The aroma of stale coffee and cheap ramen hung heavy in Ethan’s apartment. He hadn’t bothered to open a window in days, the drawn curtains a futile attempt to block out both the encroaching sunlight and the gnawing anxiety that had taken root in his gut. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant siren, sent a jolt of adrenaline through him, a stark reminder of the ever-present threat of the Order of Gabriel.

Corvus, perched on the rickety bookshelf, watched him with intelligent, obsidian eyes. "You're fraying, Ethan. You need to sleep."

"Sleep is a luxury I can't afford," Ethan muttered, pacing the cramped living room. His augmented leg, still unfamiliar, clanked softly against the worn linoleum. He flexed his rebuilt arm, feeling the subtle thrum of the Aethelred Strain coursing through him, a constant, unnerving hum beneath his skin.

He hadn’t seen Clara since the night of the attack. The memory of her terrified face, the thugs’ brutal assault, fueled his every action, his every decision. He had to protect her, but how could he do that without exposing her to the monstrous reality that had become his life?

He finally collapsed onto the threadbare sofa, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "They're watching me, Corvus. I can feel it. Any contact with her puts her in danger."

"Perhaps," Corvus croaked, ruffling his feathers. "But isolation breeds suspicion. She'll notice your absence, your withdrawal. It might draw more attention than a casual encounter."

Ethan knew the raven was right. Clara wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the bruises, the blood. She knew he’d been hurt, and his sudden disappearance would only raise red flags.

A knock at the door sent him scrambling to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs. He glanced at Corvus, who remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the peephole.

"It's her," Corvus rasped.

Ethan hesitated, his mind racing. He couldn't let her in. Not like this. Not while the Order was lurking in the shadows.

"Just... give me a minute," he whispered, then crossed the room, attempting to smooth down his hair and wipe the exhaustion from his face. He knew it was a futile effort. He probably looked like hell.

He took a deep breath and opened the door a crack, peering out at Clara. Her brow was furrowed with concern, her eyes, usually bright and full of life, were clouded with worry.

"Ethan? Are you okay?" she asked, her voice laced with genuine concern. "I haven't seen you in days. I was starting to get worried."

He forced a weak smile. "Hey, Clara. Yeah, I'm fine. Just... been busy."

"Busy? Doing what? Hiding from me?" She pushed the door open slightly wider, forcing him to take a step back. "I heard what happened the other night, Ethan. I know those thugs roughed you up. Are you sure you're alright?"

He cursed inwardly. Of course, she'd heard. In a neighborhood like Bedford-Stuyvesant, nothing stayed secret for long.

"It was nothing, Clara. Just a little misunderstanding. I'm fine. Really." He tried to sound convincing, but the waver in his voice betrayed him.

Clara didn't buy it for a second. She pushed past him into the apartment, her eyes widening as she took in the state of the place. The overturned bookshelf, the ripped curtains, the lingering scent of something acrid and unnatural – it was a far cry from the meticulously organized space he usually kept.

"Ethan, what happened here?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He closed the door, his back pressed against it, his gaze darting around the room, searching for an explanation, a lie that would satisfy her. But the truth was etched on his face, radiating from him like heat from a furnace.

"It's... complicated," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

"Complicated? Did those guys come back? Are you in trouble?" She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch his arm, but he flinched away, a sharp, involuntary movement.

"Don't!" he snapped, instantly regretting his harshness.

Her eyes widened, and a flicker of hurt crossed her face. "What's going on, Ethan? You're acting… different. You're scaring me."

He took a deep breath, trying to regain control. He couldn't tell her the truth. He just couldn't. It was too dangerous.

"Look, Clara," he said, softening his voice. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm handling it. Just... trust me. Okay?"

"Trust you? How can I trust you when you're not telling me anything? When you're pushing me away?" Her voice rose slightly, frustration building within her.

He ran a hand through his hair again, his anxiety reaching a fever pitch. He had to get her out of here. He had to protect her.

"Clara, please. Just go. I need to be alone right now."

"Alone? You're always alone, Ethan. That's the problem. You shut everyone out. You think you can handle everything yourself, but you can't. Nobody can." She paused, her expression softening. "Let me help you. Please."

Her words struck a chord within him, a deep-seated longing for connection, for normalcy. But the Aethelred Strain had irrevocably changed him, separating him from the world he once knew. He couldn't drag her into the darkness that had consumed him.

"I can't, Clara. I just can't."

He looked at her, his eyes pleading, his voice raw with desperation. He saw the hurt in her eyes, the confusion, the growing fear. He was breaking her heart, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Clara shook her head slowly, her eyes glistening with tears. "I don't understand you, Ethan. I thought we were friends. I thought we could trust each other. But I guess I was wrong."

She turned and walked towards the door, her shoulders slumped with disappointment. Before she reached the threshold, she stopped and looked back at him, her gaze filled with a mixture of sadness and resolve.

"Whatever you're going through, Ethan," she said softly, "I hope you find a way to deal with it. But I can't stand by and watch you destroy yourself. Goodbye, Ethan."

And with that, she was gone, leaving him standing alone in the wreckage of his life, the weight of his secret crushing him. He slid down the door, his head in his hands, the silence of the apartment broken only by the soft rustling of Corvus's feathers.

"You did what you thought was best," Corvus said, his voice devoid of judgment.

"Did I?" Ethan whispered, his voice barely audible. "Or did I just push away the only person who cared about me?"

He knew, deep down, that he had made the wrong choice. He had chosen fear over connection, isolation over love. He had condemned himself to a lonely existence, haunted by the shadows of his past and the terrifying reality of his present. And as he sat there, alone in the darkness, he couldn't help but wonder if he had already lost everything worth fighting for. The Order of Gabriel weren't the only hunters, he realised. He was being hunted by his own choices.