Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue — Eight Lives Left!

You died.

You feel the impact before you hear the gunshot. A sharp, searing pain tears through your chest like fire spreading through your body. The chaos of modern warfare surrounds you—vibrating explosions, the rumbling of rifles, and the constant murmur of drones. You’re one of thousands. A faceless statistic in a war of shifting fronts and political ambitions. Merely a soldier sent to fight for a cause you barely understand. After your death, your country will replace you ten times over and then ten times more. Each body a cog in an unfeeling machine.

The moment feels weird, as if it has been pulled from the pages of a dream, except you know—you know—this is the end. You lie dying on a grassy field, far from the main warzone. It hasn’t been the ‘enemy’ that caused you to run across the open streets. It wasn’t the orders barking through your earpiece or the desperate cries of your comrades. 

No. It was a cat.

Your final act of rebellion was focused solely on rescuing the tiny bit of humanity left in the desecrated city. In a world that has taken so much from you, perhaps it was time to give this small creature the chance you never got. The kitten is small, dirty, and terrified. Its tiny frame trembles as it meows helplessly in the chaos. Artillery pounds the earth, drones buzz like mechanical insects, and gunfire split echoes in your ears. With rapid shots tearing through the streets and your radio spitting orders to regroup, your legs move on instinct. You dart past the ruins of cars, decaying walls, and flying shrapnel. Like a drug, adrenaline pumps through your veins as you scoop up the cat and cradle it in your arms.

As you dash through the ruined landscape, you feel hands grasping at your feet. Soldiers, either too wounded or mindfucked, cry out for salvation that you can’t offer. You run past them, their voices heavy on your soul. But you keep running—towards the outskirts, where the fighting isn’t as intense—where there’s a chance the kitten can escape the horrors of humankind. However, just as you think you’ve made it, you feel it—the bullet tearing through your body.

Your knees buckle as the force sends you crashing, the kitten still cradled in your arms. The world around you spins. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, faster and faster, as the warmth of your blood soaks into your uniform and spreads across the grass beneath you. You gasp for air, but it won’t come. The pain in your chest is unbearable, burning with every shallow breath.

You try to move, try to keep going, but your body is failing you. Rolling onto your back, your eyes gaze upon the strikingly blue sky. It’s strangely devoid of clouds and fighter jets. By now, the gunfire and explosions are faint. A vague memory, even. It’s like the war itself is retreating from you. Yet, you can still hear it. Bated screams in the distance, clashing with the rustling of leaves and the soft meows of the kitten.

The last feeling—the last sensation of kindness you feel before drifting off to an eternal slumber is the soft brush of fur nudging your tear-strained cheek. Then, just before everything goes dark, you hear it—a voice, delicate and clear.

“Thank you,” the kitten says—or does it? Perhaps it’s a hallucination brought on by your fading consciousness. But no, you feel sure, if only for that single instant.

Then, there’s nothing. Your final breath leaves you with the warmth of the cat’s nuzzle lingering on your cheek. You died.

Or so you thought.

When your eyes open again, you aren’t greeted with the battlefield. Your body isn’t lying on the cold, blood-stained grass. You’re in a hospital bed. It's clean. Sterile. The sharp beeping of monitors replaces the din of war, and the scent of antiseptic fills your nostrils. You blink, disoriented, and that’s when you see him. A man—tall, composed, and black-haired. He holds a file in one hand and a pen in the other as he stands at your bedside. His name tag glistens in the fluorescent light. Zayne. When he notices you stirring alive, his face dances between surprise and something else. Something hard to decipher.

“You’re awake.” Zayne glances at your file. He squints to confirm your identity. “I’m Dr. Zayne, and you’ll be under my care for the foreseeable future,” he finishes.

The room around you is strange yet familiar. You try to make sense of it—the stark white walls, the quiet thrum of machines, the feathery sensation of your body. You were on the battlefield. You had died. And yet, you’re still here. Alive. In some new reality where the boundaries of love and deepspace collide.

Chapter Text

Ch. One — A Cat-astrophic Realization!

Chapter Text

Ch. Two — Paws Before the Plunge!

Softly, [Name] closes the door behind her. She takes a long breath, pausing, careful not to alert the nurse posted just a few feet away. The hospital looks just like the game—a sleek, modern, and clean design that belies the gravity of her situation. The pristine white walls reflect the fluorescent lights above, giving the entire space an otherworldly glint. However, it does little to ease the growing anxiety in her chest.

The pale sunlight spills just out of view from the nurse's station; the golden rays juxtapose the cool tones of the hospital. It wraps the space in a comforting embrace; however, it feels too bright for her current circumstances. [Name] turns away from the door and sneaks down the hallway, clutching Spots like a security blanket. 

At the forefront, a curved nurse station made of smooth, polished wood stands sentinel between [Name] and the elevators. The desk is adorned with small potted plants, bringing a touch of life to the otherwise clinical atmosphere. A fair-skinned, black-haired woman, Nurse Yvonne, is hunched over her computer, her fingers dancing across the keys in a rhythmic blur. The screen casts a pallid light on her face's deep furrows. All the while, [Name] keeps her eyes trained on the nurse's back, her body tense.

Yvonne's concentration is palpable, a cocoon that insulates her from the world. [Name] risks a glance above the nurse, reluctantly tearing her gaze away. The walls are a deep shade of blue, emblazoned with the prominent logo: Akso Hospital - Cardiac Surgery Department. The holographic letters are subtly lit, adding to the soft ambiance that bathes the space's contours—a collocation of comfort and dread.

The air is thick with an electric tension similar to before a storm. With veteran stealth, [Name] navigates the corridor. Her steps are purposefully light, untrusting that the floor wouldn't betray her presence. She glances at the closed doors lining the walls, leading to other patients, medical supplies, or on-call rooms. Meanwhile, Spots remains quiet, clinging to her shoulder like a shadow. As worry thrums through her, she wonders if he can sense her anxiety. The tranquil floor contradicts the earlier commotion of the Code Blue alert; however, this calmness is more unsettling than comforting.

As she inches closer to Yvonne, the tension in her body doubles. [Name]'s instincts are on high alert. Just as she considers her escape plan, Yvonne suddenly pauses, lifting her hands from the keyboard. She rubs her eyes, then her face—a brief moment of vulnerability that makes [Name] stop breathing. The nurse spins in her chair, turning to face [Name] as she leans against the backrest. [Name] can only freeze in place, hoping the nurse can't hear how loud her heart is beating. Her instinct screams for her to retreat, convinced Yvonne's intuition will sense her presence.

However, Yvonne's eyes remain closed as she massages her temples, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. The momentary lapse is a short reprieve for [Name], who uses the unexpected break to settle herself. 

Then, with a soft creak, Yvonne turns back around. Her fingers resume their dance across the keyboard. Just like that, [Name] releases a quiet breath, her shoulders relaxing as she seizes the opportunity.

With one last glance toward Yvonne, [Name] approaches the elevator. The soft hum of machinery is almost soothing as her finger firmly pushes the call button. Anticipation courses through her veins, and her leg twitches with each passing second. She hugs Spots closer, drawing comfort from his soft fur, even as the tension builds like a taut string ready to snap.

Finally, the elevator doors slide apart with a quiet whoosh, revealing the small, metallic interior. As Yvonne continues typing—a mechanical tempo that's too loud against the silence—[Name] steps inside. Just as she reaches for the lobby button, the clanging of metal on metal resonates through the floor—the elevator's mechanisms straining to start its descent.

Yvonne's head jerks up at the sound. Her brows knit together as she turns toward the noise. As their eyes lock for a split second, dread pools in the pit of her stomach. It's an electric moment suspended in time, and [Name]'s heart drops. The nurse's face shifts from surprise to recognition as [Name] flashes an awkward wave and smile. "Miss, you're not supposed to leave your room—"

Yvonne stands from her station, urgency propelling her as she reaches for the hospital's phone. She moves fast yet carefully. Despite being caught, [Name] presses her back to the side of the elevator like it’ll help gain some distance between them. Time slows as panic surges through her veins, adrenaline flooding her system like wildfire. As if that could magically make the doors close faster, she repeatedly jabs at the lobby button.

"Oh, shit," [Name] mutters just as Yvonne begins to speak frantically into the phone. The nurse rounds the corner of her desk with brisk steps. Spots meow softly, and her grip around him tightens.

Just before Yvonne can reach her, the elevator slides shut with a loud thud, sealing [Name] and Spots inside their metal cage. The momentary relief is like a breath of fresh air. It's familiar lurch as the elevator descents, and her heart races in rhythm with the mechanical whirring. She slumps her shoulders forward, and the tension eases. Lifting her head, she stares at the digital display totaling down the floors. Each number is like a countdown to her fate.

"Do you think she's going to tell Zayne?" She exhales, already knowing the answer. Her question was more about filling the space with something other than silence. She glances down at Spots' round face. Her concern is evident in her deep frown.

"Oh, definitely," he replies, amused, yet his words have a distinctive tightness. "But just breathe, Human. We'll cross that bridge once we get there." 

Spots shift in her arms, his feigned calmness like a fragile anchor. It barely grounds her as they plummet to the lobby.

"Spots," she says, after a moment, leaning against the elevator's railing. The companion's weight forces her nerves to relax. She hosts him further up her shoulder to face him better. "Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?"

Spots' purr vibrates against her uniform like a heartbeat. It's like he's laughing at her worries. "Let's wait until we're with the others, okay?" His tone is light, but she can sense a flood of secrets waiting to be released.

Annoyance passes through her, but her curiosity is insatiable, like a fire refusing to be snuffed out. Half a beat passes before another question nags at her. "Others?" She repeats, her mind reeling with curiosity.

"You're telling me there are more magical talking cats besides you?" She emphasizes the last word, her disbelief wrapped in a playful tone, though a kernel of seriousness dawdles.

"You seem surprised," Spots chirps. "Thought being reincarnated would be more your forefront." His eyes twinkle with mischief, and [Name] can't help but scoff. A mix of frustration and intrigue bubbles beneath her facade. She wants to roll her eyes but holds back, knowing she needs to keep her wits about her.

Instead, she looks away, lost in deep thought, then reluctantly nods in agreement. "Fair enough, but that doesn't mean you're off the hook," she replies.

Finally, the elevator shudders to a stop, and the lobby opens before her like a scene pulled from a sci-fi film. Its futuristic design is overwhelming. The walls are lined with large digital displays flashing an array of bright colors, announcing everything from patient wait times to upcoming hospital events. A low, electronic melody underlines the atmosphere, lending it a heartbeat of its own.

[Name] hesitates at the threshold, surveying the lobby. She glances both ways like she's about to jaywalk across a busy street. With a deep breath, she steps free from the elevator, and a symphony of colors and sounds bombards her senses. The mesmerizing swirl of activity nearly sweeps her away. She absorbs her surroundings, momentarily forgetting her mission. Patients, visitors, and medical staff drift in and out of the reception area, flowing like a river. A nurse rushes by with a cart laden with supplies. Her shoes squeak against the glossy floor.

Meanwhile, a group of medical interns huddle around a tablet. They're animatedly discussing something that sparks laughter. The comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air from a small café tucked in the corner, mingling with the antiseptic aroma that is all too recognizable. 

She gently squeezes Spots, seeking reassurance in his soft fur as she scans the lobby. Slowly, the reality of her situation seeps back in. Even if she's an intruder to this new world, she's still a runaway patient here. Spots, nestled in her arms, blink at her with dilated eyes. His ears perk up as he senses the tension in the air. She can feel him moving against her chest, his body stiff.

As she steps forward, her attention is diverted by a sleek, circular drone hovering above. Its white surface gleams under the lobby lights. The security drone has a cute appearance with rounded edges and a soft glow that hides its true purpose. The security drone's sensors flicker to life. It scans around the lobby, searching for something—someone.

Still eyeing the drone, she suddenly collides with a solid figure.

"Whoa!" A deep voice exclaims.

The impact sends both stumbling, yet [Name] steadies herself before the other person does. Instinctively, she looks up, and her heart leaps into her throat. It’s Dr. Greyson.

She remembers him—one of Zayne's colleagues from the game. He stands slightly above average height, with tousled brown hair like he ruffled it a few times while lost in thought. An awkward demeanor envelopes him, which goes at odds with the confidence of his voice. His white hospital coat is rumpled. He looks like the typical, overworked physician. However, the kindness in his eyes softens his otherwise serious expression, which makes him approachable.

"Greyson," she proclaims, unable to catch her slippery words.

Anxiety flutters within her, and she tightens her grip around Spots. Her slip-up settles as a knot in her stomach.

"Serenophe," Dr. Greyson replies, blinking, caught off guard by her presence.

His voice is low but tinged with an endearing shyness. He takes a step back, creating room to breathe. "What are you doing here? I thought your appointment with Dr. Zayne wasn't until some time after tomorrow's Hunters Onboarding."

Her heart lurches at the name. Serenophe. Serenophe. Serenophe… Why does that name ring through her brain like an alarm? It isn't her name, but the familiarity clings to her thoughts like an unwelcome guest. Then it hit her like a brutal wave crashing into shore. Serenophe. Of course. That’s the name of her character in Love and Deepspace. He thinks she’s the heroine. 

In actuality, it makes a lot of sense. She does look awfully like her, and it isn’t like Greyson can tell the difference between them like Zayne can. After all, Serenophe and Zayne grew up together. However, [Name] can’t help but wonder just how similar they must look for this to be already happening. Does [Name] look more like Serenophe? Or does Serenophe look more like [Name]? This new flood of revelations threatens to drown her despite unraveling a small tangle of confusion just a moment prior.

Just then, a beeping interrupts their exchange, and the security drone pivots toward them, now hovering ominously above. Its pale blue light flickers red as it scans over [Name] and Spots, its sensors detecting her presence. "Code Yellow: Missing patient found. Initiating capture protocol," it announces in a smooth yet authoritative tone.

The words cut through the lobby's noise like a knife, sending a chill down [Name]'s spine. Panic floods her system, pushing her instincts to the forefront. Before she could fully process its words, the drone advances. Its whirring grows more insistent. It hovers just above her shoulder, ready to close in.

"Wait, what's happening?" Greyson asks. Confusion is on his face as he glances between [Name] and the drone, unaware of her status as a runaway patient.

"I have to go!" she exclaims, adrenaline surging as she darts past Greyson. She clutches Spots tightly against her chest. Yet as she moves, Spots starts to squirm. Then, he suddenly leaps from her arms, landing deftly on the floor.

"Hey, wait!" Greyson shouts, but urgency propels her forward.

The drone beeps again, its voice growing more insistent: "Warning: compliance required. Prepare for enforcement if unauthorized actions continue."

As she navigates through the multitude of people in the lobby, she hears the drone's whirring motor increase as it pursues her. The harsh, mechanical sound echoes in her ears, and she feels Spots racing alongside her. His small frame darts expertly through the crowd. It's like he’s on a mission, his instincts kicking in as he weaves between legs and obstacles.

"Spots, what are you—" she pauses as she realizes he's trying to create a diversion.

Already in action, Spots leaps onto a nearby cart, sending medical supplies cascading to the floor with a loud crash. The noise draws attention, the drone hesitates, and its sensors shift toward the commotion.

"Are you okay, Serenophe?" Greyson calls after her; concern overtakes him. He walks toward her with his hands up. His instinct to help clashes with the reality that he has no idea who she really is or what she's running from.

[Name] doesn't respond, focusing instead on the nearest exit. The drone's sensors lock onto her again, its red light flickering dangerously close. "Unauthorized personnel detected. Prepare for apprehension," it announces coldly, making heads turn and heightening her sense of urgency.

With Spots continuing to create chaos behind her, she bolts toward the lobby's revolving doors. "Stop!" Greyson cries out, confusion mingling into his voice, but she doesn’t look back. The threat of the drone is too great to ignore. Instead, she pushes through the lobby's doors, shoving her weight against the glass.

Her heart pounds with each step, and the world outside unfolds in an instant.

She bursts into the street, and a couple engrossed in conversation catches her off guard. Their laughter cuts short as she collides with them. 

"Sorry!" she cries out.

[Name] barely registers their surprised faces as she knocks over a performer's currency box.The sound crisp and loud. It clatters to the ground, spilling deep red gems across the pavement like droplets of blood. The street performer’s face freezes in disbelief, and her stomach twists. Around her, onlookers stare, drawn in by the spectacle. Another desperate apology rips from her as she stumbles backward, dancing clumsily around the performer.

The streets are teeming with life—bystanders, commuters, vendors—all oblivious to the inner turmoil gnawing inside her. In her panic, she feels something small crushing beneath her weight, and a high-pitched squeal pierces her ears. She looks down and sees a toy car flattened by her boot. Its wheels squeak in protest. A little boy stares at her, wide-eyed, holding the toy's remote. His eyes fill with tears as a frown tugs on his lips.

"I’m so sorry!" She exclaims, and her voice cracks as apologies tumble from her lips like leaves swept up in a gust of wind. Each one pours out as she continues to navigate the crowd, a whirlwind of embarrassment and urgency.

Meanwhile, Spots darts ahead. His fur bristles as he darts through the legs of pedestrians. His frantic meows are lost in the city’s noise, but she knows he’s trying to lead her. Trying to steer her clear of the drone. The whirring behind her grows louder, and it slices through the chaos.

The crowd thickens, closing in around her like a vice. Her breath is ragged and shallow. The city noise swallows every apology she throws out as [Name] pushes forward. And then—finally—she breaks through.

The morning air hits her like a slap. She stands there for a heartbeat, gulping down air, her body trembling. Her gaze shoots upward, locking on the massive neon sign hanging over her: Welcome to Linkon City. The colors vibrate against the blue sky. It's almost blinding as its bright lights sear into her mind.

If even a shred of doubt about her reincarnation is left, it evaporates right then. 

The reality of her transmigration settles around her like a cloak. Cascading glass waterfalls glisten in the morning light, their translucent panels flowing downward like liquid crystals, shimmering with every movement of the sun. Holographic displays hover above major intersections, showcasing public art and advertisements. The sheer energy of the city pulses through her, overwhelming and disorienting. She swallows, her throat dry, as she fully grasps her place in this new world.

Then Spots yowls and the sound yanks her back into the chaos. Her eyes snap down to the street, catching the glint of chrome. A motorcycle—sleek, black, and polished to a shine—sits idle at the curb. The keys dangle from the ignition like a lifeline.

Her heart skips a beat.

She hesitates, a moment of uncertainty holding her down. She questions if she's really about to steal someone's bike. But before she can fully wrestle with her morals, the shrill whine of the drone snaps her thoughts in half. It was like a warning, and any internal debate died in the noise. The bike is her fastest way out from the chaos, and she's in no position to turn down miracles.

[Name] dashes toward the motorcycle, her boots loud against the pavement. The keys hang tantalizingly from the ignition. In one fluid motion, she grabs the helmet off the seat and shoves it over her head. The scent of spicy cologne and gunpowder instantly fills her nostrils. She throws her leg over the seat, and her hands grasp the handlebars, the leather cool against her palms.

With a twist of the ignition, the engine roars to life. It's a throaty growl that drowns out the early morning bustle. She glances back and catches sight of the security drone hovering above the lobby entrance. Its red light is scanning the street for her. Without a second thought, she turns the throttle, and the motorcycle surges forward.

“Spots!” She calls, her voice muffled. She searches the crowd, but he's already darting ahead.

“Meet me at the old boxing gym!” He screeches, his whiskers on a fritz. “We’ll be waiting for you there!”

With that, Spots vanishes into the crowd of morning commuters. 

“Wait! Don’t leave!” She shouts back.

Her anxiety presses into her. The security drone, unable to leave the hospital’s premises, continues to forebode behind her, notifying the Evol police. Feeling at a loss, [Name] inadvertently grits her teeth. With Spots already gone ahead, she revs the motorcycle and kicks it into gear. She tears away from the curb and into the morning throng.

Peeling away with sudden speed, she narrowly misses a man getting out of his vehicle as she picks up momentum and races down the city streets. Digital signs and billboards begin to blur as she navigates through the sea of pedestrians and vehicles. Cars line the streets, and the sidewalks are packed with commuters heading to work.

She cuts off several drivers with heedless driving, quickly earning her their ire. Multiple car honks and tire screeching fill her ears as she tightly grips the handlebars. She can't ever remember going this fast in her life—lives.

She accelerates the motorcycle twice the speed limit, rapidly pushing the red needle of the speedometer more and more as she recklessly switches between lanes without warning.

Trees and buildings whip past her, and her breathing hitches up from adrenaline. She girts teeth at the impending red light at the next intersection, squeezing the throttle to go even faster. She plows through oncoming cross-traffic, forcing cars to slam on their brakes, screeching and spinning, to narrowly avoid her. Still, the metallic crunch of a collision shatters the air behind her. She glances in the mirror long enough to witness a car smash into a city bus, debris, and glass spraying across the road. People scatter, their faces twisted in shock. Steam pours out from underneath the severely wrecked hood of the car.

A surge of guilt runs down her spine. [Name] can hardly believe what she’s doing. Everything is moving too fast, and her heart is pounding so hard that her earlobes vibrate in time to her pulse. Police sirens blare in the distance as her disruption in the intersection doesn’t go unnoticed. 

The streets twist and turn, and in her haste, she realizes she has no idea where she’s going. [Name] races deeper into the city, leaning low as two police cars fall into pursuit, their flashing lights a beacon of distress. Her hands tighten on the handlebars as she leans into the next turn, pushing the speedometer more. 

The sirens are louder now, merging with the sound of her own frantic breaths. She makes a wide turn into an alleyway, shooting into a grid of warehouses enclosed by a chain link fence. The police cars increase their speed and follow her through the gates of the warehouse zone.

Ahead, a dark silhouette rises against the skyline, an abandoned research facility half-hidden in the shadows. Its exterior is crumbling, but it offers a potential refuge. 

She swerves sharply, aiming for the broken-down entrance, but her speed betrays her. The gap is too narrow. Her heart slams against her ribs as the bike lays rudder, careening toward a cluster of large crates stacked haphazardly.

“No, no!” She cries out, yanking on the brakes, but it’s too late, and the impact is brutal. 

Crates explode around her as the grating screech of metal slices through the police’s sirens. The motorcycle is twisted and contorted like an Escher painting as the force throws her off the bike. She flies through the air, weightless for a brief second, before her back slams into the concrete wall with a sickeningly crack. Her breath is knocked from her lungs as pain explodes in her body. 

She slides down the wall, landing on the ground in a tangle of limbs and adrenaline—limp as a ragdoll. 

Her vision blurs as she tries to breathe. Every little movement is more anguishing than the last. [Name] struggles to gasp, rolling onto her side. Short bursts of air fill her lungs as she claws at the helmet with desperate hands. Everything hurts. She can feel the pain radiating from her spine to her shoulders, but she’s still alive, as if by some miracle.

[Name] launches the helmet away from her, half-hazardously throwing it off somewhere. The motorcycle lies on its side, a twisted heap of metal and leather, crates scattered around it like her fallen comrades. The overpowering oil fumes saturated the thick air; a slick trail of crude roves away from the wreckage.

Her nerves are shot. She barely registers the panic of being alone, disoriented in an unfamiliar place. She pushes herself up, clenching her jaw, fighting to clear the fog from her mind.

As her surroundings slowly come into focus, she hears the distant sound of the Evol police fading into the background. They’re still searching for her, but at the moment, she’s lost them.

Since reincarnating, she feels the briefest amount of relief.

However, it doesn't last. Hunched over, hands pressing against her stomach, she coughed and drooled shamelessly. [Name] tries to step forward, but her vision blurs again, fatigue weighing her down like boulders. Her knees buckle beneath her, and she collapses to the ground with the edges of her vision fading to black.

And just like that, she surrenders to a dreamless sleep—fainting from the pain.

Chapter Text

Ch. Three — Between a Cat and a Hard Place!

A wave of nausea rolls through [Name] as she regains consciousness. The world spins around her like a merry-go-round, and when her eyelids flutter open, pale light greets her. Thin rays leak through cracked windows, clarifying a dust-laden scene. 

Slowly, she pushes herself up. Her stomach turns, and a bitter taste coats her tongue. When she glances down, she grimaces. Vomit stains the ground near her, the acrid stench strong enough to make her eyes sting. In a futile attempt to reclaim some dignity, she wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve. 

Get it together.

She rises on unsteady legs, her body aching from the crash. The sirens of the Evol police have long disappeared. The only sound left is the echo of her breathing, slow and uneven, as if she can convince herself she’s fine.

But then the silence slithers up her spine, whispering and taunting. Suddenly, she’s acutely aware of how alone she is. Truly alone.

The realization doubles down on her. Instinctively, she wraps her arms around herself. Spots is gone. The absence of his warmth leaves a hollow space in her chest. Fear swells in her throat and a cold sweat clings to her skin. Her pulse hammers, but there’s nothing but her own thoughts left to fight.

A memory stirs. 

At first, fragile. Then it sharpens. 

A white kitten mewling among battlefield debris, too small and helpless. She remembers how their tiny body trembled against her chest, their heartbeat a frantic rhythm against her own. She also remembers the fire. The screams. The suffocating smoke that clung to her lungs.

And how she had shielded that small creature as war raged around them.

A moment of salvation amid the violence she helped create.

“Stop.” The word manages to escape her lips. She shakes her head, as if she can physically dislodge the past from her mind.

But the memories refuse to let go.

The city burns, collapsing under relentless artillery fire. She had helped reduce it to rubble. And yet, in the wreckage, life still clung to existence. Small, fragile, trembling in the palm of her hand. The cruel irony isn’t lost on her.

Yet she doesn’t want to remember. She doesn’t want to face the truth that even in opposition, she still followed orders. That her hands had taken, destroyed, just as much as they had saved. The weight of it festers, evolving into an undying ache.

A sharp breath forces herself back into the present. Ground yourself. Find something real.

Sunlight seeps through the decaying structure, catching the dust motes in golden streaks. She steps forward, then another, pushing herself to move. The warmth on her skin feels distant, barely reaching past the cold knot in her chest. She squints against the hanging sun, witnessing how the darkness elongates, reaching out like grasping hands of her past.

The past she still doesn’t understand.

It all blurs together: orders barked over gunfire, the cries of the innocent, the stench of burning flesh. She had convinced herself there was a reason. A purpose in the missions. A justification in the orders. 

But had it ever mattered? 

Or was it all for the egos of men who played god, carving the world apart? As if war was nothing more than a cycle, one that swallowed everything and left only bodies to rot in its wake. 

Her stomach twists at the thought. She sniffs, then spits, trying to purge the bitter taste from her mouth. What kind of person had she been? More importantly, what kind of person is she now?

The exhaustion drags at her, but she forces herself deeper into the research facility. The ground beneath her boots is littered with debris: shattered glass, splintered crates, and remnants of experiments that never saw the light of day. Everything here is abandoned. Lost.

Just like she is.

As she maneuvers around broken crates, her gaze lands on the motorcycle. A sleek beast of machinery, now scarred by her reckless actions. She imagines the owner, furious, searching for their stolen bike.

She exhales, then pauses.

A glint of red catches her eye amid the wreckage. It rests near the handlebars, half-buried in debris. Despite the dull ache in her limbs, she moves closer, drawn in by a quiet curiosity.

Kneeling, she brushes aside bits of broken glass and reaches out.

Her fingers close around the object.

A brooch.

At its center, a deep red gemstone winks, faceted like shattered glass. The dark and polished frame twists like curling branches, ensnaring the stone in its grip. A crow perches at the crest, its wings unfurled, its beak poised as if ready to call. Even in the dying light, the craftsmanship is exquisite.

For a moment, she turns it over, tracing the metalwork with her thumb. 

And then, reality strikes, knocking the air from her lungs like a full-body blow. 

The brooch slips from her fingers, clattering onto the concrete. She jerks back as if burned, weight shifting too fast as she lands hard on her rear. Yet the impact barely registers, drowned beneath the crashing understanding of her monumental mistake. She scrambles back, boots scraping against the ground, kicking up dust. Her heartbeat thrums in her ears, overtaking the broken silence.

The bike. The helmet. The brooch.

She doesn’t need to think twice to connect the dots. She already knows whose motorcycle she stole. Sylus. Nausea curls up her throat. Leader of Onychinus. The man whose reach seeps into every corner of the N109 Zone. The man who knows everything.

Suddenly, her body feels wrong, too hot and too cold, prickling her skin with the creeping sensation of someone watching. She swallows, but her throat stays dry. A fractured sound spills from her lips, something between a laugh and a groan. You’ve really done it now.

The thought should ground her, but it doesn’t. Her chest tightens. The brooch lies motionless in the dirt like a taunting warning, a brand she never meant to claim. 

It shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here.

Her body moves before her mind catches up. She pushes herself further back, palms scraping raw against the concrete as she crawls, desperate to put space between herself and that cursed piece of metal. Her breath comes faster, shallower, tearing through her frame. 

She stole from Sylus. The worst possible person.

Of all the people in this world, why him?

The whole building is closing in. The walls groan, contracting like the ribcage of a thing that once lived, exhaling lungfuls of ruin. The air is too thick, souring her tongue with decay. 

This place is rotting. Collapsing in on itself.

Just like the cities she left behind.

Shadows twist in the pale light, contorted figures shifting through the wreckage. They almost look like bodies. The same ones she had to step over, had to leave behind, had to watch bleed out in the dirt while she ran forward.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

She staggers to her feet, legs unsteady, but she pays it no mind. When she stumbles back, her hip slams into a metal table, the impact sending a cascade of long-dead Protocore experiments crashing to the floor.

The sound is deafening.

Glass shatters, metal clatters. A sudden, violent explosion in the hush of dayfall. A thick cloud of dust blooms into the air, swallowing the room whole. It stings her eyes, burning like fire, forcing them shut as grit grinds against her lashes.

For a second, it’s not dust at all. It’s ash. The smoldering remains of a battlefield crumbling under mortar fire. She blinks rapidly, but the sting won’t relent. Her vision blurs, the world dissolving between light and dark, dredging up ghosts lost to the smoke. No matter how hard she rubs at her eyes, she can’t clear them.

She’s back there.

Not here. Not in the present.

In the ruins of a war-torn city, where concrete caves under relentless artillery, where gunfire is a language better than words. Shadows stretch over collapsing buildings. Fractured cries echo in the distance, voices of those who won’t make it out.

A memory detonates. She doesn’t just recall the explosions, she feels them. The phantom tremor rattles through her ribs, reverberating in her spine, a shockwave that isn’t real but might as well be.

Another explosion. The ground shudders beneath her. 

Except it doesn’t. 

Reality insists its not happening, but her body refuses to agree.

Her eyes burn, raw from the dust, but it’s the images behind them that truly hurt. Burning metal. Charred flesh. Blood. She smells it.

Her stomach lurches. 

She needs to move. 

Her body obeys before she can think. Boots hammer against the cracked floor, the impact rattling through her bones. She doesn’t know where she’s going—only that she has to keep moving, to outrun the memories gnawing at her heels. Spots told her to meet him at the old boxing gym, but she doesn’t know where that is. She doesn’t even know where she is right now.

Guilt festers, winding through her veins like barbed wire. The battlefield still here. It followed her, stitched into her very being. Her muscles are screaming for reprieve, but she forces herself forward. 

If she slows, even for a second, the memories will catch up.

She can’t let them.

The corridor widens into a vast chamber, and she staggers to a halt, barely catching herself before collapsing.

The ceiling rises high; skeletal beams and half-collapsed scaffolding jutting out like ribs from a corpse. Sunlight slants through broken skylights, cutting the space into jagged lines of past and present. Machines, rusted and swallowed by creeping vines, sit abandoned in the corners like forgotten remnants.

It coils inside her, a slow constriction she can't shake.

She can hear it again. The shuddering boom of distant shelling, the static-laced voices crackling through a radio, the sickening thud of a body hitting the ground. 

Her own.

A breath seizes in her throat. Her fingers clutch at her uniform, nails biting deep, desperate to pry open her ribs. Every inhale feels like swallowing glass. She’s dying all over again. The bullet. The impact. The weightlessness before the ground caught her. Her body remembers what her mind wants to forget.

She should have stayed dead.

And yet, through the haze of smoke and blood, another memory appears, one that shouldn’t matter, but does.

The battlefield had crumbled around her, fire licking at the remains of a city she helped destroy. She ran, pushing forward like always. But through the chaos, something else screamed. Small. Weak. Drowned beneath the roar of falling debris.

She hadn’t stopped for the wounded or the soldiers who fought alongside her. 

But she had stopped for that sound.

A white kitten.

A tiny, fragile thing curled in the wreckage, their fur matted with ash, their body trembling in the cradle of concrete and ruin. They had looked up at her, eyes too wide, too full of fear, not understanding why the world was collapsing around them.

Just like her.

She had bent down without thinking, scooping them up, pressing them against her chest, feeling their frantic heartbeat hammer against her own. For that moment, she had done the unthinkable. She had turned her back on the war.

And now, in a world that isn’t hers, surrounded by death and hopelessness, she wonders—had that little creature felt this same despair? Trapped in something too vast, too merciless, with no way out?

“Please… stop,” she whispers. 

Darkness gather at her peripherals. But this time, it isn’t just in her mind.

A voice. Soft. Like a lullaby. 

It grazes her awareness like an echo struggling to break through water. Footsteps follow, then a shift in the air. The voice draws closer, dreamlike against the rush of blood in her ears. Then, a touch. Light. Careful. Warm, but not overwhelming.

Her head snaps up.

A man kneels before her, close but not crowding. He’s clad in a form-fitting white and grey hunter uniform. Pale blonde hair falls just over his brow, and blue eyes meet hers without hesitation. She knows him instantly.

Xavier.

Something in her mind falters, and it’s like she’s looking at him through a screen again, choices stacked from top to bottom, waiting for her input. A moment suspended in fiction. But then, just as quickly as it came, the illusion dissolves.

This isn’t a game.

At least, not anymore.

The pressure in her chest mounts again, squeezing until she chokes. Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her uniform, brushing against the dried blood caked there.

She’s dead.

Her life ended in an instant. Gunfire, smoke, the impact stealing the air from her lungs. The ground rushing to meet her, red liquid pooling beneath her, the chaos of battle fading into silence. And yet… she’s here. Alive in a world that shouldn’t be real, forced to keep going when she never asked for a second chance.

A tremor runs through her.

Xavier doesn’t move. His hand stays where it is, a gentle touch on her shoulder, like he knows any sudden movement might shatter the fragile balance keeping her from shoving him away.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, even. “It’s okay.”

She doesn’t believe him.

The research base feels too much like the ruins she left behind: broken, hollow, a place where people vanish and never come back. Her body still wants to run, but there’s nowhere left to go.

The past isn’t gone. It never will be.

“It hurts,” she rasps, not even knowing if she means her head, her chest, or something deeper.

Xavier’s fingers twitch, as if resisting the urge to do more than just steady her. He nods like he understands, but she knows he can’t. Not in the way she feels it, the ache clawing its way through her.

“Breathe,” he says, not as a command, but as a reminder.

She shakes her head, but he doesn’t let up.

“In through your nose,” he demonstrates, inhaling deep and slow, “out through your mouth.”

It takes her a second, watching how his shoulders rise and fall, before she mimics him. It isn’t smooth. Her breath shudders on the way in and catches on the way out, but she tries again. And again. The pressure in her chest doesn’t disappear, but it dulls. The panic eases just enough to think.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Just keep going.”

Her hands go cold, numb despite the heat. Slowly, they uncurl from where they’ve been gripping her chest, nails still digging deep. Inhale. Exhale. She forces the motion, even though it suddenly feels unnatural.

She focuses on the present.

A cold draft slips beneath her clothes, raising goosebumps along her arms. In the distance, debris shifts with lingering cracks; time hasn’t completely stopped here. Water drips somewhere unseen, its rhythm steady in the silence. And then there’s his touch, real, solidifying her when nothing else feels like it should.

Xavier doesn’t look away. His eyes remain locked on hers, yet it’s not prying. There’s no expectation for her to speak, only a gentle, foreign patience in the midst of everything unraveling. 

She swallows hard, forcing a nod.

A beat of silence.

“Are you okay, Miss?”

She almost laughs. The answer is obvious, but the audacity of the question catches between a sob and a bitter breath. She isn’t okay. She isn’t even sure what okay is supposed to feel like anymore. Her lips part, but words refuse to form. The overwhelming truth sits in her chest like lead, pressing against her insides, swelling until it has nowhere to go but out.

Her breath hitches, and suddenly, she’s crying.

She barely registers the first tear. Then another. Then another, until her vision blurs and her shoulders tremble, her whole body folding beneath everything she’s been holding back. She tries to swallow it down and keep herself together, but it’s like trying to hold back a flood with nothing but her bare hands.

She shakes her head, voice stammering. “No. I’m not okay.”

The admission comes out quiet, but it carries everything. Xavier doesn’t flinch or shift away. There’s no discomfort in his posture, no attempt to offer empty reassurances that would only make it worse. He just listens.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she mutters, the words tumbling out before she can stop them. “I never wanted to be here. This isn’t—this isn’t what I wanted.”

Her breath stutters. The emotions press down harder, dragging the words with them. She grips the fabric over her ribs again, fingers curling into the dried blood staining her uniform.

“I didn’t choose this. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t—” A sharp inhale. “What did I do to deserve this? And even if I ask, who’s going to answer? Who could even begin to understand?”

The enormity of it suffocates her. The realization that she can’t go back. That she will never go back. The words start to come faster, spilling out between uneven breaths.

“I don’t know how to be here,” she whispers. “I thought I could—I thought I could make a difference, but now it all feels pointless. I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t even know where to start.”

Xavier shifts slightly, kneeling more into her space. He moves slowly, carefully, yet he doesn’t interrupt.

She sucks in a breath, voice splintering. “And the worst part is—I can’t even go home. Even if I wanted to. Even if I begged. There’s nothing left.”

The final confession leaves her with an exhale of pure, ugly grief.

Xavier stiffens.

She sees it in the way his brow knits together, the subtle downturn of his lips. He doesn’t understand. How could he?

To him, she must be another lost soul in a broken world. Someone mourning a past she can’t reclaim, struggling to find her place in something that no longer fits. Maybe he thinks she’s grieving a life stolen by fate, or wrestling with regrets that can’t be undone.

But it isn’t that simple.

She shouldn’t be telling him this. She shouldn’t be saying any of it. She isn’t Serenophe. 

But she looks like her. Just enough.

The shadows keep the illusion incomplete, blurring the line between what is and what should be. Would he still look at her like this if the light caught her face just right? If he saw her fully? If he realized she wasn’t real?

She should pull away before this becomes something she can’t take back. 

But she doesn’t. 

Because he’s here, and right now, she needs something to hold on to.

Xavier hesitates, his fingers twitching as if debating whether to act or stay still. Then, as if finalizing a decision, his hand moves from her shoulder to her back. His touch is tentative, waiting to see if she’ll recoil.

She doesn’t.

So, he presses his palm a little firmer, tracing slow, gentle circles between her shoulder blades. The warmth seeps through the fabric, offering something she isn’t sure she deserves but doesn’t pull away from.

She hears his exhale, softer this time, like he’s releasing a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His touch is a solid contrast to the cold creeping through her body, easing the tightness she has fought to hold in place. She tenses at first, instinctively bracing against it, but the exhaustion is too heavy. 

The fear lingers. The loneliness presses in. It’s too much.

Finally, she lets go.

Before she can second-guess herself, she leans forward, pressing her forehead against Xavier’s chest. Her hands move to grip the front of his uniform, like an anchor in a world that no longer makes sense.

He goes still.

She waits for him to pull back, to tense, to say something that will make this feel as reckless and stupid as it probably is. But he stays quiet.

Time drags between them, longer than it should. But then, he exhales once more, and his arms settle around her. The embrace is light, neither confining nor wavering. Just something to lean into.

She squeezes her eyes shut, pressing herself deeper into his uniform. Beneath her ear, his heartbeat is slow and steady, nothing like hers. She focuses on it, anyway. The scent of metal and fabric softener settles in her senses. 

Her tears soak into the material, dampening it, but she doesn’t care. Her grip on his uniform tightens, and she isn’t sure if she’s trying to hold onto him or trying to hold herself together. The ghosts of the past remain. The ache in her chest lingers. But the world no longer feels like it’s closing in.

And for now, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

Ch. Four — A Knead for Belonging!

She can’t remember the last time she felt this good.

The gentle steam of running water courses over [Name]’s skin. This is her first actual moment of peace since waking up in this new world. Unabashedly, she allows herself to let go of her vigilance. The hot water pours over her naked body, loosening the knots in her muscles. As she showers, her thoughts circle back to the rush of her hospital escape—the blinding city lights, the growl of the stolen motorcycle, and the throbbing pain that consumed her being after the crash.

She sinks to the tile floor; the coolness below differs from the warmth above. Her knees draw close to her chest, and she rests her forehead against them. Her wet hair clings to her neck and shoulders. The glass shower is small yet safe, where the outside world's noise is muffled. It graciously allows [Name] the rare luxury of vulnerability. 

Her fingers trace absent circles against her legs. The repetitive motion is soothing as memories flood in. She recalls Xavier’s face in the research base, how his brows knitted together as she broke down. She had felt like a fragile glass doll, teetering on the brink of shattering. Every repressed feeling spilled over as she clung to him, seeking solace in his embrace and soaking his hunter’s uniform with hot tears. Despite barely knowing her, he had not pulled away; instead, he held her close, his presence a steady constant amidst her grief.

Suddenly, she brings her hands to her face, feeling embarrassed.

“Ugh, I’m so stupid,” she whispers.

If her comrades were here, they surely would have laughed at her mental turmoil—especially the men in her squad, who thrived on the battlefield and never dared to show a hint of weakness. Still, it happened, and her mind continues to replay what transpired at the research base.  

When [Name] finally calmed down enough to pull away from Xavier, she caught a glimpse of the concern etched onto his face. It was a worry that was too personal. His eyes lingered on hers for too long, like he was searching beneath her exterior. She felt a stirring in her chest, sending her heart racing. But then, his gaze eased to her battered, bloodied uniform, and his concern sharpened.

He insisted, adamantly, on tending to her wounds. His voice was firm yet gentle. At that moment, panic had surged through her, and she protested fiercely, practically begging him not to. It wasn’t reluctance to accept his help but a desperate attempt to hide the truth. Obviously, the blood staining her clothes was not fresh—just a lingering piece of her past life as a soldier. Her wounds had healed upon her arrival, leaving her without any visible scars, yet the fabric of her past clung to her like a shroud. 

But she couldn’t have told him that—would he actually be able to understand? To Xavier, she’s just another character in this unfolding narrative, oblivious to the fact that she’s not part of this world nor aware of its nature as a mobile otome game.  

Above all else, another layer to Xavier’s gaze had troubled her. He looked at her with suggested recognition, an unsettlement to her resemblance to the heroine. How he studied her face, searching for a connection that wasn’t there, sent a ripple of unease through her. Did he sense something more than the character she resembled?

As her mind wanders, a soft knock on the door pulls her out. She looks up, startled. A hand holding a crinkled grocery bag slips through the door's narrow gap.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d need, so I just picked up a few things. They should be alright, but let me know if you need anything else.” Xavier’s voice is reserved, but not shy, as he speaks through the barely opened door.

Hesitantly, his hand lingers before he sets it on the sink counter.

[Name] stares at the bag, her chest tightening with gratitude and disbelief. Xavier had shown her nothing but humanity for someone she’d met in such a mess of events. It’s disarming, to say the least. She watches his hand disappear as he pulls the door shut, and his footsteps fade as he retreats.

Curiosity mingles with reluctant appreciation. It overtakes her as she processes the minor gesture. Slowly, she stands and slides the shower door open. Reaching for the bag, she drags it closer for a peek.

“Is this really all for me?” she asks nobody, wide-eyed.

Inside are essentials: soap, shampoo, conditioner, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a small hairbrush, and a handful of feminine toiletries she’d desperately needed but hadn’t dared to ask for.

As she looks down at the supplies, a thought hits her: he must have run out to get these while she was preparing for her shower—picking out what he thinks she might need, likely in a hurry. It’s a tiny detail, but it makes her heart twist. She’s barely known him—the real him—for a day. However, he’s gone out of his way to make her comfortable. His tenderness engulfs her, yet beneath it lies an undercurrent of confusion. Why is he being kind to her? To someone that he should be wary about? Especially since she looks so much like Serenophe. 

What if he sees her not as [Name] but as a reflection of the heroine? If that’s the case, can she ever be more than just a passing resemblance to a character in a game? The idea that he might perceive her as nothing more than another version of Serenophe slowly starts to eat away at her.

