With his hunger gone for now, Eliot felt a tiny spark of relief. The sandwiches and juice were finished, leaving only empty wrappers. He was still very weak, his body aching, but the shaking had stopped, and his mind felt a little clearer.
The System, though mostly quiet because his energy was so low, subtly nudged him towards his next urgent need: Shelter. He couldn't stay outside, exposed to the weather and whatever unseen force was hunting him.
He looked around as the early morning light slowly showed his surroundings. The park, once a peaceful place, now felt exposed. He needed a place to hide, to rest, to figure out what to do next. A place away from main streets, where he could analyze the threat as the System had suggested.
His eyes landed on an old, empty warehouse area a few blocks away. He'd seen it before: a group of forgotten brick buildings with boarded-up windows and rusty metal roofs. It was run-down, dangerous, and probably full of rats, but it was also hidden, offering a level of privacy that the open streets couldn't. It wasn't perfect, but it was all he had.
With new determination, fueled by a faint hope and the lingering fear of the unseen hunter, Eliot pushed himself to his feet. Every muscle complained, but he ignored the pain, focusing on the idea of a dark, forgotten corner where he could just disappear.
The walk was exhausting. His legs felt like lead, and his backpack seemed heavier with every step. He stumbled through alleyways, avoiding the few early morning people, his eyes constantly scanning, expecting the shimmer, the hum, the signs of the returning threat. He saw nothing, but the memory of its presence and the System's warnings kept him on edge.
Finally, he reached the edge of the warehouse district. The buildings stood tall, dark and silent, like forgotten giants. Graffiti covered their brick walls, and broken glass crunched under his worn shoes. He felt a shiver that wasn't from the cool morning air. This wasn't just a place to hide his body; it was a place for his mind to escape the world that had so cruelly rejected him.
He found a gap in a rusty chain-link fence and squeezed through, scraping his coat on a sharp edge. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of decay. He carefully stepped over piles of junk – broken wooden pallets, shattered windows, old factory machines. He looked for a specific building, one that looked strong enough not to fall down, and hidden enough for privacy.
He found it: a smaller building, set back from the main road. Its only entrance was a large, rusty bay door hanging loosely on one hinge, a dark opening leading into the unknown. He pushed it open, wincing at the loud screech of metal.
Inside, the warehouse was a huge space, full of shadows and echoes. A faint light filtered through dirty, high windows, making dust specks dance in the air. The floor was concrete, covered with forgotten trash. It was cold, damp, and smelled of mold. Not a home, but a temporary tomb.
He found a relatively clean corner, out of direct sight from the entrance. There was a stack of old, dirty tarps and some broken wooden crates. He pushed the crates aside and sat down, pulling a tarp over himself, trying to make a cozy spot against the cold and the strong feeling of being abandoned.
He was safe, for now. He had food, though very little, and a place to hide. But the feeling of being unsafe remained. He was no longer just dealing with being jobless and a broken marriage. He was caught in something much bigger, much more dangerous. He was a Host, whatever that truly meant, and he was being hunted by another System Signature.
As he huddled under the tarp, exhaustion began to pull him back to sleep. He had survived the night, barely. He had used a power he still didn't understand to get by. But the questions remained, pressing in on him, even as sleep began to drag him down. Who was hunting him? What did they want? And what exactly was this System that had chosen him as its unwilling vessel?