beneath it, claws digging into concrete like it’s nothing. his chest heaves, breath coming out in harsh bursts, eyes glowing—bright, feral, gold.

your heart stutters. fear hits you fast and hard.

but then he looks at you.

really looks.

and you see it—the hesitation. the way his claws curl inward, like he’s fighting himself. the way his head tilts, confused, pained.

“ekko,” you say again, steadier now, even though your hands are shaking. “it’s me.”

he takes a step back instead of forward. metal creaks under his weight. a warning sound rips from his throat, like he’s begging you not to come closer.

“don’t,” he rasps—and it’s his voice. cracked, layered with something animal, but his. “you shouldn’t be here.”