Frowning, [Name] digs out the bottle of shampoo and soap as conflicting emotions slide over her. She pops open the shampoo bottle and takes a good whiff. The scent is fruity yet floral. It dramatically contradicts the grime that clung to her since the beginning. It’s a small pleasure, but it feels terrific.

“Thank you,” she mutters, knowing he’s long gone.

The constant thrum of water hitting tile swallows her voice. She wishes she could feel safe enough to trust his kindness fully, but a nagging voice warns her to stay on guard. She returns to the shower, the steaming heat embracing her once more. She cleans herself, watching the soapy residue swirl down the drain. The running water drowns out everything, and she loses herself in the comforting monotony.

Finally, her mind slows down.

After a while, she turns off the shower and stands there, eyes closed, reveling in the gentle heat. Reluctantly, she opens her eyes and reaches for the towel Xavier left by the door. She dries herself off and wraps the towel around her body. Then, she steps out of the shower and stands in front of the bathroom mirror.

She barely recognizes the woman looking back at her.

The steam blurs her reflection, softening the sharpness in her eyes and the edges of her hair. Her face looks different—tired, yes, but also softer. She isn't the bloodstained soldier anymore; in her place stands a bare woman, perhaps a little closer to someone she can accept. She touches her cheek, surprised by how foreign her own skin feels under her fingertips.

Turning away from the mirror, she reaches for the clothes Xavier left. The black hoodie is his, an old, soft thing with slightly faded fabric. She’s taken back, just a little, with how different it is. [Name] expected to be given the same hoodie as the one from the game. She hasn’t seen this one before, and it makes her think.

Still, she pulls it over her head.

The cotton brushes against her still-damp skin. It smells faintly of detergent and something ineffably him. The hoodie hangs off her, the sleeves covering her hands, the hem reaching just below her hips. She pulls the towel out from underneath, and she’s immediately engulfed in an unexpected and intimate solace.

She then picks up the boxers he left. An amused yet shy smile tugs on her lips. They’re clearly his, and she steps into them, adjusting the waistband as it sits loosely on her hips. They’re comfortable in a way that reminds her of the years she’d spent dressing in uniform. The sweatpants follow, similarly oversized, pooling at her ankles. But it’s a welcome reprieve, like she doesn’t have to be on edge.

The scent of detergent mingles with her body wash. [Name] feels cocooned in warmth and protection. The simple freshness of clean clothes, the softness of cotton, the unmistakable sense that she’s borrowing a piece of Xavier’s life—all of it settles like a gentle kiss.

Once more, she glances at her reflection. For a split second, she doesn’t look like a stranger to herself. She looks disarmingly ordinary. Someone unremarkable, living an unremarkable life. It’s a sight that aches her chest like she’s catching a glimpse of what could have been.

Her eyes lower, and a deep exhale leaves through her nostrils. Stepping out of the bathroom, she's greeted by his apartment's overwhelming coziness. The scent of hot broth and spices beckons her over. It also reminds her that she hasn’t eaten anything since, well, everything began. Her nose follows the tantalizing aroma to the kitchen, where she finds Xavier setting out two bowls of steaming pho. Each is brimming with rice noodles, herbs, and slices of beef.

Xavier wipes his hands together. He looks satisfied as he takes in the spread. He’s changed out of his hunter’s uniform; now, he’s wearing a simple, white shirt that drapes over his frame. He'd rolled his sleeves to his forearms, revealing lean muscles. His beige trousers hang comfortably, which adds to his softening appearance.

He glances up, finally noticing her presence. “There’s this little pho place just down the street,” he says. “I've been craving this for a while; I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” she responds, playing with her fingers as she shifts from side to side. “Thank you.”

He nods and gestures to the chair across from him. With some hesitance, [Name] crosses the space. Once she's settled down, her gaze drifts around the apartment, taking in the details. It’s quaint and homey. Shelves are filled with books that line the walls, many dog-eared and worn. Small plants sit on a windowsill, leaning towards the sparse evening light. The entire space is like a calm oasis—a reflection of the game's aesthetic, but with a hint of personality she hasn’t expected.

Xavier takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, unhurried. He seems content to let the silence stretch between them, which is surprisingly comfortable. There’s a soft clink as he arranges his chopsticks. His eyes flicker over her, taking in the sight of her wearing his clothes. Although he doesn’t comment, his gaze is accepting, like her presence is more natural than it should be.

She focuses on the food before her; a steaming bowl of pho and a side plate of fresh basil, cilantro, and lime. It looks wonderful, especially with the sharp ache of hunger gnawing at her. Just as she’s about to pick up her chopsticks, his voice slices through the silence.

“What’s your name again?”

The question catches her off guard. With a jolt, she realizes she hasn’t introduced herself. Not entirely, anyway. She looks at him momentarily, trying to recall if there’s been an appropriate time to say it. However, everything has been one chaotic moment after another, and this small detail slipped away from her.

“[Name],” she replies.

And she realizes it’s the first time she’s uttered her name since everything changed. It tastes foreign on her tongue and yet familiar. Her name brings a pang of loneliness, and flashes of everything and everyone she lost invades her mind.

She wonders if she’s even the same person anymore. Her name feels like it belongs to someone else—someone who died on the battlefield and left her spirit adrift. Does her name even hold a place here, in a world that shouldn’t know her? Has it already become a relic of a life that no longer exists? 

Saying it aloud is like whispering a secret to the universe, holding her in place, even as she drifts farther from the person she once was.

“[Name],” he echoes. “It’s nice to meet you.”

A small, uncertain smile creeps onto her face. She wonders if Xavier can sense how strange it is for her to reclaim her existence. She looks down, her hands now cradling the bowl of pho. The truth about herself—her reincarnation, her memories, her uncanny resemblance to Serenophe—presses at the edges of her thoughts, desperate to be acknowledged. But as she meets his gaze, a hint of doubt roots her in silence.

“Why were you at the old research base?” he asks, his neutral tone threaded with a cautious curiosity. “There’s been an increase in metaflux in that area, and it’s been abandoned for a while. It’s not where people go unless they’re looking for trouble.”

A surge of panic flares up in her chest.

She knew this was going to happen eventually. With how she looks, it would be foolish of him not to question her. But how could she possibly explain her actual reasons without sounding utterly crazed? That she’d been reincarnated into this world? That this world was, in her old life, a game she once played on her phone? She has no idea how Xavier, or anyone here, would react to that. 

Instead, she draws in a slow breath. If she chooses her words carefully, then maybe she can get ahead of the situation. So, she shapes her response to be vague enough to be plausible.

“I’m looking for someone,” she begins, then pauses just enough to seem genuine. “My twin sister. Her name is Serenophe.”

Xavier’s expression doesn’t change, but a flash of something passes over his face so quickly she nearly misses it. His gaze sharpens, watching her intently, yet he doesn’t question her story.

“Your twin sister,” he repeats slowly. “She’s in Linkon City too?”

“Yes," she lies. 

In reality, her so-called ‘twin’ lives right here, directly below them. [Name] already knew this from the game, but her suspicions were confirmed when she saw Serenophe’s name scrawled across the mailbox in the lobby downstairs. This knowledge is like a secret dagger tucked close to her chest. Something that can change everything. But she can’t share that with Xavier. She isn’t ready. Not until she understands why she’s here, what her purpose is, and most pressingly, what role she’s supposed to play in this game-made-real.

Xavier observes her. His eyes trace the outlines of her words, searching for gaps. But to her relief, he doesn’t pry further.

“That’s a big reason to come this far,” he says. “Linkon’s not easy to navigate, especially alone.”

She sighs, feigning weariness to sell her story. “I know. I didn’t exactly have a smooth start,” she says, lowering her gaze as if lost in thought. “I actually had a motorcycle, but I crashed it. That’s how I ended up at the research base. I was looking for somewhere quiet. A place to… regroup.”

Xavier’s hands still on the table, and she notices a slight narrowing of his gaze. But then he nods, an accepting look crossing his face. He resumes eating, his demeanor unchanging.

“I guess that makes sense,” he says, his voice steady between bites. “Linkon can be tough for newcomers.”

She lifts the bowl to her lips, sipping on the warm broth. The taste is so rich and satisfying that it distracts her for a second, nearly making her drool. When she brings the bowl away, she nods, swallowing hard.

“Yeah,” she replies. “It hasn’t been easy. I got overwhelmed, as you remember,” It isn’t entirely a lie. She did get overwhelmed—just not for the reasons she’s telling him.

“If you’d like, I could help you. I know people here. I could ask around about your sister.”

[Name] coughs, nearly choking at his proposition. “That wouldn’t be necessary,” she blurts out, a hint of panic coloring her voice. “I don’t want to cause any more trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” he replies, his stance unwavering. “Everyone deserves a little help, especially if they’re looking for family.”

His words fill the quiet between them. It’s almost stifling. She takes another tentative sip of the pho, and the warmth spreads through her chest. Across the table, Xavier’s eyes don’t waver. It’s like he can sense the turmoil beneath her composed exterior. She feels her hidden truths pressing down on her. As the silence becomes uncomfortable, she searches for something that breaks the tension.

Suddenly, a faint scratching sound comes from the balcony behind her. She freezes, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickles.

The sound is an insistent tapping just beyond the walls. She looks toward the door, where the last bit of light filters through the glass panes. Outside, beyond the reflection of the apartment's coziness, a scruffy orange tabby paws at the glass, his golden eyes bright against the dying sunset.

Before she can react, Xavier has already set down his chopsticks. His face is thoughtful, like he’s accustomed to this. He rises from his seat and walks over like every step has been taken a thousand times. She watches, caught between curiosity and confusion. She isn't sure what surprises her more: the unexpected visitor or the quiet assurance that Xavier handles the situation.

He glances back at her apologetically and reaches for the balcony door’s handle. “Sometimes I get visitors,” he says, as if explaining a well-worn habit. “Usually birds.”

His words, though brief, carry a soft comfort like he’s trying to put her at ease. He unlocks the balcony door with a click. It swings open, letting in the crisp night air, and a shiver crawls over her skin. She watches as the cat’s golden eyes gleam with curious intelligence, his tail swaying back and forth.

Xavier looks down at the visitor with mild surprise but no alarm. He gives the cat a small smile. “Not a bird,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “But alright. Come on in.”

With a dainty leap, the cat crosses the threshold, brushing against Xavier’s leg as he enters the apartment. Xavier watches him for a moment before he shuts the door behind them, securing the lock. His face reveals nothing but mild interest like strays are at his door daily.

[Name] watches the cat trot further into the apartment, his head high as he surveys the space. The tabby’s golden eyes meet hers, and she feels an electric jolt of recognition as she remembers Spots, the tuxedo cat from her hospital escape, and how he’d spoken to her with such certainty.

And then, just like before, a voice—high-pitched, childish, and unmistakably feline—cuts through the silence.

“Finally! Thought you’d leave me out there forever. Name’s Pumpkin, by the way. You’re the talk of the colony.” The cat's casual confidence is out of place for the little animal standing in Xavier’s apartment.

[Name] blinks.

She steals a glance at Xavier, but he's completely unfazed. She frowns, glancing between the two, and her pulse quickens. Can Xavier… can he hear this, too?

Without really thinking, she stands and walks over to the orange tabby. Quickly, she reaches down and scoops Pumpkin up, holding him under his front legs. The cat lets out an amused purr, his eyes widening with mock surprise as she shoves him toward Xavier’s face like some inquisitive offering.

“Can you understand him?” [Name] asks, trying to keep her voice even. She studies Xavier’s face, searching for any sign of recognition.

Xavier’s brows lift, and a small trace of amusement glints in his blue eyes. He glances from her to Pumpkin and back again. The corner of his lips quirk.

“Understand him?” He asks back. “I don’t know what you mean by that. He’s a cat.”

He reaches out, scratching Pumpkin behind the ears. The tabby lets out an ordinary meow, blinking up at Xavier with a look of feigned innocence. Xavier’s hand lingers briefly on Pumpkin’s head before he pulls it back. His face shifts to be more contemplative as he wonders if she’s joking.

[Name] lowers the cat, her mind reeling. She’s struck by the realization that Xavier has no idea. To him, Pumpkin is just a stray, no different from any other neighborhood cat. She sets Pumpkin down, her hands lingering in his fur as she tries to collect herself. 

Well, Spots did mention there’s more like him, she thinks. But I didn’t know I’d be meeting another one so soon.

“Oh, it’s not just us that you can understand, Human,” Pumpkin says, as if reading her mind. “It’s all cats.”

“All?” she replies, stunned by this newfound information. The revelation that she can communicate with all felines sends a shiver of apprehension down her spine.

“All?” Xavier repeats, furrowing his brow at [Name]’s sudden outburst—his lack of understanding clashes with her chaotic thoughts.

“All,” Pumpkin confirms, stepping out of her grip and prancing around. His little paws pad against the hardwood floor.

The tabby cat explores Xavier's apartment like he owns it. His tail swishes back and forth like a regal banner. He sniffs at the corners and inspects the bookshelves. Pumpkin’s demeanor is that of a curious king surveying his domain.

[Name] turns to Xavier, forcing a nonchalant smile. “Hm? I didn’t say anything.”

For a moment, Xavier just looks at her. His eyes are searching for understanding, but then, he shifts his focus to the kitchen, “Let’s finish our meal,” he invites, letting go of her comment.

She nods, albeit too quickly. Her body relaxes as she follows him to the table. [Name] retakes her seat, a silence falling between them as they resume their meal. She glances down at her bowl of steaming pho, and her stomach involuntarily growls. She hears a small laugh and looks up to meet Xavier’s amused face.

“Sorry,” she says, falling into herself, trying to make her existence small and invisible.

He shakes his head. “Don’t be,” he replies, then he does the unexpected. Leaning forward, he places one of his tender beef slices into her bowl. “Have some more. It’s good.”

Xavier sits back in his chair. Surprise overtakes [Name] with the sudden intimacy, but slowly, she agrees and picks up her chopsticks.

As they eat in silence, only punctured by chopsticks clinking against bowls, [Name] indulges herself in warm food's savory, delicious taste. Pumpkin, who now feels at home, curls up by her feet. The warmth of the cat’s body radiates against her legs, and a soft purr emanates from him.

While she eats, [Name]’s mind begins to wander. Why is there another cat here? She glances down at Pumpkin, who blinks innocently at her. Her heart races with the urge to ask him why he’s come to find her, but that same thought sends waves of uncertainty. She would look insane to start having a full-on conversation with a cat. 

She steals a glance at Xavier, who's entirely at ease. He’s so kind, so unassuming, yet she still hesitates to bring up her strange connection with these cats. What would he think? Would revealing her ability to communicate with Pumpkin only deepen her confusing circumstances?

Probably, she swallows. As far as I know, talking cats isn’t part of the game.

As they finish their bowls, [Name] feels a strange sense of comfort surrounding her—a contrast to the chaos that led up to this moment. With each bite, she finds a little more peace, but the question of Pumpkin’s arrival still lingers.

Once they’ve both cleared their bowls, Xavier rises from the table. “I’ll clean up,” he says.

“Oh, I can help.”

Xavier shakes his head. “You’re a guest here. You shouldn’t worry about it.” His tone is casual yet insistent. It leaves little room for argument, and she settles back down.

As he moves to the sink, running water fills the air. [Name] watches him momentarily, struck by how effortlessly he cares for everything. She feels both gratitude and guilt—grateful for his kindness, yet guilty for relying on it.

While Xavier washes the dishes, Pumpkin stretches out on [Name]’s feet, his content purring vibrating through her. She absentmindedly reaches down to scratch behind his ears, her fingers tangling in his fur.

“Why are you here, Pumpkin?” she whispers, half-hiding under the table. “What do you want from me?”

The cat looks up at her, a glint of mischief in his golden eyes. “Don’t tell me you forgot while playing house,” he teases. “Spots sent me. We’re worried about you.”

Her shoulders slump, remembering how she’s supposed to meet Spots at their promised destination. “Hey, I don’t know where this old boxing gym is, okay? It’s not like you guys gave me a map or something.” 

Pumpkin sits on his haunches. “We’ve realized that, which is why I’m here now. I know Linkon City like the back of my paw, Human.” He speaks as if talking about chasing rogue mice.

Then, unexpectedly, Pumpkin bites down on her ankle—not hard enough to pierce the skin, but enough to make her jolt in surprise.

[Name] gasps, her instincts flaring as she jerks her foot away from Pumpkin’s nibble. “Are you kidding me? What was that for?” she protests, unable to keep her voice down. The cat blinks at her, an innocent expression on his face like he hasn’t startled her half out of the chair.

“Just making sure you’re paying attention,” he retorts, swaying his tail nonchalantly. “You need to stop overthinking things. You’re not in that old life anymore, y’know.”

Unease bubbles up her throat, yet she swallows it down.

“I’m aware,” she replies tersely. She tries to ignore how easily Pumpkin cuts through her facade, challenging her perception of safety. “I’m just trying to figure everything out.”

Having heard her loud gasp from the kitchen, Xavier turns off the faucet and wipes his hands on a dish towel. He shoots [Name] a glance, one brow raised in concern.

“Is everything alright?” He asks.

His tone is casual, but worry lingers underneath like the faint scent of soap in the air.

“Yeah, fine,” she responds too quickly, her voice rising higher than intended. Leaning forward, she half-heartedly scratches behind Pumpkin’s ears to deflect his attention. The cat purrs contentedly, nuzzling into her hand.

Xavier studies her for a moment longer, then returns his attention to the sink. “If you’re sure, but if you need anything, let me know.” He resumes washing the last of the dishes, and running water fills the kitchen once more.

Mumbling a soft “thanks,” she turns her focus back to Pumpkin. She picks him up and walks to the balcony doors, where the night air beckons like a siren’s call. Pumpkin settles comfortably over her shoulder.

“Actually, would it be okay if I get some fresh air? I’m feeling a little warm,” she asks Xavier, her voice a facade of normalcy. He nods, glancing over his shoulder with a hint of understanding.

“Make sure to close the door behind you.”

[Name] opens the door with an awkward grin, nodding all the while, as the night air hits her like a splash of cold water. As she steps outside, and the door shuts behind her, she plops Pumpkin down on one of the lounge chairs. She crosses her arms, waiting.

“Alright, I’ll cut to the chase,” Pumpkin announces, making himself comfortable. “Spots sent me to find you, remember? You need to get a move on.” In an instant, his demeanor shifts from playful to serious.

“What’s going on?” she asks, a frown appearing.

“You’ve drawn quite a lot of attention,” he replies, tilting his head. “They’ve been looking for you since the hospital incident. Word is spreading that someone resembling the heroine is wandering around, and they’re very interested. You’re a big ol’ target, Human.” His eyes narrow with each word.

“A target for who?” [Name] insists.

Her voice is tinged with desperation as she glances through the door's glass panels. At this point, Xavier had finished the dishes and is walking towards her, oblivious to their urgent conversation. She turns back to Pumpkin, his warning at her mind’s forefront. “Who exactly is after me, Pumpkin?”

The tabby rolls his eyes as if she already knows the answer. “For someone that’s played the game, you sure don’t know anything, huh?”

She narrows her eyes and clicks her tongue against her teeth. In one swift motion, she picks Pumpkin up and stares straight into his eyes. “Tell me,” she demands. “Now.”

As the cool night air wraps around her and Pumpkin's hurried whispers, she’s run out of time, and the balcony door clicks open. She stiffens, quickly breaking eye contact with the tabby. Xavier steps out, holding a small plate with canned pumpkin spread on it. Reluctantly, [Name] places the cat back onto the lounge chair, and Xavier sets the plate on the small table beside it. 

Despite Pumpkin's earlier impatience, he sniffs the treat. Then, he glances up at [Name] with an exasperated look before settling down to eat.

“I see you’ve made a new friend,” Xavier teases as he rolls down his sleeves. However, there’s something in his gaze, a shadow of contemplation. It's like he's seeing past her surface. “If you’re not too busy, I’d like to show you something.”

“Oh, sure,” she replies, her voice firmer than how she feels. She shoots one last look at Pumpkin, who's entirely unbothered by the interruption, engrossed in his treat.

Following Xavier back into the apartment, he shuts the balcony door behind them, leaving Pumpkin locked outside. [Name] stops herself from frowning as she tries to quiet the growing sense of unease. 

She watches him walk toward his bedroom. The way he moves, it’s like he’s on a mission—like he’s made up his mind about something. When they enter his bedroom, he gestures for her to come closer. 

She does.

He walks over to the closet without saying a word. The air becomes thick with sudden tension. When he opens it, the dim light catches the gleam of a sword hanging neatly on the back wall. Attached to the hilt is a small, handmade star tassel. Its faded threads sway as he takes the weapon down. He lifts the sword, letting the tassel catch the light. Xavier turns to her, his expression quiet and observant. 

“Do you recognize this?” he asks.

She tenses. The sight of the tassel floods her with a rush of memories from the game—she remembers it from one of Xavier's anecdotes. Serenophe had given it to him after a meteor shower in one of her many lives. She made it herself, a small act of love, just for him.

[Name] hesitates, clearly caught off guard. Her mind spins as she tries to figure out how to explain everything without exposing herself. But the familiarity of the tassel strikes her deep, making it impossible to feign indifference. She can’t bring herself to speak.

Xavier watches her carefully, his grip on the sword tighening. He's been weighing his suspicions ever since she first introduced herself. And now that he's seen her reaction: eyes lingering too long on the tassel, breath catching ever-so-slightly... he understands. She's not who she claims to be, but she knows things she shouldn't.

Like the last number clicking into a combination lock, a slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips. 

“I thought so," he says, but it's not accusing. Just certain. 

Her body tenses. Xavier tilts his head, watching the gears turn behind her eyes. He seems to know that she’s trying to piece together what to say—how much to give away. He lets the quiet settle before adding, “You’ve been keeping things from me.”

Her breath hitches, and she instinctively takes a step back.

“ Xavier—” she starts, but he cuts her off with a raised hand.

“It’s okay,” he says, his other hand loosing on the sword.

He takes the moment to hang it back onto the wall. As he shuts the closet door, he turns to face [Name] with a look that isn’t of hurt or surpise. Instead, it’s understanding—genuine acceptance, like he’s known she was hiding something from the start.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he continues. His words are like an urge to let her guard down.

“You’re not upset?” She asks, letting out a shaky breath. An overwhelming sense of fear, vulnerability, and regret rushes through her entire being.

She thought she was being so careful, so sure that her secrets were safe. However, Xavier’s quiet intuition had seen through her facade. She suddenly realizes how foolish she’d been to believe she could deceive him. She should have known that her story would never sit right with him. Her deception had been flimsy, and she’d underestimated how truly perceptive he was. 

He shakes his head.

"No," he says, moving closer. But when she takes a step back, he stops. Xavier stands there, studying her. "I just needed to be sure."  

Then, in a much slower pace, he starts again. 

Still, with each step forward, she retreats from him. Her heart races as the back of her shoulders brushes against his bedroom door. Her eyes fill with uncertainty as her lips press together.

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t mean any harm.”

His words are heavy. Filled with double meaning.

Xavier is so close that she can feel the heat radiating off his body. It ignites an inexplicable tension, and she finds herself swallowing against the rising emotion in her chest. Standing here with Xavier is unbelievable, nothing she thought possible. And he's just holding pieces of her secret in his hands. Yet despite everything she’s left unsaid, he’s strangely chosen to trust her.

When their gazes meet, his expression sends her chest aching. “And we both know that Serenophe lives right below me,” he says. “You noticed her mailbox downstairs; I saw the recognition in your eyes. You’re trying to avoid her, aren’t you?”

Xavier’s words hang in the air, and for a moment, all [Name] could hear was the heavy pounding of her heart. The uncertainty of her situation engulfs her, but as she stands there, pressed against the door, she feels something shift within her. A tentative opening of conviction.

She nods. Like leaves in an autumn breeze, tiny pieces of her guard fade away. “I don’t have all the answers—not for you or me,” she replies, choosing each word carefully, “but I’m going to.”

Xavier stays silent, letting her speak.

“And when I do,” she takes a deep breath. “I’ll come back to tell you.”

As her fragile promise settles between them, the room becomes silent again. Seconds pass, each one an eternity. Then, with an unreadable emotion, Xavier reaches out his hand. [Name] involuntarily tenses as her body braces for the unknown.

However, instead of reaching for her, he places his hand on the door’s handle behind her and turns the knob. Shocked and slightly confused, she steps aside, allowing him to open the door.

“Your uniform is in the dryer,” he says like their conversation hadn’t just happened. “I washed it for you while you showered.”

He leaves his bedroom, and [Name] stands there, watching him walk away. She expected him to press for more questions, to delve deeper into her web of secrets. Perhaps even pry open the wounds she desperately wanted to keep hidden. But instead, he leaves the conversation on her terms. His subtle respect for her boundaries is an unnerving comfort. Xavier, as she slowly realizes, is allowing her to revisit the conversation when she’s ready.

For now, at least.

As her body finally relaxes, she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. An overwhelming sense of relief overtakes her, easing the tightness in her chest. She straightens her back, and a newfound resolve blossoms as she follows after him.

When she gets to the living room, he already has her military uniform neatly folded in his hands. He extends it to her, and [Name] takes it. The familiarity of her military gear is a different kind of comfort. But as she glances down, something between the folds catches her eye. Her fingers brush the fabric aside; nestled into her uniform is her washed and dried underwear.

She raises an eyebrow, amusement and surprise playing across her face. Her gaze shifts to Xavier’s face, and the corners of her mouth quirk. She makes a cheeky face. Xavier catches her expression, and his composition falters. His cheeks flush a soft pink. He quickly looks away and scratches the back of his neck.

“I thought it’d be best if everything was clean,” he mutters, stumbling slightly. “It didn’t seem right just to leave it. So I, uh—yeah.”

She watches him struggle for words, clearly flustered, and something warm unfurls in her chest. Since arriving into this world, she feels a genuine lightness break through her walls.

“I appreciate the attention to detail,” she replies, light and easing. She bites back a wider grin, savoring this rare glimpse of Xavier’s timidness.

He shifts awkwardly, his eyes still averted. She can see him trying to regain his usual calm. “You’re welcome,” he manages, a slight flush lingering on his cheeks.

After a moment, he clears his throat, gathering himself. When he finally looks at [Name], there’s a different kind of gentleness in his gaze that she hasn’t seen before. His eyes say so much for a man of few words.

“If you want,” he begins, “you can stay here. Just for tonight.” 

He pauses, then adds, “I’ll sleep on the couch. You can have the bed.”

[Name] blinks, taken aback by the offer. She’s barely had time to process the last few hours, let alone the idea of resting here. She wants to refuse, to assure him she’ll be fine. Yet the thought of wandering back into the dark, empty streets of Linkon doesn’t fill her with confidence.

“You don't have to do that,” she protests, shifting her weight and clutching her uniform closer. “I don’t want to take your bed, Xavier. Really, I can manage here.”

Xavier shakes his head. “It’s not about what I have to do. You need rest, and I can sleep anywhere.” His voice softens as he adds, “If we hadn’t crossed paths tonight, I probably would’ve ended up asleep at the abandoned research base.”

She fidgets, and her gaze drifts from his face to the quiet hallway leading to his room. The idea of sleeping here, in his home, doesn’t feel real. Yet the quiet resolve in his eyes erodes her reluctance. She wonders if, just for a bit, she can allow herself to accept someone’s help without fear.

“Besides,” he adds, a subtle tease in his voice, “you look like you’re about to collapse.”

A reluctant laugh escapes her, again caught off guard by his unwavering perceptive ness. However, there’s no point denying it; her body feels like lead, and her mind is fried. Exhaustion runs so deep that the prospect of lying in a real bed is a luxury she almost forgot existed.

“Okay,” she concedes, allowing herself to smile—a real, genuine smile—for the first time. “Thank you, Xavier.”

He nods, and his lips quirked up to match hers. Without further comment, he steps aside and turns. “I’ll grab a spare blanket from the closet,” he says over his shoulder. She watches him disappear down the hallway, feeling a sense of relief.

Left alone in his living room, [Name] takes a deep breath, and her stress temporarily lifts. However, it doesn’t take long for her thoughts to drift back to Pumpkin. When it does, she realizes she hasn’t checked on him for a while.

She makes her way to the balcony door, uniform still in hand. Her footsteps are light as she slips out into the night. The sky is a deep indigo, and the city’s lights emit muted colors across rooftops. Pumpkin is poised on the balcony ledge, and his gaze is focused on something in the distance.

“Pumpkin,” she whispers, trying to get his attention, but he doesn’t respond. His only acknowledgment is the slight flick of his tail.

Curious, she calls his name again, taking a step closer.

Still, nothing.

The tabby remains eerily focused, with his eyes narrowing.

Finally, she leans down and taps him gently on the ear, causing it to twitch.

“Pumpkin,” she says, louder this time. “What’s going on?”

“Quiet, Human,” he finally replies, his tone low and tense. “I’m stalking.”

She raises an eyebrow, surprised by his seriousness. His golden eyes are fixed. Unblinking. She follows his line of sight. [Name] squints as she tries to make out whatever he’s focused on. It takes a moment, but then her gaze sharpens, and she sees it. Preaching across the way, revealed only by the city lights.

A crow.

But not just any crow.

Its feathers glint with an unnatural shine that catches the light in the wrong way. The bird’s eyes flash a striking red as it tilts its head. Recognition jolts through her. It’s Mephisto—the crow bound to Sylus. Mephisto was always there in the shadows, a silent watcher, trailing Serenophe with unsettling loyalty. And now, here he is, perched with ominous intent.

A chill prickles down her spine as Mephisto’s gaze shifts from Serenophe’s apartment below to her own position on Xavier’s balcony. Their eyes meet, and her heart drops. There’s an eerie intelligence behind those red eyes, as though he knows exactly who she is—and perhaps, even what she is.

She steps back, her pulse pounding with a fear she can’t explain. Every bit of comfort she felt within the sanctuary of Xavier’s apartment, every fragile layer of security she’d dared to trust, has been peeled away. She feels exposed. Mephisto’s gaze makes her acutely aware that safety in this world is an illusion. That it’s a fleeting hope she can’t hold onto.

Mephisto cocks his head, the movement disturbingly precise. It's all too knowing, too human. And the dreadful truth settles like a heavy stone: Sylus knows about her. Whether he’s known all along or just discovered her, Mephisto’s presence confirms that she’s under his watch now.

“Is he watching me?” she whispers, not expecting an answer.

Pumpkin’s tail flicks sharply, his eyes never leaving Mephisto.

“More than watching,” Pumpkin growls lowly.

The tightness in her chest only deepens. She naively hoped that staying with Xavier might give her a chance of reprieve. A place where she could rest and let her guard down, if only for an instant. But the presence of Sylus’ emissary is a sharp slap across the face. Her likeness to Serenophe is a liability, drawing more attention than she could ever have anticipated.

She tears her gaze away from Mephisto’s cold stare, and her attention returns just beyond the glass door of Xavier's apartment. The lights glow invitingly. It's a beacon of respite against the chill of the night. She wants to stay in the moment and enjoy the small luxury of rest. She wants to enjoy this tiny, stolen moment of peace. However, Mephisto’s presence is a warning she can’t ignore.

[Name] forces one last glance toward the crow across the street; she feels his watchful eyes burn into the back of her head even as she turns away.

Abandoning the intent of resuming her conversation with Pumpkin, she leaves the tabby outside. Quickly, she slips back into the apartment, shutting the door behind her.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Ch. Five — Scratching the Surface!

The first rays of dawn slip through the glass panes of the balcony doors. The apartment bathed in a fragile stillness, save for the gentle buzz of the refrigerator and Xavier’s steady breathing. [Name] crosses the living room with her boots in hand to avoid making noise.

She stops at the balcony door and reaches for the handle, twisting it slowly. The metal feels cool under her fingertips as the opening creak is louder than she expected. She freezes mid-motion. Her hand tightens around the knob as her head snaps toward the couch.

Xavier is still there.

He lies sprawled on his side, his face turned into the pillow. His hair is somewhat mussed, strands sticking out in uneven directions. The blanket draped over him is twisted and half-slipped from his shoulder. It’s almost like he barely managed to pull it over himself before falling asleep. 

[Name] exhales. Her breath is shallow as if that might even disturb him. Slowly, she pushes the door open just enough for Pumpkin to slip inside. The tabby pads inside are near-silent. His tail brushes against her knee as he heads toward the living room. He pauses once, his ears twitching as he listens for any signs of Xavier waking before he continues.

Before she closes the door, though, [Name] pauses. A sense of unease prickles at the back of her mind, refusing to let her leave it at that. She wants to make sure. She has to make sure. The cold air bites her cheeks as she leans onto the balcony, only stepping one foot outside. The city stretches below her, the beginnings of a busy day shining in pale light. She looks to the trees across the street, scanning the branches and shadows for any sign of movement.

Nothing. Mephisto isn’t there.

Her lips press togther, unsure whether to feel relief or discomfort. The absence of the crow doesn’t necessarily mean safety. Sylus wasn’t the kind to stop watching once he’d set his sights on someone. She knows that. Still, the lack of those sharp red eyes glaring at her feels hollow. It's like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

With one last wary glance, she steps back inside and closes the door. The muted click of the latch feels final, sealing the outside world away. For now, at least.

Leaning against the door, she tugs at the sleeves of Xavier’s hoodie, pulling the oversized fabric down her hands. The hoodie engulfs her, too big and soft, its worn edges carrying his faint, clean scent. Guilt twists in her chest as she breathes it in. The hoodie isn’t hers. She knows she should have folded it on his bed with the rest of his clothes. Especially after her restless night, a token of gratitude for his generosity is the least she could do. But still, she couldn’t bring herself to part with it.

She swiped all her clothes back on except for the hoodie. While her military uniform is practical and efficient, the hoodie is entirely different. It’s warm, it’s soft, it’s grounding. It offers a kind of protection that has nothing to do with practicality, and she isn’t ready to give it up.

Her fingers brush against the frayed hem as she pushes the guilt down, and her gaze drifts back toward Xavier’s sleeping form. For just a moment longer, she lets herself stay where she is, leaning against the door, caught between leaving and staying.

From the corner of her eye, Pumpkin turns toward her. There’s a glint in his golden eyes that reflects off the dim light. “How scandalous of you, Human,” the tabby teases. “Sneaking away from a man’s apartment so early in the morning. You’re more feral than I.”

The words jolt her, and she spins around. Her bare feet thud softly against the floor as she crouches down. Her eyes are wide as she presses two fingers against Pumpkin’s mouth. [Name] glances over her shoulder at the couch, her breath caught in her throat. She watches Xavier for any sign of movement. But he doesn’t stir. His breathing remains steady, and his face is relaxed in sleep.

“Pumpkin, please,” she whispers sharply, leaning closer to the cat. “Keep it down, will you?”

Pumpkin narrows his eyes and flattens his ears. He wiggles away with a twitch of his whiskers. “Well, I’m just saying,” he quips with mock indignation. “No explanation or thank-you? I hope you don’t plan on leaving a note written in tears. That’s too cliche, Human.”

Her brows pull down, and her shoulders slump.

“Not funny,” she mutters, glancing back toward the couch. Relief washes over her when she sees Xavier still deeply asleep. Satisfied, she turns her attention back to the front door.

“Besides,” she adds under her breath, “you’re the one who said we need to get a move on.”

She sits slowly, places her boots down, and pulls them on. Her hands work overtime, tugging the laces taut and looping them into knots. She keeps her gaze downward, unwilling to look up and acknowledge the heavy feeling growing in her chest.

Pumpkin pads closer, his soft paws making little sound. He stops beside her, watching with a far too perceptive expression. He sits back on his haunches, curling his tail around himself as he grooms a paw.

“True, true,” he replies between languid licks. “Still thought you’d say something before you go. A goodbye isn’t going to kill you… again.”

The words strike a nerve, but she doesn’t respond. Her fingers tighten around the laces as she tugs them sharply into place. Her jaw clenches, her breathing steady but shallow. Of course, she wants to say something—a goodbye, a thank-you, maybe even an apology for taking his hoodie. Anything, really. 

But that’s not the problem.

The problem is her.

If she stays here any longer, [Name] isn’t sure what will be left of her. Yes, Xavier is kind, but kindness is its own kind of weight. He doesn’t see her, not really. He sees Serenophe. And the thought tightens her chest like a vice. She isn’t Serenophe. She isn’t the heroine. She isn’t the woman he’d care about in another lifetime, in another version of this world. She isn’t even sure if she’s herself, either.

With her boots secured, she rises to her feet. [Name] faces the front door. Her fingers hover over the handle, poised to leave. She should go. She knows she should. Every instinct in her screams to leave before Xavier wakes, before his quiet kindness can dig deeper into the hollow places she’s trying to ignore.

But she hesitates.

A memory surfaces like a wound reopening. It was a cold desert night. Her unit had just pulled out, the rumble of their convoy’s engines fading into the distance. She had stayed behind, crouched low against the ruins, watching the blood seep from the corporal’s side as he struggled to breathe. His grip on her hand had been so tight it hurt.

“Go,” he’d rasped, his voice barely audible over the pounding in her ears. “You have to go.”

She had wanted to argue, to drag him with her, but the mission came first. The mission always came first. She had pried his fingers from her wrist and left him alone in the darkness. The guilt screamed at her to turn back, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

That night, she’d told herself it was necessary. That she had done what any soldier would have done. But the ache never faded, no matter how many times she’d justified it to herself.

Now, standing at this door, the echoes of that night claw at her. She’s not in a desert anymore, not crouched in the dark with blood on her hands, but the feeling is the same. The pull to leave. The ache to stay. Except this time, she isn’t leaving Xavier behind to fight for survival; she’s the one stepping into danger. 

What will Xavier think when he wakes to find her gone? Will he wonder if she’s safe? Will he look for her? Or will he see only Serenophe’s shadow and let her go?

Her fingers tremble as they hover over the handle. Just a little longer, a voice in her mind whispers. Just stay a little longer.

The silence stretches through the room, broken only by the sounds of the apartment waking with the dawn. Outside, the distant murmur of traffic begins to stir, mixing with the soft ticking of a clock on the wall.

At least, that had been the only sound.

The rustle of fabric shifting breaks through her thoughts. [Name] turns around, and her eyes land on Xavier’s form. He stirs, brushing his hand against the blanket’s edge. Slowly, he sits up, his blue eyes fluttering open.

Xavier blinks several times, then looks around. His brow furrows as his gaze lands on the front door, taking in the scene before him. [Name] stands there, her boots laced, her posture stiff, while the orange tabby from last night sits smugly by her side. 

When their eyes meet, she feels her breath hitch, and her heart thuds unevenly in her chest. Unspoken words and unfinished goodbyes fill the space like a tangible presence.

“Are you leaving?” he asks, low and thick with sleep. He yawns midway through the question, rubbing a hand over his face.

She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Her throat suddenly feels dry. After a beat, she straightens, pulling herself away from the door. Instead, she tugs at the sleeves of his hoodie as her fingers fidget nervously. 

“I…” she falters. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Xavier pushes himself upright. The blanket slides down his torso and pools loosely around his waist. The subtle lines of his collarbone catch in the light from the balcony doors and surrounding windows. The light plays over him, casting gentle shadows across his skin. It almost gives him an ethereal quality in his half-drowsy state.  

He rubs the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. His hair is tousled, a beautiful mess of unruly tufts smoothed down in every direction. The kind of look that would take hours to replicate intentionally. And his eyes—clearer, sharper—find hers. They study her intently, then drop downward. He takes in her scuffed boots before his eyes return to her face. His posture is alert yet unfazed, a juxtaposition that seems uniquely his.

“Let me give you something before you go, at least,” he says with a hint of quiet insistence. However, there’s an edge to it. Something even quieter. 

She blinks, taken aback.

Her hands fall to her sides, and she’s suddenly unsure how to position herself. Her body is tense; her mind is racing. She struggles to make sense of Xavier—of this. Of the way he's so unaffected by the situation, so willing to meet her with kindness when she’s barely managed to piece herself together enough to stand here. 

“You want to give me something?” Her voice is colored with confusion.

The words taste foreign like she can’t believe she’s the one speaking them. From his quick acceptance of her presence to now her imminent departure—it’s confusing.

But should she really expect anything different by now? The memory of last night comes flooding back. Xavier had offered her patience, empathy, and understanding while she’d had nothing to give—while she’d felt so small and lost. It had surprised her then, and it surprises her now. However, kindness has its limits. It always does. 

How long can this last? How long before his gentleness gives way to something more complex? How long before his understanding becomes something shaper, more conditional? 

Eventually, she thinks grimly. It’s a bitter whisper in her mind, making it hard to hope for more. Eventually, he could even—

“What is it?” she interrupts herself, halting her thoughts from spiraling further. The question is firmer than her resolve, a forced steadiness that overlays the unease threading into her words.

Xavier doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stands, stretching with unhurried grace that belies the early hour. His shoulders roll as he shakes off the remaining sleep. Without a word, he steps toward her, his hand finding her wrist in a light grasp. The touch startles her, but she doesn’t pull away. The way he holds her is neither rough nor restraining, yet it carries a firmness that leaves no room for argument. 

He tugs gently, just enough to guide her, and she follows, her feet moving before her mind fully catches up. She only hesitates for a fraction of a second, glancing back toward the couch as though searching for something familiar in the surrealness of the moment.

As indifferent as ever, Pumpkin has already claimed Xavier’s vacated spot. The cat circles once, then twice, before settling into a tight loaf on the cushion. His golden eyes flicker toward her and Xavier with amused disdain.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just basking in this delicious awkwardness,” he quips with mock-exasperation like the whole scene is some elaborate joke.

She lets out a short exhale, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, forcing herself not to react to Pumpkin’s irreverence. It’s easier to focus on the absurdity of his comment than the quiet tension in Xavier’s touch or the unknown destination awaiting her at the end of the hall. Still, despite herself, a small part of her wonders what Xavier could possibly have to give her.

Xavier’s hand slips away from her wrist when they cross the threshold into his bedroom. But the warmth of his touch remains, a fleeting remembrance of the strange familiarity he seems to carry. She stops in the center of the room, unsure where to place herself. 

The space mirrors the rest of the apartment: warm yet light. [Name] made the bed, folding the sheets, pillows, and comforter back into place. Plants fill nearly every surface, their leaves trailing down shelves and hanging from macrame holders. The scent of greenery blends with a hint of cedarwood.

The furniture is minimalist with each piece carefully chosen.

A wooden nightstand holds a simple lamp and a small stack of well-worn books. A dresser across the room is topped with a ceramic tray of odds and ends. His bedroom feels lived-in, not cluttered, with a surprising warmth in its simplicity.

Xavier crosses to his closet, opening the door with a creak. He shuffles inside and rummages through its contents. The soft rustle of fabric and the occasional clink of metal fill the room as he searches, his focus entirely on whatever he’s looking for.

[Name] shifts her weight from one foot to the other, playing with a loose piece of thread at the edge of her sleeve. Her gaze drifts toward the bed, and for a moment, her mind slips back to the restless hours of the night before.

After everything that happened, she couldn’t bring herself to sleep. She had locked herself in Xavier’s bedroom, curling under the covers, too scared to open her eyes. No matter how hard she tried, the memory of Mephisto’s sharp gaze was burned into her mind. And it wasn’t just the crow’s presence that unnerved her; it was the message it carried.

Sylus knows.

The certainty of it sent a chill down her spine.

Sylus—the one who moved through the game’s world like a shadow. The one who was always watching, always one step ahead. Sylus, who now knew she existed. The idea of his awareness made her feel vulnerable, as though every move she made was being cataloged.

She had squeezed her eyes shut that night, curling into herself and hoping that if she stayed perfectly still, the world might forget about her. And when sleep finally came, it was shallow and fleeting, leaving her more tired.

Now, standing here in Xavier’s room, the efforts of that sleepless night settle into her bones. She rubs her arms in a weak attempt to shake off the discomfort. However, it clings to her like a second skin.

“What are you looking for?” she finally asks, her voice cutting through the quiet.

Xavier doesn’t respond right away. He shifts slightly, pulling out a few items—a folded jacket, a small box that jingles when he moves it—before setting them aside. His focus is unwavering like searching has become a meditation of its own.

“Xavier?” she prompts again, leaning forward to understand better what he’s doing.

“I’m looking for this,” he finally says. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t turn to meet her questioning gaze. Instead, he pulls out an old backpack. Its edges are worn, and the straps are slightly faded. He sets it on the floor and puts everything else back into its place before shutting the closet door.

When he turns to face her, there’s a slight curve of his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The gesture is not unfamiliar, but it feels distant now. It’s like he’s wearing a mask so others don’t see the storm behind his calm exterior. He picks up the backpack and holds it out in front of her.

“I want you to have this,” he says. “Consider it my goodbye gift.”

