His Private Hell - Chapter 117: Chapter 117
You are reading His Private Hell, Chapter 117: Chapter 117. Read more chapters of His Private Hell.
Three months later.
The world hadn’t ended.
But it hadn’t healed either.
The Choir was gone. The Covenant shattered. Lazarus had vanished—his body never recovered from the wreckage of the Archive.
But ghosts like him never stayed dead.
And Eella knew that better than anyone.
She stood at the cliffside overlooking the shattered ruins of Choir Central, where the smoke had finally stopped, but the rot beneath still festered. The earth there didn’t grow. It pulsed. As if it remembered what had been done.
She could still feel the tether marks across her spine—threaded veins of light that never faded, never stopped humming at night. She slept in short hours. She screamed longer.
But she was alive.
And so was Garrison.
He leaned against the hood of the rusted car they’d taken from Darcie before she disappeared again.
“She’s not coming back, is she?” he asked, eyes on the horizon.
Eella didn’t answer at first.
“No,” she finally said. “She’s got her own war now.”
Darcie had vanished into the shadows left behind by the Covenant’s collapse. Loose ends. Cells still active. Scientists who had defected and taken blueprints with them. They didn’t just need a soldier—they needed a ghost. And Darcie fit that mold better than any of them ever would.
“She said if she found Lazarus first, she wouldn’t kill him,” Garrison murmured.
Eella looked at him. “Do you believe her?”
He shrugged. “No. But I hope she’s lying.”
They both laughed—but it was hollow.
Because they missed her.
Even now.
Especially now.
“You okay?” Garrison asked.
Eella tilted her head. “You’re asking me that now? After I merged with the Archive and half of me still isn’t fully human?”
“Exactly now,” he said, stepping closer. “Because if I ask tomorrow, you might not remember what it’s like to bleed like a person.”
She didn’t smile. But her eyes softened.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Today.”
That was enough.
For now.
They turned back toward the car.
But then Eella paused.
“Wait.”
Garrison followed her gaze.
Across the field, something stood at the tree line.
A figure. Barefoot. Dressed in white.
A child.
No—a girl.
No—
A replica.
Eella’s breath caught. “It’s her.”
Garrison’s voice cracked. “Astrid?”
But Astrid was dead.
Wasn’t she?
No.
She was rebuilt.
Wearing Eella’s old face. Her old smile.
But her eyes?
They were all Lazarus.
Garrison stepped forward.
Eella grabbed his arm.
“Don’t.”
The girl tilted her head.
Then raised her hand.
Held up a small metal cube.
The same one Lazarus had used to store the Choir’s operating framework.
Then?
She smiled.
And ran.
⸻
They didn’t chase her.
Not yet.
Because war wasn’t over.
It had just changed shape.
And the next volume?
It would not be about breaking free.
It would be about becoming what they were never meant to be.
Not victims.
Not soldiers.
Not saviors.
But something far worse.
The world hadn’t ended.
But it hadn’t healed either.
The Choir was gone. The Covenant shattered. Lazarus had vanished—his body never recovered from the wreckage of the Archive.
But ghosts like him never stayed dead.
And Eella knew that better than anyone.
She stood at the cliffside overlooking the shattered ruins of Choir Central, where the smoke had finally stopped, but the rot beneath still festered. The earth there didn’t grow. It pulsed. As if it remembered what had been done.
She could still feel the tether marks across her spine—threaded veins of light that never faded, never stopped humming at night. She slept in short hours. She screamed longer.
But she was alive.
And so was Garrison.
He leaned against the hood of the rusted car they’d taken from Darcie before she disappeared again.
“She’s not coming back, is she?” he asked, eyes on the horizon.
Eella didn’t answer at first.
“No,” she finally said. “She’s got her own war now.”
Darcie had vanished into the shadows left behind by the Covenant’s collapse. Loose ends. Cells still active. Scientists who had defected and taken blueprints with them. They didn’t just need a soldier—they needed a ghost. And Darcie fit that mold better than any of them ever would.
“She said if she found Lazarus first, she wouldn’t kill him,” Garrison murmured.
Eella looked at him. “Do you believe her?”
He shrugged. “No. But I hope she’s lying.”
They both laughed—but it was hollow.
Because they missed her.
Even now.
Especially now.
“You okay?” Garrison asked.
Eella tilted her head. “You’re asking me that now? After I merged with the Archive and half of me still isn’t fully human?”
“Exactly now,” he said, stepping closer. “Because if I ask tomorrow, you might not remember what it’s like to bleed like a person.”
She didn’t smile. But her eyes softened.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Today.”
That was enough.
For now.
They turned back toward the car.
But then Eella paused.
“Wait.”
Garrison followed her gaze.
Across the field, something stood at the tree line.
A figure. Barefoot. Dressed in white.
A child.
No—a girl.
No—
A replica.
Eella’s breath caught. “It’s her.”
Garrison’s voice cracked. “Astrid?”
But Astrid was dead.
Wasn’t she?
No.
She was rebuilt.
Wearing Eella’s old face. Her old smile.
But her eyes?
They were all Lazarus.
Garrison stepped forward.
Eella grabbed his arm.
“Don’t.”
The girl tilted her head.
Then raised her hand.
Held up a small metal cube.
The same one Lazarus had used to store the Choir’s operating framework.
Then?
She smiled.
And ran.
⸻
They didn’t chase her.
Not yet.
Because war wasn’t over.
It had just changed shape.
And the next volume?
It would not be about breaking free.
It would be about becoming what they were never meant to be.
Not victims.
Not soldiers.
Not saviors.
But something far worse.
End of His Private Hell Chapter 117. Continue reading Chapter 118 or return to His Private Hell book page.