She falters. Her hands tighten at her sides, then loosen. The motion repeats as she struggles to find footing. Her chest aches with a cocktail of emotions—gratitude, confusion, uncertainty—and she feels like she’s drowning in them. His kindness, his understanding—it’s too much, too confusing. It doesn't make sense. She can’t tell if it’s real or if he’s acting out of some misguided notion of duty.

Why does he keep doing this? Why does he keep being this way with her? 

She can’t figure out if he’s doing this for her or the woman he sees when he looks at her. The woman who is not her. The woman he might wish she were. The woman who’s probably been haunting him in his quiet moments, in the way his gaze lingers on [Name] for just a moment too long.

“Xavier,” her voice trembles on the edges. The words almost don’t come out, fighting against the surge of emotions that threaten to overtake her. “Why… why are you doing this?”

There’s a moment of thick silence as Xavier tilts his head down. His blue eyes soften when they meet hers. His grip on the backpack doesn’t falter, but there’s a pause. It’s like he’s gathering his thoughts, making sure he doesn’t say something that could be misinterpreted.

She almost believes he won’t answer, that he’ll hand her the bag and let the silence swallow them. That he’ll let her walk away without unveiling the deeper reason behind his actions. That he’ll hold on to his secret for a little longer, like he always does in the game—like he always does in his life.

But then his voice breaks through the silence, softer than she expected.

“Because I want you to be okay,” he replies.

Xavier’s words settle like a gentle pressure.

There’s a sincerity that feels too honest, too open. His tone doesn’t pity her; there’s no false note of charity. If anything, it unsettles her more than she’s willing to admit. Something in it makes her feel understood in a way she wasn’t prepared for.

“Because,” he continues, “I know what it’s like to be stuck in a role you didn’t choose. To be seen as something you’re not, no matter how hard you try.” His voice tightens just slightly, enough to show it’s personal without elaborating further.

She knows exactly what he’s talking about, and maybe he’s hoping she does, too.

In the game—well, her reality now—his future has already been decided. As the crown prince of Phlios, his path has been laid out for him, and he’s been forced to walk it just like everyone else. It’s a flicker of light in a dark room, and the truth hits her like a sudden realization. Maybe he understands her more than she’s willing to admit. Perhaps he’s been trapped in his own fate, shaped into something he never chose to be. Just like her. And just like the woman he sees when he looks at her.

Her gaze drops to the backpack, its faded fabric telling a story of use and care. The idea of taking it from him feels wrong, but the warmth in his eyes tells her that’s precisely why he’s offering it.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admits, her breath coming in sharply.

She’s not used to this—not to people giving her anything without expecting something in return. For her, it’s rare to meet someone who sees her as someone worth helping.

Xavier takes a step closer, holding the bag out a little farther. “You don’t have to say anything. Just take it. It’s practical, and you need it more than I do right now.”

She hesitates, her fingers twitching at her sides. The simplicity of Xavier's words cuts the knot of confusion in her chest. There’s no pretense, no push for gratitude. Just an offer.

Pumpkin’s earlier words echo in her mind. The guilt bubbles up again, sharper this time. She doesn’t want to leave like this, not with so many unanswered questions. But how can she explain herself when she doesn’t understand her feelings? Her inner conflict makes it hard to voice her gratitude.

“Thank you,” she finally says; the words are simultaneously too small and too large.

She reaches out, her fingers brushing against his as she takes the backpack. The warmth of his touch lingers even as he lets go. She clutches the bag tightly.

Xavier’s small smile softens further, and he takes a step back.

“There’s a first-aid kit in the front pocket,” he says, shifting his tone into something more practical. “And you should be able to fit all your stuff here, too.”

He gestures towards the dresser, where the crinkled grocery bag of her feminine products sits on top.

She nods, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I appreciate it. Really. More than I can say.”

Xavier studies her momentarily, his gaze lingering like he’s searching for something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to find it. His expression grows more solemn.

“Where are you going?” he asks, quieter now.

The question catches her off guard. She’s unsure how to answer, partly because she doesn’t know herself.

“I’m going to get answers,” she replies, but the words feel inadequate. They don’t capture the severity of her search. But she made a promise to him last night, and she attends to keep it.

“Just be careful,” he says.

It’s soft but earnest—like he understands, even if she can’t articulate it. And she wonders if he indeed does. She wonders if he’s offering her this gesture of care, not because of who she resembles, but because of who she’s shown herself to be in their short time together.

Xavier moves to the dresser, picks up the grocery bag, and hands it to her. “And if you need—” He pauses, carefully debating his following words. “If you need to come back, you can.”

The offer hangs between them, unspoken implications swirling around the words. There’s a depth to it, an understanding of what it would mean for [Name] to return—to have somewhere to go, to not be utterly alone in this strange, overwhelming world. She clutches the strap of her backpack tighter; his proposal is comforting yet terrifying. And she’s not sure if she can accept it. Not yet. All she can do is nod, her throat tight, and turn away, clutching the backpack closer to her chest.

Before she can leave, Xavier speaks again, his tone almost secretive, like he’s sharing something personal. “You can keep that hoodie too. I have more.”

The words hit her like an unexpected, disarming wave. She freezes, her gaze instantly falling to the oversized hoodie, still warm from his presence. It's the last piece of him left with her, and the idea of keeping it, of wearing something so intimately his, twists in her stomach. She opens her mouth, unsure whether to apologize or offer some excuse, but the words get caught in her throat.

A nervous laugh rises, only to be stifled with a quiet cough. “I—sorry. It just makes me feel…” She falters, her voice trailing off. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t have to explain.” Xavier’s voice is firm yet gentle as he steps closer. His lips twitch into a small smile, and though it’s quick, it brings warmth to the moment. “It looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

There’s not a trace of mockery or discomfort in his voice. However, that only makes it worse, and her heart twists more. [Name] is left speechless. She doesn’t know whether to feel relieved that she doesn’t have to return it or guilty for still wearing something so personal of his. But Xavier doesn’t seem to mind. It’s like he understands without her needing to explain.

The atmosphere is different now.

Lighter.

[Name] shifts the backpack over one shoulder, adjusting its weight. She turns toward the open bedroom door. Her boots thud softly against the hardwood floor as she exits into the hallway.

Xavier follows suit, not far behind, as they walk back into the living room. Almost instinctively, [Name] scans the space for Pumpkin. The cat is no longer on the couch but sitting by the front door. His golden eyes are fixed on her, and he has an expression that can only be described as impatient.

Xavier notices him immediately, raising an eyebrow. “He seems to like you,” he remarks, calm but curious. “He doesn’t usually warm up to people so quickly.”

[Name] glances at Pumpkin, who tilts his head slightly, his whiskers twitching in amusement. She fights the urge to roll her eyes. Of course, the cat would make himself seem like a solitary enigma.

“I wouldn’t say he likes me,” she replies carefully. “He just follows me around.”

Xavier yawns, his gaze lazing between her and the cat. “You brought him back into the apartment,” he says. “Why?”

The question catches her off guard, and she hesitates, searching for a way to explain without revealing too much.  

“He looked like he wanted to come back inside,” she begins, then falters. Her gaze flicks toward the cat, now stretching languidly, utterly unbothered by the attention. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Xavier considers her words, his face unreadable. Finally, he shrugs. It's a tiny, obscure gesture that signals he isn’t going to press the issue.

"I don’t mind," he says evenly. "He seems harmless enough."

Pumpkin’s ears flick at the comment, offended by the mere suggestion.

“Harmless,” he mutters lowly. “I’ll remember that.”

[Name] ignores him, focusing instead on the faint tension in Xavier’s posture. He’s still watching her, trying to piece something together. It makes her uneasy, but she resists the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.

“Well, I’d better get going,” she says, adjusting the backpack strap again. The words feel heavy in her mouth, laden with everything unsaid. She glances toward the door, then back at Xavier. “Thank you for everything.”

Xavier’s expression softens, and he shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me,” he replies.

There’s something in his voice—like he’s trying to tell her that no repayment is needed. He steps to stand beside her and unlocks the door. 

He stands by the door, his hand resting on the edge as he holds it open. The dim light from the hallway spills into the room, casting a warm glow on the hardwood floor.

“Take care of yourself,” he says softly. Almost tenderly. His blue eyes settle on her. It’s like he’s memorizing every detail of her—the curve of her shoulders beneath the oversized hoodie, the tension in her posture, the way her fingers fidget against the frayed strap of her bag.

“And y’know, [Name],” Xavier adds, light with double entendre. “You… don’t sound like her or act like her.”

The words hit harder than expected, and her breath catches. Her fingers tighten imperceptibly around the backpack’s strap. [Name] doesn’t turn to face him. The hallway stretches ahead of her, a path she’s chosen but doesn’t understand. Taking a breath, she steps through the threshold. Pumpkin pads behind her, his tail brushing against her calf in a fluid arc.

Just as she crosses the doorway, she hesitates. Something anchors her in place, a thought or a feeling she can’t quite name. Turning halfway, she meets Xavier’s gaze. His blue eyes are softer now as if they’ve let go of whatever they previously carried. 

“Maybe it’s because I’m not her,” she says at last, carrying more meaning than intended.

Xavier doesn’t respond. 

His expression shifts imperceptibly, and a flicker of emotion passes through his eyes. But it’s too quick to name. It’s like he’s heard something in her words that resonates. Finally, he nods, and without another word, he closes the door behind her. The click reverberates in the stillness.

The hallway is cooler than the apartment. The air carries the hum of fluorescent lights, and the hallway smells of synthetic plants and mild plastic. Everything is so different from the soft warmth she’s left behind. [Name] stands still, staring at her scuffed boots and the edges of her backpack’s seams. Xavier’s words and the silence that followed them presses against her chest.

Pumpkin’s golden eyes move up at her. They’re understanding. He shifts beside her.

“You’re quiet,” he remarks, breaking the silence. His tone is concerned. Softer, even. “Are you okay, Human?”

She takes a breath, exhaling slowly as she adjusts the strap of her bag.

“Just thinking." She starts walking, her boots echoing against the floor. “About everything. About what comes next.”

Pumpkin trots alongside her, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light. “What comes next is simple. We find that white-haired human before he finds you.”

The mention of Sylus sends a shiver down her spine, but she forces a nod.

“And how do we do that?” she asks as they approach the elevator. Her finger hovers over the call button, but something in her gut makes her hesitate. Instead, she pivots toward the stairwell, shoving through the heavy door. The metal creaks as it swings open.

Pumpkin’s ears twitch at the sound, but he doesn’t comment. He waits until the door closes behind them before giving [Name] a knowing look.

“Right. The boxing gym,” [Name] murmurs, answering her own question.

“Right,” Pumpkin affirms.

As they descend the dimly lit staircase, [Name] casts one last glance upward, her gaze landing on the apartment door far above. A bittersweet ache blooms in her chest, the warmth of Xavier’s kindness clinging to her like fading perfume. She'd promised him answers, and he’d promised her a place to return to. And yet, walking away feels like leaving something irrevocable behind.

“Let’s go,” Pumpkin urges, his voice breaking her reverie. He’s already a few steps ahead, his small form a shadow against the stairwell lights. His tail swishes as he hops down the steps. 

When they reach the ground level, [Name] pushes the door open and enters the lobby. Her boots click against the titled floor as she walks forward, Pumpkin's soft paws trailing close behind.

The space is quiet but alive, with subtle murmurs of early-morning activity. A few residents move through the room, some clutching coffee cups or tote bags as they rush to their destinations. Others linger in the background, engaged in conversations that drift into indistinct hums. The lobby’s soft lighting adds an artificial warmth contrasting with the cold tension in [Name]’s chest.

She pulls the oversized hoodie tighter around herself, the fabric brushing against her neck as she tugs the hood over her head. It’s a reflexive motion, like donning armor before stepping into battle. Her shoulders hunch to try and make herself less noticeable. But the moment she does, realization prickles at the back of her mind.

People here are already used to seeing her, aren’t they? 

[Name] glances around the lobby.

The heroine isn’t a stranger to anyone in this building. [Name] remembers that all too clearly now. To these residents, she isn’t just another face. She’s Serenophe, the girl they’ve seen countless times. She's their neighbor, their peer, someone they’re used to encountering in these halls. It doesn’t matter if she pulls her hood low or avoids eye contact; the resemblance is too strong.

And to most of them, it’s enough.

She exhales softly, forcing herself to relax. No one is paying her any special attention. Their gazes skim past her as if she truly is the woman they recognize. The tension in her shoulders eases, but not completely. There’s still the chance the real Serenophe might see her. A sinking feeling pulls at her gut. What would happen if they came face to face? That thought is enough to keep her hood firmly in place.

As she nears the glass doors leading to the street, something catches her eye—a flash of color at the edge of her vision. She stops abruptly, her gaze drawn to the far wall where a line of metal mailboxes stretches in neat, identical rows. One compartment labeled “Serenophe” has something sticking out. 

A small card. Its corner jutting into the open air. The bright edge of it stands out against the dull metal, pulling her focus like a magnet.

Her stomach twists.

Pumpkin notices her sudden pause and stops, his golden eyes narrowing as he peers up at her. "What’s this?" he asks with playful curiosity. "You planning to browse through someone else’s mail now?" His whiskers twitch with amusement, but she ignores him.

She moves toward the mailbox, instinctively glancing over her shoulder to ensure no one’s watching. Her fingers brush the half-visible card. With one quick motion, she yanks it free and flips it open. Her breath catches when she reads the words.

Congratulations on graduating from the Hunter’s Academy! We are so proud of you, Serenophe. You’ve always had the heart of a true Hunter. – Grandma.

She stares at the card in her hand, her fingers trembling as she rereads it. Again. And again. The words swim in front of her eyes, but the congratulatory message doesn’t change. It’s so ordinary, so unremarkable, yet a trapdoor has opened beneath her, dropping her into freefall.

Flashes of conversation from yesterday flood her mind—Dr. Greyson’s casual remark about the Hunters Onboarding and Xavier’s passing comment about falling asleep in the abandoned research base. They resurface with startling clarity, threading pieces of a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was solving. The connections come fast, almost too fast, and she takes a physical step back, the realization hitting her like a gut punch.

She isn’t just anywhere in the game. She’s at the very beginning.

The Hunter’s Academy graduation. The starting point of Serenophe’s journey. The moment she steps into her destiny, joining the Hunters Association and becoming the story’s heroine. [Name]’s throat tightens, the weight of realization settling heavily in her chest. She had always known, on some level, that she was somewhere within the game’s timeline, but she hadn’t stopped to piece together where. She was so caught up in the mystery of her situation that the specifics of when she had arrived never fully registered. Now, staring at the card, the full truth is undeniable.

This is where Serenophe’s story begins. And for [Name], it’s where everything she’s been running from—the tension with Sylus, the looming danger—truly starts. A bitter laugh catches in her throat, but it doesn’t escape.

She whispers, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Pumpkin tilts his head, his golden eyes glinting with curiosity.

“What is it now, Human?” he asks, slightly worried.

But [Name] doesn’t answer. She can’t tear her eyes away from the card.

The implications are staggering. If this is the start of Serenophe’s story, then it means everything [Name] has done so far—every choice, every misstep—has already shifted the narrative.

But one thought claws its way to the forefront of her mind: If Serenophe begins her journey today, it’s also the day she’s supposed to meet Xavier.

The realization twists her stomach. She remembers the game’s opening sequence with startling accuracy—Serenophe finding Xavier in the abandoned research base, their fateful encounter setting the stage for everything that follows. Except now, Xavier isn’t there. He’s upstairs in his apartment, most likely going back to sleep. If Serenophe goes to the base, she’ll be alone—Serenophe will be alone to fight that first Wanderer. 

Suddenly, [Name] feels like she’s drowning in the sea of her own consequences. Her gaze drifts toward the stairwell door, and she contemplates turning back. Returning to Xavier to explain herself, to at least let him know that it’s all a game—or, well, it used to be a game? She doesn’t know the specifics; she just knows that familiar pull. The need to fix the mess she unknowingly created. Serenophe was supposed to meet Xavier. Serenophe was supposed to set everything into motion.

But instead… Instead…

What should I do?

The question echoes in her mind. Her fingers twitch, the crumpled card still clutched tightly in her grasp. She’s teetering on the edge of a decision when a soft ding from the elevator slices her thoughts. The doors open, and [Name] freezes. 

An officer in an Evol police uniform steps out. His presence is striking: the crisp black-and-white uniform accentuating his rigid posture, his expression as sharp and unreadable as cut glass. His gaze sweeps across the room, and [Name]’s heart slams against her ribcage.

She wasn’t expecting the Evol police, especially not this early. Tension from yesterday’s events—the stolen motorcycle, the crash, her flight from the hospital—comes rushing back. It’s all too much, and she knows she can’t afford to be noticed.

Without thinking, she brings the card to her face. It’s a flimsy, albeit absurd, gesture. However, it's her only option. Her fingers clutch the card tightly as she stands still, hoping the officer doesn’t look in her direction.

The officer strides past her, his boots clicking against the tiled floor with unnerving precision. Relief teases her frayed nerves, but it’s short-lived. He stops abruptly, his head tilting as he turns toward a nearby resident—a grey-haired woman holding the hand of a fidgety child.

“Excuse me,” the officer asks, carrying the authority of someone used to getting answers. “We’re investigating a car crash that occurred yesterday. A motorcycle ran a red light and caused a collision. We’re looking for anyone who might have witnessed the incident or has information to share.”

[Name]’s breath hitches, her grip tightening on the card. Panic flares hot in her veins. She wants to move, to run, but her feet are rooted to the floor. The officer hasn’t noticed her yet, but his presence is over-consuming. His questions are like a spotlight narrowing in on her with every passing second.

The officer continues. “We’re also looking for a woman named [Name] [Surname]. She might be connected to the case, and we’d like to ask her a few questions.

The words send a cold shiver through her. Her name—her real name—is being used in the investigation. She knows the officer is just doing his job, but hearing her name aloud is like watching the walls she’s been carefully building crack and splinter.

Then, she hears the click of a device. Risking a glance over her shoulder, her heart nearly stops. She sees the officer’s holographic video display, and a small screen plays a recording of her running out of Akso Hospital. [Name] is frantic as she bumps into passersby before leaping onto the stolen motorcycle. The footage freezes on her face, and the officer tucks the device away, his expression unreadable as he prepares to question the woman further. 

The older woman snorts, unaware of [Name] standing just behind her. “I don’t know anyone named [Name], but that sure looks like Serenophe.”

She laughs lightly, shaking her head. “But that young lady would never do something like... that,” she gestures dismissively. “Must be some kind of mistake.”

[Name] feels the air leave her lungs in a sharp, silent exhale. Her pulse hammers in her ears. She takes a cautious step backward, then another, trying to melt into the periphery as the conversation continues. 

The resident’s comment about Serenophe only makes things worse. She can feel the heat of embarrassment and fear creeping up her neck, her pulse racing as she fights the overwhelming urge to flee.

Pumpkin chirps softly at her feet, his ears flattening to the sides.

“This,” he mutters with exasperation, “is exactly why Spots shouldn’t have been the one to pick you up yesterday. But what do I know?”

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “It’s not like anyone would confuse you with her—except, y’know, everyone.”

[Name] ignores the cat’s grumbling, still focusing on the officer. The last thing she needs is to be caught in this investigation. And she knows she’s on borrowed time. Every second she lingers, the risk of being noticed grows.

Her chest tightens, the tension coiling painfully. Every reckless decision she’s made since waking in this world is rushing back with crushing clarity. It’s all catching up to her, and she knows she can’t afford to let it trap her here.

She needs to leave.

Now.

She takes another step back, eyes flicking nervously between the officer and the resident. The officer still hasn’t turned his attention her way, but it’s only a matter of time before he does. She can feel the panic building in her chest. The urge to flee is overwhelming, but where to go?

Her eyes drift to the stairwell door and hope passes through her. She could go back upstairs. She could explain everything to Xavier, lay it bare, and try to make sense of the mess she’s created. Maybe it isn’t too late to tell him the truth, to let him know it’s all a game. But then, she sees movement from the corner of her eye.

Another officer.

Her breath catches in her throat, and her muscles tense.

He steps into the building and heads towards the elevator. This one is just as sharp and precise as the first, his uniform crisp and his gaze calculating. He doesn’t look at her— yet. But the presence of another officer sends a fresh wave of dread crashing over her. It crawls up her spine like cold fingers, tightening her muscles until they ache.

Her heart sinks as reality sets in. The lobby isn’t safe. The building isn’t safe. The presence of multiple officers is too much to ignore, and the risk of running into more is far too high.

I can’t go to Xavier, she thinks, the realization settling in her gut like a stone. There are too many eyes here. Too much attention.

Her breath falters as she processes the severity of her situation. Regret twists in her chest. Sharp. Bitter. She should have gone to Xavier earlier, before the officers arrived before it got this complicated. But she didn’t, and now it’s too late. The police are already circling, and she risks everything if she stays any longer.

“We need to go now, Human,” Pumpkin hisses, his eyes narrowing as he pads closer to her feet. His voice is lower, urgent, and laced with the same tension thrumming through her veins.

She nods, taking a deep breath. She can’t afford to hesitate any longer. Turning swiftly, she heads for the lobby door. There’s only one option left: she has to get out of the building. She’s already pushed her luck by staying this long.

Pumpkin follows her, his usual air of aloofness switched for nervous energy. He stays close, his soft paws nearly silent beside her. As they exit outside into the cool morning air, the tension gripping [Name]’s chest doesn’t ease. It lingers as the reality of her choices presses against her mind. She regrets not explaining everything to Xavier when she had the chance. But now, with the police crawling around, it’s too late.

The apartment complex looms behind them as they move quickly, keeping close to the walls and the shadows. [Name] doesn’t dare glance back. She doesn’t want to draw attention, especially when she notices an Evol police car patrolling the area. 

They continue moving, slipping through alleys and side streets until they reach a small convenience store in a quiet corner. The street here is busier, and residents and commuters are bustling past without sparing her a glance. The city’s noise provides a welcomed cover. [Name] finally exhales, her shoulders sagging as the immediate threat fades away.

Pumpkin sits beside her, slightly panting. He's stiff even as he pretends to be indifferent.

“So,” he begins, “are you ready to head to the old boxing gym now?”

[Name] glances down at him as her mind races with everything that’s happened.

The gym is still on her mind—it’s the next logical step. It’s where she needs to go, and she knows it. Yet the answers will come in time. Right now, there's something else she needs to do. Something more immediate.

“We have to make a detour first,” she replies, straightening up.

Pumpkin’s ears flick at her words, and his gaze narrows. He studies her with his whiskers twitching. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he stretches, standing back up.

“Of course we do,” he mutters. “I’ll lead the way, Human. Just tell me what you remember.”

Chapter Text

Ch. Six — It’s Meow or Never!

“So this is where you ran off to yesterday?” Pumpkin asks, hopping onto a rusted table.

The legs of the table groan under his weight, but it holds. He plays at a loose wire dangling from the edge and watches it sway. After a beat, he glances back at [Name]. “I’m starting to see why you didn’t mention it.”

[Name] scans the familiar space, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Morning sunlight streams through the fractured windows and jagged holes. It effortlessly cuts through the haze of dust and decay. Everything here feels like an echo of what it once was—a far cry from the place she remembers.

Her gaze lingers on the scattered shards of Protocore experiments. Pieces of machinery are strewn across the floor, their rough edges softened by the vines that reclaimed them. Sunlight dances through the space, catching on shards of glass and warped metal. The place has an almost ethereal vividness. The harsh shadows that once mounted over her are gone, replaced with the comfort of morning light.

“This place looks different now,” she says. “Less… scary.”

“Less?” Pumpkin stills, the wire forgotten. He hops down from the table and pads over. “Are you not scared anymore?”

[Name] frowns. Her brow furrows as she tries to put her feelings into words. Last time, the facility felt suffocating. Aive with menace. The shadows shifted with every movement, and the thick air choked her very lungs. The walls had closed in, disorienting, trapping, and hunting her down.

But now, with the sun trickling in and the air cool and fresh, the space is different. The research base is no less broken, no less abandoned, but the sense of dread is gone.

“No,” she admits firmly, surprising herself. “I’m not scared anymore.”

Pumpkin looks up, his golden eyes bright with curiosity. He tilts his head. “What’s changed, Human?”

[Name] opens her mouth, ready to say more, but nothing comes out. Instead, her eyes wander over the space, taking it all in again. She searches for the difference and wonders if it’s the light through the broken windows, the stillness of the facility, or something else entirely.

Her arms tighten around her, and her thoughts shift inward. Last time, the fractured walls and broken machinery seemed like reflections of her mind. The ghosts of the battlefield had been with her then, their voices unrelentingly loud. She’d been surrounded by destruction—both here and in her memories. And all of it collided in this place, leaving her in pieces.

But now, in the quiet of the morning, those ghosts are quieter. The rugged remains of the base are less like threats and more like relics. Forgotten. Abandoned. And that’s when she realizes the menace she felt wasn’t in the building. It was inside her.

“It was just how I saw it,” she says at last, distant.

Pumpkin’s ears twitch, but he doesn’t push further. [Name] senses his curiosity lingers; regardless, he drops the conversation and settles back into his usual quiet watchfulness.

She turns away from the orange tabby, her attention pulled toward the far side of the room. It slowly lands on Sylus’ motorcycle. Seeing it sends a jolt through her—part guilt, part fear. She half-expected it to be gone, but it’s still here, stripped bare like the rest of the base. She can’t help but feel unnerved.

Inevitably, the thought Sylus nags at her. She clenches her hands into loose fists. Even before her transmigration, Sylus equally intrigued yet terrified her. Ruthless, cunning, charismatic—he wasn’t someone to cross lightly. She’d managed to play through The Long-Awaited Revelry chapters before she died. But she didn’t get to finish The Prologue to Tomorrow. She hadn’t expected to need that knowledge. 

She hadn’t expected to die.

Her incomplete understanding feels like a glaring weakness now. She knows enough to recognize Sylus's threat, and that knowledge is enough to twist her stomach. She’s already made a mistake by being here, by messing with his motorcycle. And if he finds out she’s responsible for it, there will be consequences—consequences she may not be ready to face.

Her boots crunch over glass as she crouches beside the bike. The machine looks even worse than before. The engine’s gone, the frame’s stripped, and the paint’s chipped and peeling. It’s not just a wreck; it’s a carcass.

Pumpkin trots over and plops down beside her. “Still here, huh? Guess whoever picked it clean wasn’t interested in the rest.”

“Lucky me,” [Name] mutters, fingers tracing the cold metal.

The jagged cuts and scattered bolts tell the story. This wasn’t Sylus’ doing. If he’d found the bike, he would’ve taken it whole—or destroyed it completely. This work is sloppy. Random. Most likely done by scavengers too clueless to understand what they had.

That thought reassures her but also stirs something else—a deeper fear. Sylus doesn’t know she’s here yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Her luck will run out soon, and she won't be able to outrun it.

She glances away. A few feet from her, Pumpkin is sprawled lazily on a beam of sunlight. He paws at a stray piece of fabric. Despite his relaxed demeanor, he stays close, his golden eyes occasionally finding hers.

Sighing, her hand brushes against the debris near the handlebars, and she notices something. A flash of red beneath the dust and shattered glass. Curiosity pulls her closer. Carefully, she shifts the fragments aside. Her fingers brush against cool metal as the object comes into view. Her breath hitches as she lifts it into the light.

It’s the brooch.

The crimson gemstone catches the sunlight. It's still brilliant despite the grime. [Name] stares as memories of her last encounter with the brooch rush back. She remembers the chaos, the panic, and how she’d dropped it without a second thought. At the time, it was just another object, too insignificant to hold onto while her whole life fell apart. But now, she knows better.

This wasn’t just any accessory—it was a tool. In The Long-Awaited Revelry, the brooch was a key to entering and exiting the N109 Zone, a restricted area similar to a typical no-hunt zone. Its unique design kept anyone safe from other dangerous factions. Sylus had given it to Serenophe—an essential part of the plot, and a token that deepened their connection.

Her fingers tighten around the brooch. If Serenophe doesn’t receive this from Sylus, what happens then? Will she still be okay? What happens if it falls into the wrong hands? [Name] swallows hard. The story’s already in flux, but leaving the brooch here feels like making things worse.

A flash of Sylus’ face crosses her mind. His sharp smile, his intense gaze. The memory of Pumpkin’s warning echoes: We need to find Sylus before he finds you.

She pockets the brooch. The decision’s made. Maybe she’ll regret it later. Maybe it’s already too late to fix whatever’s broken. Either way, it’s too important to leave behind. Its role in the story isn’t over, and neither is hers.

[Name] rises and brushes the dust from her hands. “Let’s keep moving,” she says, turning away from the wreckage.

Pumpkin stretches, gives a lazy shake, and follows.

“Onwards and upwards, Human,” he chirps, although his sharp gaze betrays his childish tone.

As they venture deeper into the research base, the space changes. The debris thins, giving way to emptiness. And the air grows cooler. It carries a metallic tang that clings to the back of her throat. Shafts of sunlight from the outer rooms dim into muted streaks. The silence is profound, broken only by the unstable structure’s occasional groans.

Still, [Name] presses forward. She doesn’t know exactly where she’s going, but her purpose drives her onward. She knows who she’s looking for. Serenophe. Somewhere in this labyrinth of rusted walls and abandoned machinery, the game's heroine is here. And [Name] has to find her before Serenophe reaches the scripted location of the Wanderer attack. 

Lucky for [Name], she doesn’t have to search long.

Voices.

She stops dead, unsure if her mind is playing tricks. But the sound comes again. Distinct. Unmistakable. Her pulse quickens as she listens. The tone, the cadence—it’s Serenophe’s voice. But she’s not alone. Another voice joins hers, light and feminine. It’s warm with familiarity. Tara. The brown-haired, dark lavender-eyed woman who befriends Serenophe during their Hunters Onboarding. The one whose unshakable optimism borders on naivety.

Her chest aches. Their voices carry a depth that no phone speaker could replicate. It’s richer, layered with subtle nuances that a pixelated line can’t convey. Hearing them like this, in person, makes it all too real. [Name] doesn’t move. She’s caught between wonder and displacement.

Pumpkin tilts his head, ears swiveling. “Is that who I think it is?” he whispers.

[Name] nods, perhaps too quickly. She motions for him to stay quiet and creeps forward, following the voices. They lead her to a vast chamber filled with crisscrossing scaffolds and broken railings. She ducks behind a large pillar, pulls Pumpkin into her arms, and cradles him. The tabby lets out a surprised purr but quickly settles into her hold.

“…I was standing next to you during the badge ceremony,” one voice says brightly. It’s Tara. The tone is sweet and cheerful, just like the game, but something new is in it. An edge of nervousness that [Name] hadn’t noticed before.

“Of course. I’m Serenophe,” comes the confident reply. “We’re lucky to be on the same squad. Do you want to work together?”

[Name]’s stomach flips. She knows that line. She knows that line.

But experiencing it first-hand is different. It sends a chill down her spine. The dialogue unfolds, word for word, gesture for gesture. [Name] grips the edge of the pillar, peeking just enough to watch the scene play out. 

Then, she sees her. 

Serenophe.

It’s like looking into a mirror, but not. Every feature is the same, down to her hair and face. Yet Serenophe is different. Her magnetic presence fills the chamber effortlessly, as the very air bends around her. It’s evident that Serenophe belongs in this world that [Name] never will.

Watching her now, [Name] understands what draws everyone to Serenophe—the warmth in her smile, the confidence in her voice, the way the world moves in rhythm with her. She exudes a power that's destined. Inevitable.

A knot twists in [Name]’s chest. They may look alike, but standing here in the shadows, watching Serenophe like an outsider, she feels the chasm between them. How can she ever compare to this? Serenophe is the heart of the story. [Name] is just an echo.

“Sure!” Tara brightly smiles. “The tarot reading I did yesterday told me that I would be super lucky today.”

The line jolts [Name], and she swallows back a startled laugh. It’s so familiar, yet so real. Serenophe’s presence feels larger than life, and Tara’s bubbly persona is the perfect foil. Together, they seem untouchable, like this moment was scripted just for them.

And [Name] is just here—peeking into a story that was never hers to begin with.

Pumpkin nudges his face against her chin. His soft fur takes her back into the present.

“What’s the plan, genius?” he whispers, shifting his weight in her grasp. “You said you needed to find her, not watch her from behind a pillar.”

“I need to think,” she whispers back. Her voice is low and trembling. “If I interrupt now, I could mess everything up.”

His eyes narrow, unimpressed. “Mess what up? You’ve been flipping the script since the moment you got here,” he mutters sharply, yet there’s still a nudge of sympathy.

[Name] ignores him and leans forward. Her focus snaps back to Serenophe and Tara. Behind the pillar, she shifts to get a better angle on their conversation. She strains her ears, trying to catch every word; however, in her eagerness, her boot scuffs against the concrete floor. A crisp skritch cuts through the chamber like a gunshot.

Tara pauses mid-sentence, and her head snaps toward the noise. Her eyes widen, darting from shadow to shadow. “What was that?” she asks tightly, like she’s trying not to let the nerves slip through.

[Name] holds her breath, her pulse pounding in her ears. She presses herself tight against the pillar, silently cursing her own carelessness. Stay still. Stay still.

At the same time, a soft vibration hums through the chamber. Serenophe pulls out her phone from the strap on her thigh. The device lights up brightly in the subdued research base. She frowns, glancing at the screen.

“Sorry, that was me,” she says, tilting the phone to show Tara. “Just my doctor texting to see if I’ve noticed anything weird lately.”

[Name] blinks, her mind stumbling over the unexpected moment. Her boot scuff had been loud. Biting. However, Serenophe’s vibrating phone overlapped the sound and deflected the noise. The timing fits perfectly, but still, this isn’t how it was supposed to go. Serenophe never pulls out her phone during this scene.

Was that text message because of me? [Name] wonders. Did I change the script without knowing it again?

Her jaw tightens as uncertainty overtakes her. Every step she takes seems to push the story further off its rails. And she doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

Tara exhales a laugh. It’s clear relief wrapped in her ever-present cheerfulness. “Oh, geez, you scared me!” She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “But, more importantly, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fi—” Serenophe begins, but a shrill chime interrupts her.

The noise emanates from her Hunter’s Watch. Its amber display emits a series of quick, urgent beeps. A second later, Tara’s Watch emits the same alert, confirming the danger.

“Wanderer,” Serenophe mutters, and her demeanor instantly sharpens. Her earlier warmth evaporates, and caution takes its reins. She raises her wrist and taps the watch to summon a holographic display. A prompt appears above Serenophe’s wrist: Wanderer detected. Accept the mission? 

Without hesitation, she selects the only choice. Yes.

In an instant, Tara’s face shifts from surprise to seriousness. Her smile falters as she mirrors the action, except her touch is more tentative.

“The highest threat level here is only B,” Tara says, glancing away from her watch. “That matches the fluctuation we just felt.”

Serenophe’s brows knit together.

“A fluctuation doesn’t have a set value,” Serenophe replies, scrutinizing the display. Her expression hardens like she’s already mentally moving onto the next step. “Something’s off.”

[Name]’s pulse quickens as she listens. This is it. The part of the game where Tara suggests they split up—a pivotal moment that sends Serenophe straight to the Wanderer’s location. In the original sequence, this is also where the heroine meets Xavier, who serves as her critical backup. But Xavier isn’t here. He’s back at his apartment, fast asleep, because [Name] met him a day too early and inadvertently shifted the timeline.

Realization sinks in like a heavyweight. Serenophe can’t face a Wanderer alone—it’s suicide. Protofields are chaotic and unstable, alternate energy zones that overwhelm even the most skilled hunters. The game mechanics always required two Evolvers to balance the field and neutralize Wanderers. And Tara, while a capable hunter, isn’t an Evolver. She wouldn’t stand a chance as backup.

Still, Tara is better than nothing.

The thought rings hollow, and offers little comfort. If she stays hidden and lets this play out, Serenophe will walk straight into a trap without proper support. The image sends a chill down her spine—Serenophe trapped in Protofield, her movements faltering, her energy waning. It’s not just the fear of changing the story that grips her. It’s the guilt.

Her mind flashes back to the battlefield—her final, selfless act. The cat. The kitten she had rescued, clutching it tight in her arms as she ran. Despite the shrapnel tearing through the streets. Despite the soldiers calling for help. Despite everything. She had decided to act, even when it cost her life.

And now, she feels the same.

Panic rises in her throat. She has to act. But what if she makes things worse? She no longer knows the rules; the story is changing too much. But she can’t stop herself. With a quiet word, she sets the cat down. 

“Pumpkin,” she whispers. “I need you to distract them. Run. Yowl. Make them think the Wanderer is in the opposite direction. I need them to stay together.”

The tabby’s ears perk up, and his eyes gleam with mischief. “Got it,” he says, brimming with eagerness. “I’ll give them a show.”

Before she can overthink, Pumpkin slips from her grasp and lands softly on the ground. His tail flicks once, twice, before he pads into the open space like a soldier preparing for battle. Then, without warning, his piercing yowl shatters the quiet. The sound is startling and dissonant, bouncing off the walls in unpredictable directions. He bolts toward the opposite end of the base, his cries growing louder.

Tara swivels toward the noise. “What the—?” she blurts, and her eyes dart to Serenophe. Her usual cheer falters into cautious concern. “Do you think that was the Wanderer?”

Serenophe’s gaze follows Pumpkin’s fleeting form, and her eyes narrow. She glances back at her holographic display, tapping rapidly.

“No,” she says firmly. “It’s not consistent with the metaflux readings. Just a stray.”

Tara’s lips curve into a small smile. “

That’s a relief,” she says brightly, but her voice doesn’t match the tension in her shoulders. Her gaze lingers toward the noise, betraying her inner doubt. She puckers her lips and shifts back and forth on the balls on her feet. After a beat, she looks back at Serenophe. Her expression shifts into something more serious. “Why don’t we stick together? Just to be safe.”

Behind the pillar, [Name] grips its rough edge, her breath held tight in her chest. C’mon, c’mon. Please agree, Serenophe. Don’t send her away.

Serenophe hesitates, glancing between Tara and the holographic display. She weighs her options. The proximity indicator continues to pulse insistently. It urges her forward, but Tara’s suggestion pulls her back. “All right,” she says with a bit of impatience. “Let’s stay close. Better to keep an eye on each other until we know what we’re dealing with.”

Relieved, [Name] exhales. Her plan had worked—or at least, mostly. It wasn’t exactly what she intended, but at least Serenophe wouldn’t be alone. That was better than nothing.

Tara visibly brightens, and her smile returns with more confidence. “Let’s find that stray first,” she chirps, her bubbly tone peeking through. “We don’t want the poor thing getting hurt, right?”

Serenophe frowns, clearly reluctant. Once again, she glances at her watch, then back to Tara. Her foot instinctively shifts forward, betraying her eagerness to move on. But after a brief sigh, she nods.

“You’re right,” she replies. “But let’s be quick about it.”

From her hiding spot, [Name] watches the two move briskly toward Pumpkin’s fading cries. Their attention is wholly diverted now. She relaxes her shoulders, and the tension lifts just for a second. However, realization quickly grips her, one she’s been dancing around. Now, there’s no denying it: scripted events can be changed.

Serenophe’s unexpected text message is proof. Hell, [Name]’s existence is proof. Yet she didn’t know how much she could alter. How much her actions could influence the narrative’s course. Yet it’s becoming clear—no matter how small the change, [Name] isn’t just a spectator. She’s part of this world now. A force capable of shaping its trajectory.

Unable to stay still any longer, she steps away from the pillar. She paces back and forth, her thoughts tumbling over one another. Her actions—the escape from the hospital, meeting Xavier too early, stealing Sylus’ motorcycle—have set things into motion. But what else? What other details has she changed? What’s unraveling right now without her noticing?

She stops, brow furrowed, her fingers tightly pressed to the straps of her bag. She thought she understood this place, the rules, the people. But now, every interaction is fraught with consequences. It’s like a stone cast into a pond with unpredictable ripples. And she never stopped to check how deep the waters were.

Her gaze shifts back to Serenophe and Tara, but their figures are swallowed by the shadows. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The two of them can’t fight this Wanderer alone. This encounter was meant to be a tutorial, a bonding moment for Serenophe and Xavier. But now, Xavier’s not here. And Tara doesn’t have the power to resonate with Serenophe.

The timeline is unraveling before her eyes. This is more than a distortion, it’s a story reshaped by her hand. And she knows it’s not entirely intentional. Yet her actions have already done too much damage. She clenches her fists, anger swelling inside her. How could I have been so careless?

She scratches her head, breathing heavily as the self-recriminations pile on. I should have been smarter. More careful. I shouldn’t have stolen that motorcycle. I shouldn’t have gotten close to Xavier. I shouldn’t even be here right now. If I’d stopped and thought for even a second… Her stomach twists with frustration. She’d spent years as a soldier, trained to think tactically, to anticipate consequences. But here, she’s been fumbling through every moment, making mistake after mistake. And it’s not just her safety on the line. She’s putting this world and its people all at risk.

The enormity of the situation hits her all at once. She kicks a piece of broken machinery, the clang of metal against concrete jarring in the silence. It echoes, startling her into stillness. She exhales, eyes closed, and wrestles her thoughts into submission. 

She knows this isn’t her story. Serenophe isn’t her responsibility. But the thought of either of them walking into a trap... It’s too real. Their faces, their voices. They’re alive now. The distance she once felt as a player is gone.

Her eyes open. Without thinking, she’s already moving. None of it matters anymore. The timeline is broken. Her choices have already set things in motion. The only thing she can do now is act.

[Name] walks toward where she met Xavier yesterday. Her fingers tighten around the bag’s straps as her pace quickens. She shouldn’t be here—she shouldn’t even have gotten involved—yet here she is, heading straight to the Wanderer’s location. 

And before she knows it, she’s standing in the same spot.

In contrast to its ruined state, the space is heavy with expectation. Twisted metal beams reach out like skeletal fingers and the remains of long-dead machinery tower over [Name]. Shafts of morning light cut through the chamber, spotlighting dust motes that float in chaotic patterns.

It’s here that Pumpkin bolts into view. 

“Human!” He shouts—shrill and sharp. It echoes against the hollow walls as he skids to a stop. His orange fur is ruffled, his eyes wide with panic. “We’ve got a problem!”

The urgency in his voice makes her heart leap into her throat. Immediately, she crouches down and meets his gaze. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“They’re coming,” Pumpkin pants, his words tumbling between gasps. “Serenophe and Tara. They’re already tracking me. I barely managed to lose them long enough to get back here!”

Her stomach churns. “How long do we have?”

“Four minutes. Tops.” His frustration bleeds through as he glances over his shoulder. “Whatever crazy plan you’ve got brewing in that head of yours, you’d better do it now. Because if they find you—”

“I know,” she cuts him off, harsher than intended. “I know.”

Pumpkin fixes her with a pointed glare. “Do you? Because they’re not the only ones coming. I caught their metaflux reading on my way here—it’s spiking off the charts.” His voice dips into a low growl. “The Wanderer’s close.”

[Name] sharply inhales. “Then we don’t have time to talk.”

Quickly rising, her hands clench into fists, and her jaw sets. Her mind races to create a plan that feels less like desperation and more like a calculated move. Yet the more she thinks, the more apparent one truth becomes: she can’t let Serenophe face this Wanderer.

Pumpkin hops onto a nearby console, his ears flattened. “Please tell me you’re not about to do something stupid.”

She meets his gaze. Resolute. Devoid of hesitation. “I’m going to fight it.”

The cat’s fur bristles and his tail lashes wildly. “You’re kidding,” he scoffs, teetering in disbelief. “You think you stand a chance against something Serenophe herself would struggle with?”

[Name] meets Pumpkin’s incredulous stare, and instead of faltering, her lips curl into a small, closed-mouth smile. She shrugs off her backpack and folds up her sleeves. “Are you doubting my combat skills?”

Pumpkin blinks, stunned. “I’m doubting your sanity, Human! There’s a big difference.”

“Good,” she retorts, striding toward a pile of debris. She grabs a length of twisted piping and tests its weight. The cold metal is reassuring in her grip. “Because this isn’t about sanity—it’s about survival.”

[Name] steps forward, her shoulders squared. She fixes her gaze on where the Wanderer should make his entrance. Her grip on the pipe tightens, the edges biting into her palms. Her military training floods her mind, tactical procedures snapping into place. Despite the gnawing fear in her gut, she focuses on the facts. Wanderers may be unpredictable, but they follow patterns, behaviors rooted in their metaflux origins. She’d fought worse in her old life. Well, maybe not worse, but close enough.

“You’re really doing this?” Pumpkin’s voice softens, carrying awe and concern.

She glances back at him. “Serenophe can’t face this thing without proper backup, and I’m not letting her or Tara get hurt because of me.” She lets out a deep breath. “Besides, I’ve fought battles without powers before.”

Her fingers tighten around the pipe as her thoughts shift to the game. This wasn’t just any Wanderer—this is one from the tutorial. Which means it shouldn’t be that hard. Besides, everything has a pattern if she’s willing to see it. So, even if this doesn’t turn out to be the same exact creature, the mechanics should still hold up.

Keyword: Should.

Before Pumpkin can argue further, the air shifts. It grows heavier, charged with an electric tension that prickles against her skin. The metallic tang of Metaflux fills her nose. Acrid. The light in the chamber dims as the shadows deepen. The facility's creaks are replaced by low reverberations that shake the walls.

It’s here.

The Wanderer emerges, its crystalline body shimmering with an eerie luminescence. The core of its chest glows like a pulsing heartbeat. Its bladed arms flex with a metallic hiss, and its angular head tilts as though tasting the air for her presence. 

It doesn’t hesitate. 

With sudden, unnatural speed, it lunges forward.

The distance between them closes in a second. [Name] reacts on instinct, diving to the side. She rolls across the ground as the Wanderer’s blade slams into where she just stood. The impact leaves a shallow gouge in the ground, spraying dust and debris. Her breath comes in quick bursts as she scrambles to her feet. The Wanderer whirls around, shaking the ground with each step.

“Pumpkin,” she says, keeping her eyes on the creature. “Get somewhere safe!”

“I’m a cat, not an idiot,” Pumpkin hisses. He leaps away from the console to a rusted beam, his eyes locked on the chaos below. “Try not to get yourself killed!”

Again, the Wanderer lunges. Its bladed arm slices through the air as she stumbles backward, barely avoiding the attack. Her fingers tighten around the pipe as she swings it at the creature’s chest. But the Wanderer’s faster. It twists away at the last second, and the pipe glances off its crystalline armor with flying sparks. The vibration shoots up her arms, stinging her hands into almost dropping her weapon. 

The Wanderer lets out a piercing screech, its rugged form shuddering violently. The sound reverberates through the space, making the ground beneath her feet tremble. Then, without warning, the air around it begins to warp, rippling with unnatural energy. A shimmering blue-and-white field expands outward, distorting the space around them like heat waves rising from asphalt. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as she recognizes the phenomenon.

A Protofield.

The energy intensifies, and a swirling portal of blinding light materializes behind the Wanderer. The shimmering spiral twists and churns, pulling everything around it into its maw. Loose debris, glass shards, and metal scraps are dragged toward the portal with increasing speed.

[Name] braces herself, her boots sliding on the shifting ground. She digs her heels in, gripping the pipe like an anchor as the pull grows stronger. The rumble of the Protofield drowns out everything else.

“Not good, not good!” Pumpkin yowls, desperately clinging to the rusted beam with his claws. He manages a glare down at the scene below. “What do we do now, Human?”

She opens her mouth to reply, but the force becomes overwhelming. Pieces of the environment around her are ripped from the ground, vanishing into the light. Her grip on the pipe falters, her balance slipping as the ground beneath her feet shifts and tilts.

“No!” she cries out, panic lacing her voice. The words are barely out of her mouth before the light completely engulfs her.

And when she opens her eyes, everything has changed.

She’s no longer in the research base. The fractured windows and rusted machinery are replaced by an open expanse of uneven terrain. The ground beneath her boots is soft, covered in patches of moss and grass interspersed with dirt. Towering stone ruins rise in the distance, their weathered columns and broken arches hinting at a forgotten civilization. Despite the natural elements, the air feels wrong. Alien. Like a blanket of metaflux vibrates through the space.

“Where…?” she breathes, turning in place.

Pumpkin’s voice pulls her back to reality. He says grimly, “We’re in its Protofield."

The tabby’s fue bristles as he stands on a nearby rock. His eyes warily scan the surroundings. “And if we don’t get out soon, we’re not getting out at all.”

[Name] frowns, and a loud crackle splits the air. She whirls around to see the Wanderer emerge from thin air, stepping through the terrain like a phantom. Its crystalline body glows even brighter, the veins of light within its structure pulsing rapidly. The energy radiating from its chest makes the air around it shimmer. In this space, the creature seems larger, more dangerous. Almost alive.

The air crackles as the creature stalks toward them. Its bladed arm risen.

“Looks like it’s stronger here,” Pumpkin mutters dreadfully. “Great. Just great.”

[Name] raises the pipe again, her hands trembling. She plants her feet firmly on the ground and takes a deep breath.

“Stronger or not,” she says, “we’re not dying here.”

The Wanderer charges, and the fight begins anew.

Blade-like arms cut through the air with lethal force. [Name] dodges to the side. The ground tears beneath the Wanderer’s strike, sending shards of crystal and dirt flying.

Her heart races, but she controls her breathing. Shallow but even—just like she’d been trained. Her body moves on instinct as her boots scrape against the uneven terrain. [Name] doesn’t waste a second as she scrambles to her feet, her grip tight on the pipe. 

“Human!” Pumpkin’s voice cuts through the chaos. Still perched on a nearby rock, the tabby’s golden eyes dilate wildly. “You can’t handle this thing on your own. I’m helping!”

“No,” [Name] snaps, tight with fear, as she dodges another swipe from the creature. “You’ll get hurt, Pumpkin. Just stay back and—”

“Don’t argue with me,” Pumpkin interrupts, his tail lashing. “That thing will tear you apart if you keep playing defense, and Serenophe and Tara are heading straight for us. We have to end this now. Together.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but the truth in his words stops her. Her instincts scream to protect him, but they’re out of time, and she knows it.

“Fine,” she relents. “But don’t do anything reckless.”

Pumpkin meows. It sounds almost like a laugh. “You’re the one swinging a pipe at an interdimensional monster. Let’s not point paws.”

The Wanderer snarls, releasing a sudden burst of blinding energy that ripples through the landscape. Its moves are quick and aggressive, driven by an unnatural hunger. And before [Name] can stop him, Pumpkin darts forward. His tiny form weaves through the terrain with starling agility.

“Pumpkin, no!” she shouts, but the tabby doesn’t wait. 

His claws flash in the light as he leaps at the creature’s leg. He slashes at the crystalline armor with keen precision. The Wanderer screeches, momentarily faltering, and jerks its jagged body around.

Surprised, but reluctantly impressed, [Name] seizes the moment. She surges forward, the pipe swinging in a mighty arc. It connects with the Wanderer’s chest, a satisfying crunch echoing through the Protofield as crystal shards fly from its armor. The creature reels; its glow flickers erratically, but it recovers quick and turns its attention back to her.

Every time she moves, it follows. The Wanderer’s irregular limbs cut through the space between them with terrifying speed. She ducks and pivots, narrowly avoiding the deadly blades. The disorienting energy of the Protofield makes tracking its moves harder, and every step stretches into infinity.

“Fuck,” she mutters, her muscles screaming with exertion. 

Despite everything, her military instincts kick in. Her mind begins to break the fight down into manageable pieces. The creature’s moves are quick but not erratic; its attacks are methodical. But there’s a hesitation in its follow-through. A slight lag after each strike.

That’s when she notices that the Wanderer is favoring close combat. It waits for her to move first, then strikes with overwhelming force.

The creature lunges again, and she darts away. This time, she swings the pipe at an exposed joint in its limb. The blow connects with a harsh clang but barely fazes the creature. It swings wildly, and she ducks, the blade passing inches from her head. Sweat drips down her temple, but she doesn’t let up. Every attack reveals more of its behavior, more of its weaknesses. The hesitation after each strike, the flash of its chest, how it shifts before lunging—she absorbs it all, committing it to memory. 

That’s when she realizes something else. 

“Pumpkin, keep it distracted!” she shouts, circling to the Wanderer’s side.

The tabby doesn't hold back. With a yowl, he darts toward the creature. His claws rake against its crystalline leg. The Wanderer screeches, its angular head snapping toward the small figure. Pumpkin leaps back, just avoiding a deadly swipe. He continues his assault with strikes and taunts.

“You call that an attack?” He shakes his fur with exaggerated disdain. “I’ve seen shadows scarier than you!”

Though she tries to ignore it, [Name] feels a pang of anxiety watching him. Yet she pushes it aside. Quickly, she unfastens her belt and holds the buckle to the light. The reflection casts a beam across the terrain, catching the Wanderer’s attention. It instantly turns toward the light, and its bladed arm slams into the dirt, once again sending debris flying everywhere.

[Name] stumbles back, shielding her face with her arm. When the dust settles, she blinks up. The Wanderer’s invigorated, its chest pulsing faster, its body crackling with renewed energy. I knew it. It’s reactive towards light.

“Pumpkin!” she shouts. “It’s drawn to light! That’s what’s making it more aggressive.”

“Fantastic!” Pumpkin yells, sarcastically, leaping onto a rock. He’s panting with each word. “So you’re saying it’s basically a homicidal moth?”

“You could say that,” she mutters, her mind racing.

[Name] can see the Metaflux energy that powers the Protofield, but she can feel its presence. The gentle hum intensifies near the Wanderer’s chest. If I can just land a solid hit there…

The Wanderer suddenly shifts, its body collapsing inward before reshaping into a bigger, more jagged form. Its moves are faster, frantic, and before she can react, its blade catches her side. Pain flares hot as she’s sent sprawling, the breath knocked from her lungs. Her hoodie tears, revealing a long but shallow cut along her ribs. 

The pipe slips from her grasp; it skids across the terrain and rests just out of reach. Her heart sinks as she scrambles for it, but the Wanderer is on her in seconds, emerging like an awakening shadow.

The Wanderer slams her down with one of its bladed arms. The weight crushes her chest, and its sharp edge presses dangerously close to her throat. She coughs, struggling, her fingers clawing at the dirt. But the pipe remains just beyond her grasp.

“Almost there…” she gasps, barely able to breathe under the creature’s weight.

Suddenly, the tabby launches himself at the Wanderer. “Get off her!” He yowls furiously as his claws sink into its crystalline armor. The creature screeches, rearing back as Pumpkin attacks relentlessly. For a brief, shining moment, it works—the Wanderer staggers, and its grip loosens.

But then it retaliates.

The Wanderer violently twists and throws Pumpkin off with brutal force. He hits the ground hard, rolling several times before stopping. He lies there. Motionless. 

“Pumpkin!” [Name] screams, raw panic ripping through her chest.

She moves toward him but stops as the Wanderer turns back to her. Its glow flickers erratically like a dying heartbeat. Her chest heaves as she forces herself to stay focused. She can’t go to him. Not yet. Not until this Wanderer’s destroyed.

Her eyes lock onto the pipe. With the Wanderer bearing down on her, she only has seconds to act. Gritting her teeth, she rolls to the side and narrowly misses its blade. She lunges for the pipe, and her fingers close around the cold metal. 

The creature raises its arm for another strike. Its moves are quick but slower than before. This time, [Name] doesn’t hold back. She swings the pipe with all her strength and drives it straight into the Wanderer’s chest. 

The impact resonates through the air and sends shockwaves outward. The creature lets out a final, ear-piercing screech, but it’s not a mechanical wail. It’s raw. Human. Cracks spread across its crystalline body as it stumbles backward. The glow within dims, spilling out in uneven, molten streams like liquid fire. The Wanderer doesn’t lash out or attack—it simply falters. Its form shudders as if trying to hold itself together.

The glow in its chest fades, and the creature seems to hesitate. It turns its angular head toward her. It’s sluggish as though burdened. Just for a second, it even looks afraid.

Then, with a brilliant flash, the Wanderer shatters into countless shards of light. Each fragment dissolves into nothingness as it falls. The air stills with the echo of its final cry.

She exhales, the pipe still clenched in her shaky hands. Adrenaline continues to course through her veins, though her legs are weak. She stares at the empty space where the creature once stood. With a chest heaving, her mind reels from the enormity of what transpired. 

“I did it,” she whispers, wide-eyed and heart pounding. A shaky chuckle escapes her as if she doesn’t believe the words.

Relief blooms in her chest, but it vanishes when her gaze shifts to Pumpkin. Her heart plummets as she takes in his small, motionless form.

“Oh, Gods,” she cries, scrambling to her feet.

The pipe clatters to the ground. She rushes to the injured cat, her knees hitting the crystalline dirt as she drops beside him. He’s still breathing, shallow but constant, and his half-lidded eyes meet hers. She gently strokes his fur as guilt overtakes her.

“It worked,” he murmurs, weak but filled with pride. As if to reassure her, Pumpkin’s tail gives the smallest flick.

Her throat tightens, but she swallows the forming lump.

“You idiot,” she says.

Carefully, she scoops him into her arms, cradling him close to her chest. She briefly presses her face into his fur, drawing strength from his presence.

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispers. “Hold on tight, okay?”

Now that its creator is gone, the Protofield around them begins destabilizing. The air grows dense, crackling with residual energy. The ground trembles beneath her feet, fissures forming in the crystalline terrain as it collapses. The once-vibrant landscape begins to dim, and shadows bleed into every corner.

With Pumpkin held tightly in her arms, she pushes her aching body into motion. She sprints toward the edge of the field. Her legs burn, and her lungs scream for air. Every step is a battle against the collapsing world around her, but she doesn’t stop.

The light marking the Protofield’s edge draws closer, and she leaps through the shimmering threshold just as the Protofield disappears behind her. The distorted landscape vanishes in an instant, leaving only the ruins of the research base in its place.

[Name] collapses to her knees on the cracked concrete floor, still clutching Pumpkin against her chest. The sunlight streaming through the fractured windows feels like heaven against her skin. Warm and real. As her shoulders relax, the tension in her body slowly ebbs.

“Pumpkin…” she begins, soft with guilt. She looks down at him. Her chest aches at the sight of his battered form.

“I’m fine,” he insists, his golden eyes meeting hers. Despite his weakened state, his usual charm shines through. “You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and she tightens her hold on him, careful not to jostle him further. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, the words barely audible. She opens her mouth to say more, to apologize again, but the sound of footsteps echoes through the base, and it cuts her off.

Her head snaps up, and her body instinctively tenses. The sound grows louder against the stillness. Pumpkin’s ears twitch, and he struggles to lift his head.

“We have to get out of here,” he says, a little stronger now. “Serenophe and Tara will be here any second.”

[Name] nods, her grip never loosening as she forces herself to her feet. Every muscle in her body protests, but she pushes aside the pain. She stumbles away with one last glance at the space around her, and carries Pumpkin toward whatever safety they can find.

Chapter Text

Ch. Seven — The Cat’s Out of the Bag!

Like a ghost slipping between worlds, [Name] trudges through the alleyways. Each step is punctuated by a gutter's drip and her boots' fall. Her body aches from the fight—joints stiff, muscles tight. She barely escaped the Protofield. The fight. The research base.

In her arms, Pumpkin trembles against her chest. His orange fur is darkened by dirt and dust. His breaths come in uneven puffs. He meows softly. It's a wounded sound that cuts deeper than any blade. She cradles him as gently as possible, trying to avoid the cuts and bruises that line his flank where the Wanderer flung him. Guilt gnaws at her. She didn't want anyone to get hurt—but look at her now. There's no use in denying it: Pumpkin's hurt because of her. Because she chose to fight. To interfere. To rewrite the story's script further. 

Her thoughts are a tangle of confusion and regret. Serenophe and Tara—both stepping into a future she knows is already off-course. Xavier nowhere in sight. The Wanderer fight. Her choices toppling carefully arranged dominoes. She's changing more than details. She's reshaping destiny. And for what? To survive? To atone for her past life's failures?

She wishes it was raining. It would fit her mood better, but the sky is dry. Just a bright haze of light and stale air. The cramped alleyways smell of old cooking oil and refuse. It's a familiar scent, one that should comfort in its ordinariness. But right now, it's all too much. Too real. Too stifling. 

Without Pumpkin's weak guidance, she wouldn't know where one nightmare ends and the next begins. And the occasional broken bottle or scurrying rodent cruelly reminds her that she's still here. Still alive. Because of Pumpkin.

After what seems like forever, she stumbles to a halt.

They finally make it to their destination.

Stellar Impact Gym.
 
She doesn't know why, but she expected it to be a ruin. Hidden off the main drag, deep into the Bloomshore District, it should be a dusty shell. Yet, as she approaches, she notices the sign's flickering neon light. The building doesn't exactly look welcoming, but it's not boarded up or silent. It feels preserved like someone still cares enough to keep it going.

"We're here," she whispers to Pumpkin as she readjusts her hold.

He gives a weak purr in response, or perhaps just a gentle exhale. His body quivers, and she feels the subtle vibration through her arms. It hurts to see him like this. But she knows that he's hurting more. [Name] can still picture him in the Protofield, claws out and tail lashing as he launches himself at the Wanderer to save her. It's a cruel irony that he's now broken down while she still stands.

The door creaks loudly as she pushes it open. The sound makes her wince. It's like it's announcing their presence to anything lurking inside. But what greets her isn't a derelict space. Instead, it is a neat, well-maintained interior. Although weathered, the gym still holds onto its purpose. Equipment is arranged meticulously along the walls. A boxing ring sits at the center, ropes taut and canvas clean. Overhead lights hum dully, and the scent of sweat and leather musks the air. It's almost like fighters were training here moments prior. 

And then she sees them. 

Cats. 

Scores of them, of every color and pattern, draped over benches, perched atop punching bags, curled along the beams overhead. They turn their heads in silent unison. Feline eyes glow in the artificial light. Some gaze at her with mild indifference; others narrow their eyes with strange recognition of her presence. But above all else, Pumpkin's condition doesn't escape their attention. There's a palpable shift in their demeanor. A hush of shared understanding. They grow quieter. They understand he's in pain and acknowledge him with quiet reverence.

Her breath catches as her knees threaten to buckle. She's so, so tired. More than that, she's unraveling. The events at the research base have left her shaken, uncertain, and numb. She's been running and acting, but what has she really accomplished? Like sand slipping through her fingers, her thoughts drift away.

And now, she's wary but desperate. She just needs a moment to think, breathe, care for Pumpkin, and plan her next move.

Her eyes fall onto the small office tucked away in one corner. The door is slightly ajar. Warm light spills onto the polished floor. A rhythmic tapping echoes from within—a constant, scratching sound of pen against paper. It's almost soothing. Almost.

The fight settles into her bones as she stands there, trying to catch her breath. Her adrenaline is beginning to fade, leaving behind an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. 

"Wrong place to wander into."

[Name] startles. Instinctively, her hands tighten around Pumpkin's fragile form. She forces her closer to the office door and locks eyes with a man. He's sitting behind a desk cluttered with papers. There's a nameplate atop the desk—Kane—his name captured in tidy lettering. There's a journal in his hands as his eyes shift from [Name] to the trembling cat in her arms.

His attire is crisp, sleeves rolled neatly, pants pressed. He looks more like an accountant than a fighter. However, his stance suggests otherwise. Lean, yet muscular. Relaxed, yet commanding. There's a sense of order about him that mirrors the gym's immaculate arrangement. 

Kane sets down his journal, stands, and pushes the office door open with one hand. Even in such a casual setting, his presence fills the room.

"Are you lost?" he asks.

There's no bark or bluster, but his gaze is more unnerving than open aggression. He's assessing her like a trainer would size up a new student: posture, injuries, intent. 

[Name] swallows hard, repositioning Pumpkin's weight in her arms. The cat groans softly. She clenches her jaw, recalling the sight of Pumpkin lying broken on the ground. 

"I—" she manages, voice raw. "No, I mean, he's hurt. I need somewhere to—"

"Despite how it looks, this isn't a shelter." Kane interrupts. He steps forward, his boots clicking on the floor. His eyes flick down to Pumpkin, then back to her. He doesn't let up, but he's clearly taking in the cat's condition. "And you don't look like you're here for a lesson. So I'll ask in a different way: what are you doing here?"

There's no open hostility but no easy kindness, either. Her skin prickles. She feels exposed. It's like he's reading secrets in the lines of her exhausted face. Her mind flashes back to the research base once more. The fight. The desperation. She risked everything to keep Serenophe and Tara safe. Strangers yet not. She's crossed too many lines and changed too many events. And now she stands here, battered, with a wounded ally in her arms, facing another unknown.

She stumbles forward, desperation overriding caution.

"Please. I won't stay long. Just a moment to help him."

Kane's face pulls into a frown. His lips press into a tight line. He glances at Pumpkin again, and his eyes narrow. "That cat doesn't look like it'll make it long enough for you to play doctor here. Whatever you're running from, don't bring it to my gym."

"I'm not—" she starts, but the words catch in her throat. Once more, she's caught wondering what to say so as not to sound completely deranged. She's stuck between her desire to explain herself and her unease about being scrutinized.

Before she can defend herself, Pumpkin lets out a soft meow. Kane's brow furrows as he finally takes in the entire condition of the cat. His gaze shifts between Pumpkin and [Name] for the third time. For a moment, the air is thick with tension. Then, Kane steps forward, recognition clear on his face.

"Wait a minute," Kane says with a subtle shift in his tone. "Is that Pumpkin?"

[Name] blinks, confused. "What?"

Just a touch, Kane's face softens, and his voice loses some of its edge. "That cat's always around here. He's one of the strays I've been letting wander in and out. He's got a habit of getting into trouble, but he doesn't let people carry him like that. Looks like you got him in bad shape."

[Name] swallows hard, her guilt deepening. Relief overcomes her as she realizes Kane isn't entirely dismissing her anymore—but it won't last. The situation is heavier than ever. She could tell him the truth. She could admit everything—the Wanderer, the Protofield, how she'd gotten here, but something stopped her.

"I found him like this," she lies. "I just—I don't know where else to go. He's hurt, and I don't know what to do."

Kane exhales slowly. For a moment, he seems to consider her. His head turns to the entrance, and it lingers there for a fraction too long, as if someone might appear. When he looks back, his face is guarded, like he’s searching for a way out of this interaction. His eyes drift to Pumpkin, then back to her face. She swears she sees the slightest flicker of hesitation, but it’s gone before she can grasp it. Instead, his features settle into something tighter, resigned.

"Sorry, ma'am, but I'm not a charity," he replies flatly, yet he doesn't dare to look her in the eyes. "I don't know what you thought you'd find here, but there's a vet clinic a block over."

Pumpkin's weak meows, catching [Name]'s attention. 

"Give him something," the cat musters.

"What?" [Name] asks as she stares down at the tabby. When she looks into Pumpkin's eyes, the desperation is evident.

"I said there's a clinic a block over," Kane repeats, misunderstanding her. He jabs his thumb toward the right. "Take the cat there."

She shakes her head and ignores Pumpkin for now. [Name] closes more of the distance between them. "No, please," she says. "You have to help me."

She knows a vet clinic would likely be a better choice for Pumpkin. She knows he would receive better care if she took him there than anything she could do. But something inside her refuses to accept that. Pumpkin, even Spots, insisted on her coming here for a reason. It has to be for something more than just his wounds. And, truth be told, she has no money to afford a vet visit. Not that she could admit that to Kane.

She continues, "I don't know where else to go."

Kane takes a step back, observing her. His posture is tense but thoughtful. Still, he crosses his arms and raises his chin.

"You're bleeding, you're about to collapse, and you're carrying around a half-dead cat." Although his words are devoid of judgment, they're heavy with practicality. "This is my gym, not a damn free clinic. So unless you got a damn good reason for crashing in here, I—"

Without thinking, [Name] fumbles through her pockets. Her free hand searches for anything—anything to convince him. Yet the fight, the Wanderer, the terror, it left her with nothing but a handful of useless odds and ends.

That's until her fingers brush against something cold and metallic.

She hesitates, too afraid to pull it out. But her instincts push her forward, frantic to find some way to make this man understand. Her heart pounds as she pulls the brooch from her pocket. It feels like a last, desperate card to play. 

She holds it up, unsure what to even say.

"I have this." Her voice shakes as she speaks.

Kane’s reaction is immediate but impossibly subtle. He freezes. His stance doesn’t shift much, but the sharp edge of his scrutiny changes. Something about his response is all wrong. Recognition? Anticipation? Guilt? It’s like a wire has been tripped, an invisible line crossed.

He looks at the brooch like it’s a loaded weapon. His gaze lingers and tightens. He doesn’t say anything for a beat too long, and the silence coils around them like a noose.

"Follow me," he mutters. The words are crass and quiet, as though he’s just made a decision he’ll regret.

[Name] stares after him, stunned by the sudden shift in his demeanor. The distance present only moments prior is gone, replaced by something colder, sharper. She opens her mouth to question him, but Pumpkin meows weakly, breaking the tension.

"Thank you," she murmurs instead. 

"Don't thank me yet," Kane replies curtly, turning on his heel.

His voice has a strange weariness as if he’s tired of playing a role he never asked for. He gestures for [Name] to follow him into the office. He points toward a couch against the far wall. The upholstery looks worn but still serviceable.

"Put him down there. I'll grab some first aid supplies. Don't touch anything while I'm gone."

His words don’t sound like a warning; it's a plea.

She nods before entering his office, her body heavy with fatigue. Carefully, she sets Pumpkin down on the couch, and the tabby lets out a pitiful yowl as his body settles onto the cushion. She gently strokes his fur, trying to soothe him, but her own unease refuses to fade.

Kane disappears into a back room. The sound of cabinets opening and closing reverberates through the gym. And it's amplified in the silence of the office. [Name] is left alone with her thoughts as she sits beside Pumpkin. She unclenches her hand and glances down at the brooch. She turns it over between her fingers. 

The knot in her gut twists tighter. Kane’s demeanor had shifted so abruptly when he saw it. But there's no way he knows what it entails. She doesn't remember him from the game, but his expressions had been too careful. Too loaded. She expected him to haggle, to demand some other form of payment, but instead, he treated it like a secret handshake.

The brooch feels heavier now, more than just its physical weight. Whatever it symbolizes, Kane's reaction has revealed one thing: he isn't just some gym owner scraping by in the Bloomshore District. There's another layer beneath his orderly front.

Pumpkin's voice pulls [Name] from her thoughts.

"He's sharp," the cat murmurs, his eyes half-lidded. "Saw it. Knows something. Be careful."

[Name] blinks. Her heart tightens at the warning. She leans closer to him and whispers, "What do you mean?"

But Pumpkin doesn't respond. His eyes close, and his breathing becomes shallower. 

Panic rises in [Name]'s chest, but she hears Kane's footsteps returning before she can react. He appears in the doorway a moment later, a small first aid kit in hand. His face is impassive, but his gaze flickers—not at her, but at the brooch still cradled in her hand.

Then, as quickly as it comes, it disappears.

"You're lucky I keep this place stocked for injuries," he mutters, kneeling beside the couch. His tone is casual but forced, like he’s trying to drown out the unsaid. Kane opens the kit and pulls out the antiseptic and bandages. "I need space to work. There's a bench right outside my office. Wait there, and don't wander off."

[Name] pauses, then slowly nods. From Pumpkin's cryptic words to Kane's quick glance—there's an edge to everything now. Her instincts scream that there’s more happening than meets the eye. However, Kane's focus now remains entirely on Pumpkin, his hands steady as he works.

Reluctantly, she stands.

Pumpkin needs care, and whatever else Kane might be hiding doesn’t matter right now. She exits the office, her head heavy and her heart beating too hard against her ribs. She walks toward the bench near the door, feeling every stray cat's eye as she steps out. The cats, who had been lounging in various corners of the gym, now stare at her knowingly. It's unsettling. Their eyes track her every move like they understand something she doesn't.

The cold metal of the bench presses against her as she slumps down. She crosses her arms and curls into herself, trying to hold onto some semblance of control. Her fingers find their way to each other's nails as she picks at them. Anxiety prickles along the edges of her mind as her leg bounces restlessly. 

She glances around the gym again. Her mind tries to catch up with everything that happened so far. Every mistake. Every bad decision. It has built up to this very point, yet it doesn't look like it will end any time soon. She can't seem to find a foothold in whatever she does. 

Her gaze drifts to the mirror on the far wall and freezes. She doesn't want to look, but she can't pull away. The sight of herself is jarring. There she is. A version of herself she barely recognizes. Her clothes are torn and bloodied, and her face is drawn with exhaustion. The effects of everything she's been through press down on her with brutal clarity. But something else catches her attention as her gaze moves over the reflection. 

Her body feels off. She hadn't gotten to check herself after the fight, but now, she feels the call to do so. 

She forces herself to stand and walks over to the mirror with weary eyes. Suddenly, she needs to know the extent of the damage. She needs to feel the wounds and the proof that she's really been through what she remembers. But as she lifts the hem of her hoodie, expecting to find the long cut across her ribs, she's met with nothing. No wound. No blood. 

Nothing. 

Her stomach twists in confusion. She blinks rapidly. Her eyes dart between the mirror and her skin. As if willing the wound to appear, she runs her fingers across her abdomen. But it's smooth. Unmarked. Like the fight, the injury never happened. Her breath catches in her throat, and she steps back from the mirror.

"What's going on?" she mutters, struggling to understand what she's seeing—or not seeing.

Then, a voice calls out from behind her. It's familiar. High-pitched and child-like.

"You made it."

Her pulse quickens, and she whips her head around. But she already knows who it is. The voice is unmistakable. A little mischievous, a little wise.

"Spots," she breathes, dropping the hem of her hoodie.

Without hesitation, [Name] drops to her knees. Her chest is tight, and her breathing is shallow. She pulls Spots into her arms and clutches him. His soft, round body sinks into her embrace. Their bittersweet reunion is a small comfort amidst the mental turmoil.

"I'm so sorry, Spots," she whispers as she hugs him tighter. "Pumpkin is… I never should have let him get hurt. He doesn't deserve this. It's all my fault." 

Her words come out in a rush. It's an outpouring of guilt clawing at her since the fight. She presses her face into his fur. The heat of his body calms her nerves just a little. But despite his presence, the unease continues to stir within. 

Spots let out a low exhale. The kind that seems like he's been waiting for this. He doesn't pull away, even as she clings to him. Instead, he shifts just enough to nestle further into her hold. Spots remain still, almost like he understands that she needs this. 

Her voice cracks as she continues. "I should have thought of something else. I thought I could protect him. But I—I couldn't stop the Wanderer. I didn't know what to do. Pumpkin was so brave, throwing himself at it like that. And then I—"

Her throat tightens, and her fingers bury themselves into his fur. It's like she's trying to purge the turmoil out of herself. She takes a shaky breath, fighting against the rising tide of emotion.

"When it had me pinned—and its blade was right there." A tremor runs through her as she closes her eyes. Her mind takes her back, remembering the terrible certainty of the blade against her throat. "I thought I was going to die. I really thought I was going to die. But then Pumpkin saved me. He gave everything to protect me."

Spots shift in her arms. His head tilts upward to meet [Name]'s eyes. There's a calmness to him. A wiseness beyond his stout size, like he's heard it all before. It makes her pause. He doesn't speak immediately, but his quiet presence is enough. She can sense his understanding—explicit but unspoken.

And then, when the silence stretches too long, he speaks.

"You didn't survive. Not really."

The words knock the breath from her lungs. She pulls away from him, and Spots doesn't resist; he watches her. His green eyes are wise, understanding more than she's ready to accept.

"I—what do you mean?" [Name] stammers.

The question is futile. It could never bridge the gap between her confusion and the answer she desperately seeks. Her mind spins, tumbling in frantic circles as she tries to latch onto anything tangible. The word around her tilts just a fraction, and she feels it—a subtle loss of control, like she's slipping from solid ground. Her hands, which just clutched Spots so tightly, are now shaking uncontrollably as she pulls them back. 

Spots blink slowly like he's considering how to best explain something that can never truly be understood. "The fight," he says. "You didn't come out of it the way you think you did."

His words hang in the air, but they don't register. Not yet. Not fast enough. Her thoughts race. The truth is just out of reach like a mirage fading the closer she gets. A soft, pained meow drifts from the office, and [Name] flinches as if struck. Pumpkin's cries pierce through the gym. Each one is another blow to her already broken spirit. The sound, filled with so much distress, drowns her. She can't bear it, not after everything she's done. 

She looks toward the office door and watches Kane close it quietly. They lock eyes; his face pulled down before the cries fade into muffled sobs behind the door. The small act of shielding her from the noise is almost too kind. But she doesn't deserve it. Not when she knows that Pumpkin is hurting because of her. Because of her decisions. Her mistakes. Her failures.

[Name] looks back at Spots. The truth settles deeper now; it rings in her ears. She didn't make it out of the fight. Not really. She doesn't know what that means—how could she? But the air is different now, like she's standing on the edge of something terrifying, and the ground beneath her crumbles. 

"Follow me," Spots says, breaking the silence with such unexpected gentleness. His emerald eyes soften as he nudges her side with his head. "You don't need to hear this."

She hesitates. Her body is heavy, weighted down by exhaustion and guilt. She wonders if she should stay here, close to the door, hidden in the gym's quiet. But Spots doesn't give her that option. He turns and starts heading toward a wide corridor off to the side. He glances back, his eyes firm with quiet insistence. Even without words, it's clear that he's telling her to follow. To move forward.

Reluctantly, [Name] rises, following him away from the main space. The other cats watch her from their places in the gym. Their eyes are constricted, but she can't find the strength to care about them right now. Not when everything feels broken—when she feels broken. 

They make their way down the corridor and toward a slightly ajar door. Spots pushes it open with his stout frame and starts descending the creaking wooden stairs. The muffled cries of Pumpkin slowly disappear with each step downward.

When they reach the bottom, the space opens up before her. The heat of the basement immediately strikes her. The scent of cat fur and earthy mush fills the air. A small kitchen nook occupies one corner. Its countertop is cluttered with dishes and stray utensils. Against the far wall rests a bed, simple but cozy, its thick quilt tossed haphazardly. Next to it, a desk is piled high with papers—old gym brochures, an open notebook, and a collection of scattered pens. A low dresser holds a television opposite the bed, and nearby, a small couch sits, surrounded by boxes, chairs, and the occasional stray towel.

The basement feels like a modest sanctuary that speaks of time, quiet lives, and forgotten stories.

There are fewer cats here than [Name] expected, but the few remain more relaxed. They curl up in corners or sprawl across the furniture. But just like the cats upstairs, their eyes follow [Name] as she enters the space. Some nod in silent acknowledgment—as if they've been waiting for her, anticipating her arrival.

Spots leads her to a corner of the room where a small cushion lies. He curls up on it, and his round face tilts upward to meet her gaze. Resolute. It's as if he's waiting for the inevitable question to come. 

Still reeling from the cryptic words he spoke earlier, she stares down at him. Her eyes search his face for answers as she sinks to her knees before him. Her hands tremble as they rub up and down her thighs. 

"What did you mean earlier?" She swallows hard, forcing each word out. "Are you saying that I didn't actually…"

Spots stretch out on his cushion, yet his eyes never leave hers. The rumble of his purring starts to fill the room. It contradicts the thick tension in the air; however, he's unbothered by the gravity of their conversation, like he's done this countless times before. 

"It's exactly like what I said," Spots says, "You didn't come out of it the way you think you did."

His repetition gives off the sense of rehearsal, as though he's actually preparing her for something heavier. Something that will shatter her fragile grip on what's real even more. 

"What are you talking about?" she demands, shaking so hard her voice wavers. "I don't understand. I was hurt. I bled. I should still be hurt. So, why—why am I okay?"

Spots' emerald eyes soften further like he knows exactly what she's going through. He doesn't wait. His voice is gentle, but there's a knowing undertone that she can't quite grasp. 

"You have nine lives," he says slowly, letting each word settle like dust on still air. "Just like a cat. Just like us."

As though a thick fog has rolled in, everything is hazy. For a long moment, she can't move or even blink. Her thoughts race in all directions, but none lead to answers. The ground beneath her shifts, and the world tilts just a little more. Nine lives. She has nine lives. The idea is absurd, like something pulled from old folklore. But here, in this new world—this reality inside a mobile otome game, for fuck's sake—maybe it's not so unbelievable. 

[Name] shifts, moving just enough to be able to pull her knees closer to her chest. She grips her hoodie tightly, trying to keep herself together. 

"Y'know," Spots senses her disorientation and begins slower this time. "I'm on my sixth life."

Six. The number lands small yet significant in the hush of the basement. It's a simple revelation that cracks open her understanding of him—and of what she herself might be. [Name] squints at the seemingly ordinary tuxedo cat. He looks so plain: chubby, soft-furred, green-eyed, and completely unassuming. Yet beneath that harmless exterior is a complex tapestry of existence she can barely fathom.

"I've lived six times already." He speaks as if describing old memories found in dusty boxes. "Six whole lifetimes to learn, to grow, to make mistakes and try again. I've been here and there—alternate dimensions, video games, TV shows, you name it."

His whiskers twitch with a hint of amusement. "Ever been a prince's trusted advisor in a medieval world? I have. Once, I even spent a life stuck as a pixelated sidekick in some shooter game. I don’t recommend it."

[Name] blinks, stunned as the words sink in. Spots sound so casual like he’s recounting an old vacation, but it cracks open something irrational within her.

“And trust me,” he adds with a slow blink, his humor fading as his green eyes soften. “You learn a lot when you’ve been a star in a TV show one lifetime and a forgotten stray the next.”

His matter-of-fact explanation doesn't feel real. Above them, the city hums with business as usual—cars, shoppers, sunlight. But here, in a cluttered basement that smells of dust and old cardboard, she's brushing against an entirely different cosmic order.

Spots cocks his head, meeting her stare with a knowing look.

"We cats," he continues, "we're allowed nine lives. Each one a lesson, building on the last. That's how we are. We live, we learn, and we return. But you—"

He pauses, letting his words settle. "You're different."

The word "different" strikes like a bell's toll, echoing in her mind long after it's spoken. A thousand unspoken questions now remain in its wake. She's not a cat. She's never counted her own lifespans like some tally on a chalkboard. And yet, something about his tone shifts a piece of her internal puzzle. It doesn't click into place, but it moves. 

"Different?" Her voice is tight and strained. 

Spots nod, patient and kind. "You've been granted nine lives too," he explains. "but yours aren't like ours. You're tied to this one new thread of existence. Once it's over, it's over. Right now, though, you're like us—just not in the same way."

Her mind becomes a whirlwind. Not a cat, but still granted these extra lives. Not immortal, but not genuinely mortal either. It's a paradox she can't parse. Suddenly, she finds herself on her hands and knees. Dizzy. As if all the oxygen has been sucked from the room. As the world continues above, reality warps below in this basement. Spots is telling her that cats have a cyclical existence; they die, they come back, and they carry on. And apparently, she's part of that cycle now, too, just not in the same way. It doesn't make sense, but then, it does.

The memories hit her like a shockwave, everything clicking into place faster than her mind can process.

A barrage of images bursts into her mind: the motorcycle crash. The intense impact. How her body struck the concrete wall. She remembers the paralyzing sensation that splintered through her back and shoulders. By all logic, she should still be broken and battered, scarred and aching. She should still feel the burns from where her body had scraped along the wall. The remnants of the crash should still be with her. But there's nothing.

Her head hurts, but the memories refuse to stop. They keep pushing forward.

The Wanderer fight.

The terror of it. 

The desperate moments when she had barely managed to escape with her life. The creature's blade had been so close. She can still feel the cool, sharp edge as it grazed her skin, whispering death against her skin. That moment had felt like the end, yet she also survived that. Heat rises in her chest. Her heart hammers faster and faster, and the meaning of Spots' words crystallizes.

"I should've died," she whispers, but it's more of a confession to herself than a statement to Spots. Her eyes sting with unshed tears. She wasn't supposed to survive at all. Yet here she is, talking to a cat who claims she has lives to spend like coins in an otherworldly economy. 

The world around her twists, the basement spinning into a surreal haze. She wants to dismiss it all as madness—a trick, a dream—but she can't ignore the logic. The evidence is too strong: she survived the impossible—more than once.

Spots watches her closely, his black-and-white tail curling and uncurling. He looks at her regretfully like he's passing down a heavy sentence.

"And yet," he says solemnly. "You didn't. Not really."

Her breath shudders. She can feel it now—the truth sinking into her bones. She tries to settle herself, but the pressure in her chest only intensifies as she comes to terms with the new rules of her existence.

"How many?" Her voice cracks like old paint, and her eyes are squeezed shut. "How many lives do I have left?"

Spots pauses, and she can sense his reluctance to add more to her burden. When he speaks again, it's with deliberate gentleness.

"Your reincarnation counts as one life lost," he says. "Your nine lives have been ticking down since you arrived."

She releases a sound—half-laugh, half-disbelieving gasp. Her mind scrambles over the math, forcing logic into the chaos. Two near-deaths already: the crash, the Wanderer's blade. And knowing that her reincarnation also counts. That leaves six lives.

Six.

There's that number again. 

But it's different from Spots. For him, six means he has already lived through six entire lifetimes and still has three new ones awaiting him. For her, six means something else altogether. Six attempts remain—not six new lives, but six more escapes from death before it all ends permanently.

The difference is like a chasm between them. Spots will cycle through life and death, reborn again and again until he's exhausted all nine chapters of his story. But she gets no new chapters, no fresh starts. Just a limited number of emergency exits. Once those are done, the story ends. Forever this time.

She staggers upright, pressing her hands to her forehead like it can physically hold her skull together. Six chances. Just six. The world spins. She looks around at the mundane clutter of the basement—boxes, shelves, a single overhead bulb. It's all distant. Unreal. Nothing about this moment makes sense, yet it's undeniably true.

She was never supposed to make it this far. She wasn't supposed to survive. Not the crash, not the fight, not anything. Not a single fucking thing. But here she is—still struggling to understand what's happening to her. 

"I want you to know that we'll always be here for you, and we asked you to come here because…"

Spots is still speaking, but [Name] can't hear him anymore. She sees his mouth move, but his words blend into a jumble of unintelligible noise. It's like static to her ears, overlapping with the frantic throb of her pulse. Her body and mind are in open revolt, refusing this new impossible truth. She can't process it. Can't make sense of it.

A sharp voice snaps the tension like a whip: "I thought I told you not to wander off."

She jerks around, her heart jolting as if struck by lightning. Kane is standing at the bottom of the stairs, framed by the glare of a naked overhead bulb. He looks taller, more severe, and each angled shadow on his face seems cut from stone. Their eyes meet and hold. He regards her with narrowed eyes, arms crossed over his chest. He looks her up and down, taking in the tension in her shoulders, the panic in her eyes, and the trembling in her limbs.

[Name] tries to collect herself, but it's hopeless. Her thoughts are scrambled, and she can barely keep her balance. Kane watches. Impassive. Or maybe he's angry, or worried, or something else entirely. His emotions are folded beneath layers of indifference she can't read.

"Is Pumpkin okay?" she blurts.

The question scrapes out of her throat. It's a desperate attempt to latch onto something familiar in a world gone wrong.

Kane's gaze shifts, and for a sliver of a second, the hard lines of his face mellow. He uncrosses his arms and scrubs a hand over his face like he's wiping away a stain.

"He's stable," he sighs. Then, quieter, "You wanna see him?"

It's a question loaded with quiet promise, and she seizes on it instantly. Numb, she only manages to nod. She needs to see Pumpkin. Needs proof that some constants still remain intact. That need propels her up the stairs behind Kane, through the corridor and main space. Her vision tunnels, focused solely on that one desire.

She’s so focused that she doesn't even notice Kane pushing Spots back into the basement and shutting the door behind them. Doesn't realize the other cats who once prowled the gym have vanished. Doesn’t even note how the overhead lights are dimmer now, the shadows leaning in. She presses on, mind fixed on Pumpkin and nothing else.

At last, they reach the office. Stale air, old leather, and dust motes swirl in weak lamplight. [Name] heads straight for the couch, expecting a warm bundle of orange fur. But it's empty. The cushions yield under her fingertips. Hollow. Cold. Vacant. Her stomach twists, nausea rising.

"Where's Pumpkin?"

The words splinter from her throat, sounding wrong like someone else spoke them. She whips around, expecting to find Kane behind her. Instead, he stands near the door with his hand tight on the knob. His eyes are soft now, but not with kindness; a subdued apology lurks there, and it's far more terrifying.

"Sorry," he murmurs.

A hollow thud of terror resonates through her body, and her eyes widen at the sudden realization. She rushes toward the door, but Kane is faster. As swiftly as a trap snapping shut, he slips out and slams the door. The lock engages with a loud click that reverberates in the enclosed space.

She's trapped. 

Panic flares, burning through her chest. She claws at the doorknob, pounding her fist against the solid wood. Every strike is more desperate than the last. "Open the door!" she shouts. Each word is edged with desperation, yet nothing but her ragged breath answers back.

Footsteps fade outside, and her plea dissolves into silence. The stillness thickens, and the office walls shrink with each passing second. She tries to remember Pumpkin's soft purr, Spots' gentle eyes, anything to steady herself, but the memories slip away, leaving only dread.

Pumpkin had warned her about Kane's elusive motives, yet she allowed herself to be led here, blinded by worry. She backs into the center of the room, heart hammering. The familiar smell of dust and old leather takes on a suffocating quality. The shadows in the corners swell, inky shapes lengthening, stretching, twisting into malevolent silhouettes. She's never felt so helpless, so cornered. 

The air grows cold—not the kind that creeps in through drafty windows— it's unnatural, sharp, biting. A shiver races down her spine, every nerve suddenly alert. She freezes, her breath coming in shallow, ragged puffs as the temperature drops further.

It’s too quiet now; the world is holding its breath. Her senses are sharpened, fear coiling hot through her veins. 

Then, she hears it. 

Footsteps.

They echo from somewhere behind her. Each thud is slow and intentional. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound reverberates in her chest, vibrating her ribs like a hammer striking steel. Her pulse quickens. The sensation of being watched wraps around her like a chokehold. She can feel eyes on her—unrelenting, hungry, and close.

Slowly, she turns. What was just another dark patch in a corner now draws breath. The darkness melts away, retreating from a more potent force, revealing a tall, imposing figure stepping into the meager light. The presence moves at its own pace. Each footfall is heavy, and every move is planned.

She staggers backward as goosebumps run across her skin. The figure solidifies, and recognition stabs her like a knife. She's seen him countless times in the game's art—some distant, fictional menace. But here, inches away, he's terrifyingly real. He dominates the room by simply existing in it.

His eyes bore into hers, glinting with predatory interest that runs her blood cold. There's no mercy, no pity, only a detached fascination. His presence pours over her like a noxious tide, and she's drowning in it.

It's him.

Sylus.

Her lungs seize. She can’t move, can’t think, pinned like prey beneath his gaze.

"Well, well," Sylus drawls, dripping with mocking silk. "If it isn't [Name], the infamous bike thief. Did you have a fun time?"

He doesn't pounce right away.

He takes his time, savoring her fear like it's fine wine. He prolongs the moment until her knees threaten to buckle, then he saunters across the room, indifferent, and leans one hip against the desk. The weak light outlines him in jagged silhouettes and accentuates every angle of his frame. Arms folded, he studies her, head tilted as if evaluating a rare specimen.

"I believe you have something of mine," he muses. It's a subtle threat, and he arches an eyebrow, daring her to deny it.

At first, [Name] is confused, and her mind grasps at straws. Then she remembers the brooch. Kane must have told him. That would make the most sense. When she showed it to Kane, desperate for some kind of understanding, she gave herself away. A sickening realization blossoms in her stomach: they know each other. They fucking know each other.

"Come here," Sylus commands. It's not a request, not a suggestion. It's a demand.

[Name] reacts on pure instinct and steps backward. Her heart leaps at the foolish hope that the door might open if she tried again. That some miracle would free her from this waking nightmare. But before her heel can meet the floor, something cold and electric seizes her waist.

She looks down and sees it: a swirling mist, black shot with crimson streaks, circles her body like a living, sentient ribbon of smoke. It constricts, an impossible sensation of burning ice that seizes her, forcing a ragged gasp from her throat.

"No, wait, I can expla—"

She never finishes. The mist yanks her forward, dragging her toward Sylus with merciless strength. She can't resist; her muscles refuse to obey, and panic mounts. Her feet scrape uselessly against the floor.

Sylus uncrosses his arms and closes the gap in one smooth stride. He catches her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting her face with mock gentleness. She flinches, but he doesn't relent. His touch is deceptively light, but it's easy to tell that he'd be just as content crushing her bones one by one.

"You look just like her," he murmurs like he's relieving a distant memory.

There's a softness there, but it's filled with ghosts and regret. She's close enough now to smell him—his cologne sharp and spicy, undercut by metallic notes of gunpowder. He leans in, and his breath warms her cheek, but the gesture is uncomfortable, a final 'kindness' offered before the blade falls.

His right eye ignites with crimson fire, ember torn from the pits of Hell. It intensifies with each gallop of her heart. The moment their eyes meet, the world convulses. The dingy office fades into pulsing shadows. She tries to hang onto something—her name, her past—but it all slips away. Everything bleeds together until reason and reality crumble into chaos.

The voices flare, low at first, then rising in a shrill chorus. It's [Name]'s voice, fractured and multiplied, thrown back at her in jagged echoes. They whisper the unspoken, the unspeakable—her secret cravings, her private shames, her forbidden yearnings. The kind of desires so knotted and confused that she can't even fully name them. They mock her, sneer at her, peel away every layer of denial until she's laid bare before him. 

She feels him sift through her psyche, plucking at these raw nerves. He's weaving truths from the knots of her soul, piecing together patterns to dangle before her. He understands more than he should, but he doesn't look happy. 

[Name] barely makes out the downturn of his lips in the shifting red haze. He's frowning.

Just when she can’t bear it any longer, Sylus lets go. The savage grip of the mist dissipates in an instant. She collapses forward, lungs stuttering as she gulps down stale air. A biting cold lingers in her chest, spreading like frost over her ribs. Her fingers shake, numb. A prickling burn remains where the mist touched her.

Her eyes burn, and as she blinks, wet streaks run down her cheeks and over her upper lip. She's crying. Heavy, messy sobs that leave trails of tears and snot. Her nose is running; mucus mixes with salt.

[Name]'s mind is raw, scoured clean of any willpower. Her voice is cracked, pitiful, as though forced through broken glass.

"Please," she manages, half-sobbing, half-gasping. "Just let me go."

Her eyelids droop, and her jaw slacks. She's utterly drained. Any trace of defiance has been carved from her. The stench of sweat and fear fills her nostrils. She can barely make Sylus out in the haze of her tears, but it doesn't matter—she knows he's still there, watching her crumble.

He hums a soft, cruel sound. “How very human,” he drawls. “For someone so desperate to survive, you don’t even know what you want.” 

Sylus crouches beside her, prying her mind open again without a single touch. “No glory. No revenge. No freedom,” he enumerates, as if sorting through dusty relics. Then, he clicks his tongue. “I thought I’d find something more, but there’s just emptiness.”

He stands, and she hears the rasp of a lock turning; the office door groans open. Another exhausting wave of dread settles, but she's too numb to cry out, too spent to flinch as Sylus' Evol drags her body across the floor. The rough surface scrapes her hands as she's hauled back into the main area of the gym. Her limbs are dead weight, offering no resistance. It's all just happening to her, another cruelty in a world that's grinding her down to nothing.

Somewhere in the distance, she hears Spots. He's yowling, claws scraping furiously at some barrier—maybe the basement door. His cries ring through the space, calling her name in ragged, desperate pleas. But all she can do is listen, tears smearing her vision as she's forced upright. 

She blinks slowly, eyes half-lidded, as her head lolls like a broken puppet. Two figures stand before her. They're both dressed in black with crow masks obscuring their faces. Luke and Kieran. She knows them, their roles and attitudes, but none of it matters. One converses with Sylus. The other rummages in a duffle bag. She can't muster the will to wonder what they're planning. She just wants it to be over.

Kane won’t look at her; she’s something shameful he can’t face. Under different circumstances, maybe that would matter. Perhaps she could've pleaded, reasoned with him. But now she's too numb—too hollowed out by fear and fatigue—to do anything but exist in this terrible moment.

The twin who was digging through the duffle bag finds what he's looking for. A black burlap hood. He approaches her, saying something cheerfully. Maybe it’s a quip, some mocking phrase he'd normally toss out in the game's scripted world, but she can't bring herself to care. Words are meaningless now. All she wants is comfort, escape, a miracle. She wants kindness and familiarity. She wants Pumpkin, warm and safe in her arms.

He turns her around, ties her wrists together, and then spins her again to face him. She's trembling, her head bowed, tears still leaking silently down her cheeks. The last thought that drags through her mind before the hood engulfs her vision is Pumpkin's soft fur; his body curled up safely beside her.

Then, as the black fabric closes the light, that small comfort disappears.

Chapter Text

Ch. Eight — The Mew-ment of Truth!

The familiar smell of cheap instant coffee, gun oil, and candy wrappers lingers throughout the barracks. It shouldn’t be pleasant, but here, it’s home.

The usual bustle has quieted to the occasional murmur of distant conversations. Now that dinner has passed, [Name] sits cross-legged on her cot, cocooned in her little corner of peace. Her phone’s screen is the only other light fighting against the overhead lamp’s amber hue. Laughter drifts in from another room as she angles her phone carefully, guarding her little secret from the world. 

Her thumb hovers as she reads the text on-screen, and her heart does that ridiculous little flutter she hates to admit. Sylus, with his piercing red eyes and razor-sharp smile, stares down at the heroine. Even pixelated, his intensity reaches right through the screen. 

She bites back a grin and chuckles. “You’re such a cliche,” she mutters, but her words have no heat. And despite her best efforts, her lips curl upward.

“Caught you,” a teasing voice slips into the cramped space.

[Name] startles, fumbling her phone and nearly dropping it. Her head snaps to see Kennedy lounging in the doorway with a smug grin. Her week-old braids hold their pattern, though a few baby hairs stray at the edges, and her uniform is rumpled from a day's wear.

“Doing what?” [Name] asks, locking her phone and stuffing it behind her thigh like it’s top-secret intel. 

“Being all dreamy-eyed over Sylus again,” Kennedy teases while entering the room. “Admit it. You’re in love.”

“Oh, shut up.” [Name] stretches her arms over her head in a weak attempt to appear nonchalant, but her eyes dart to the phone she’s just hidden. “Why are you even here?”

“Because I live here?” Kennedy flops onto the neighboring cot with theatrical flair. “And because it’s hilarious watching you pretend you don’t have a crush on a fictional dude. Sylus, huh? Real edgy pick.”

[Name] scowls as she chucks a nearby sock at Kennedy, who catches it one-handed.

“I get it, though,” Kennedy continues, tossing the sock into the hamper. “I mean, if you’re into brooding and terrifying. But you know Rafayel’s the best boy. He’s artsy and, like, totally hot.”

“Of course, you’d say that.” [Name] snorts, ignoring the small smile tugging at her lips. 

“Hey, don’t knock it. You were crying over his myth last week.”

“I wasn’t crying,” She crosses her arms. “There was dust.”

“Sure.” Kennedy’s grin widens. “So what’s Sylus got that Raf doesn’t? Is it the whole ‘dangerous bad boy’ thing? Or is it that smirk, like he knows you’re no match for him?”

“It’s not—” She glares at Kennedy. “It’s how he carries himself… Like he doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone. And how he talks, like he knows exactly what to say, like every word matters.” 

[Name]’s voice softens, and her eyes lower. “I guess I find it… kind of beautiful. But I’d never want to meet him in real life, so don’t start.”

Kennedy raises an eyebrow, but her playful smile softens. “Beautiful and terrifying? Sounds like your kind of trouble. Just don’t forget to breathe if he ever looks at you for real.”

“Oh please,” [Name] replies. “If Sylus were real, I’d avoid him like the plague.”

With both elbows, Kennedy props herself up. “Avoid him? Sureee. I bet he’d wrap you around his finger in no time.” 

Kennedy drops her voice into a mock-sultry purr. “You’re the only one who gets to see the real me, kitten.”

[Name] groans, grabs a pillow, and hurls it at Kennedy. Her friend gasps dramatically as the pillow smacks her shoulder. Laughter rings out as she tries to roll away from Kennedy, but her friend lunges forward, grabs the hem of her shirt, and pulls her back.

They push and shove each other in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Their voices bright and uncontainable. The sound rises and spills into every corner, filling the air like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. It’s a warmth so complete that it’s as though nothing outside these walls could ever reach them. 

In this instant, time slows to a crawl, and the grim reality of their lives melts away. The barracks, with its bare walls and harsh environment, transform into a kind of sanctuary where nothing changes and nothing ends.

Then, the heavy thud of boots interrupts them, and they scramble to sit up as Sergeant Wallace emerges in the doorway. His arms are crossed, and his eyebrows are arched; however, the twitch of his lips betrays his amusement. 

“Having fun?” he asks.

“No fun allowed, sir,” Kennedy deadpans as she gives [Name] one last shove.

The sergeant snorts, shaking his head. “Drop and give me twenty.”

They exchange a quick, cheeky glance, already in sync. Twenty push-ups wasn’t much—they knew it could’ve been worse. The tone made that clear. With matching grins, they drop to the floor not a second later. 

“Yes, sir!” They chorus.

The hard surface digs into [Name]’s palms as she pushes through the motions, but the effort barely matters. The barracks may be cramped and institutional, but in moments like this, it feels like the safest place in the world.

Kennedy leans closer as they count off, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, Sylus—you think he’d make you do push-ups or just say something broody and watch you squirm?”

[Name] falters mid-push-up, letting out a snort. “I hate you,” she says, yet her voice is all affection.

Their shared laughter fills the space again. Unrestrained and golden. It wraps around them in an unspoken promise: this moment will last forever. This is eternity. Nothing can ever shatter it, and the world outside doesn’t exist. Here, everything feels gentle, and kind, and safe, and warm, and—

She wakes up.

The laughter shatters like glass, its shards slicing through her memory. The universe snatches it away as if it were never real. Her fingers grasp what’s slipping away—Kennedy’s teasing grin, the feeling of belonging, the illusion of safety—but it all dissolves into the void.

A biting breeze seeps through the hood, and the smell of exhaust attacks her nostrils. She chokes into a violent cough. Her lungs burn, pulling in tainted air. Each inhale scrapes the back of her throat while the coarse hood grinds against her skin. 

She digs her nails into her palms as a desperate way to ground herself. But the memory slips further, a ghost fading beyond her reach. The present crowds in on her, clogging her mind with damp concrete, and distant honks. 

Reality threatens to choke her, but fragments of something kinder push through. A flicker of warmth—Kennedy’s laugh. A glimmer of hope—Pumpkin’s golden eyes. Her breath catches. Wait.

Pumpkin.

Spots.

The gym. 

Kane.

Sylus.

Sylus. Sylus. Sylus.

She breathes. 

The name pounds in her mind until it drowns out everything else. She flexes her wrists, testing the bindings that bite into her skin, leaving her hands tingling. Her shoulders throb, stiff from being pinned back so long. The cats—where are they?

Her eyes open, but only shadows greet her. She tilts her head. The world vibrates beneath her. It’s a rhythmic thrum that finally clicks into focus. A vehicle. She’s in a car. Each jolt sends a dull ache through her body. A gust of air slips through an open window, seeps into her hood, and bites her cheeks.

Are the cats okay? Are they safe? The questions gnaw at her, growing louder with each heartbeat. Did Spots make it out? Is Pumpkin alive?

She presses harder into her palms and closes her eyes again. Desperation compels her to hold the memory. But it’s gone now. It fades into a farewell from a friend lost forever.

A harsh nudge jolts her back into the present.

“Wakey, wakey,” chirps a voice. It’s light and sing-song—Luke, probably.

It’s hard to tell them apart behind the sleek black crow masks, but the tone fits. Although the hood reduces the world to vague shapes and muffled sounds, she knows it’s them. Sylus’ twin subordinates. Luke and Kieran. Their voices, their presence. It’s unmistakable.

“About time,” says the other—Kieran. His voice is similar in cadence but lacks the lilt. “Thought she was gonna drool all over herself.” 

Dramatic gagging follows, and she imagines him grinning behind the mask.

“Bet she was dreaming about joyriding again.”

“Ha, think she made it to the end, or did she crash and burn?”

“Definitely crashed.”

They laugh. Their jokes ring in her ears, but it’s not like Kennedy’s. Their voices carry no kindness, only a humor that skims the surface. While their words are casual, it cuts deeper than her restraints.

She flinches, but her muscles resist, her body slow and sluggish. A draft from the vehicle’s open window prickles her skin. Instinctively, her mind clings to the hope that Pumpkin is alive and Spots is safe. She imagines them searching for her, waiting for her. The thought calms her if only a little.

The car lurches to a halt, jerking her forward as the engine’s hum cuts off. Stillness caves in, broken only by the scrape of gravel underfoot as the doors open. A slam follows, then another. The vehicle rocks as someone leans against it.

“Let’s get her moving.” Kieran’s voice is closer now.

A hand seizes her arm. It’s not harsh, but it’s firm enough to leave no room for resistance. She’s yanked upright, and her legs buckle as they hit the ground. The uneven surface catches her boots, and she trips. But a quick tug balances her out.

“Easy there,” Luke chides with false concern. “Boss already lost his ride. Don’t make him lose his patience, too.”

Her stomach clenches, but she forces her legs forward, their hands clamped on her arms. The crunch of gravel fades into the sound of boots on metal grating. Soon, an assault of unfamiliar scents replaces the outside air: oil, industrial cleaner, and scorched circuits. 

A factory? No—a warehouse?

“Wonder if she gave it a name before trashing it,” Kieran says as they haul her forward. “People do that, don’t they?”

“Probably something like ‘Freedom,’” Luke snickers. “Real poetic, don’t you think?”

The exchange continues. It feels familiar yet lacks comfort. Their banter should have been endearing; it was in the game. Luke and Kieran’s bickering had felt lighthearted, a rare levity in a grim world. But this isn’t the game anymore. She isn’t Serenophe. They aren’t her friends. To them, she isn’t even a person. Just a task. A job. The charm is stripped away, and frigid indifference takes its place. And she knows what awaits her at the end of it.

“She’s quiet,” Luke observes with faux curiosity. “Think she’s nervous?”

“Of course she is,” Kieran snorts. “You don’t get dragged to meet boss-man and feel warm and fuzzy inside.”

Despite having met Sylus before, a shiver runs down her spine as her mind swirls with grim possibilities. This is it—her first actual, unavoidable interaction with him. The one she had dreaded, hoped to delay, or at least face under better circumstances.

As they step inside, the soundscape shifts around her. The clang of metal transitions to polished concrete. The air is a biting chill that seeps through her clothes, and a low hum reverberates somewhere above. That’s when it clicks into place. 

I’m at the Odd Workshop.

The fractured details align perfectly in her mind. This is the same facility where Wanderers are researched, and Protocores are exploited. A once-abandoned robotics company has now been repurposed into a workshop under Sylus’ control.

“Hey,” Kieran continues. “Think Boss’ll want us to replace the bike with the same model?”

Luke laughs. “Same model? Nah. He’ll want custom upgrades. Boss doesn’t settle for repeats.”

The ding of an elevator interrupts their conversation. [Name]’s boots scuff against the concrete as they guide her inside. A whoosh of air seals the doors shut, and the elevator ascents.

“Cost us a detour, though,” Kieran mutters. “Philip’s gonna love that.”

The elevator climbs steadily, with each passing floor pulling her further away from anything resembling safety. 

Philip. She knows that name. He’s the shopkeeper of the Odd Workshop. The ‘mad scientist’ that the heroine meets in the Long-awaited Revelry chapters. Her throat tightens as panic claws at her chest. Without thinking, she flexes her bound wrists, but the restraints hold fast as they dig into her skin. 

Luke’s hand tightens on her arm. “Don’t bother.” He leans toward her. “You’re not getting out of this one.”

Her chest constricts. The dream-like memory of the barracks is a cruel joke now. She can almost sense Sylus ahead, his presence looming like a storm on the horizon. The thought alone makes her heart clench. His invasion of her mind has left her brittle. That hollow ache in her psyche gnaws at her resolve, threatening to pull her under once more.

“Let’s hope she enjoyed the ride,” Kieran adds. “It’s the last one she’ll take for a while.”

The elevator slows to a halt. Her bindings shift against her wrists, followed by a cold sensation between her hands. With a sharp snap, the restraints break free. The hood is yanked off. She blinks rapidly as her eyes struggle to adjust. Gradually, blurred shapes sharpen into the sleek, reinforced elevator doors ahead of her.

Cool air rushes in as the doors slide open, carrying more pungent oil notes and scorched metal. Their hands fall away, and her pulse spikes as Luke and Kieran shove her forward. She stumbles into the open space with her boots scuffing against polished concrete.

“Have fun,” the twins say in unison. 

They wave cheerfully as the elevator doors close behind her, sealing her in the expansive workshop. 

Her shoulders tighten as she looks up at the circular glass dome, where the crimson moon casts its eerie light against the fluorescent lamps. A mezzanine overlooks the floor where she stands. The workshop combines abandoned robotics with modern research. Tools scatter across workbenches, and the low hum of consoles drifts through the air as she surveys the room.

“There you are.” 

She whips her head around, and her gaze lands on him. 

Sylus sits casually at a small work table. One leg is crossed over the other, and his cheek rests on the back of his hand. His crimson eyes shine with that unsettling amusement she knows too well. 

Next to Sylus stands Philip. His posture is rigid compared to Sylus’ languid confidence. The older man’s greying hair is tucked under a light blue cap, and his work apron is dotted with oil and soot smudges. Despite his folded hands, tension radiates from him.

Sylus watches her with the certainty of a spider in its web. “It seems Luke and Kieran have been treating you well.”

His crude mockery hits her like a clock spring, each tick adding more strain. Before she can respond, she feels it. The familiar pull of his Evol.

"No, please," she stammers. Panic seeps into her voice as her feet unwillingly slide forward. “Don’t—please don’t—”

Her body jerks closer, the black-red tendrils dragging her toward him. The sensation of being yanked like a puppet on strings sends her heart into overdrive.

Sylus chuckles as he watches her struggle. “You’re as entertaining as ever,” he says, his smirk widening.

Her chest strains like a bowstring pulled too tight. But a familiar voice surfaces and reminds her to breathe. She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath. Her lungs hitch as she forces the air out through her nose. Her heart still races, but its rhythm begins to slow. Just a little. 

Before Sylus can pull her closer, and despite the tension in the room, Philip clears his throat. 

“Mr. Sylus,” he says, “if I may remind you, we brought her here for a reason.” 

Philip’s eyes shift to [Name] before returning to Sylus. “Testing her Evol levels takes priority, doesn’t it?”

Sylus fixes Philip with a sharp look, and the following silence is taut with unspoken authority. Then, with a sigh, he releases his power. The mist evaporates, and she staggers, her body gradually regaining control. The same biting cold greets her like it did back in the gym. 

“This way.” Philip gestures for her to follow. “We won’t waste any more time.”

[Name] wavers, but Philip’s firm look offers a sliver of reassurance. Reluctantly, she follows him. Close behind, Sylus stands from his seat and trails after the two. Philip leads her to a sleek, black cryo-chair set aside. Blue accents trace its edges, and integrated control panels sit on the armrests. 

“Sit,” Philip instructs. 

Cautiously, she lowers herself into the chair. The leather is cool against her skin, and a buzz emanates from the base as she settles down. Philip motions toward the cuff on the chair's right side, prompting her to slide her hand through. She hesitates.

“Relax,” Philip says, adjusting the nearby console. A holographic display springs to life. “The cuff is going to scan your vitals and Evol levels. It’ll take only a moment.”

Evol levels.

She glances down at the cuff before sliding her hand into place. A red holographic progress bar pulses along the cuff’s edge, each beep jarring her nerves. Do I even have an Evol?

Sylus strides closer and crosses his arms. His presence hovers just above her, making the room feel smaller. “Let’s see if there’s more to you than what I’ve found,” he remarks.

The seconds stretch endlessly as [Name]’s free hand grips the armrest. The glide of Philip's fingers across the console draws her attention, and she notices the deepening lines of his frown.

Sylus’ patience runs thin. “What’s taking so long?” he presses.

Finally, a definitive beep signals the scan’s completion. Yet Philip says nothing, his eyes locked onto the display. After a tense pause, he glances at [Name], his jaw tightening.

“What is it?” Sylus demands, stepping closer until the distance between them is almost nonexistent. “Out with it.”

Philip straightens. “Mr. Sylus,” he begins carefully, “it seems she doesn’t have an Evol.”

[Name] stiffens. She’d guessed as much, but some sliver of hope had whispered she might be wrong. Hearing it confirmed now is like the final nail in her coffin, especially in front of Sylus. But without an Evol, what is she? What about her nine lives? Her bond with the cats? Where do her abilities come from if she doesn’t fit within the world’s rules? The questions churn, and her free hand grips the armrest harder.

Contempt flickers across Sylus’ face, hardening his features. “No Evol? Then why the delay?” He gestures toward the cuff. “Explain.”

Philip adjusts the display, frowning. “Her vitals are unusual, and that’s what’s causing the irregularities.”

He taps a few keys and pulls up more data. “Her heart rate and respiratory patterns are inconsistent with a typical human profile.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

Philip hesitates before responding.

“Her vitals align more closely with those of a feline. Heightened sensory processing, like enhanced auditory and visual acuity. Even her resting heart rate mirrors that of a large domestic cat.” He glances at [Name], and she’s instantly reminded of how Zayne looked at her back at the hospital.

“It’s medically possible,” Philip says, “but certainly not normal.”

Her mind whirls. Feline vitals. Heightened senses. 

She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, thoughts snapping back to Zayne. He only mentioned head trauma—but why that and not her feline vitals? And what about the bullet wound, the one that ended her life? Had she already healed by the time she was brought in? He didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. But then again, who could have helped her? Where had she been before the hospital?

Philip’s voice pulls her back. “It could be genetic,” he says, glancing cautiously at Sylus. “A mutation, or… something else.”

A low hum escapes Sylus’ lips as he plants his hands firmly on either side of the cryo-chair. He leans forward, the leather creaking under the pressure, his face mere inches from hers.

“Something else, indeed,” he murmurs.

His locks eyes with her, silently daring her to look away. The air between them feels too thin, and her throat tightens. She presses back against the chair, trying to put any distance between them. Her wrist jerks reflexively against the cuff.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” she blurts, too fast and defensive. “I don’t even know why this is happening.”

Sylus’ lips curl upward, but he doesn’t pull back. His gaze drags over her like a blade grazing its target.

Before Sylus can respond, Philip shifts his stance, drawing the attention back to himself. “If her vitals have changed this way, it could explain some anomalies,” he says calmly. “Enhanced reflexes, increased awareness in stressful situations… it matches what I’m seeing here.”

Philip pauses, and his frown returns. “But no Evol signature. Not even a trace.”

Sylus leans away, tapping a finger lightly on the armrest near her free hand. “A girl with cat-like reflexes and no Evol,” he muses, amusement plastered across his face. “Perhaps I misjudged you.”

Straightening, Sylus waves Philip away with a flick of his hand. “Leave us,” he says.

Philip hesitates, blinking in confusion. “Mr. Sylus, with all due respect—”

“Don’t,” Sylus interrupts, yet his focus never strays from [Name]. “Your work is done. Go.”

Philip’s lips press into a thin line. His eyes move to [Name], a trace of concern crossing his face. He looks ready to argue but thinks better of it. He steps back and walks out of the room without another word. The metallic hiss of the door sliding shut breaks the silence, straining the room with unspoken apprehension.

[Name] barely has time to slip her hand from the cuff before the mist strikes. Black-red tendrils lash out like living ribbons, spiraling around her with unnatural speed. They yank her upright, dragging her from the chair, her feet leaving the ground as the tendrils wrap around her chest and limbs. The burning cold seeps into her skin, harsher than ever imagined. It burrows deep, like the mist is ripping through her very being, freezing her from the inside out.

Sylus moves to the center of the room and pulls her forward without effort. His power responds to his every movement, tightening and twisting cruelly. His eyes burn red as he forces her to face him. 

“You have one minute,” he says lowly. “Explain yourself.”

Pain flares in her ribs as the mist constricts, coiling around her body like a serpent squeezing its prey. Her lungs feel locked, but she forces herself to breathe. Her arms shake at her sides, muscles refusing to comply as her mind spirals to find something solid. The cats. Pumpkin. Spots. She clings to their memory as though it’s the only thing keeping her together.

Her lips part, but no sound escapes. The truth clogs her throat and refuses to take shape. The mist tightens further, each second pulling her deeper into the void. Her pulse, a pounding rhythm in her skull, is the only thing she can hear.

“Fifty seconds.” His tone is bored, but the menace beneath it saturates the air.

The mist writhes against her chest, crawling past her shoulders and toward her throat. Every inhale comes with resistance. She feels the cold eating her alive from the inside. Her limbs grow weaker, heavier, and the memory of Sylus’ power invading her mind—tearing through her like pages ripped from a book—resurfaces with brutal clarity. It wasn’t just the pain of his control; it was the total loss of hers.

Sylus’ eyes burn with intensity. “Forty seconds,” he says, the words wrapping around her like a threat.

A small whimper escapes her lips, her chest heaving with each shallow breath. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to steady herself, but her body shakes violently. Chaos swarms in her thoughts: flashes of the game, the barracks, Kennedy’s teasing... all of it dissolves into the freezing reality of now.

Syluse exhales through his nose. “This isn’t complicated, sweetheart,” he says. “Tell me the truth, or I’ll end this here. Your choice.”

The tendrils constrict again, this time around her throat, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her ribs protest, and the ache spreads from her chest like her bones are cracking under the pressure. Panic surges and her breath comes in short, ragged bursts as her vision dims. The cold reaches deeper, freezing her muscles in place. She can barely move, her body too weak to do anything but endure.

“I…” Her voice cracks as she forces the words out, each a struggle. “I don’t belong here.”

Sylus’ eyes harden, and a subtle change in his features reveals cold satisfaction. He doesn’t speak, only snaps his fingers.

The tendrils tighten around her neck and arms, intensifying the searing cold as they squeeze her lungs. The pressure swells, each second longer than the previous. Her limbs feel like stone, and her chest feels like an overinflated balloon. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be real,” she chokes out, the words scraping her throat raw. “This world, you… none of it was supposed to exist.”

The mist tightens like a noose around her throat. The cold slithers through her veins, and her lungs burn with the desperate need for air. Sylus watches her like an insect pinned under glass. 

“Thirty.” The word a final verdict.

Her chest aches. Her breath comes in shallow gasps. Her voice trembles as she speaks. “You’re part of a game,” she blurts, lifting her head just enough to get the words out. “A mobile game. Love and Deepspace. I—I played it in my past life.”

The mist surges again, flooding her body with freezing cold. The pressure wraps around her, twisting and squeezing until it feels like everything inside her is about to snap.

“A game,” he repeats, far too calm. “Is that what you think this is?”

She shakes her head frantically. “No. It’s real now—I know it’s real. But it wasn’t before. I don’t know how it happened, but I woke up here.”

He steps closer, and murmurs, “How convenient. Tell me, if this is a ‘game,’ what does that make me? A character?”

She doesn’t know how it’s possible, but the searing cold plunges deeper into her body. It twists through her like a living current, winding tighter around her ribs and creeping toward her heart.

“I know how insane this sounds,” she forces out, her voice shaking as it rises. “But it’s the truth. I played this game. I know you. I know Serenophe. I know the Wanderers. The Evols. Everything.”

The mist coils tighter, each tendril digging into her like barbed wire. She feels it reach her heart, wrapping and squeezing until her body is on the verge of collapse. Every inhale tears through her, and as the mist locks her heart in place, she feels her remaining lives teeter on being snuffed out. Her vision blurs, her thoughts splintering. She can’t breathe. She can’t—

“And I can prove it!” she cries out, the words torn from her throat in a final, desperate plea.

The mist stops.

The freezing grip vanishes, unraveling into the air like smoke blown away by a passing breeze. [Name]'s body drops like a ragdoll, her palms scraping against the concrete as she collapses. She gasps for air as her chest reels from the strain. For a moment, she stays there, her body trembling, the cold still gnawing at her insides even though the mist has lifted. Her limbs feel drained of all strength, and the chill in her veins remains.

He approaches slowly, each step resonating in sterile silence. He stops short, pocketing his thumbs as his eyes sweep over her collapsed form like a hunter appraising their perfectly landed shot.

“Prove it,” he says, calm yet brimming with authority. “If you’re going to spin such a tale, let’s see where it takes us.”

Her fingers press into the floor, clutching the cold surface as she fights to ground herself. The sharp sting of her scraped palms registers as the numbness in her limbs gradually recede. She draws in a long breath, and the burn in her chest begins to lift. Her arms tremble, and her muscles quiver as she regains strength.

“I just need a moment,” she says, hoping to buy some time. “To remember.”

She presses up onto her knees, then unsteady feet. Her shoulders ache, and her ribs protest, but she forces herself upward. Her eyes drift toward the glass dome above, then to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The N109 Zone sprawls beyond, its skyline broken and shadowed. Neon lights dot the dusk like scattered embers. The city’s perpetual darkness leaves the sky useless for telling time. 

“A moment,” he says dryly. “How generous of me.”

Sylus crosses to a desk and settles into a swivel chair. He reclines, his posture easy, but his eyes stay on her, tracking every move. There’s no curiosity in his stare, only cold calculation. 

Ignoring his sarcasm, she squeezes her eyes shut and waits for the vertigo to pass. Slowly, her balance returns, and she straightens. The ache in her chest persists, but she rolls her shoulders and ignores it. 

“Fine,” she says, lifting her chin. “You want proof? I’ll show you.”

"Now, if you can manage it," he responds, adjusting his collar chain.

She grits her teeth, drawing in more strength with each inhale. That’s when her attention catches on his clothes: tailored trousers and a dark button-up. Realization strikes—it’s still the same day. He’s wearing the outfit from earlier. Relief settles, but it’s quickly tempered by uncertainty. 

She still doesn’t know how much time has passed. 

Her thoughts turn over. The game. What happens after Serenophe’s first day as a hunter? She claws through fragmented memories clouded by exhaustion and fear, the answer just out of reach.

Then, like a thread tugging at the chaos, it clicks. Azure Square. Serenophe and Tara, grabbing snacks from a vendor. The dialogue surfaces in her mind: words shared beneath the square’s glowing lights, friendly banter floating into the waning sky. The Hunters Association is near Azure Square. Even if time had passed, Serenophe wouldn’t have gone far from that area.

"Mephisto,” she blurts. “Your crow. You can pull up the live surveillance feed from it, right?” 

She can’t help but notice the twitch of his brow at her brashness.

“Live surveillance?” he repeats, drawing out the words. “And why, pray tell, would I do that?” 

She bites the inside of her cheek and stretches out her warming fingers. It's a guess. A risky one. If she’s wrong, Sylus won’t need to say anything; the consequences will speak for themselves. Regardless, she straightens further and pushes the fear aside.

“Because I know where Serenophe is,” she says, gathering momentum. “She’s in Azure Square with another Hunter, Tara, eating snacks.”

Sylus shifts his body and rests his ankle on the opposite knee. He studies her like a scientist considering an experiment. His fingers drum once on the armrest of his chair before he turns to the computer beside him. Without a word, his hands glide over the keyboard, and the screen flickers with a holographic projection.

The room seems to hold its breath as Mephisto activates its feed.

Surveillance footage springs to life, revealing a panoramic view of Azure Square. Evening light drenches the city in yellow, lavender-pink, and blue hues. From this vantage point, she can tell that Mephisto is perched upon one of the bustling plaza's many trees. Mini-drones dart through the skyline like fireflies, their whirs and beeps layering the captured ambiance of the feed. Sylus adjusts the display, zooming in until the camera centers on two figures.

She steps forward, holding her breath as the image sharpens. There they are—Serenophe and Tara, walking side-by-side with crepes in hand. 

The sound crackles before Serenophe’s voice rings clear. “So you admire Captain Jenna because she saved you? Is that right?”

[Name] inhales sharply. The tension in her body melts into relief. Though she doesn’t smile, her shoulders loosen, her fingers uncurl, and her lips part as if to breathe in the reality of success.

Sylus notices.

His fingers still mid-keystroke, and his head angles just enough to show the curve of his lips. But it’s not the usual predatory smirk; this one is more subdued. Sylus doesn’t speak, his attention briefly moving toward her before returning to the screen. He swivels the chairs, casually twirling a pen between his fingers. His relaxed posture suggests he’s enjoying the show as much as the feed.

On the holographic display, Mephisto trails Serenophe and Tara as they walk, their voices continuing to fill the room.

Clearing her throat, [Name] begins to speak, “Tara is telling Serenophe a story from her past—about Captain Jenna fighting a Wanderer. She’ll say it disappeared into thin air.”

On the hologram, Tara takes a big bite into her crepe. Between breaths, she animatedly echoes [Name]’s prediction. “…And just like that, the Wanderer was gone! Poof! Disappeared into thin air!”

Sylus taps the pen against the armrest, greeting her ears like an impatient drumbeat. “How intriguing,” he murmurs, the words more of a probe than a response.

A small, relieved smile touches [Name]’s lips. She turns to face Sylus, but his attention isn’t on the projection. It’s on her. Her smile fades, and she quickly looks away, pulling at the sleeve of her hoodie. Her voice slows as she picks up where she left off.

“After that, Tara will tell Serenophe how Captain escorted her to safety and said…” She pauses, keeping her eyes averted, and delivers the line in perfect sync with the feed.

“‘You’re safe now. Go home.’”

The pen taps again, this time with longer pauses as if he’s considering each word. Sylus’ eyes pass between the hologram and [Name], a trace of enjoyment in his gaze.

“Next, she’ll mention max-level security,” [Name] continues, adjusting the collar of her hoodie like it’s suddenly too warm. “And then, she’ll get serious. She’ll talk about becoming a hunter to follow in Captain Jenna’s footsteps.”

Tara’s voice lifts, brimming with excitement as her feet drum against the ground. “Aaaah! That’s what we call the max level of security!” 

Turning to Serenophe, Tara finishes her crepe. Despite the crumples around her lips, her face grows serious. “So, yes, as you can see, I became a hunter to follow in Captain Jenna’s footsteps. I want to be as badass as she is—to be her equal and fight alongside her.”

Sylus laces his fingers together, balancing the pen between thumb and forefinger, with his elbows resting on the armrests. His posture remains composed, but a challenge holds in his focus that dares her to misstep.

But she doesn’t. She already knows what’s coming next. Her voice steadies, and she speaks perfectly with Serenophe, whose voice cuts through the feed a second later.

“‘One day, you’ll be able to achieve your dream.’”

The synchronization is flawless. Perfect, even. It should be enough to convince him, yet something’s wrong. While her words match Serenophe’s exactly, everything else is different—the cadence, the rhythm, the lift. Serenophe’s voice is an effortless charm, but [Name]’s voice is a melody out-of-tune. 

Sylus turns to her with newfound intensity.

That’s when she realizes how strange this must be for him. She steals a glance in his direction as curiosity creeps in. She tries to read him, searching for any sign. Perhaps disdain, curiosity, or even amusement. What she finds instead makes her heart skip a beat.

Sadness.

It’s short and unguarded, pulled from somewhere distant. His face is softened as various emotions pass through his eyes. Then it’s gone, replaced by the calm exterior she’s come to expect. But now, she feels the gap between herself and the holographic ideal of Serenophe widening. She wonders if he feels it, too.

Sylus adjusts his posture, tilting his head. His stare narrows as though unraveling a riddle.

“Quite the paradox,” he murmurs, a subtle twitch of his jaw betraying hidden sentiments.

For a moment, it feels as though that’s all there is between them. But then the feed continues, and the moment dissolves. Her attention snaps back to the hologram, where the lighthearted conversation between Serenophe and Tara has shifted into something more contemplative.

“Y’know, Captain Jenna said our mission today was a success,” Serenophe begins as they stand from the bench. “But something still feels off.”

Tara crumples her crepe wrapper, then tosses it into a nearby bin. “You mean those Protocores left at the site?”

Serenophe nods as she brushes crumbs off her lap. Then, she throws her wrapper into the same bin. “Not just that. Did you notice the other stuff left behind? There was a backpack, and…”

Her fingers curl as her facial features grow thoughtful. “I don’t know. I just can’t shake this feeling that something doesn’t add up.”

Tara stretches her arms over her head as they walk away. “You’re the investigative type, huh?” She teases with a chuckle. “Bet you can’t leave a mystery unsolved.”

Serenophe adjusts her uniform, glancing away with a shy smile. “Maybe,” she admits.

The feed cuts out, and the projection vanishes. 

[Name] blinks, fighting to keep her face neutral while her mind races. It’s happening again. That wasn’t part of the game’s original script. The mention of the Protocores and the backpack all point to her. She squints her eyes, replaying the fight from earlier: the Wanderer, the dropped Protocore, her remaining lives. She’d been so focused on Pumpkin, that she forgot to grab her backpack.

Sylus leans forward in his chair, straightening his back. His eyes lock onto hers, unblinking, and his attention fills the space between them. Like a predator circling its prey, [Name] can feel the force of his scrutiny. He’s noticed her reaction.

“Fascinating,” he says, neither a compliment nor dismissive. The words settle in the room like a stone sinking into still water. “I suppose you’ve made your case.”

The sound of the elevator makes her flinch. It’s only then she realizes Luke and Kieran are standing just out of her peripheral vision. She hadn’t noticed their shadows pooling behind her until now. It’s as though they had materialized from the dark, their crow masks catching the red moonlight.

Sylus doesn’t acknowledge their arrival right away. His attention stays on [Name], the corners of his mouth twitching. Slowly, he turns his head, speaking without glancing at the twins.

“Keep her under watch,” he drawls, tilting his head as though pondering something amusing. “A storyteller like her deserves a little time to untangle the truth, or at least weave a better lie.” 

The twins give a mock salute. “Sure thing, boss,” they say in unison, stepping forward as one.

[Name] instinctively steps back, her eyes darting between them. Unease crawls up her spine as the space around her tightens. Their presence stretches across the room, pushing her back against the wall. Hanging tools crash to the floor, their clatter amplifying her discomfort.

Luke’s hand brushes against her arm, and she flinches away. The brief contact is an electric shock through her nerves. It’s too much. Everything is too much. 

“Wait!” she blurts out, the words leaving before the fear can choke them down. 

The twins pause mid-move, waiting for her to do something.

Her hands shoot up in a reflexive plea. “Please,” she says. “Just let me go.”

They exchange a look.

Their masks tilt as they silently ask one another if they’re dealing with a serious request. Then, without speaking, they move for her arms once more. Each one grabs her under the shoulders. But before they can drag her away, a deep hum from Sylus’ throat halts them. The sound is almost a laugh, subtle yet dark.

Sylus uncrosses his legs, flicking his wrist to toss the pen aside. The chair groans as he rises, and the twins release her arms, stepping aside to make way for him. He closes the distance between them with slow strides.

When Sylus reaches her, [Name] remains frozen, her body still pressed against the wall. She feels the weight of his stare pinning her down. He pockets his thumbs.

“Why should I?” he challenges. “You seem to know more than you should, and yet, you want me to just... let you go?”

[Name]’s shoulders tense. The words are there, but they’re hard to form. Still, she pushes through and manages, “I’m not a threat to you.”

Despite the quiver in her limbs, she stands taller. “I won’t get in your way. I’ll leave the N109 Zone and won’t return to Linkon City. I’ll even move fuckin’ countries! Just please—let me go.”

Sylus’ lips twist into less of a smile. It takes on an unsettling, predatory nature that chills her spine. While his posture conveys interest, it’s clear he’s not yet convinced.

“Move countries?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Do you even have a passport? Connections? And how would you afford it? A sudden inheritance, perhaps?”

He produces a brooch from his pocket; the gem catches in the moonlight. Its sparkles mock her effort to escape. “Or were you planning to sell this?”

[Name] looks down, instinctively patting her pockets, even though she knows they’re empty.

Of course, he took it.

However, she can’t remember when he could have done it. Did he lift it during their first encounter? Or had she been too distracted just moments prior? Well, the how doesn’t matter now. Only that it’s gone.

She bites back a frown, steeling herself as she lifts her chin. “I’ll figure it out,” she says, the words spilling out faster than she intended. They sound more like a plea than a plan. Still, she holds his gaze, her stance firm. 

Sylus chuckles, rolling the brooch between his fingers as his thoughts turn over, weighing whether to end the game or let it play out longer. He hums thoughtfully, steps back, and flips the brooch behind his hand, making it disappear without a trace. In that instant, his decision is made.

“Fine. You’re free to leave.”

She blinks several times in a row. “What?”

Sylus leans back against a workbench; arms crossed over his chest.

“Your freedom has been granted,” he says. “If that’s what you want.”

Her surprise is evident. She doesn’t even try to mask the confusion plastered across her face, even as adrenaline still pulses through her veins. She opens her mouth but finds no words to speak. Her body reacts first, her feet inching toward the elevator doors. Yet, even then, her legs don’t trust this new reality.

She glances back at him. “You’re not messing with me, right?”

He smirks, shaking his head. “No, I’m not messing with you.”

“You’re really going to let me walk out?”

“I am.” 

“And if I leave, you won’t come after me?”

“Would you like me to?”

[Name] doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or amazed. She backs away until the elevator is directly in front of her. With numb hands, she reaches for the panel. The cold metal button sends a shiver through her fingertip as she presses it. She expects nothing to happen, but the doors open immediately.

Yet she doesn’t enter.

The elevator cabin stands before her like an ominous mouth waiting to swallow her whole. She looks behind, eyes drifting over the twins before settling on Sylus. He hasn’t moved.

“The elevator’s waiting for you, sweetheart,” he says, gesturing toward the cabin.

[Name] turns back around, and with a deep inhale through her nose, she takes a leap of faith and steps inside. She presses the button for the ground floor. 

“Good luck,” Sylus says, the words heavier than his light tone suggests. 

With that, the doors shut, severing her from Sylus’ piercing glare. The elevator lurches into motion, and she stumbles back until her shoulders hit the wall. Instantly, her hands fly to her chest. Her heart pounds so loud that it drowns out the chime marking the descent. She stares at the digital floor indicator, her foot bouncing in time with its count.

When the elevator finally stops, she bolts. The corridor blurs past as she races out and bursts into the streets of the N109 Zone.

The outside air hits her like a slap. Tobacco and motor oil. Erratic neon lights pulse over abandoned buildings, and shadows dart from her peripheral vision. Hooded figures loiter in the half-light of shopfronts, doorways, and alleys. Despite no spoken words, their stares are enough.

Her steps falter. She slows, then stops entirely. A sinking feeling settles as the alleys twist and bend in unfamiliar directions, with each turn leading to a dead end. She glances up and down the street, pulling her arms around herself. 

Her body feels sore, not from exertion but from realizing she’s completely lost. In every sense of the word. She turns behind her, but the workshop isn’t there anymore. She frowns. This isn’t just about not knowing where she is. It’s about feeling small in a place that doesn’t care if she’s there or not.

“Oh, c’mon,” she mutters, trying to shake off the growing panic. “This can’t be happening.” 

Her voice is below a whisper, swallowed by the emptiness around her. Her frown deepens as she chooses a path at random and slowly continues forward. But it’s not really a choice. It’s just the only option left. 

She walks, but it feels like she’s spinning in circles. She tries to piece together a plan, but there’s nothing. No safety. No direction. The further she goes, the less real everything gets.

As frustration builds, she slips into a narrow side street in hopes of breaking the monotony. Nothing but the eerie crawl of the alley greets her as the noise of the main road fades behind. She presses her back against a grimy wall, hoping to disappear, even if it’s just for a second. But the city doesn’t let anyone disappear unnoticed. 

A wiry figure rushes past, too fast to catch more than a glimpse. She doesn’t react at first. Just another stranger, probably. But then, there’s a tug at her pocket. Instincts kick in as she whirls around, her hands flying to her pockets. While she had nothing to steal in the first place, it doesn’t matter. The violation burns through her body as frustration spills over. 

“Hey!” She pushes off the wall and moves for the pocket-picker.

The figure doesn’t stop. 

They weave through the maze of alleys like water in a free-flowing river. [Name] tries to follow, but the shadows warp her vision. She rounds the corner, hoping to find the pocket-picker, but comes face-to-face with a gang instead. Five, maybe six members, dressed in patched canvas jackets and industrial helmets that glint like insect eyes.

The pocket-picker is long gone; however, the gang remains.

“What do we have here?” one of them drawls, and [Name] quickly realizes the distorted voice is coming through a gimmicky modulator. The sound warbles with static as they step closer.

She raises her hands. “I’m just passing through.”

“Passing through,” the one she believes is the leader says. Their helmet tilts, and she can see her reflection on its glossy surface. “Funny. No one passes through here.”

The gang fans out. One taps a dented baton against the wall. It clangs dully in the narrow space. Another tightens a leather glove, and the creak catches her ears. The leader steps closer with their modded jackknife sparking in the night sky.

Her mind scrambles for a way out. She cautiously steps back, but the circle tightens. The odds are overwhelming. She’s unarmed, outnumbered, and entirely at their mercy. 

At least I’ll still have five lives left, she thinks, preparing for the worst.

But as quickly as the thought appeared, it’s drowned by a high-pitched whistle. The gang freezes, heads snapping to the sound in perfect unison. Their bodies lock in place, motionless. The leader curses, voice distorted through the modulator, and stows away his jackknife. After a long moment, he gestures for the others to step back.

“Consider yourself lucky,” the leader mutters. “You won’t be next time.”

The gang dissipates into the shadows, their departure as quiet and swift as their arrival. Only the faint gleam of their helmets disappears last.

Still rooted to the spot, [Name] tries to process what just happened. Her eyes drift to the direction of the whistle, straining her ears for another sound. But the city remains a mystery, offering nothing but the crack of neon, the distant growl of engines, and the occasional bark of a stray dog.

She tugs on her hoodie and decides it’s best not to know.

With no clear direction, she begins to walk again, one step in front of the other, pressing forward. But the city presses back, a thousand unseen eyes on her every move. Steam hisses from a nearby vent, curling into the air like ghostly tendrils. High above, silhouettes flit across skeletal buildings, their forms lost in the darkness.

As she passes another alley, the sudden burst of light ahead catches her attention. Sparks rain down, followed by a deafening crack. An explosion rocks the streets. Instinct takes over. She ducks into an alcove just as a hover-truck skids into view, its frame riddled with bullet holes. Two figures cling to the sides, firing into the shadows, barking orders.

The truck roars past, tires screeching, veering into a side alley. The stench of burning metal fills the air as it fades into the distance. [Name] straightens slowly, eyes darting side to side, then steps back into the open. The streets have grown darker, with neon struggling against the endless gloom. 

The city doesn’t stop. It’s chasing her, biting at her heels with every step taken. The dangers of the N109 Zone don’t just lurk in the shadows—they’re woven into its very bones.

Her boots splash through shallow puddles, their fractured reflections rippling. She doesn’t even realize her fists are clenched until the sting in her palms pulls her back. A bitter thought worms into her mind: Why did I even ask to be let go? What was I thinking?

She bites the inside of her cheek as regret burrows deeper. The memory of Sylus’ smirk rises. That maddeningly smug, all-knowing look. He knew. That’s why he let her leave so easily—because he knew she wouldn’t last. 

And he was right. [Name] had walked into this alone. No Pumpkin, no Spots, no Xavier. Just her. What was she even hoping for? Freedom? Why had she thought she could escape?

The word echoes in her mind, but she clenches her fists tighter, welcoming the burn. No. Not Yet. You can still get out of this.

She lifts her chin and forces a step forward. Then another. She keeps walking even as her body protests with each stride. She has to keep moving. She has to. It doesn’t matter if her calves are cramping or a cold sweat has gathered beneath her collar. She clings to the fading hope there’s a path she hasn’t tried yet—a route leading anywhere but here.

But when she rounds the next corner, the sight ahead stops her cold. Her stomach drops. 

In its unchanging glory, the same rusted sign winks at her from the shadows.  

“No,” she whispers. “No, no, no…”

[Name] backs away from the building, frustration bubbling as the truth settles in. She’s right back where she started. Her fist slams into the brick wall, scraping her knuckles raw. But the sharp pain doesn’t dull the burning anger rising within her. A circle. She’s been running in a giant, fucking circle.

“Are you kidding me?” A deep frown pulls at her face as her voice rises.

Her shoulders sag as the fight drains out of her. She leans her forehead against the wall and closes her eyes. Tears prick at her eyes, but she forces them back. The ache in her muscles, the sting in her hands, none compares to the searing pain of failure. The thought of walking again, aimless and lost, feels unbearable. What if this is it? What if this is all there is?

The question gnaws at her resolve. The silence thickens, and she can almost hear the city mocking her, laughing in Sylus’ voice, waiting for her to break. To quit. To give in.

That’s when she hears it.

“Hello? Where am I?”

Her head snaps toward the sound. She presses her palms flat against the wall, standing tall as she pulls herself back from the edge. The voice is tiny and fragile, like the cry of a lost child. Could it be…? She walks into the ally and scans for anything familiar. Pumpkin? Spots? 

Hope flares in her chest. Maybe one of them found a way into the N109 Zone. Maybe they’re here, reaching out to help her. But the hope dims once she sees the source of the sound.

There, half-buried beneath a pile of dirty cardboard, a tiny shape trembles.

A black cat.

[Name] can’t stop the frown plastered across her face. Not Pumpkin. Not Spots. But the need for help is still there, and this cat is no less deserving of it. She crouches slowly, careful not to startle the fragile creature. The cat’s matted fur clings to her petite frame, dirt and grime dulling her coat. The fear in the cat’s wide eyes tugs at her chest, a desperation all too familiar. But now, it’s the cat who needs help.

“Hey,” [Name] murmurs. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The cat’s ears flatten, her body bristling in alarm. “Stay back!” she hisses. “I don’t know you!”

[Name] freezes, her hands raised in a gesture of peace. At an even slower pace, she lowers onto the ground and sits cross-legged. She waits, giving the cat space to adjust. The cold creeps into her bones, and the grime clings to her clothes, but she doesn’t care.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says again, a little firmer now, resting her hands on her lap. “I promise.”

The cat narrows her eyes. “You’re human. How can you understand me? Humans don’t—” She stops, her words faltering as her trembling grows more frantic. “They don’t.”

[Name] hesitates, uncertainty overcoming her before answering.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I can. And I know you’re scared.”

“Of course I’m scared!” the cat snaps. “I don’t know where I am!” She curls tighter into herself, her breaths becoming soft, gasping sobs. The cat’s voice quiets, her grief pulling her down.

“I was with her,” the cat whispers. “She was my everything, and I was hers.” 

[Name] listens, offering her presence as comfort as the cat speaks. The small animal curls into herself with distant eyes. A flash of Xavier’s face crosses [Name]’s mind, and she wonders if he felt the same when he first met her—silent, offering reassurance as she grieved.

“We ran away together,” the cat continues, lost in sorrow. “From him, from everything. She promised we’d be safe. And it was… for a little while.” 

The cat chokes back a yowl and trembles even harder. “She gave me a reason to live. And I made her feel brave. We were all we had. She’d dance, and laugh, and sing—no matter how hard things got. I thought we’d be okay.”

[Name] meets the cat’s gaze, silent understanding passing between them. The cat stares into the distance, her voice unraveling with the memory.

“But then he found us,” the cat whispers, her eyes vacant with the pain of the past. “It was raining. The roads were slippery. We were running. She slipped. I fell. I heard her scream. She was crying so hard, holding me, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get up. I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t.”

The cat looks at [Name], wide-eyed with desperation. “And now I’m here,” she murmurs, her voice breaking. “But she isn’t. Where is she? How do I go back to her? I need to make sure she’s okay. I need—”

The words dissolve into a choked hiss, and the cat curls even tighter. Her body shakes with silent yowls.

[Name] swallows and forces her voice to even out. “I know how it feels,” she says. “Being pulled away from everything you know, from the people who matter most. It’s terrifying.”

The cat stiffens, her head snapping toward [Name]. “How could you know?” she demands. “You’re not like me.”

[Name] offers a sad smile. “I know some cats who’d disagree.” She closes her hand into a loose fist before holding it out, offering a piece of herself.

The cat flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“I woke up here too, y’know,” [Name] continues. “I don’t know how or why, but I’ve been scared ever since.”

She pauses, lowering her gaze as the memory of Kennedy’s teasing lingers. “I had someone,” she says. “She was my friend. She made the world bearable, even when it felt impossible. We’d laugh and joke around, and it was like nothing could touch us in those moments. Like we’d always have each other.”

Her chest tightens, and her words catch. “But then I lost her. All I have now are memories. And this place? It’s not home. It’s just a reminder of what’s gone.”

The cat uncurls, inching closer. Her face softens as she looks at [Name]. “You really know?” the small creature asks, quieter now.

“I do,” [Name] replies.

Her voice slightly breaks as she meets the cat’s eyes. Emotions she’s kept buried rise to the surface. Carefully, she opens her arms, inviting the cat closer. The cat hesitates, then steps forward, climbing into [Name]’s lap. She curls into a tight ball and presses close as her small body trembles.

“My name’s Kitty,” she whispers.

[Name] strokes Kitty’s fur, her voice a gentle reassurance.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Kitty,” she says. “You’re not alone anymore.”

They remain like that for a while, holding each other close. The workshop stands ahead, its cold, metallic structure standing in direct opposition to the fragile comfort she holds. Her legs begin to ache, her body numb, but she keeps Kitty cradled in her arms. Gently, she stands and glances at the empty streets behind her.

She bites the inside of her cheek, considering the streets once more. She could try again. Find another alley, another escape. But then she looks down at the bundle of black fur nestled in her arms. Kitty’s heartbeat presses against her fingertips. The small body trembles with exhaustion, fear, and hunger. Just like she once felt before. A frown tugs at her lips. 

With a heavy heart, [Name] reluctantly turns around and heads for the Odd Workshop.

It doesn’t take her long to renavigate the workshop and step into the elevator, beginning her ascent toward her inevitable fate. The gentle vibrations soothe Kitty’s nerves, and her petite body relaxes against [Name], who keeps stroking her fur. As the elevator slows to a halt, its doors slide open with a ding.

Before she can step out, laughter spills into the cabin. At once, she recognizes Luke’s cheerful, grating tone. She tenses, clutches Kitty tighter, and cautiously enters the open area. 

“Over an hour!” Luke exclaims, throwing his hands up in mock celebration. “I told you she’d last longer than you thought.”

Kieran groans as he rolls his head back. “Fine, fine! You win. Don’t get smug about it.”

“Too late.” Luke pockets something away. “I knew she’d come back. She’s stubborn, but she’s not stupid.”

Their banter carries through the space, with their voices bouncing off the polished walls. It feels out of place for the atmosphere, too relaxed compared to the tightness of her shoulders. Clutching Kitty closer, [Name] steps further into the room. As soon as the twins spot the cat in her arms, their lively conversation falls silent. Luke is perched on top of the workbench, propped up on his hands, while Kieran stands beside it, his hip leaning against the surface.

“Well, look at that,” Kieran remarks. “Didn’t see that coming.”

Luke tilts his head, his mask doing little to conceal the curiosity in his voice. “You always bring strays back, or is this a new hobby?”

[Name] opens her mouth to respond, but a shadow shifts from above before she can.

Emerging from the mezzanine, Sylus descends the stairs, each footstep echoing across the smooth concrete floor. His crimson eyes catch the moonlight spilling through the glass dome above. Though his face remains an impassive mask, his posture commands attention. His gaze moves between the cat and the young woman, who clutches it protectively. She props Kitty higher, comforted by the cat’s warmth. 

Luke and Kieran exchange glances before the older twin clears his throat. “Looks like we should’ve bet on what she’d bring back, huh?” Luke ventures, nodding toward the cat.

Kieran chuckles, but the sound dies as Sylus steps off the final stair. He strides over, one arm folded across his torso while the other props itself on top, a single finger tapping thoughtfully at his chin. 

A smirk tugs at his lips as his gaze remains on [Name].

“Curious,” he murmurs before his eyes slide over to Kitty in her arms. Sylus moves around them slowly, like an art collector appraising a new piece.

“I see you’ve returned,” he says, each word carrying more than one meaning. “And with company.”

Instinctively, she pulls Kitty closer to her chest. The black cat meows softly, lifting her head to glance around. Bracing herself for a sly or pointed remark, [Name] waits, but it doesn’t come. Sylus continues observing Kitty’s twitching ears and anxious eyes. The callousness in his expression dissolves just a bit.

“She’s scared,” [Name] explains, hush-toned. “I couldn’t just leave her out there.”

The curve of his lips softens, but it doesn’t fade. Sylus stops just inches away, his gaze lingering on the rise and fall of the cat’s chest. Slowly, he raises his hand, letting it hover before gently brushing over Kitty’s worn black fur.

“Very well,” he remarks. “The cat stays.”

Relief stirs within [Name], but the lingering unease never seems to die. She looks down at Kitty, whose shaking has subsided, though the cat still seems poised to bolt at the slightest disturbance. [Name]’s shoulders drop as her muscles loosen. Her lips part, but she hesitates, the memory of his power and cold presence still fresh. The words feel alien, but she pushes them out.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, avoiding too much gratitude.

He exhales softly, almost like a chuckle, before stroking Kitty’s fur again. “I trust,” he says, his gaze still fixed on the cat, “you’ll find your place here as you did before.”

Though his attention stays on Kitty, [Name] can’t shake the feeling that his words are aimed at her. There’s no praise, no criticism—just a brief moment of recognition. Then, Sylus withdraws his hand from Kitty’s fur and steps back, redirecting his focus to Luke and Kieran. Without a word, the twins rise and begin moving in her direction.

Chapter Text

Ch. Nine — Schroedinger’s Cat!

Morning arrives with breakfast [Name] has no desire to touch.

She sits at an ornately carved blackwood dining table, its grandeur lost on her. Heavy velvet drapes hang over tall windows, muting the city’s distant hum. Before her, decadent plates are arranged: poached eggs on buttery brioche, smoked salmon with edible flowers, and artfully carved fruit—all paired with dark roasted coffee and blood-orange juice. Yet the entire space feels less like a place to dine and more like a stage, its opulence wasted on a hunger that is as absent as her freedom.

Across from her, Luke lounges in his chair, idly twirling a silver spoon between his fingers. The dining room is hushed save for the clink of utensils and Kitty’s eager chewing from beneath the table.

The moment lingers. Then—

“Alright, Miss Seer,” Luke drawls, rolling the nickname across his tongue like a fine wine. “If you’re as sharp as you claim, tell me: what am I about to do next?”

Kieran, seated beside him, immediately plays along. He props both elbows on the table, mirroring his older brother’s energy. “Better yet, guess both of us. Surely, you can manage that with all your supposed knowledge from the game.”

He crooks two fingers in the air, mimicking quotation marks around the word game.

She stabs at the glossy fruit on her plate. The fork scrapes against the porcelain like nails on chalkboard. Yesterday, the twins whisked her from the Odd Workshop to Sylus’ base, where they wasted no time branding her with their new favorite title: Miss Seer. How quickly word had spread still baffles her, but that hardly matters now.

It may have been just a day ago, but their constant needling has stretched it into a lifetime. Now, she isn't sure what's worse: Luke's playful mockery or Kieran's quieter, sharper prodding.

“I already told you,” she says flatly, “just because I know some things doesn’t mean I can predict your next move.”

Luke hums, his chin resting on his palm as the spoon continues to twirl lazily. “That’s exactly what someone who does know the future would say.”

Without warning, he leans forward, his mask’s beak tilting toward her. “So? Anything worthwhile coming up? Should I be excited or terrified?”

[Name] stifles a sigh by biting the inside of her cheek. With her free hand, she taps a finger against the plate’s rim. “I don't know.”

A muffled chuckle escapes from beneath Luke's mask. “You’re not very good at this whole all-knowing thing, are you? You talk about this game, but when someone asks for specifics, you go mute.”

Kieran doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe she’s holding out. I’d do the same if Sylus were breathing down my neck. Think she’s worried about what to share in front of us?”

This again…

She ignores the bait, focusing on the half-eaten fruit before her. If yesterday taught her anything, it’s that engaging with them is pointless. They don’t actually believe her. They don’t care if her knowledge is real or not. They just like watching her squirm.

But that’s fine. Underestimation is an advantage. In the military, that kind of mistake got people killed. Here, it might be the only edge she has left.

From beneath the table, Kitty finishes her shredded turkey with an audible gulp. The black cat licks her mouth before nestling near [Name]’s ankles. In a cautious tone, Kitty whispers, “They sure do love pushing your buttons. I’d help if possible, but I hate to make things worse.”

[Name] drops her gaze and offers a small, grateful smile. She whispers back. “Thanks, Kitty.”

Luke’s spoon taps against the beak of his mask. “Talking to yourself again?” he muses. “We’ll be sure to let the boss know all about your… quirks.”

Her knuckles tighten around her fork. The urge to respond rises, but she swallows it down. She knows better than to react. Instead, she lowers her gaze to her barely touched plate. She should eat, but even lifting the fork feels like submission, another reminder that she controls nothing here. 

It sours her appetite further.

Luke flicks his silver spoon into the air, watching it spin theatrically before catching it. Meanwhile, Kieran’s phone buzzes incessantly. He checks it with a quick glance, then silences it with a flick of his thumb before tucking it away.

“Time’s up,” he announces, standing. “Breakfast is over. Sylus is waiting.”

Her brow furrows, staring at the lavish spread before her. She still isn’t hungry, but immediate obedience feels too much like surrender. “I’m not finished,” she mutters.

Luke stretches with a lazy groan, shoving his chair back; the legs drag against the plush rug with a muffled scrape. “Maybe if you actually ate instead of playing with your food, you’d be done by now.” His head tilts, amusement radiating from every syllable. “Or better yet, ask the boss-man to extend your breakfast—I’d pay to see that.”

Kieran is already heading for the tall double doors. He doesn’t bother looking back. “Let’s go. He doesn’t like to wait.”

She exhales slowly through her nose. It’s not worth it.

She drops the fork onto her plate and bends to scoop up Kitty. The small cat lets out a soft, content sigh as she settles herself into [Name]’s arms, pressing against her chest. Kitty’s tail curls loosely around her wrist.

“You’re too good to them,” Kitty whispers, ears flicking toward Luke and Kieran before quickly tucking her head under [Name]’s chin.

[Name] says nothing, absently stroking the cat’s fur as she rises to her feet. Kitty trembles slightly against her, and [Name] resists the urge to tighten her hold. She doesn’t want to go, but stalling won’t change anything. Luke and Kieran already know she’ll follow. They don’t need to drag her anymore.

She has nowhere else to run.

They escort her through the base, leaving the dining room behind and stepping into a lounge that perfectly reflects the man who owns it. The space is layered in black leather and gold, with firearms mounted along the walls like pieces of a violent mosaic. She recognizes several of them—models she’s handled before, weapons too familiar in her mind.

Muted jazz envelops the space, curling around them like smoke from a smoldering cigar. The walls seem to dampen their footsteps, rendering their movements eerily silent.

Kitty stirs in her arms, pressing tiny paws against the leather vest layered over her all-black attire. The fitted fabric clings to her frame—long sleeves, tailored pants, sturdy boots—mirroring their uniform but never quite blending in. While she may walk among them, it's clear that she doesn't belong.

The black cat’s soft voice competes against the saxophone’s languid tune as her ears flatten. “I don’t like it here.”

[Name] strokes her head, silently acknowledging the feeling she can’t voice aloud.

As they move deeper into the base, the lounge’s smoky decadence bleeds into a more subdued atmosphere. The hall narrows, and the ceiling presses low. Silence settles over them like a weighted shroud. Along the walls, paintings encased in polished obsidian frames display abstract swirls of figures, half-lost in shadow. It’s almost as if they’re observing their passage.

At the end of the corridor, Luke and Kieran halt in front of walnut double doors. They position themselves on either side. 

Luke gestures for her to hand over the cat. “Boss wants to talk to you, and only you,” he says.

She tightens her hold on Kitty, instinct pulling her back a step. Yet Luke doesn’t try to pry Kitty away. He only further stretches both hands outward, waiting.

Kieran leans against the frame, his tone a lazy provocation. “Unless you think you can’t handle being alone with him?”

She scowls. It’s not fear that makes her hesitate. It’s instinct. Handing Kitty over feels like a mistake; however, she knows stalling won’t help. Lowering her gaze to the cat, she smoothes a hand over her fur. Kitty’s wide eyes gleam with concern she doesn’t voice.

[Name] offers a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll be back soon, Kitty.”

Kitty presses closer before reluctantly allowing herself to be passed off. Luke scoops her up, his grip surprisingly careful. He studies how [Name] hesitates, amusement passing behind the mask.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he murmurs.

Kitty’s absence leaves her arms feeling cold. She clenches her hands at her sides, resisting the urge to reach out and take her back. 

Kieran chuckles, pushing off the door’s frame. “If you stare any harder, you might actually set Luke on fire.”

She shoots him a glare, but there’s no heat behind it.

Luke, for his part, scratches behind Kitty’s ear with an easy touch. “Relax, Miss Seer. We’ll take good care of her.” His voice is light and teasing, pricking at her nerves.

She exhales through her nose, shoving the tension down. There’s no point in arguing.

Then, rather unceremoniously, the twins turn and disappear into the corridor’s dim light, their presence dissolving like smoke: no further remarks or backward glances. But even after they’re gone, the feeling of being watched doesn’t fade.

Her fingers flex as she faces the double doors, raising her hand into a fist. But just as her knuckles hover over the wood, she hesitates. Her pulse stutters like a misfired beat.

The memory of Sylus’ Evol sears through her like a brand. Yesterday’s interrogation slams into her in ragged flashes. Cold mist coiling around her throat, her body seizing against its will. The force. The pull. How he tested her limits like a puppeteer tugging at tangled strings.

She shakes her head as if she can physically dislodge the thoughts. Her fits have clenched tighter, nails pressed into her palms, but she barely notices. Her breath thins, drawn in shallow gulps. That sensation at her throat refuses to let go. It's still there. She knows it.

And then, reality snaps back into place, rushing in with a silence so stark it hums in her ears. No mist. No voice counting down. Just the heavy thud, thud, thud of her heartbeat.

She presses a hand against her chest, forcing herself to breathe. Get yourself together, dammit. The words settle in her mind, and she pulls herself upright. Finally, she lifts a hand and knocks.

…No response.

Her brow creases. She knocks again.

Still nothing.

She stares at the door as if waiting for some delayed reaction. What the hell?

The shift is so jarring, so anti-climactic, she can only blink.

A third knock. Silence again.

The tension inside her folds in on itself, collapsing under last night’s fear and the present’s sheer absurdity. She stands there, shoulders hunched, unsure whether to feel relieved or ridiculous.

Three seconds pass before her body moves on its own. Her hand drifts to the handle, fingers brushing over the cool metal. It turns easily. Unlocked.

Her stomach knots.

She pushes the door open, expecting immediate confrontation. But it never happens. The moment she stepped inside, two things hit her at once: the heat and the sheer size of the room. First, the air is damp, with residual steam curling from the en-suite bathroom at the far right. Second, it’s vast. Curated. Not just a bedroom but a domain. Its in-game counterpart does little justice to the real deal.

A dark couch and matching armchairs cluster near an electric fireplace, glowing warm against polished floors. A built-in bookshelf takes up an entire wall, lined with books, vinyl records, and relics too carefully arranged to be meaningless. Across the farthest side of the room, floor-to-ceiling windows lay the city bare, its neon veins pulsing in the dark. Everything has been purposely designed; no spec is out of place. 

Except her.

As she steps further into the room, the hiss of running water grabs her attention. She stops mid-step, her eyes drifting toward the en-suite. Through the frosted glass partition, she sees movement: a broad figure beneath the spray, shoulders tilted forward, fingers raking through wet hair. And then—

A low, careless hum.

Oh.

Oh no.

Her mind blanks.

She stiffens like a cat caught stealing fish. Heat licks up the back of her neck. Her hands fly to her face as she jerks away. Sylus is showering. Because, of course, he is. But it’s the ease of it, how he carries on, unconcerned, that strikes like a slap. It’s not that he didn’t hear her knock. He knows she’s here. He just doesn’t care. To him, she isn’t even worth acknowledging.

But for her, the moment is the exact opposite. It’s mortifying, embarrassing, and downright unbearable. She takes a frantic step back, her feet tangling beneath each other until her legs collide against something solid. 

Thump!

Plush sheets engulf her as she topples backward.

She blinks, pressing into cool fabric. Above her, a canopy. 

She’s on his bed.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The thought is immediate, panic spiking as she scrambles upright. Her face burns, and her outfit is rumpled, but she doesn’t bother fixing it. Her only focus is the exit. As soon as she spots the double doors, she moves toward it. I should leave. Just step outside and pretend this never happened before—

The humming stops. 

A subtle click signals the tap turning off. 

She mentally screams.

The rustling of a towel reaches her ears, striking like a jolt of reality. She’s already too late. If she plans to leave, she has no choice but to pass the en-suite. But with the water shut off and movement inside, that option has already slipped away.

Desperately, her eyes dart around the room, searching for any neutral zone. The dresser? The turntables? The massive windows? Each option feels worse than the last. She presses her hands to the sides of her head. Sitting on his bed is out of the question, and standing here like a lost idiot isn’t any better. This means I have exactly one choice…

The couch.

Without another thought, she all but throws herself onto it, her back rigid, hands clasped in her lap. Her leg bounces, restless energy coiling tight. The couch is too soft, too deep, like it’s trying to pull her under. Then, the en-suite door opens.

She stills. Her breath catches as her eyes train onto the fireplace, refusing to look at him. Every nerve in her body shrinks into razor-thin awareness.

With water still clinging to his skin, Sylus steps into view, a towel slung low around his hips. She doesn’t need to look to know exactly what he looks like: tall, broad, and utterly unbothered. The towel rides lower, teasing close to slipping, but she refuses to glance down. She stays frozen, staring blankly ahead like a doll, even as her periphery catches the slow trickle of water trailing down his chest.

Sylus seems aware that she’s here, not in the way that someone absentmindedly registers another’s presence, but as a certainty. It's as if he knew the moment she entered, her presence not just expected but predetermined. She swallows the creeping realization that perhaps he meant for her to open the door. Maybe that's why he never needed to call her in because he knew she’d step inside anyway. 

Without sparing her a glance, he shakes his wrist, sending stray droplets onto the floor before reaching for a glass bottle on a nearby dresser. He uncaps it, tilts the bottle slightly, and runs a few drops over his wrists before rubbing them together.

She wants to die.

Her throat is dry, her palms sweaty. She rubs her hands up and down her thighs, desperate for something to do, but it only makes her discomfort worse.

“Comfortable?” Sylus suddenly asks. 

She chokes on her own breath, fingers digging into her thighs. Hesitantly, she steals a glance at him. His damp hair frames his face. Water beads along his collarbone, trailing lower before vanishing beneath the towel slung around his waist. The scent of body wash lingers in the steam curling through the room. Warm spice.

She grips her legs tighter. This is a disaster.

“I knocked,” she blurts. “You didn’t answer.”

Sylus tilts his head, meeting her gaze. “So you let yourself in.”

Her hands clench. “I—Luke and Kieran—”

“Sent you here,” he finishes lazily. “Yes. And now you’re here.”

His tone is too dismissive. It’s like this entire situation is an afterthought, hardly worth his attention. And she hates it. Because to him, that’s precisely what it is.

She should have known better. The second she felt the handle turn, she had a choice. The second the door cracked open, she had another. And now—

Black-red tendrils unfurl between them, weaving with lazy precision. The temperature around her dips. A thread of mist brushes against her temple, and her head locks in place the moment it makes contact. Surprisingly, it isn’t painful, but it does hold firm.

Sylus chuckles. “Since you’ve already made yourself at home, stay there.”

A reluctant breath leaves her lips. He’s using his Evol again, but at least he’s not angry. If anything, he sounds entertained. That should unnerve her, but a curious relief settles in its place. If he’s amused, he isn’t hostile. Her hands, still curled into loose fists, begin to relax.

He walks away, leaving her head fixed forward. Bare feet press against cool flooring before shifting onto a thick rug. She can’t turn to see, but she listens: the slide of a drawer opening, the rustle of fabric as he pulls out clothes.

“I’ve given your words some thought,” he says, conversationally, as if noting the hour. “I’ve dissected many lies in my lifetime, and yours seem to lack the most essential piece—the deception.”

She stiffens, sitting up straighter. 

“Paper trails are predictable. People leave traces without realizing it. But you...” he pauses, considering his following words. “You are nothing but an absence until two days ago. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Her fingers twitch in her lap. Of course, Sylus would find out. He has the resources and the connections to pick apart every last detail, or lack thereof.

“Like I told you before,” she says carefully. “I don’t know how I got here. I just woke up in the hospital. That’s all I know.”

The soft rustle of clothing ceases, and the mist tightens just a bit.

“And the game?” Sylus prompts. 

She doesn’t respond, and a delicate pause soon stretches between them. Then, the sound of movement resumes: the whisper of fabric sliding over skin, the click of a belt buckle snapping into place.

“Your little stunt yesterday was impressive. I’ll give you that,” he begins once more. “But whatever knowledge you carry, it doesn't explain why half the world would mistake you for Serenophe.”

The mist tightens just a little more, but it’s still not painful. It just presses in, like unseen hands testing her presence. She swallows hard. Even if she can’t see him, she hears it in his voice. His words aren’t just an observation. They’re rejection.

“You resemble her too well, and yet, I know you're not the same,” he murmurs, more to himself than to her. “What, then, does that make you? A shadow left behind? A thread pulled from an unraveling story?”

His voice drops lower as another pause follows. “No. You're nothing so poetic. You're just a reminder. An imitation walking in borrowed skin.”

The words burrow deep, not like a blade, but like an unwinding thread, pulling at something vital. They don’t hurt because they’re cruel. They hurt because they distort the truth—because, for the first time, she’s forced to wonder if she was always just the echo.

In her old life, Serenophe was nothing more than pixels and script, bound to a screen, shaped by her choices, a character who didn’t exist without her. But now—

Now, the world looks at Serenophe and sees someone real. But when they look at her, they hesitate. Their gazes flit, thoughts scrambling before rejection sets in. Because to them, she isn’t just different. She’s wrong.

She isn’t the protagonist.

She isn’t the original.

She isn’t real.

She’s an imposter.

And the worst part? She understands why.

Something ugly twists in her stomach, and a frown threatens to surface. It should be funny, but it’s not.

“I don’t know why I look like her,” she says tightly. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t—”

“Didn’t ask for it,” he cuts in. “Sure.”

The mist shifts, retreating from her skin, curling back toward him like smoke drawn to a flame. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not useful,” he says, “or dangerous.”

As the mist fully dissolves away, she slightly slumps forward as she regains movement of her head. “I’m not a threat to you,” she breathes. “I already told you everything.”

Well.

She didn’t tell him what kind of mobile game he was from.

Or about the cats.

Or about her nine lives.

Sylus laughs as if plucking the thought straight from her mind. “You’re a terrible liar,” he says, stepping around the couch. 

He comes to a halt in front of her, now fully dressed in dark slacks, a crisp button-up, and a mahogany suit jacket that fits too smugly. The damp strands of his hair fall loosely over his forehead, careless, like their conversation hasn’t affected him at all.

She hates that, too.

“Get up,” he orders. 

A tight breath escapes her, but she doesn’t argue. Denying him would only invite more scrutiny. Pressing her hands against the cushions, she rises with reluctant effort. Every movement feels like surrender, as if standing pulls her further into a trap she’ll never escape.

Sylus watches, his eyes dragging over her before he turns away, already losing interest. He crosses the room toward another dresser, fingers skimming over a collection of watches. He takes his time before plucking one that complements his attire.

“If this world follows a script,” he muses, fastening his watch, "then let’s turn the page and see what’s been written.”

Her brow knots, and her lips pull down as she realizes he’s asking for physical proof. Not just words or coincidences. Proof. Her mind flips through game mechanics, key locations, and scripted encounters. There are places where the story should unfold, and choices should be locked into place. But if she takes him there and nothing happens? 

“I—”

“Unless you’re worried the next page is blank,” he interrupts, pulling his sleeve back down. “And if it is… well. That wouldn’t look too good for you, would it?”

Her throat tightens, forcing her to shove down whatever she wants to say. This is exactly why she never wanted to meet Sylus. Unlike Xavier, who listens with quiet sympathy, or Zayne, who might have sought logical explanations, Sylus doesn’t accept possibilities outright. He tests them.

And now, he’s testing her.

Sylus waits for her answer, but the glint in his eyes says he already knows where this is going. She won’t back down, and he’s right. 

“…Fine,” she mutters.

Sylus doesn’t react in approval. He just smirks and strides toward the door, already moving like the decision was never hers. She hesitates before following, her body reluctant even as her steps betray her. Outside, Luke and Kieran are waiting, but she isn’t sure if that should make her feel safer or worse.

At the threshold, Sylus slows. One hand rests on the doorframe, expectant as he glances back at her. He tilts his head—a beat of silence.

“Well?” The word rolls off his tongue like honey laced with poison. 

She stares at him. For a second, she entertains the thought of stopping right here—crossing her arms, planting her feet, and refusing to play along. But that’s not an option. He’ll just keep testing her, keep poking until she either breaks or proves herself useful.

Her fingers curl into the hem of her sleeves. Exhaling through her nose, she steps past him, crossing the threshold. The door clicks shut behind her, and she doesn’t need to turn around to know he’s still watching.

A challenge threads through Sylus’ words as he motions forward. “Lead the way, Stray.”

Chapter Text

Ch. Ten — Curiosity Killed the Cat!

The western suburbs of Linkon City are wildly different from the oceanfront districts of the southeast. There are no sprawling villas or luxury resorts, no white sand beaches or crystal-clear waters. Here, the trees reach the sky, their dense canopies breaking the midday sun into restless patches of gold and green. The road is long, winding, and nearly deserted. The perfect place for a man with too much money and too many secrets to disappear.

And it's the perfect setting for a test.

A test Sylus demanded.

He sits in the driver's seat, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other idly tapping the gearshift. [Name] watches the landscape blur past the window, breath gauged, jaw locked. Her fingers pick at the corners of her nails. She hadn't wanted to bring him, of all people. But refusing wasn't an option. Not one that left her breathing, anyway.

She digs deeper, her thumbnail pressing until a pinprick of blood wells up. If this goes wrong, I'll lose more than just credibility.

Mr. Raymond's estate was the first place that came to mind. If she wanted something concrete, something indisputable, something Sylus couldn't dismiss—this was it. And if she's right, then this is the moment where everything changes.

A place that runs on scripted logic.

A place waiting for its protagonist to arrive.

The car slows, pulling her from her thoughts. The abrupt silence that follows as Sylus kills the engine is unsettling. She almost prefers the sound of tires against gravel. At least then, she can pretend he isn't watching her. 

Sylus parks just far enough from the mansion that they can observe without being seen themselves. Smart.

She hesitates before opening the door, fingers lingering on the handle, not out of doubt, but from the growing awareness that the second she steps outside, the game is set in motion. 

Her boots hit the ground. She shuts the door, resisting the urge to shiver. Instead, she rolls her shoulders and scans the estate. Beyond the iron gates, Raymond's mansion stands as a monument to unchecked wealth. Elegant. Breathtaking. Yet the ivy climbing the stonework tells another story of nature working to reclaim what was stolen.

Everything is exactly as I remember it, she thinks. And more importantly, Serenophe isn't here yet. That means there's still time.

But how much?

A breeze kicks up, rustling the branches overhead. A small bird, startled, darts from its perch and disappears into the sky. The sight shouldn't unnerve her, but it does. A cold prickle works its way down her spine, an instinctual warning from her past life.

Something is shifting. The world can feel it, too. 

In the game, Raymond is a renowned art collector with an enviable private collection. But lately, he's been unraveling: confusion, paranoia, outbursts of inexplicable fear. Multiple doctors have examined him, yet no illness explains his decline. With no medical answers, Raymond turns to the Hunters Association. As a private employer, he has enough sway to make himself a priority.

This is where Serenophe comes in. Her first mission: investigate his home, determine whether Wanderers are responsible, and, if necessary, eliminate them.

Except [Name] already knows the truth.

It isn't exactly Wanderers.

It's a painting.

The damp scent of earth and pine fills her lungs, grounding her in the present. She never truly appreciated the smell of nature until she was trapped in N109 with Sylus. Now, she lets herself breathe, just for a moment. 

But then, a car door slams.

With effortless poise, Sylus steps around the vehicle. He tips his head back, scowling at the bright sky as if it were a slow poison working through his veins. Then, with an exhale, he turns his attention to the estate. 

"So." He lifts a hand, shielding his eyes from the sun. "This is the grand revelation you've brought me to?"

Her fingers twitch.

She straightens her spine, forcing herself to hold her ground. "You told me to prove it." Her throat is dry. "This is where I do that."

He studies her, considering. Then—

"A decrepit old man's house?"

"Not the man," she says, ignoring the bait. "What he owns."

She won't look at him when she says it. 

Eye contact with Sylus is a mistake. She knows better than to let him see too much. He'll sink his teeth in if she shows even the slightest hint of hesitation. So, she focuses on the mansion instead. Mapping the path ahead, tracing each step toward what's to come. 

A heavy presence settles beside her, and her body tenses at the looming shadow cast over her frame. A low, amused hum greets her ears. 

He's enjoying this.

Outwardly, he acts indifferent, but she's not fooled. He's interested. Maybe not in her claims, but in what she's leading him toward. For a man like him, curiosity is enough. After all, he's a collector at heart, drawn to the rare and the impossible. 

And right now, she's dangling the one thing even he shouldn't be able to obtain.

"This is where Serenophe is supposed to be assigned for her first mission," she explains. "The Hunters Association sends her here because Raymond—"

She motions toward the upper levels of the house. "—has been experiencing hallucinations, paranoia, and erratic behavior. The official explanation is Wanderers."

Sylus lifts an eyebrow at her phrasing. "And the real explanation?"

She hesitates.

Not because she doesn't know, but because she can't tell him everything. She can't tell him the pigment was made from blood harvested from a long-dead civilization that once called the ocean home. She can't tell him it belonged to the Lemurians, or how one of the game's other love interests, Rafayel, is a sea god masquerading as an artist, who laces his grief into every canvas.

She especially can't tell Sylus that he is unknowingly standing in the wreckage of Rafayel's revenge. That Raymond's unraveling isn't random. It's personal.

So, she gives him part of the truth.

"The painting," she says, but Sylus doesn't move, waiting for her to continue.

She does. "One of Raymond's recent acquisitions. It's… been corrupted. Metaflux."

It's not a lie. But it's not the whole truth, either.

His eyes narrow briefly, a touch of interest quickly smoothed back into composure. Another hum leaves his lips, more amused than the last. Maybe he buys it. Maybe he doesn't. But he hasn't stopped her, and that, at least, is something.

Her fingers flex. She's already seen how the script can bend. The real question is: how far can she push before the world pushes back?

If she's right, the signs have been there from the beginning. Tiny fractures in the structure. Hairline splits in scenes that should have been unbreakable.

Like the abandoned research base. That was supposed to be where Serenophe met Xavier for the first time—an early turning point in their route. But because [Name] interfered, the moment never happened.

And yet, nothing collapsed. At least, not in any visible way.

That's because the world could still reroute it. Serenophe can still meet Xavier later at the Hunters Association, where he works. So as long as there's a thread for the story to follow, the game can adapt.

Just like yesterday. She quoted Serenophe and Tara's conversation word-for-word to Sylus. At first, everything matched—until it didn't. The world followed the script right up until it was no longer possible.

Which means—

"This world is like a rubber band," she says, fingers moving to tug at her vest's hem. "Bendable, but with limits. It isn't fixed, but it isn't entirely free, either. At the end of this 'event,' Serenophe is supposed to retrieve this painting. But if it's gone before she arrives…"

She pauses, unsure. What will happen if the world can no longer compensate? 

Does it snap back into place, undoing what she's done? Does the event glitch and force something else in its place? Or does the world erase its mistake? Does it remove her, the variable that shouldn't be here, as the simplest way to restore balance?

Her pulse tightens, but she pushes through the thought and takes a guess. "There should be no alternative. The world will either have to create a new path for her, or it won't be able to continue at all."

Sylus shifts his weight, not responding. 

His arms are crossed, but one hand drifts upward, his thumb running slowly along his jawline. When he finally speaks, his tone carries a subtle note of genuine interest. "And what happens when the rubber band snaps?"

Sylus tilts his head, mulling over her answer before she even gives it. "Does the world fix itself by deciding you're the problem?"

She freezes. 

For a second, she's not here—not in the damp air or the long shadows of the trees—but where it all ended. To when the bullet had taken her first. To the moment she should have died but slipped between the cracks of existence. She had felt it folding over her, pushing her back into a world she was never meant for. 

And it was silent.

Not the silence of an empty room. Something deeper. Absolute.

A touch of pressure spreads through her ribs, the kind of pain that latches on and festers. She tries to keep her face neutral, but her body aches.

Then maybe this world is more than just a game with broken rules, she thinks. Maybe it's something worse. It won't just erase me; it won't even acknowledge I existed. I'll be less than a variable. Not a mistake. Not even an anomaly. There'll be nothing to rewrite because nothing was lost.

But she doesn't say that. 

The thoughts coil hot around her ribs, winding like a snare. But she doesn't let them take root. She forces her feelings to be small, then smaller, until it's tiny enough to hold and bury into the deepest part of her mind. 

She exhales. The pressure vanishes. Her body stills.

Finally, she turns to Sylus, his gaze warm against her face, searching for doubts she won't allow him to find. She meets his eyes, her own more reserved.

"Then we found the limit," she says.

Sylus isn't the kind of man to be easily caught off guard. 

But for a second, his usual amusement falters. Not by much, but enough. His gaze tightens, his thumb stills against his jaw, and the slightest hesitation breaks through his composure. 

Then, like flipping a switch, it's gone.

"Huh," he utters as if tasting the thought. "That's an awfully polite way of saying you might get erased from existence, Stray."

He lowers his hand, slower this time, and continues. 

"Alright, I'll indulge you. But if the world shifts its pieces, I'll take whatever lands in my hands. Whether it's the painting or you…" His lips curve, though his eyes reveal nothing. "I don't walk away empty-handed."

He turns before she can respond, each step a long stride, yet the silence he leaves behind refuses to lift.

She frowns, considering the repercussions, but she ultimately ignores the thought. "Then let's make sure we get to it first," she replies, falling into step beside him.

The only sounds as they approach the gates are the gradual change of gravel beneath their boots and the whisper of wind through the trees. The wrought-iron gates rise ahead, their bars woven with thick ivy that coils like veins through the stone. Past them, the path continues, leading straight to the mansion's grand entrance. 

Flanking the front gates stand two weathered yet sturdy stone pillars. One holds an embedded intercom, a sleek, black panel set into the rough stone. As they move closer, a tiny red light flickers to life, acknowledging their presence. Above them, discreet security cameras swivel, their lenses adjusting.

It feels like stepping onto a stage just as the curtains rise, the world already pivoting to set the scene. But before they can get too close, she glances back at Sylus.

"Stay here," she says.

Sylus doesn't budge, but he does look amused by her words' audacity. 

"Adorable," he murmurs.

Yet he doesn't argue. He never does when he's already made up his mind. Leisurely, he leans against the other stone pillar, crossing his arms, making a show of compliance. His version of 'staying put.'

She doesn't trust it, but it's better than nothing. 

Turning away, she steps closer to the intercom, fingers brushing the cool metal. She should be breaking in. It's the simpler option. The faster one.

But she hesitates. 

Right now, she's an anomaly and not a confirmed threat.

The moment she acts like one, that changes.

Herman is expecting Serenophe. If she forces her way in, she won't just be an intruder. She'll be an intruder who looks exactly like his anticipated guest. That's not something she can talk her way out of.

Suddenly, her ears catch the hiss of irrigation in the distance, water arcing in precise lines over the flower beds, their freshness drifting on the breeze. Stone fences extend in both directions, lights mounted at intervals, ready to flood the grounds by night. Even the driveway carries that same engineered perfection. Automated systems have wiped away all traces of past arrivals, smoothing tire tracks until the surface looks untouched. The walkway gleams too, likely treated to repel dust.

Nothing goes unnoticed here.

Her jaw tightens.

If she forces her way in, Herman will assume the worst. Cameras rolling. Security locked down. Every staff member primed to recognize an intruder. That means when the real Serenophe arrives, she'll walk straight into a household that's already tense, suspicious, and looking for something wrong.

And when they see two Serenophes?

That's it. No clean escape.

She has to get inside before Serenophe arrives, but how she gets inside is just as important.

Right now, Herman isn't expecting trouble. If she talks her way in, she can slip in unquestioned, at least long enough to get to the painting. For once, their resemblance might be more of a shield than a downright curse.

She shakes out her wrists. No more time to waste.

Her index finger presses the buzzer, prompting a short beep followed by static. Within moments, a deep, uncompromising voice sifts through the speaker. 

"State your business."

Herman. The head butler of the estate.

She expected him.

Her fingers tighten against the intercom. Clearing her throat, she says, "Serenophe. Hunters Association. I'm here regarding Mr. Raymond."

There's a pause. 

The intercom crackles again, followed by the click of a security camera adjusting its focus. Herman's voice comes through, yet this time, smothered with curiosity. "Odd. You're not in uniform."

Her mind quickly pivots.

She exhales sharply, injecting just the right amount of irritation into her voice. "Would you believe me if I said I wasn't given time to change?"

A longer pause. She continues before he can question it: "Mr. Raymond's condition is worsening. I was briefed at the last minute and sent ahead to assess the situation. There was no time to follow standard protocol." 

Hopefully, her voice was urgent enough to justify the deviation but not so urgent that it invited further questions. 

Herman hums, considering. "Alright. Where's your clearance?"

She stills.

That… wasn't part of the game. Actually, this whole 'scene' never plays out. In the original timeline, Serenophe was never stopped at the gate, questioned, or forced to explain. She was just let through. No intercom. No roadblocks.

But why?

She runs through the game, retracing the main story's sequence. Raymond's mansion. The first mission. The grand entrance.

Then, it clicks.

Serenophe didn't arrive alone.

Zayne, Raymond's former doctor, had been with her. And his presence was the key. The moment they stepped through those gates, Zayne's familiarity with the household opened the doors. Not just Serenophe's status.

They were expecting him, too, and not just her. Now, without him, the script is missing a critical piece. The world, this carefully laid-out sequence, is hesitating, stumbling. Trying to correct itself.

She almost feels it. 

A small moment where the world pauses. Not in any visible way, but like a held breath. It's a weird sensation she can't quite name, pressing, recalibrating, deciding what to do with this version of events.

She swallows, already crafting another excuse—

Until Sylus ruins it.

His presence drifts into her space, not just stepping into view but pressing close enough for her to feel his body heat against hers.

"Sweetheart," he purrs, placing a hand on her upper shoulder and pulling her lightly against his chest. "You should have told me we were visiting an art collector. I would've dressed for the occasion."

Her stomach drops.

Huh?

She jerks her head toward him, whispering harshly, "What are you doing?"

Sylus cocks his head, grinning like the sky isn't unbearably bright, like this isn't spiraling into a disaster. He replies, "Whatever do you mean? I'm just making conversation."

The intercom buzzes faintly. Herman hasn't spoken yet. But she knows—he's watching them through the security feed.

Before she can recover, Sylus makes it worse.

His voice dips lower, all honey and knives, and he gestures toward the estate. "Though, I must say, breaking into an old man's house isn't really my style." His smirk deepens. "But I suppose if you wanted something stolen, you only had to ask."

Oh, my Gods, he's making us sound like criminals.

Which, technically, they are. But that's beside the point. 

She shoves his arm away, throwing up a hand. "That's not what this is—"

"Who are you?" Herman cuts in.

A moment ago, his tone was neutral. Now, suspicion cuts between them.

She scrambles to salvage the situation. "I just told you, I—"

"Your clearance. Give it to me now."

Her body locks up.

She has nothing. No clearance. No Hunter's Watch. And Herman is already suspicious that she's not in uniform. Add that to the fact that her so-called partner just implied they're criminals… 

They might as well give up now. 

She considers name-dropping someone from the Hunters Association. Maybe Captain Jenna. But Herman's tone had already shifted, so he'd call them immediately.

And Sylus? 

She looks at him. 

He's smiling. 

Fucker.

Resisting the urge to punch him, she forces her shoulders loose, shifting to put some distance between them. Just enough to block him from the security camera's line of sight. She clears her throat, lacing her words with the kind of authority that comes with dealing with overzealous assistants, not a skeptical butler.

"Herman," she sighs as if he's the one wasting her time. "I know you're just doing your job. But tell me—how much worse has Mr. Raymond gotten?"

Silence.

Good. Not a denial. 

She leans in, pressing the advantage.

"The paranoia. The erratic behavior. You must have noticed. I assume that's why the Hunters Association is being called in at all." She pauses just long enough to let that sink in. "If he's already losing sleep, seeing things that aren't there, what happens when it escalates?"

Another pause. The kind that means he's considering her words. 

She pushes harder. "I know you're careful about who you let near him. But can you really afford to turn away help right now?"

A low, hesitant sigh comes from the other end. There it is. Just one more push and—

Sylus laughs.

"Darling, you should have led with that." He shifts closer, bringing himself back into view. "You're so much more persuasive when you aren't pretending to be civil."

Herman stiffens. She hears it in his breath through the intercom. 

Now, it sounds like she's lying.

The intercom buzzes with static, and Herman's voice returns, colder than before. He says, "If you cannot provide proper clearance, I must ask you to leave. If you refuse, I will alert the Evol police."

The connection cuts and the security cameras swivel a moment later to track their movements.

She lost.

Her jaw tightens. 

Without a word, she turns on her heel, each step a stomp more than a stride. Her breath pulls tight in her chest, and her face burns—not from the sun, but from frustration coiling in her ribs like a live wire. She wants to hit something. Maybe the intercom. Maybe Sylus. Maybe herself for believing, even for a second, that this could have gone the easy way.

Halfway down the steps, she stops. 

Breathe.

Inhale. Exhale. 

Losing her temper won't help. She forces it down, swallowing the sharp edge of frustration. Diplomacy had been the smarter, safer move. But now, thanks to a certain someone, that option is gone. 

Wait.

The moment replays in her head. The second she had Herman. The way his voice started to waver. She'd almost had him, but then Sylus spoke. 

She turns, staring at him as he walks down the steps. 

That's when it all comes together.

He knew. He'd known the whole time. He'd let her push, let her come this close to winning. Then, with one well-placed laugh, he tilted the scales. Not to ruin it, but to see what she'd do next.

That was the real test. 

He was never going to let her talk her way in. That would be too easy. There would be no conflict for her to work through, and he wants to see how she'd react when things fell apart and respond to loss.

Well, fortunate or not, failure is nothing new to her.

She's had countless drills under the scorching sun, sweat stinging her eyes as an instructor barked orders—move, adjust, survive—because freezing up meant death. City raids went sideways all the time. Extraction routes collapsed. Plans fell apart. But there was always a way forward.

If the front door was locked, you found a window. If there was no window, you broke the damn wall.

A low sigh brings her back to the present. Sylus dusts an invisible speck from his sleeve, stepping before her. "You did well," he says, quieter now. "Most people would've folded long before that." 

Her fingers twitch. One day, she's going to replace every single one of his light bulbs with slightly dimmer ones. Enough to make him second-guess his eyesight but not enough to be sure.

"You—"

She stops herself, biting down so hard that she expects to hear a crack. Giving him a reaction is exactly what he wants. And if there's one thing she refuses to give him, it's the satisfaction. Slowly, she exhales, leveling her tone like she's filing down a jagged nail.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're—" she waves a vague, accusatory hand in his direction, searching for the exact level of insult he deserves. There isn't one strong enough. "Insufferable?"

Sylus lets out a breath, just shy of a chuckle, like she just paid him the highest compliment. He leans in, closing the space between them until she instinctively shifts back. The moment lingers, poised with intention. Then his hand lifts slowly, lazily, making her wonder what he'll do next before he flicks a strand of hair from her forehead. His touch is unexpectedly gentle.

"Plenty." His voice carries the hint of a smile. "But I like hearing it from you."

Then, as effortlessly as he appeared in her space, he's gone, stepping back with the casual indifference of someone who hadn't just made himself at home in hers.

He continues, "So? What's the play now, Stray?"

Her pulse still thuds with residual annoyance, and her hands clench at her sides. A retort burns at the tip of her tongue, but she lets it smolder out. She sighs, turns away, and rolls her shoulders. The frustration begins to dissipate, cooling into something more useful—tactical. 

Fine, she thinks. If Sylus is interested in seeing what I'll do when backed into a corner, then I'll make damn sure it's something worth watching.

Her eyes scan the perimeter, cataloging every detail, from the slow rhythm of security cameras to the reinforced windows of the mansion. If the front door is locked, and there aren't any windows, then…

Her focus shifts to the high stone fences. Ivy sprawls over the wall, gripping the stone like ligaments binding muscle to bone, thick enough to hold weight.

She gets another idea.

Grabbing Sylus' wrist, she pulls him along the estate's western side. Her quick pace suddenly reveals a clearer intent. The path narrows as they move, skirting around the front gates and slipping between the security cameras' sweeping patterns. 

Sylus' steps effortlessly fall in sync with hers. His grip shifts, fingers curling around her own wrist. It isn't tight, just firm enough to remind her that if he wanted to stop her, he could.

"Taking charge now, are we?" There's a hint of approval beneath the humor. He taps his index finger against her arm. "I think I like this side of you."

Her pulse beats once. Twice. 

Her fingers twitch before she yanks her wrist free and keeps walking, her stride unbroken. Mostly. Behind her, Sylus presses two fingers against his lips as if concealing the ghost of a smirk.

As they reach the backside of the estate, she slows. The ivy sprawls against the stone, winding like ropes over the wall. The security cameras barely graze this corner. A blind spot, and the best one they'll get.

She steps closer, running her fingers over the vines, testing their hold. Sturdy. Dense. The leaves stretch wide enough to offer cover, and the vines feel firm beneath her grip. Turning to Sylus, she crosses her arms, setting her stance.

"This is how we're getting in," she says.

Sylus follows her line of sight, taking in the climb's height, the vines' spacing, and the distance to the ledge. "Ah. So we're climbing today."

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Unless you have a better idea?" she asks, raising an eyebrow instead. 

"Oh, I do." His gaze drags over the vines, then back at her. "They just don't involve you leading."

She doesn't wait for more of his nonsense. 

Ignoring him, she grips the ivy, giving the vines one last tug before hoisting herself up. The texture is cool and waxy beneath her fingers, shifting under her weight. The scent of moss fills her senses, and the rough scratch of stone grazes her bruised knuckles. She starts to climb, but then—

Her boot slips. 

Time slows to a crawl. Her heartbeat spikes. Before she can react, a firm hand catches her waist, halting her before gravity takes over.

"Careful," Sylus murmurs, suddenly serious. "Climbing is all about balance."

His grip lingers, not intimately, just ensuring she's truly stable before easing away. She blinks. Just as she turns to glare at him, Sylus continues. 

"Now, tell me," he muses, eyes motioning toward the ledge. "Would you rather keep struggling, or should I handle it?"

Her fingers dig into the vines. She doesn't like the way he phrases that. "I can do it," she says. 

"Of course," Sylus acknowledges. "But if you slip again, I might start thinking you enjoy being caught."

He shifts closer, his voice dipping lower. "So hold still."

The ground disappears beneath her. 

She barely has time to process the shift before her body rises in one fluid motion. He doesn't toss her over his shoulder like a sack of cargo, nor is there anything forceful about it. He just seats her atop his right shoulder; one arm secure beneath her thigh, the other firm at her waist. Balanced.

For a breath, she's too stunned to react. Then, she finds her voice. "Are you serious—?"

"Have I dropped you yet?" His smirk is audible. "Though, if you'd rather keep struggling, I can always put you back where I found you."

She scowls, fists tightening as she aims for his arm, but it's like trying to move a pillar. "You are—"

"Your best shot at getting this done quickly?" Sylus offers, feigning boredom. He tilts his chin toward the ledge. "Reach."

A sharp inhale hisses through her teeth.

As much as she hates to admit it, he's right. Every second wasted is a second closer to everything unraveling. Pressing her palms against the damp stone ledge, she braces herself against the midday humidity. Her muscles go tight as she pulls herself up and swings over. The ivy drags against her clothes, rustling as she moves. 

Below, an overtly symmetric garden unfolds: rows of bright flowers, sculpted hedges in exact angles, and timed fountains releasing arcs of water in perfect rhythm, catching the sunlight like liquid glass.

She takes a breath. Then—

Drops.

A short burst of wind rushes past her ears, the world tilting for a split second. Petals scatter as her boots sink into the soil. Her knees bend instinctively, absorbing the impact. The shift of earth beneath her feet sends a jolt of adrenaline through her chest. She exhales, then straightens, adjusting her vest. 

A heartbeat later, Sylus lands beside her, barely disturbing the ground. It's like he merely stepped down from a staircase rather than cleared the same height. He straightens, only to dust a few stray petals from his shoulder. 

"I hope you don't expect me to climb back over when we leave," he grumbles, his dismay obvious.

She tunes him out.

There's no point arguing over an exit strategy when they haven't even secured their objective. She steps out from the trampled flowers, her boots scuffing against the stone path, and sizes up the estate. Sylus follows, tapping his shoes against the ground before lazily swiping at them.

Her eyes begin to wander, taking in every detail. A greenhouse rises in the corner, its glass panels glinting in the sun. An expansive patio stretches along the mansion's rear and wrought-iron chairs are arranged in neat sets like something out of a catalog. Everything is too perfect, too symmetrical, the kind of beauty that doesn't feel natural. She doesn't like it.

From her periphery, a stir of activity catches her attention.

A group of workers crowd around a servant's entrance, hefting crates of fresh groceries onto rolling carts. They banter as they work, teasing each other about breakups and weekend plans, laughter bursting across the garden. The propped door exhales a wave of conditioned air—an unguarded entry waiting to be used.

She frowns. 

This doesn't feel like a lucky break; it's more like a script guiding them where it wants. But that's ridiculous. It's just timing. Coincidence. Yet the creeping sensation that the world is watching doesn't shake. 

As usual, Sylus senses her hesitation. He rolls his shoulder, a bead of sweat glistening on his brow. He glances at the distant scene before them: the workers, the waiting door, the perfect alignment of circumstances.

"How convenient," he murmurs, contemplative. "If the world is resisting you, then why is it giving you exactly what you need?"

The question lingers.

Her frown deepens as she picks a petal from her hair, reading between the lines. The teasing is there, but beneath it is genuine curiosity. She wants to deny it, to claim this is nothing more than an opportunity. But in a world that might be running on preset events, free will feels elusive.

"Just follow me," she answers, fixing her sights on the workers, reminding herself there's no time to stand around.

She leads them along the stone path, heading for the side of the mansion. Sylus stays a single step behind, intentionally slowing his pace so he doesn't stride past her. They're nearly at the patio when a crackle of static disrupts the flow, accompanied by the approaching footsteps rounding the estate's corner.

Her pulse jumps.

The shifting rhythm of boots on stone tells her everything she needs to know. It's a guard patrolling, and he's coming right toward them. She whips around, moving for cover. The greenhouse is too far. The statues won't provide. The pool's exposed, and the fountains are worse.

That leaves—

She ducks behind a row of perfectly trimmed hedges, motioning for Sylus to do the same. He follows but in his own leisurely way. While she practically melts into the hedge, he barely lowers himself, hovering just above her. She tugs at his sleeve, urging him down more. He doesn't budge, only lets out a soft, amused breath against her ear.

"I don't hide, Stray," he murmurs.

She grits her teeth so hard that her jaw aches. Not. The. Time.

The guard steps into view and her body stills. Every instinct honed by her past life warns her not to move or breathe. He's close enough that she can see the crease of tension between his brows and the slight drag of exhaustion in his posture. His uniform is crisp, but the fabric at his elbows is worn, creased from too many shifts and too little rest.

Tired eyes sweep the patio.

A hushed breath leaves him as he scratches at his beard, fingers drifting toward the radio on his belt. His thumb hovers over the talk button but doesn't press it. A shift. His stance adjusts. His pupils constrict. A micro-expression, subtle but telling.

Something is off.

That's when Sylus moves.

Not to shrink back and blend into the hedge like any rational person would. But to lean in like they're just kids crouched behind a playground wall, not two intruders seconds from being caught.

His voice glides through the tension. 

"If he sees us," he whispers, "should I kill him?"

Her head snaps toward him, horrified—absolutely not.

Sylus watches her reaction, then exhales through his nose, like he expected that answer but still thinks it's wrong. But he doesn't push. There's no need. His hands remain loose at his sides, fingers idly flexing. Not impatient, just prepared. 

It wasn't a real question. But it could've been.

Her fingers curl into the hedge, willing the leaves to swallow them whole. The thin branches barely provide cover, which is more of a polite suggestion than actual protection. Through a narrow gap in the foliage, she catches the shine of the guard's belt buckle, the slight weight in his step.

Too close.

Sylus finally angles himself beside her. He's still not exactly hiding but lowering his head just enough that he might pass at a glance. But only if the guard is blind, incredibly stupid, or in the middle of an existential crisis.

Time narrows.

The moment thins.

The guard's fingers tighten around his radio, pressing the button, but he doesn't speak into it yet. His gaze sweeps the hedge once. Then again. Expecting something. Waiting for movement. 

A second passes. 

Another. 

The breath locked in her lungs begins to ache.

Then, finally, the guard grumbles, shaking off whatever instinct was gnawing at him. His grip loosens, and he lifts the radio to his lips. "No sign of anything unusual on the west perimeter," he reports.

Relief welcomes her, but she doesn't dare move.

The guard tugs at his collar, rolls his shoulders, and loosens his posture. He mutters about the heat, his boots scuffing against the stone as he turns away.

Finally, she breathes, feeling the tension start to unspool just as Sylus' warm breath tickles the shell of her ear. "I wonder what he'd do if I just—"

Her body reacts before her mind, and her hand snaps over his mouth. A mistake. The moment her palm presses against his lips, Sylus stills. Then, to her horror, she feels the slow curl of a smirk. 

Static crackles through the radio. She freezes. 

The guard hesitates mid-step. Tension ripples back into his frame, shoulders rising as his brows knit together. Reluctantly, he brings the radio back to his face, frowning.

"What about the front?" a familiar voice demands on the other end. "Man and woman. Any chance they circled back?"

Her heart drops. It's Herman.

The guard's response is slower this time, more careful. "No sight of them yet, but I'll keep an eye out. If they're still around, they won't get far."

Great.

Of course, Herman is still suspicious. 

Sylus practically gift-wrapped that suspicion and served it on a silver platter. Soon, every guard and staff member will be moving against them. And if they don't act now, the workers unloading groceries will be finished, and their best-unguarded entry point will vanish. If that happens, she'll be forced to find another way in. Again.

She drops her hand from Sylus' mouth, fingers dragging over the dirt. Her pulse beats high in her throat. Every nerve is screaming at the guard to leave already, but he lingers, a shadow stretching too long beneath the midday sun.

Suddenly, her fingers brush against something petite and rough. Cool beneath her touch. Pebbles.

She bites the inside of her cheek. It's a risk, but her best one.

Before she can second-guess herself, she snatches the smallest one, pinching it between her fingertips. In one fluid motion, she uncurls from her crouch, aiming the pebble toward the greenhouse in a high arc. Then, just as swiftly, she drops back down.

Stone meets stone with a harsh skitter, the pebble skipping forward before vanishing into the dense foliage. The guard tenses, his shoulders tightening, and tilts his head toward the sound. 

"Herman, I heard something over by the greenhouse," he mutters, edged with suspicion. "I'm going to check it out."

A short silence follows before Herman's voice comes through. "I'll check the cameras."

The radio clicks off, and the guard adjusts his belt, fingers brushing the grip of his sidearm. His boots thud against the stone path, fading toward the greenhouse.

She doesn't let herself relax.

The moment is still delicate, yet she can't wait for the rush of relief either. Herman's about to check the cameras. She takes advantage of the window and moves from the hedge, motioning Sylus forward. He follows without comment, falling into step like he was always meant to be there. The greenhouse gleams behind them, but she keeps her focus on their real target: the servant's entrance.

They slip along the garden's edge, weaving past the patio and rounding the corner in sync with the workers' movements. The crisp scent of fresh produce and expensive imports lingers, blending with the bombing chatter and the shuffle of hurried footsteps.

The door's still ajar.

Her shoulders roll, tension knotting between her shoulder blades. She doesn't trust how easy this is. But they've already lost too much time. Pressing forward, she ducks inside just as an overzealous worker hoists a crate onto their shoulder, momentarily blocking the view behind them. Meanwhile, Sylus trails after her like he's strolling into his own home.

Once inside, the grandeur of the rest of the estate dies. 

The difference is immediate. There's no polished marble or sprawling chandeliers, only dull linoleum floors and walls stripped of any ornamentation except for a few safety notices. Everything is flat and muted. A holographic schedule board hums beside the break room, listing shift rotations and maintenance tasks in bold letters.

Ahead, the worker disappears into a short corridor, pushing through the kitchen doors without a glance back. The rattling of dryers echoes from deeper inside, followed by the scrape of chairs against tile. Someone coughs under their breath. Another complains about their stolen lunch.

The sounds are ordinary.

A space meant to be functional, not beautiful.

They move quickly, footfalls silent against the worn floor. Just once, she glances back, scanning for any sign they're been noticed. Nothing yet. Her eyes dart over to the analog clock above the kitchen entrance. A minute passes. She picks up her pace. They don't have much time before Serenophe arrives.

Sylus hums, "And here I thought you'd be more fun under pressure. You're holding up surprisingly well, Stray."

"Don't test me."

"Oh, but I've been testing you since we met."

She holds back a glare, not wasting time on a response. As they pass by another corridor, unadulterated laughter greets her ears. "—and I swear, Raymond lost his mind over that painting again. Said it stares at him."

The words hit like a pulled trigger, and her face scrunches up. Sylus, of course, catches her look. But she turns away before he can pry, keeping stride. 

The painting. It should be in Raymond's collection room on the third floor.  

Briefly, she considers the servant's elevator, but the thought dies just as quickly. A man like Raymond wouldn't allow easy access to something so valuable. In the game, this part of the mansion never existed, or at least wasn't meant to be explored. She only ever saw static backdrops of the estate's grandeur side.

Here, deep in the servant's quarters, everything is disorienting.

Each corridor stretches further than the last, their plain white walls identical. A maze with too many exits and too many wrong turns. But all she needs is to find the entrance to the main living space. Then, they'll be able—

"Hey!"

The voice snaps through the hall.

Before she even registers the command, she pivots behind a tall storage locker near the wall. Cold metal presses against her back as she flattens herself beside it. The cover is barely wide enough to conceal her. If the wrong angle catches her shadow…

She holds her breath.

Sylus, however, doesn't move. 

Because he doesn't hide.

He turns toward the new arrival with the casual disinterest only he could pull off.

A footman. Mid-forties, lean build, uniform pressed into near perfection. 

But he barely clears Sylus' chest.

The older man moves confidently, as if he had dealt with trouble before but had yet to learn when to look the other way. His posture is perfect until his brow creases. Something is wrong. Doubt crosses his face like a man who swears he's seen a shadow move where none should be.

There were two intruders a second ago. Now, there's only one. 

He steps forward, stopping exactly where she had stood.

"You're trespassing," the footman states.

He tilts his chin up to meet Sylus' gaze—or tries to. The height difference forces him to adjust, but he holds his ground.

Sylus mirrors the gesture but with none of the effort. His attention drops to the man, studying him with passing interest. Then, he exhales, dragging it out as if this entire interaction is already exhausting him.

"I believe that's obvious," he murmurs. "I'm not supposed to be here."

The footman's lips part, then press into a thin line. He wasn't expecting that. 

People in his position are used to denials, excuses, and nervous laughter. What he gets instead is a calm confession drenched in acknowledgment. He adjusts his collar and clears his throat. "You'll come with me. Now."

Sylus doesn't move. He tilts his head, challenging him. "And if I don't?"

The footman's jaw tightens. "Then I'll—"

"Call for reinforcements?" Sylus asks, velvet smooth. "By all means."

Her pulse spikes.

She shouldn't even be surprised anymore that Sylus isn't trying to smooth things over. From her hiding spot, she sees the footman's hand twitch; however, it's not toward a weapon but his earpiece. The observation makes her internally curse. 

The moment he reaches for that, they're done.

And because the universe hates her, the footman pauses, almost like he can sense being watched. His brow pinches, his lips part, and his body angles slightly. 

No. 

No, no, no.

She braces to move, ready to—

"Tell me," Sylus interrupts, reeling the footman back in. "How much does this job pay?"

The footman's head snaps toward him. He blinks. His composure wavers. "…What?"

Like the answer should be obvious, Sylus shakes his head and sweeps another glance over the footman, his regard growing more impassive.

"I imagine it isn't much," he muses. "A place like this. A man like Raymond. One would think the pay is generous, but then again..."

He gestures vaguely. "You're the one standing here while he sleeps in silk sheets, aren't you?"

A second passes.

Sylus observes, giving the man just enough time to start questioning himself. Then, with a sliver of a smile, he says, "Do they even know your name?"

The footman flinches like he's been shot. 

Sylus continues, "No? Then I suppose you've already got your answer."

She presses herself harder against the locker, realizing what he's doing. Buying time, though for whose benefit, he hasn't said. His patience isn't limitless, and neither is their window. Any second now, the guard outside could walk in. Herman could check the wrong camera. The footman could make the wrong call. 

The balance is tipping. And if it tips the wrong way—

Fuck it. 

She moves. 

The footman snaps around a second too late.

Her foot hooks behind his knee, yanking hard. He staggers, hands shooting out, grasping nothing but air.

She catches him mid-fall, her arm locking around his throat, dragging him back. His own weight works against him, forcing him down to his knees. 

His mouth parts. A breath away from calling for help.

She slams a hand over his lips, and his gasp vanishes into her palm.

For a moment, he doesn't panic. But then—

It hits him all at once.

His pulse jumps. His body jolts. His boots scrape against the floor in a frenzied struggle. Muscles electrify with panic as he claws at his own face, fingers jerking toward his earpiece, but she tightens her hold.

He chokes. His hands snap away from the earpiece and grapple for her arm instead.

"Where's the entrance to the main lobby?" she demands, loosening to let him answer.

The footman gasps, sucking in a ragged breath. "Why—should I—"

She tightens. His response cuts off into a wheeze, fingers digging uselessly at her sleeve. His pulse thuds wildly beneath her forearm.

"Try again," she orders.

A low whistle cuts through the tension.

"Efficient," Sylus remarks, mildly impressed. "Messier than I'd prefer, but effective."

She ignores him.

Her attention stays on the footman, watching his eyes dart between her and Sylus, his mind scrambling for an escape that doesn't exist.

Sylus crouches beside them—not to intervene, but watch. He props an elbow on his knee, studying the man like a spider watching a fly struggle in its web.

"You hesitated," Sylus says. "That's why you lost."

The footman flinches.

Sylus clicks his tongue, almost pitying. "Still, you tried. And I do admire the effort." He tilts his head, but not in a mocking way. "But let's not waste more of your valuable time, shall we?"

The footman's breath hitches.

His eyes dart toward the hallway—his last escape route left.

Sylus adjusts his head into the footman's line of sight. His voice lowers to a near murmur. 

"No."

The single word lands heavier than a threat.

The footman stiffens, a shudder working through him before the fight drains from his body. She feels it happen in real time—how his tension unravels, and his muscles stop resisting.

Sylus straightens, rolls his shoulder, and casts her a sidelong look as he gestures toward the restrained man.

"Go on."

Her lips pull into a frown, but she doesn't break focus. She feels his throat bob under her arm. His breaths come shallow and uneven, yet the resistance in him is already gone. He turns his head slightly, just enough to look up at her.

"There's a back corridor," he rasps. "Past the linen storage. It connects to the main lobby."

She doesn't loosen her grip. "How do we get through?"

His fingers twitch. More from exhaustion than defiance. "There's a service panel. Behind a supply rack. Ten tiles from the bottom—that's how you disengage the lock."

She keeps her hold firm. "And?"

His eyelids flutter, and exhaustion drags at him. "It's staff-only. You won't be able to pass—" he swallows again, his voice strained. "—you'll need a clearance card."

She pauses, tightening her hold, not as a threat, but to keep him conscious. "Where's yours?"

His body sags further. "Left breast pocket."

Her eyes drop to the uniform, and she spots the edge of the thin card tucked inside. His breathing slows further, coming in unsteady pulses. She watches his face for any trace of deception and finds none.

In one fell swoop, she releases him.

The footman slumps forward, hitting the ground with no resistance.

Sylus hums, nodding shortly at the crumpled man. "Not bad."

Before she can move, he crouches down, fingers hooking beneath the footman's collar. He lifts the man's weight like handling a coat off a rack. She moves to assist, bracing beneath the arms, and together, they maneuver him into the cover of shadows. 

When they press the footman against the wall, Sylus doesn't immediately let go. His fingers trail over the man's wrist, briefly checking for a pulse. But the look in his eyes says he already knows the answer.

"He's alive," Sylus remarks. He plucks the clearance card from the breast pocket and holds it out. "Here."

She takes it, tucking it into her own pocket before crouching again. The footman's head lolls, eyes half-open, drifting between exhaustion and awareness. She watches his pupils adjust, shifting to something more distant.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, quieter than she means to. "I didn't want to hurt you."

The footman blinks.

His lips part, but no words follow. Then, faint recognition flashes through his dazed expression—the pieces clicking together. He sees her. Recognizing her from Herman's description of two possible intruders.

Or at least… that's what she thinks he recognizes. She doesn't wait to find out. 

Her body moves before her thoughts catch up, pushing to her feet, ready to step away. But before she can, something weak tugs at her pant leg.

She looks down.

The footman's fingers clutch the hem of her pants, the grasp barely there. His head tilts forward like he's trying to meet her eyes, but exhaustion drags at his body. His mouth moves, shaping words through ragged breath.

"…Richard," he exhales. "My name is Richard."

Then, his grip slips.

His body sags against the wall, breath slowing as his eyelids flutter closed. Not dead. Not even unconscious. Just spent. His body has chosen for him to shut down before he can say anything more.

She watches him, and a presence moves beside her. Sylus.

He neither sighs nor scoffs, only lets out a low breath. His gaze drifts from Richard to her, not reacting, just observing. While his expression remains unchanged, his stance doesn't.

"He'll wake up," he utters. "And he'll pretend he never saw us. It's easier that way."

His fingers skim over his sleeve, adjusting the cuff like an idle thought not worth finishing. Then, he rolls his wrist once, motioning toward the hallway ahead.

"We should make it easy for him."

She doesn't move.

Her eyes remain fixed on the man slumped against the wall.

His uniform, once immaculate, now sits askew, the creases softened from the scuffle. The quiet dignity he carried himself with, now seems fragile in the low light. Sweat clings to the strands of greying hair stuck to his forehead. Deep lines set across his face, not just from age but from years of restraint, years of knowing his place, and years of never being seen.

His breath drags, fingers twitch against his sides, a body refusing to surrender fully, even as sleep claims him. He has a name.

Richard.

Her jaw tightens. No. Stop. She can't think about this. 

Sylus is right. They need to leave.

With a steady breath, she releases her shoulders, shaking off the moment's weight. Then, without another glance back, she steps forward and leads them down the hallway, past the linen storage, and toward the back corridor.

Sylus follows, a silent shadow at her side. As they move, she notices how his fingers drum absentmindedly against his sleeve, like a thought sitting just behind his teeth, one he has no intention of voicing.

And neither does she.

At the end of the hall, they find the entrance leading back into the main lobby. Just as Richard had described. She pulls the clearance card from her pocket, and her fingers skim along the supply rack's edge. Not far past it, she finds the panel above the tenth tile, smooth beneath her touch. A beep follows as she presses the card against it, and the lock disengages. 

The entrance shifts open, revealing a sliver of the world beyond.

She steps through.

And everything transforms back into luxury.

The stark, practical space of the servant's quarters vanishes as the passage seals shut behind them, erasing all traces of the plain reality they just left behind. The bare halls and linoleum flooring give way to elevated archways, gilded accents, and marble polished to a perfect sheen beneath the artificial light of an elaborate chandelier. 

She casts a glance back, noting their point of entry. The hidden door blends seamlessly into an unassuming bookshelf, high-glossed and modern. Nothing about it suggests that just beyond its frame lies a cramped corridor meant for those who move unseen.

An oversized rug absorbs their footsteps, muffling their presence as they pass a cluster of sectional sofas arranged around elegant coffee tables. To the side, a grand piano sits in quiet prominence beside a long, sleek dining table. With each step, the mansion's opulence reveals itself further, its lavish design unfolding in layers.

However, the true centerpiece is the massive cylindrical fish tank.

She stops.

The sight pulls her back into memories of the game, a flawless recreation of a space she had only ever seen through a screen. The glass curves upward, towering nearly to the ceiling, a spiral staircase hugging around its perimeter. But inside—

No water. Only bones.

The dull remains of a Lemurian woman.

Even knowing it would be here, standing before it now feels different. Worse.

The skeleton is suspended in a mockery of life, her long, serpent-like spine curling where it had been abandoned. Delicate, fin-like bones extend from her pelvis. There's no sign of legs, no suggestion that she was ever meant to walk among humans. Her hollow eye sockets are locked onto the glass ceiling, past the sky, toward a place she can never reach.

She frowns.

Sylus steps beside her.

He says nothing. No commentary. No reaction. She turns to him, expecting… She doesn't know. Perhaps a spark of recognition or a knowing glance. But his face is unreadable; his eyes drift over the skeleton in a way she can't decipher.

Does he know?

She wouldn't be surprised, not after everything.

His attention moves to her, and he takes in the solemn look on her face, the stiffness of her arms, and the weight in her posture. The corners of his lips curl, but the gesture is hollow, a shape without substance. His brow lifts.

"Yes, Stray?"

She folds her arms, but it doesn't feel like a stance. It's more like a brace. A small act of defense against something she can't voice. A question rises in her throat, but she swallows it down.

"We're almost there," she says instead.

She turns away, compelling herself forward, ascending the stairs that coil around the tank's massive frame. A direct path to Raymond's collection.

And that's when it begins.

The first threads of unease slither beneath her skin, a bottomless pressure beyond perception. It coils at the base of her spine, winding into her lungs, constricting.

Something is wrong.

A whisper of instinct prickles at her nape, a phantom touch, a wordless warning threading through every fiber of her being. Her muscles tense before her mind can even make sense of it. As they climb, she studies the space below, searching for the source of the feeling, but the estate remains still.

The air—no, the silence—presses in. 

Since stepping into the main lobby, there has been no movement. No voices. No distant sounds of staff or music. A house this size should breathe, but this one is suffocating.

Sylus follows at an easy pace. His presence is a solid, tangible weight at her back. His footsteps stretch into the quiet like stones dropping into still water.

But the silence doesn't ripple.

It lingers.

It dwells.

It sinks into her lungs and clings to her skin.

Her fingers curl around the glass railing, gripping it too tightly and leaving smudges behind. Her breath pulls shallow, and her heartbeat is a steady thud against her ribs. Something is creeping in. A presence without form, a weight without shape.

A demand. A warning. A pull.

Look.

Her eyes snap to the towering windows lining the wall and the pristine courtyard beyond. At first, everything appears untouched: manicured hedges, sculpted fountains, the clean symmetry of wealth.

But then, a familiar car rolls up to the gates.

She stops breathing.

The window lowers, and a black-haired man leans out, pressing the buzzer. He speaks into the intercom, then waits. A beat later, the gates unlatch, swinging open, and the man sinks back into his seat. The window rolls up. The car eases forward, disappearing beyond the threshold.

A sharp inhale.

But no breath comes.

It's Zayne.

No.

This isn't right.

His car should have broken down. Serenophe should have found him stranded. Should have picked him up. Should have been the reason he made it here at all. That was how the story went. That was how it was supposed to unfold.

But he's here. Alone.

The world is reacting.

It doesn't care about logic. It doesn't care about consistency. It just wants to get there first.

To the painting.

Heat spreads up her neck. Her palms dampen. Her pulse pounds—wild, erratic, too fast for her veins to hold. The walls press in. The air grows thinner. Sylus says something, but the words don't reach her.

It's forcing the event forward. Skipping steps. Cutting through its own sequence to get Zayne inside Raymond's collection room before her. But that doesn't mean Serenophe isn't coming.

She will arrive. The world hasn't erased her role. It's just rearranged it. Instead of arriving together, they'll come separately. But that's not enough to change the outcome.

Someone is meant to reach Raymond first.

And the world is making sure it isn't her.

It's adapting. It's rushing. It's rewriting itself to beat her.

Her hands shake, but she clenches them into fists. Her jaw locks so tightly that it aches, but she forces down the panic because she knew the risk the moment she brought them here. 

She's pushing the world too far. And she doesn't know what happens when it breaks. Maybe it snaps back into place. Maybe it erases the variable that doesn't belong. Maybe that's her.

But she has to know.

She doesn't care about proving the world's scripted logic to Sylus anymore. She needs to prove it to herself.

This life wasn't meant for her. This world wasn't built with her in mind. But it's hers now. A second chance—one she never asked for nor expected. Yet, if this is all she gets, if this existence is the only one she's allowed, then she won't waste it lingering in the margins of someone else's story.

She has to carve herself into it.

Not as Serenophe's shadow. Not as a byproduct of the game's script.

She is real.

Her memories, her choices, her life—it's hers. And she won't let the world define her by stolen breaths and borrowed time. She will make this life her own.

Even if she doesn't make it out in the end.

Her pulse thrums, solidifying her decision. 

Then—

She runs.

Chapter Text

Ch. Eleven — Paw-ssession is Nine-Tenths of the Truth!

[Name] slams the door shut behind her, breath ragged, chest heaving. The cool wood presses against her back as she fights to quiet the pounding in her ribs. The sprint up the spiral staircase was brutal, faster than she should've moved, but she had no choice. Not with Zayne approaching and the world rewriting itself beneath her feet.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Her lungs obey. But when she opens her eyes, something doesn't sit right.

Her hands tighten on the doorframe as she takes in the untouched collection room. Glass cases stand in rigid rows, pristine and fingerprint-free. Inside, relics are trapped in stasis, severed from the hands that once gave them purpose. Not preserved. Embalmed.

She draws in another breath. The air chills her lungs, cooled by climate-controlled vents that ensure nothing decays, at least not physically.

Pushing off the doorframe, she steps forward, boots striking marble. The door stays just behind her, close yet already slipping from focus. Beneath her, the floor splinters her reflection, as though it can't bear to stomach her shape.

She steps onto the display floor and veers left, not by decision but by instinct, drawn forward by the pull of arrangement. A crown rests on wine-dark velvet, its jewels dulled with age, far from the kingdom it once ruled. Nearby, a strand of prayer beads hangs limp from a brass hook, smoothed by generations guided by muscle memory.

The relics close in.

She keeps her arms tight, careful not to brush the glass, yet goosebumps rise along her skin anyway. Carved masks stare blank-eyed; spears pose like they remember blood; ceremonial daggers still hungry under their polish. Everything is frozen mid-breath. A graveyard dressed as prestige.

But it's not the relics that stop her.

It's what's missing.

She halts at the largest display. Behind thick glass, framed in tombstone-cold metal, Lemurian artifacts sit in curated mourning. Their etched details murmur like memories smothered by unwanted hands. Among them, a fractured temple stone leans against a bracket. Its edges are too clean—cut, sanded, reset like a body staged for display, then crammed into a museum box, its meaning torn from the joints.

A ruin reduced to an exhibit. Culture dismembered into geometry. Grief repackaged as property.

And yet, the room is still incomplete. Her attention snaps to the far wall. 

Bare.

The painting is gone.

So is Raymond.

She curses under her breath and cuts across the room with newfound urgency. Her boots strike the marble harsher now. She crosses the display floor and approaches the sitting area, where two settees face each other across a low coffee table, posed like rivals locked in a silent negotiation. This is where their reunion was meant to unfold.

Raymond upright, his clothes immaculate, his voice calm. Dr. Zayne nearby, observant, clinical, watching for tremors that flickered through Raymond's fingers when no one was looking too closely. On the surface, Raymond never seemed healthier. But it was a lie. The paranoia. The hallucinations. The crawling fear that something stood just behind him. The signs had been there all along. But now, they've vanished—scrubbed away by a certain' group.'

She reaches the nearest settee and drops to one knee, the other bracing under her arm as she leans in. Her fingers press into the cushion, and the fabric gives. Still warm. A shallow impression remains, the ghost of someone who had just been sitting there.

Her gaze cuts to the coffee table.

A crystal tumbler teeters near the edge, its rim catching the spotlight, likely knocked in haste. Slow beads of amber liquid slide over the lip and drip onto the rug below. The stain spreads through the fibers, creeping outward like time unraveling faster than she can follow.

She had just missed him. 

She straightens, legs coiled as she pushes off the floor. The moment her balance catches, she steps back, but the edge doesn't leave her. Her eyes sweep the room as a muscle ticks along her jaw. Whatever window she had is closing, and she has no idea where Raymond could've gone.

Behind her, a sudden rattle pulls everything taut.

She pivots. Her eyes drop to the long, slivered shadow curling under the door. Her boots shift a half-step back. The instinct to flee scrapes against the knowledge that there's nowhere to go. Only one entrance. No exit.

Zayne. It has to be. 

Her mind pictures it clearly: his hand on the knob, the swing of the door, his face warping into recognition. His eyes would sweep the room, locking on her. Disbelief first. Then a kind of betrayal. Then calculation.

She's no longer just a missing patient. She's a walking contradiction, an unsanctioned variable wearing the face of someone he knows. And she's standing dead center in a restricted vault filled with stolen Lemurian relics.

With no Raymond in sight.

He'll bury me in questions I can't afford to answer.

She spins around, even without a plan, yet there's no safe place to hide. Her shoulders square. Every nerve braces. But then, something cuts through her mind's noise. 

Not a thought. A presence. 

Sylus. 

She left him behind.

The realization breaks through like a fault line splitting pavement. Her body slackens, not in relief, but more like recalibration. Sylus wouldn't just let her vanish; he's too observant and far too unwilling to leave a question unanswered, especially if that question is her. 

Sure enough, as if summoned by instinct, a low voice slides beneath the door.

"Stray," he drawls. "Let me in."

She rubs her knuckles, trying to shake off the sting of adrenaline as she crosses the short stretch between the sitting area and the door. Her steps stay quick, and the handle meets her hand not a beat later. With a twist of her wrist, the lock clicks free from its catch.

The door swings open.

Sylus fills the threshold, leaning against the frame like he owns it. One shoulder braced, head lowered, that trademark slant of his mouth hovering between humor and reproach. His posture reads casual, but his eyes do not. He saw her bolt up the stairs and felt the moment she broke. And from the look he's giving her, he clearly intends to bring it up.

"You didn't wait," he says, like she's failed some unspoken rule of theirs. 

She stays silent, stepping aside instead. Sylus slips past without hesitation, brushing close enough to take the air with him, like the space was his all along. She turns and peeks her head out into the corridor. 

Still empty.

No Zayne. No Herman.

Only sunlight spilling through the wall of windows. The open corridor curves right, revealing a partial view of the spiral staircase. Its upper coils are framed by glass railings and the edge of the massive cylindrical fish tank. From here, only the top few steps are visible. The rest vanish into the floors beneath.

She hears no footsteps, only the faint, electrical buzz of hidden tech threaded through the walls, quiet enough to vanish beneath motion.

Good. I still have time.

She shuts the door behind them, and Sylus continues to speak, turning to face her. "Either you trust me to follow," he murmurs, "or you don't care if I do."

His words come out like a challenge, but he stands too close to give her room to dodge it. She doesn't bite, just angles her chin toward where the painting should be. "We have a problem. Raymond and the painting are gone."

His gaze follows her motion. A spotlight still beams over the wall, casting crisp light on four magnetic anchors embedded in its surface. At first, Sylus is indifferent. Then, a crease forms between his brows.

"Off-script, are we?" Sylus asks, stripped of its usual play.

She nods once. "Raymond was supposed to be here, waiting for Dr. Zayne to arrive first—his old physician. Cardiac issues. They talk alone in this room. And Serenophe..." 

Her fingers brush the front of her vest, a leftover jitter from the sprint. "She's on the stairs, eavesdropping. But Dr. Zayne catches her."

Without realizing it, she starts pacing. The motion steadies her mouth more than her thoughts, and the rest spills out. "That's when they hear the crash. They run back in and find Raymond collapsed. The painting's still there, but now there's a Wanderer in the room. It's—" 

She stops short in front of a display case. Her reflection wavers in the glass. 

"That's how it was meant to go."

A soft hum answers back. "And you saw all this?" Sylus asks.

She hesitates. The question isn't accusatory, but it lands that way.

"Not exactly," she admits. "The screen cuts away. All you hear is what comes after. Crashing. Shattering glass. It all happens off-screen. The painting is what everything leads back to. But you never actually see it happen."

Sylus looks unimpressed. "So you're guessing."

"I'm not guessing," she shoots back, sharper than intended, then reins it in. "It's inferred. Through environmental cues. Framing. Dialogue. And…” 

Her voice thins. "...Context."

A dry breath escapes Sylus, resembling a laugh. "Context," he echoes. "Your favorite kind of evidence."

But he doesn't stop there.

"If it wasn't shown, it didn't happen. Or it wasn't meant to be known. That's how stories keep their hooks in. They don't lie; they just let you fill in the blanks. Yet the truth only matters if it survives being questioned."

He turns, pacing toward a nearby shelf. His fingers drift above the spines of old books, eyes tracking titles he doesn't intend to touch. He stays close, but his words slip further—memory, gaps, the silence truth leaves behind. Her thoughts follow, catching on Rafayel's in-game anecdotes: Addictive Pain, Siren's Song.

There was a brief stint where he became an opera assassin, his voice a weapon, each aria a kill. But the deaths weren't random. They marked the guilty: those who took, obeyed, or looked away. And it worked, until the wrong eyes started watching.

That's when Rafayel abandoned the stage for a quieter medium: his paintings. The violence didn't stop. It just bled into canvas. Still, the game never showed a Wanderer emerging from his work. It only circled the connection, leaving Serenophe to draw her own conclusions.

Sylus moves past the shelf toward a Lemurian artifact encased in glass. It almost looks like he's going to touch the display. His hand hovers, fingers suspended in consideration. 

Then, as if the moment never existed, he moves on.

"You've said a lot about the painting," he says over his shoulder. "But nothing that proves you're not just filling in the blanks."

She starts to answer. Stops.

There's no version she can give him that doesn't reveal everything. No safe name to drop. No careful lie that won't eventually bleed.

So she says nothing.

And Sylus doesn't push. Not when her silence speaks more.

"I don't doubt you've convinced yourself," he murmurs, dark as oil on canvas. "The sound cues, the dialogue, that perfect little script playing in your head."

He glances at the empty wall.

"Yet memory is a slippery medium, Stray. It lets you frame it as truth, so long as you're the one holding the brush. But framing isn't fact. It's design."

His words drag her mouth taut, and her eyes shift toward the fractured temple stone behind glass. The clean edges. The script carved into silence. 

She looks away.

"I don't have time for this," she mutters, more to herself. The words aren't meant to argue, just to move. Raymond. The painting. Anything but this. She brushes her side and turns for the door, eyes set forward. 

But Sylus cuts her off.

He steps cleanly into her path, spine settling against the door. The posture is casual. The message isn't. She stops short, dread already clawing her down.

"Dr. Zayne," Sylus muses, feigning thought. "Curious how familiar his name sounds."

She draws a breath, already bracing. "Whatever you're thinking, it's not—"

"Your file says he saw you first," he cuts in. "Your doctor."

The corners of his mouth lift like he's trying on the shape of a thought. "Funny," he adds, "how he was the last one to realize you were gone."

Her eyes widen. Instinct tugs at her legs, but Sylus doesn't move. Just stands there like a living blockade. She freezes, then forces herself to step forward. Not out of confidence, but necessity.

"Don't do this." 

"Do what?"

"This."

She gestures between them, to the way he's making this a scene. Sylus doesn't bother looking down. His fingers carve a path along his temple, sharpening the thought.

"I wonder…" he murmurs, "what happens when the doctor walks in and sees the version you didn't rehearse?"

A pause.

His eyes trace hers. "Does the missing scene walk in with him, too?"

Her heart sinks, her fears confirmed.

Zayne already knows. Not everything, but enough to recognize the face. To remember she looks like Serenophe, but isn't. If he walks into this room, here of all places, and sees her standing beside Sylus, it won't stop at recognition. It'll spiral. Into questions. Into worse.

Then, before the thought can settle, sound strikes.

It starts low. A rhythm pressing up from below.

Weight gathers. Soft footfalls brushing marble. The staircase betrays two presences, the spiral funneling voices upward through the high ceilings and open air.

Words follow next, faint but aimed straight at her.

"Apologies again, Dr. Zayne," Herman says, tight and apologetic, just audible through the walls. "Escorting you to the third floor is just a precaution."

Zayne answers, quieter still. "Precaution for what?"

He hasn't registered it yet, voice too calm for what's coming. Still speaking like nothing's shifted. She counts the time it took for Herman's last step. Calculates the distance. The layout.

The problem isn't Zayne. It's Sylus.

Panic surges within her chest. She shoves at his shoulder, but he doesn't budge; her hands find only heat, muscle, and pure refusal. Sylus' eyes catch the light, glinting like he's halfway through a joke no one else gets.

"This is you struggling?" he asks. "I thought you'd bite harder."

Below, voices climb. Still soft, but growing clearer.

"It's nothing to worry about, Dr. Zayne." Herman says, "Just a security matter."

Zayne's reply carries more force. "Has something gone wrong?"

The words drop like lead.

She shoves Sylus again, harder this time. Still nothing. He might as well be carved from stone. Her grip on everything slips—timing, choices, breath. It's not the room that's falling apart. It's her place in it.

Yet brute force won't fix this.

Because Sylus isn't just in the way.

He is the way.

A dozen thoughts claw to the surface, yet none of them are useful. Another step sounds. The marble stairs issue a soft complaint as two sets of weight press closer. 

Her fingers tighten, nails dragging lines into her skin. There's no other choice left. She has to give Sylus what he wants most: a truth she was never meant to give, and one he was never meant to hold.

She draws in a breath like it's the last thing she's allowed.

"Let's make a deal," she blurts.

The words come out too raw, and regret follows fast. Sylus still doesn't move, blocking the door like a wall between her and the rest of the world. But now, there's a shift in his eyes, like she's finally said something with teeth.

She swallows. Her legs itch to retreat, yet she stays rooted. "You've asked before," she presses, "what you were, if this really is a game."

Sylus tips his head, like he's weighing the value of her words. "Then tell me," he says. "What am I supposed to be?"

His eyes don't leave hers, the question sitting like a blade on her tongue.

Below, footsteps drum against the marble. Louder. Closer. Her eyes dart to the door, blocked by his frame, then snap back. 

She doesn't wait. "A love interest."

Once the words leave her mouth, the room contracts, swallowing all but the three things that still exist. Her. Him. And the door she can't reach.

Nothing breathes as Sylus lets the words shrivel away, dying yet marking him all the same. His eyes are cool, dissecting the confession like something broken in his hands. When he finally speaks, it's all venom. 

"So I was made to be adored."

Her spine stays straight. Tension grips beneath her ribs, held in place by habit, not fear. Her next words press too close to danger.

"No," she replies. "You were made to make people fall. Not stay."

A silent reaction. Sylus presses his molars together.

But she doesn't stop. 

The marble outside answers with polished shoes climbing closer. 

"I think you've suspected it for a while. How I know things. What I know about you. Why I look like her," she says, her tongue tasting metallic. "You already know. I shouldn't. But I do. I know about the promises you're counting on, the reunion you're waiting for. And it won't happen—not the way you think."

Again, she checks the door.

"You're clinging to a life that's already gone." Her eyes cut back to Sylus. She opens her mouth, and the next words catch.

She takes a breath.

Then—

"Because Serenophe won't remember you."

The shift is instant.

Sylus moves.

Half a step from the door—not to let her pass, but to crowd. His shadow strikes first, latching to the marble, scaling her legs like it's been here before.

She tenses, but doesn't step back.

His shadow swallows her whole, burying her shape like soil packed down by force. The room behind him distorts, not gone, just unreachable. The door is still there. She just can't see it. All that's left are Sylus' eyes, two furnace-lit depths burning from a pit that's never known mercy.

"Perhaps I've been too generous with my patience." The red in his eyes pulses. "You were never worth the courtesy."

His words miss their mark. Thrown past her shoulder like she's already a corpse.

Yet she keeps talking, her heartbeat spiking against her ribs.

"If she truly remembered you," she says, voice gaining traction, "why hasn't she found you?"

Her shoulders square. "It's not that she doesn't know where you are. She just doesn't recognize you. Because she doesn't know you anymore. While you kept building your life around her memory, she didn't build hers around you."

She closes the distance with a single step. "Because it was never her burden. Only yours. You're the only one still waiting, because if she remembered you the way you need her to, she wouldn't need fate to shove her into your path—she'd already be here."

Footsteps round the top of the stairs. Herman's voice filters in, saying something too polite to matter. Zayne says nothing at all.

They're almost here. 

She doesn't stop.

"You're not a tragedy. You're just a man she forgot." Her jaw locks, but the words keep coming. "You've just never had the spine to say it out loud."

There's no warning. 

Just the air collapsing, then motion.

His hand clamps her throat and twists, dragging her in a single, brutal pivot. Her spine cracks against the wall beside the door, air leaving her in a rush. She coughs, hand snapping toward the doorknob out of reflex.

But Sylus is faster.

His fingers catch her wrist mid-reach and slam it above her head, pinning it in place. His body closes tight, heat bleeding through her clothes, his breath scraping her cheek.

He leans in. Not as a man, but a verdict.

The line between cruelty and intimacy dissolves. His thumb presses against the pulse at her throat. Not like he's deciding what to do with her, but what she still means.

"Speak for her again," he murmurs, "and I'll remind you exactly who you aren't."

Nearly right outside the door, Herman clears his throat. "If you'll excuse me, Dr. Zayne—I need to check something with security."

Zayne's voice soon follows. "Alright."

Their footsteps split.

Zayne is moving this way.

Her chest seizes.

"I can help you," she chokes out. The words scrape raw. "I can get her to remember." 

That gets his attention, but not the one she needs.

His grip remains. His stare holds.

She pushes harder.

"I don't know how," she says quickly. "But I know the signs—when she starts to feel it, when it almost comes back. I know what she sees when a place feels too familiar, or a word hits too hard, or a name sounds wrong but still sticks."

Her wrist flexes in his hold. "She doesn't remember you. But she remembers something—pieces, feelings. I've seen how close she gets. And if anyone can bring her to that moment, if anyone can push her the rest of the way—it's me."

She swallows hard. "But none of it matters unless you help me get there."

Sylus doesn't speak. Just stares.

His gaze drops—from her eyes, to her mouth, to the curves of her face—and that's when she knows. He's not seeing her anymore.

He's chasing what's familiar. Holding her like a placeholder for a memory he won't put down. He knows she's not Serenophe. Knew it yesterday. Knew it five minutes ago. But now, with her offer hanging between them like a mirror, his thumb shifts, testing whether the skin beneath his hand still belongs to someone else.

And she lets him.

She doesn't pull away when his fingers slide from her wrist to her jaw, brushing her cheek like he's tracing the outline of a face he once knew better than his own. She lets the memory take her shape.

Not because it's fair, or kind, or forgivable.

But because it works.

"Sylus." Her palm moves to press lightly over his knuckles. Not as comfort, but permission. "You need me."

He doesn't respond. 

The doorknob turns. 

And the room folds into motion.

His fingers fall from her throat, and he steps back without a word. 

She doesn't move. Her back stays pressed to the wall as her hands fly to her throat, palms flattening over the skin he touched. The heat of his grip still stings. Her chest rises, then stills.

And then—

The doorknob clicks.

Turns.

The door swings inward, smooth as breath. It pivots toward the wall she's pinned against, casting her in shadow like a curtain drawn too fast. Brass and wood carve a line between her and the rest of the room. 

She doesn't breathe.

Zayne steps inside, then pauses just past the threshold. His hand lingers on the handle. For a moment, he doesn't move, as if catching a detail that doesn't belong, but nothing shifts in his face. His eyes land on Sylus almost at once—unfamiliar, out of place, standing too still near the center of the room.

"Are you a guest of Raymond's?" Zayne asks, letting go of the handle. "Because I was under the impression this meeting was private."

The door begins to swing back on its own.

But it doesn't get far. She bites the inside of her cheek as her hand snaps out, catching the knob mid-arc before it dares to make a sound. Her grip trembles once, then steadies.

Zayne doesn't notice. "And you don't look like someone waiting for a meeting," he continues, stepping forward like a man who's already ruled out coincidence.

Across the room, Sylus lets out a short breath, but it's not a laugh. It slips out tight like pressure through locked teeth. He turns from the door, breaking eye contact as he drifts toward the sitting area.

But there's a slight lag between intention and motion, like his body hasn't caught up with the decision. His pace reads casual, but the room stays on guard.

Behind the door, she presses flat to the wall, breath held tight. Her knees brace against the cool plaster. She draws in a slow, careful inhale, but her pulse thuds too loud to trust.

Sylus stops, then turns back to Zayne. The strain hasn't left his frame, stretched across him like fabric pulled too taut. But it holds.

"Didn't realize curiosity needed clearance," he says at last, voice settling. "Though you don't strike me as the one handing out passes either."

Zayne stays silent.

He steps just short of the display floor and holds, like a surgeon pausing before the first cut. His posture is composed, weight centered, eyes fixed on Sylus. He isn't searching. Just studying what's already exposed. Like the diagnosis is already made, and all that's left is to name it.

"Your shoulders haven't dropped since I walked in," Zayne says. "Dilated pupils. Tight jaw. You're holding tension."

His eyes flick briefly over the cases, then back to Sylus.

"So let's start simple. Where's Raymond? Who are you? And why are you in his collection room?"

She shifts. Silently. The moment tightens around her like a closing grip. If she doesn't move now, Zayne will soon turn. And when he does, she'll be the first he sees. So she risks it. With one hand still gripping the knob while the other eases her balance, she slowly starts to slip away—

But her boot drags. A light scrape against the baseboard.

Quiet, but not quiet enough.

Zayne starts to turn.

Her muscles lock.

Then—

"You diagnose fast," Sylus says, drawing Zayne's focus back. "Remind me not to get injured around you."

His voice dips as he moves toward the settee. Fingers brush the carved frame as he eases his hip against it, posture angled like he's only now letting the weight settle.

He continues, "But you've misread the symptoms. What you're calling strain, I'd call adaptation."

Behind the door, her pulse stutters. Relief swells in her chest before she kills it.

Sylus is speaking, but he isn't giving her up. It shouldn't make sense, and yet it does. While Zayne's posture has shifted away, his head is angled like he might still glance her direction.

A second holds.

But he doesn't turn. His stance resets, and his attention locks on Sylus.

Sylus meets it, and a faint smile touches his mouth, not for Zayne but for himself. Like an answer he didn't want to live with, but already had.

"I didn't plan to stay," Sylus says quietly. "But sometimes a detour gets you closer than the road you followed."

Once she hears Zayne start to answer, she finally lets her body ease. But she doesn't try to move again. Not immediately. 

She waits one second to make sure Zayne won't turn his head again.

Another to be sure.

Then she moves.

She rounds the edge of the door and slips through the narrowing gap, pulling it just wide enough to avoid brushing the hinges. Each step is careful as she eases into the corridor. It's still quiet, but out here, the silence sits lighter.

But just before the door shuts, her hand stills.

She glances back. Not to check, but to confirm.

Zayne's back is still to her, voice low, mid-sentence. Across from him, Sylus rests a hip against the settee's carved frame, body angled toward the door. His fingers tap once. Twice. Then press briefly to the wood before lifting.

He doesn't look her way.

And that's his answer.

Her grip tightens on the knob. Then, she eases the door the rest of the way closed, the click landing like the end of a held breath. She turns around, and her legs carry her away. 

But the pressure doesn't lift. 

While the collection may physically fall behind her, it's still chasing her in her head. Her thoughts are tumbling: Raymond, the painting, the story twisting off-script with every step. Gods. She just left two canon love interests in the same room together.

Still, she keeps moving. She has to. She needs to find Raymond, needs to prove—if only to herself—that she belongs in this world just as much as anyone else.

But her hands are shaking.

She only notices when one swings too close, tugging at her side like a misfired lever. Her breath is no better, shallow and ragged at the back of her throat.

Then she stumbles.

Her shoulder clips the wall, but instinct throws her palm out. It slaps the plaster just in time to keep her upright. The contact grounds her, but only for a second. It isn't long enough to stop the spin rising in her chest.

She doesn't make it to the next wing.

Her body drops at the bend in the corridor. She crouches low just before it curves toward the western wing, not far from the spiral staircase but still tucked out of view. One hand clamps around her knee. The other presses hard against her chest. Her eyes shut.

Breath in. 

One. Two. Three. 

Breath out.

Four. Five. Six.

Just like she was shown before.

At first, her lungs fight it like they're waiting for the next blow. But slowly, the resistance eases. Each inhale stretches longer, landing closer to control. Her heart no longer tries to batter its way out. It evens. Just enough. 

She wipes her face with the back of her sleeve. Her skin is warm beneath her touch. Her vision slightly blurred. One tear. Maybe two. She doesn't chase them. Just lets them go.

Then she rises.

Her knees resist, muscles trembling beneath her. She pulls in a breath, still thin but better, and lets it settle. Piece by piece, she straightens, balance returning like warmth through numbed limbs.

The corridor greets her without question. Marble gleaming. Walls pulsing with disquiet.

Nothing waits except what comes next.

So she moves.

Still tired. Still gathering. But ready again.

Chapter Text

Ch. Twelve — Goodbye, My Fur-lorn Life!

(Remind to all: If need be, check the author's note above for chapter-related trigger warnings/major spoilers. Other than that, please enjoy. uwu)

Sunlight pours through the glass wall lining the western wing, throwing precise lines of gold and glare across the polished floor. The light carves through the space in even bands, overexposing everything it touches. She moves quickly, holding just beneath a run. Anything faster would shatter the quiet suspended along the corridor.

Her eyes cut over to the windows stretched from marble floor to high ceiling, uninterrupted panes framing a partial view of the courtyard below. Beyond the ultramodern landscaping, she catches the curve of the driveway and a glimpse of the front gates, half-obscured by angle and design.

She looks away.

The western wing lies just out of sight from the spiral staircase, tucked into an architectural blind spot. It's secluded, but not sealed off. If someone shouted, it might carry. But no one shouts. The only sound is the hush of her steps and the steady pound of her pulse, like it's trying to warn her before the walls do.

She knows Sylus can't stall Zayne forever.

Even with that silver tongue and charm steeped in manipulation, it's still a performance. And he can't control the tempo forever. If Zayne stops listening and starts trusting his instincts...

No. She can't let herself spiral.

Focus on Raymond.

He could be behind any of these seamless black doors. Or worse, not inside any of them. Watching instead from somewhere above, tucked into a blind spot, another ghost behind the cameras. And Herman might already be doing the same, her path mirrored across a dozen screens. His hand might already be reaching for the phone, calling the Evol police before she even makes her next move. 

All it takes is one hesitation, one wrong door, and the whole thing collapses.

She moves, passing between matte-black support columns that segment the corridor like architectural ribs. Their angles are clean and modern. Designed to hide things, absorb sound, and throw shadows.

But something ahead breaks the pattern. Not motion exactly, but a misaligned shape. One of the doors doesn't sit right. At first glance, it blends with the others, but as she closes the gap, the slant becomes clear. Open by a hair. Like someone stepped out recently and didn't bother to pull it shut.

She slows.

It's too still. No hint of who—or what—might be waiting on the other side.

She stops in front of it. Listens.

Nothing.

She steadies herself, hand rising to press palm first against the warm wood, fingers splayed. But just before stepping through, she glances back down the corridor.

To the right, the hallway stretches a little farther before curving out of sight, ending in another staircase. The arc of it is barely visible at the frame's edge. Probably the way to the rooftop.

To the left is the path she came from.

She hesitates, then turns back to the door and pushes it open. It yields with a whisper, revealing a bedroom that, for once, feels lived in. At least more than anything else in Raymond's mansion.

Steel-grey panels blend into the walls, hiding fingerprint-locked cabinets. Built-in shelving runs above the high-profile bed, filled with sculptural objects and monochrome books. A few framed abstracts hang above, grayscale compositions of harsh edges and negative space. 

She moves farther in.

To the right of the bed, near the window, a chaise lounge rests in soft shadow. Draped across it is a black coat, folded just enough to suggest carelessness. The sleeves are tucked inward. It almost looks like an afterthought, but it isn't. 

A false mess. Staged like everything else.

Her eyes drift to the desk nearby.

Set against the far wall, opposite the en-suite bathroom door, it's the only piece that shows signs of regular use. Sculpted from carbon-black alloy, its surface catches the light spilling in from the window. Each drawer is labeled in microtext. The chair sits perfectly aligned, not pushed in so much as positioned. A sleek tablet rests face down beside a faded leather notebook. The contrast is almost laughable: one untouched by time, the other marked by it.

She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth. 

Raymond's bedroom.

Of course it is. The signs are everywhere now that she's looking. The angles are too clean, the materials too polished. Every surface throws her reflection back in pieces. It feels like the mind of someone trying to recreate the feeling of being young, and building a mausoleum to it.

She moves between the bed and the electric fireplace. A rarely used wall-mounted television sits above it. On the mantel, a glass cube flickers with artificial flame, offering warmth in appearance only.

Once again, Raymond isn't here. But he has been.

At the desk, she spots a drawer left slightly ajar. The thumb scanner is smudged, like someone unlocked it in a hurry. She tugs it open. Empty. Just velvet lining inside, molded to cradle something small and heavy. Whatever it held is already gone.

As she leans in, a faint metallic tang reaches her nose. Acrid. Familiar, but not enough to name. It clings to the air, invisible yet present. Her skin prickles. It's the same sensation she felt at the abandoned research base—only weaker.

Her hands go to the top of the desk, where everything has its place, probably labeled in Raymond's head just like the drawers. But the tablet stands out. Not because it's messy, but because it's face-down, as if someone planned to return to it but didn't want it catching light. Or eyes.

She flips it over.

The screen wakes immediately. No thumbprint required. Just a password prompt. She tries a few obvious guesses, tapping them in carefully.

Nothing.

Her own face stares back in the darkened screen.

She fogs the glass with a quick breath, turning it over and aligning it exactly how she found it. Her eyes land on the notebook before her hands do.

The leather is worn smooth along the spine, and the corners soften over time. A clear sign of years being opened, thumbed through, and shut again. She lifts the cover, adjusting her fingers to avoid smudging the paper.

At the top of the opening page, written in tight script:

Too precious for digital memory. Too volatile to risk deletion. Paper, for all its flaws, forgets nothing unless you ask it to burn. I still prefer the screen, but this is what survives me.

She frowns but keeps reading. The early pages are what she expects: schedules in rigid columns, marked with initials, symbols, and exact timestamps. No explanations. Just a system designed for someone who already knows how to read it.

But several pages in, the structure breaks.

The handwriting is still his, but now sentences stretch across the paper, looping outside the lines. Words slip past margins, curling like vines as if the thoughts inside him had outgrown the order.

She stops when she reaches a heading: Approved Test Subjects – Animal Trials

Cats are listed first, just beneath the heading.

Subject ID: 931–940

Subject Names: Cats (9 total)

Age: 1–17 years

Experimental Side Effect(s) Log:

• All subjects showed immediate signs of stress upon arrival. Several refused food. Most avoided eye contact, hiding in vents or under equipment
• #931 died following initial protocore exposure. Spent final hours vocalizing at the wall in what resembled distress. Lungs collapsed without trauma. Autopsy revealed no identifiable cause
• #934 showed early symptoms of Protocore Syndrome: withdrawal, disorientation, delayed response. If untreated, syndrome progresses toward cognitive dissociation and crystalline transformation. Transferred for disposal before full onset could be observed
• #938 developed black crystalline growths along the spine within hours of exposure to an unstable protocore. Spread accelerated across limbs and face. Euthanized under emergency protocol to prevent full-stage transformation
• #940 escaped during a scheduled system reset. No breaches recorded. Tracking ended without interference. Subject remains missing

Evaluation Results:

• Scans were inconsistent. Internal organs shifted locations between sessions. One scan showed skeletal overlap with a previously logged specimen
• Dual heart signatures and redundant nerve clusters were observed across multiple cases
• No subject has returned after death. Some new arrivals share markings but differ in biological and behavioral profiles
• All harvested tissue degraded within hours. Cloning and cellular replication remain unsuccessful

Notes:

Subjects do not follow standard biological rules. Behavioral patterns suggest high cognitive awareness. Several avoided specific personnel after revival. Many appeared to anticipate containment schedules.

Subject #938's mutation is the first feline recorded case of crystalline transformation. Progression was rapid and irreversible. All protocores from batch [REDACTED] have been destroyed.

Subject #940 is still missing. Enclosure showed no failure of locks. Surveillance footage revealed the subject timed its exit during a lapse in automated oversight protocols. Tracking signal terminated mid-cycle, likely damaged during escape. Sightings persist near Bloomshore District's outer perimeter. Retrieval remains active. 

New subjects approved. Testing continues under revised protocols.

She stares at the ink, fingers hovering over the words. 

The writing isn't any more dramatic than the rest. No bolder. No messier. But something about seeing it laid out like this, so calmly and clinically, makes her stomach twist.

She flips the page.

Crows. Foxes. Ravens. Toads. Frogs.

Her eyes pause. Not on purpose. The words just catch.

Foxes moved in tight, clockwise circles. Some stared into the cameras without blinking. One by one, they died like that. Ravens stopped vocalizing altogether. One tapped the floor in perfect sets of three. The crows began mimicking the handlers' voices with uncanny accuracy. One repeated a phrase until their throat gave out, then collapsed. No injuries. No explanation.

The frogs darkened, their skin turning nearly black beneath the lights. They shed constantly, each layer thinner than the last, peeling themselves into nothing. The toads didn't move. Most stayed frozen for days, statues with pulsing throats. Wherever they pressed against the floor, the surface crystallized outward like black frost.

At first, it reads like chaos. A series of disjointed symptoms. Animals unraveling in ways that defy pattern. But the longer she reads, the more the handwriting warps. Periods curl into circles. Underlines slash so deep they nearly tear the paper, like force alone could bury the ethics.

And then, the pattern reveals itself. A thread pulling them into the same shape.

They weren't chosen for biology. They were chosen for what they represent.

Tricksters. Watchers. Omens. Myths.

Creatures born of story: the ones that shift shape, carry souls, refuse to die the way they should. The Ever Group isn't after data. They're studying what endures. What returns. What death can't keep down. They're chasing the blueprint of immortality—wherever it hides.

Just like the cats.

Just like her.

Only the cats reincarnate. She just survives.

Her pulse kicks harder with every second. That metallic tang digs deeper, burrowing up behind her eyes. It scrapes along nerves that remember too much. She feels it. She just refuses to let the reaction surface. 

She flips further, faster. More entries. Not animals this time.

Lemurians. Humans with Evols. Humans without.

Scans. Notes. Side effects. Failed trials. Reacted names. The ink blotted so violently that it bled through to the next page.

Later, she thinks. I'll make sense of it later. 

Her fingers move before her brain catches up, flipping to the final pages of the notebook, stopping at the blanks near the end. She slides one sheet free along the edge, easing it from the spine in a single fluid motion. The rip is clean.

She flips back to the cat entry.

Leans over the desk.

She grabs a pen beside a stack of thin data slates, their corners pulsing like they're still searching for a dead signal. The pen scratches in short, tight strokes. She copies everything: every header, line, and spacing. It doesn't feel like transcribing data; it feels like dragging a corpse into daylight.

But there's no other option. She can't take the notebook. No bag, no pocket space. But she needs what's inside. Not just for herself, but for every 'subject' reduced to digits and abandoned in the name of forever.

She writes fast. Her grip cramps around the pen, yet she keeps going.

Then, halfway down the page, a sound breaks in—like the room just caught on.

Click.

She freezes.

Head still bowed. Pen suspended mid-air.

Click-click.

Click.

It isn't coming from the desk.

She turns slowly, just her head and shoulders, like she's expecting the floor behind her to darken. The sound clatters out from the en-suite bathroom.

Click-click-click.

Her breath catches high in her chest.

The noise builds in uneven bursts, like a lock picked by a machine that doesn't understand touch—jerking, scraping, resetting, metal grinding through bone.

She shoves the pen aside. Folds the copied page, corners crooked from speed, and crams it into her pocket.

Click-click-click-click-click.

The sound quickens. No rhythm, just staccato misfires. Clicks overlap, joints catch and reset on repeat. Mass scrapes forward in stuttering bursts like bones striking down with no muscle to break the fall. Whatever waits behind the door isn't flailing anymore. 

It's calibrating.

Then, right before her nerves go taut—

The tempo stops.

As if the world suddenly forgot how to breathe.

She doesn't fall for it.

Her hands are damp, but she doesn't look down. Her eyes stay fixed on the door as she edges sideways, peeling herself from the desk.

A jolt hits the other side, off-center, like a shoulder driving into the wood. 

Bang!

The frame jerks.

Wood groans. Screws twist. A crack splits down the center, pressure blooming from inside—

Then the door explodes off its hinges.

Panes shatter midair. The knob tears loose, smashes into the desk, and ricochets off the window with a metallic snap.

She throws her arms up. Shards of polished wood scythe past her.

A large body slams into the room.

It barrels through the frame and crashes into the desk hard enough to splinter it in two. The surface caves. Pens and pages scatter outward like shrapnel. Half the notebook vanishes under debris.

She lowers her arms, every muscle braced. Eyes wide. 

The thing lies twisted across the broken desk. Motionless—then twitching. One limb lifts, drops. Another lurches upright at the elbow, yanked by internal hooks locked beneath its plating. The joints grind open like splintering stone. It doesn't move like it remembers how—

It moves like it used to wear skin. And wishes it still did.

Then—click—everything snaps into place.

What rises is a Wanderer.

Towering. Thread-thin. Limbs spindled from plates of jagged crystal, jointed on rails that jut and lock with no softness between. Beneath the fractured shell, red-pink light pulses slow and molten—like magma sealed behind broken glass. 

One arm ends in a curved blade, fused into the forearm like it grew there.

Its head lifts. Then tilts. Aligning to her. 

No eyes. No mouth. No face at all. Just a fractured, hollow ring of bone and crystal where its skull should be—open at the center, as if the core has been scooped out and never replaced. Inside the void, the air ripples, warped by heat or pressure.

It snaps forward. Now halfway across the room.

She freezes. Heart throttling. Muscles tight. Then instinct kicks her into motion—

And she bolts.

The main door is across the room, open space between her and escape. But the Wanderer's already cutting the angle, lurching sideways with twitching accuracy.

She veers hard, boots shrieking across the marble as she pivots back toward the bed.

A nightstand flashes by. She snatches the first thing she touches—a framed photo—and flings it. Glass shatters against the Wanderer's shoulder. Yet it doesn't flinch.

It surges forward. Faster than before. 

She throws herself sideways, landing hard on the bed. Sheets twist around her legs as she scrambles across on all fours, kicking a pillow over the edge.

The Wanderer follows—slamming into the bedframe. The mattress jolts under the weight, metal groaning beneath both of them. It claws forward, limbs contorted, elbows jutting wrong. Each strike lands closer. Tighter. Cleaner.

She slips—boot snagging in the twisted sheets. Momentum yanks her backwards, pitching her closer to the Wanderer.

Her hand snaps out. Palm slaps the headboard. She twists hard, throws her weight across the mattress as her arm reaches for the far nightstand.

Fingers lock around the lamp's base.

She doesn't aim. Just hurls it over her shoulder.

Instant impact. Ceramic erupts across the Wanderer's chest in a burst of glass, wiring, and twisted metal. Sparks streak off its plating. Something inside clicks.

The body reels. Shoulders torque. One leg skids across the bedding, joints spasming for traction it can't find.

Then, from the far side of the bed, static bursts—splitting the moment clean.

Her head jerks sideways.

An intercom sits beside the ruined doorframe. It's scorched and glitching, the holo-screen blinking red-blue-red, stuck in a loop it can't escape.

Audio crackles through: "Raymond—why are you—bedroom? Are you—alright?"

Herman.

Degraded. But unmistakable.

Her gut flips.

If Herman's wired in—if he caught the sound—then Sylus and Zayne did too. This isn't even a room anymore. It's a crime scene. Furniture is overturned. Debris is scattered like remains. Her prints are on every single surface.

And there's no getting ahead of this.

She whips her head back.

The Wanderer spasms—limbs convulsing in discordant rhythms that echo muscle memory. Elbows snap back. Shoulders grind in. Its head rolls once, neck hitching as joints lock against warped rails.

Her eyes shoot upward.

Above the headboard, a shelf juts from the wall, cluttered with delicate excess—crystal statuettes, miniature globes, sun-dials, all gleaming like museum loot. Priceless. And waiting to fall.

She plants a boot on the headboard's top edge. The wood creaks beneath her as she rises, driving her shoulder clean into the shelf's underside. The brackets snap. Shear off the wall. 

Everything drops. 

A cascade of glass, bronze, and carved stone rains onto the bed—directly onto the Wanderer's back. A solid bookend smashes into its clavicle. 

It buckles. Spine contorts sideways with a brutal twist. One limb seizes. The other locks and twitches erratically. 

She doesn't wait. Drops hard to one knee beside the bed.

The duvet's already half-off the mattress. She grabs it with both hands, yanks the fabric up, and flings it over the creature's upper body like a net.

It lands heavy. She pulls tight—once, twice—then throws her weight into a third twist, cinching the folds around the writhing shape. Red-pink light pulses violently through the weave. Threads split. A seam tears with a loud rip as the duvet thrashes in her grip.

She lets go.

Spins off the floor. 

Rounds the bed in three strides and hits open space. Yet she cuts too close to the door, shoulder colliding hard with the doorframe. The impact jolts through bone and knocks her sideways, feet slipping on polished tile. She falls into the corridor—

Hits the ground.

Knees crack marble. Palms slap down. Cold bites skin.

She sucks in a breath as pain shoots through her forearms and thighs. Her vision reels. But the pain is secondary to the sound of footsteps coming fast around the corner, certain in their pace.

She twists upright, forcing her weight onto one knee as she turns toward the sound.

Zayne steps into view, collar askew, face tight, breath just beginning to slow. His eyes land on hers. Then the door. Then back again.

He slows without thinking, arms slightly lifted, his approach shifting into the practiced care of someone trained for emergencies. Concern slips through before he regains his composure. He parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes out.

Behind him, another set of footsteps follows, slower, dragging gravity with them. Sylus appears a second later, his thumbs hook into his pockets, and his posture easy. There's not a hint of surprise on his face. 

She forgets to breathe. Zayne sees her. Sylus sees everything else. And it's all turning from bad, to worse, to unwinnable.

The Wanderer bursts from the bedroom doorway.

Shreds of duvet hang from its frame, one strip twisted tight around a limb like a mangled bandage. The shattered door drags behind, splinters jammed in its joints, as if the creature's fused to the wreckage. Its bladed arm lashes upward, locking into a killing arc at her spine.

Her head whips toward it, but it's too late to dodge.

Zayne reacts on reflex. His arm cuts across his body, hand flaring open. A shard of ice rips forward, shaped like a thorn, fast as breath in a snowstorm. The hallway exhales frost in its wake.

The ice strikes the Wanderer mid-lunge. 

Metaflux convulses on contact. Frost blooms across one shoulder and races down the right leg, jagged crystals spidering over warped joints. It keeps moving, but the rhythm stutters.

She grabs the moment.

Hurls herself sideways, body folding mid-air. Her shoulder catches the tile, and the impact knocks the wind from her lungs. More pain slashes down her ribs as she tumbles across marble, but the ache keeps her present. 

The Wanderer misses by a heartbeat's width.

Its frozen joints miscalculate. One knee locks backward, overcorrecting as it twists too far. Its angle collapses mid-motion, and momentum carries it into the corridor's wall of windows.

Reinforced glass erupts outward.

The impact cracks like thunder. Shards burst into daylight as the Wanderer plows through. For a second, everything freezes: a fracture line arcing across the pane, sunlight flaring off airborne glass, and the creature spiraling down in a contorted sprawl.

It drops from the third floor.

Hits the courtyard like a thrown carcass. Bounces once. Then stills.

Sound reaches first—a warped crunch, cartilage and crystal buckling inward—before the shock reverberates up through the mansion, rattling walls and bone alike.

And then—

It begins to break apart. 

The Wanderer's form loses cohesion. Fragments lift into the air, disintegrating into pale blue motes—ash drawn skyward, caught in reverse gravity. Each speck glows faintly as it joins the rising stream.

She gasps. 

Air shudders back into her lungs like she'd been held underwater. Her arms and kneecaps throb as she uncurls from the marble, slowly pushing herself to sit. Each breath scrapes through her throat. Her pulse hammers against her ribs, still braced for impact. But the sound is gone. 

All that remains is glass, dust, and glare.

She lifts her head.

Zayne moves first. Professionalism overtakes his confusion as he drops to a knee beside her. 

"Are you alright?" he asks, low, like speaking any louder might worsen the injuries. His eyes track quickly—legs, arms, neck. 

She gives a faint nod, the act more real than the feeling behind it.

But when Zayne's eyes reach her face, they pause.

He holds there, eyes locked on her features, watching as familiarity turns traitorous. His jaw shifts, but he says nothing. He looks away, burying the reaction beneath duty as he reaches into the pocket at his thigh and pulls out a compact, sealed trauma pack.

"Hold still." 

He opens it one-handed, the other closing around hers to check for lacerations. His fingers still at her knuckles, where torn skin beads with blood. A crease pulls faintly at his brow. Then he eases her arm aside and leans toward the wound blooming red along her ribs. She hadn't even noticed the glass had pierced her.

Her throat stings as she swallows, but it's the silence she can't digest.

"I—" she starts.

She doesn't even know what she means to say, only that the words want out.

Zayne cuts her off gently. "Quiet for now. You're still bleeding." 

He doesn't say it harshly, but he still won't meet her eyes. He peels open a hemostatic pad and presses it to her side. "This will sting."

It does. 

A burn cuts through her side, making her fingers curl, but that's not what keeps her rooted. She pulls her eyes from the wound and turns toward the corridor's edge.

Sylus stands just outside the wash of sunlight, half-shadowed in the spill from the broken windows. White heat scorches through the frame, tracing the lines of his suit, grazing the edge of his jaw, but his eyes stay untouched, darker than the light can reach.

He watches without moving, like part of him is still adjusting to the idea that she keeps surviving, and he hasn't decided how he feels about that.

Zayne doesn't speak again. He finishes securing the gauze with a medic's calm, then presses her hand against it.

"Keep pressure on it."

She obeys, fingers aching as they settle over the pad. Zayne straightens, his knee brushing marble, then rising as his eyes shift past her. He moves toward the wall, enough to give her space, but not so far that he can't intercept if something goes wrong.

He stops a few steps from the bedroom door.

The light from the broken windows catch his shoulder now. His posture is careful, born from too many medical emergencies and not enough clean endings. With one hand, he reaches into his vest and pulls out his phone.

"I'm calling for evac," he says, fingers already dialing. "They'll send a rescue helicopter—if the upper landing is clear, they can arrive in five."

But before the line connects, Sylus speaks.

"Not necessary."

His voice rolls in low, like tension made audible. A full sentence held together by certainty. He's still half in shadow, but now he moves to the edge, where his shoe almost crosses into blown-out light. 

Zayne turns to face Sylus directly. He doesn't lower the phone, though his thumb hovers over the call button. "She needs help. This isn't up for debate."

Sylus takes another step. The light skirts the edge of his collar now, glancing off the metal of his buttons. He keeps his hands in his pockets. 

"Of course. But we're already covered." He continues, "No need to double the noise." 

Zayne exhales through his nose. The sound is restraint, reduced to breath. The phone stays braced in his hand as if even a response might be giving too much ground. 

"If this is what your coverage looks like," he mutters, thumb tapping the phone like it's the only thing keeping him from saying more. "I'll take the noise."

He pivots toward the hall, shoulders angling with him. The phone lifts, stops mid-rise, lips parting like speech is already on the breath—

Click.

The sound belongs to neither of them.

Zayne freezes. Words stall mid-thought. Sylus tilts his head, listening.

She feels it before she sees it. Pain anchors her to the floor, but instinct overrides it. Her palm flattens against the ground. She pushes herself halfway upright, vision dragging toward the door like her body already knows what waits on the other side.

From inside the ruined bedroom, a drag-scuff echoes out like stone scraped beneath black water. Then a gurgle follows, thick and choking and rising straight from the marble itself.

The floor darkens. 

A hairline crack spiders outward. Then widens. From that narrow fault, a slick, tar-dark mass begins to push up, weightless as vapor, but glistening like oil spilled beneath a dying sun. It gathers fast, rippling across the tile in a slow, twitching circle that bulges at the seams.

Metaflux.

It pulses. Each wave distorts the marble further, as veins of unnatural shimmer branch through the stone like infection hunting for a bloodstream. The surface flexes. Bows. Contracts. 

Then, beneath that quivering layer of lightless film—movement. 

Zayne lowers the phone. Says nothing. It disappears into his vest—an afterthought now, compared to what's coming. 

Sylus pulls his hands free. One lingers at his side, fingers curling into focus. Black-red mist bleeds out between his knuckles, coiling tight with the promise of violence.

She stops breathing, dread seizing her body. Her hand presses hard against the gauze as she pulls herself against the wall, eyes locked forward.

The surface splits open.

A claw rips upward. Slams into tile. Scrapes the stone in an ear-splitting shriek that razors through the corridor. More limbs burst after—splintered plating, jagged crystal—gutting the world from the marrow out.

A shoulder follows, wrenched free with a sick snap. Like this dimension is being forced to birth what it can't contain. It drags through, limb by limb, and rises—tall, skeletal, with a head torn into a ring of fractured crystal. The same shape. The same absence. Yet the focus behind it feels real.

Another Wanderer. 

It steps past the doorway and into the light. Head jolts sideways. Locks in.

Not on Zayne. Not on Sylus.

Her.

It lunges.

She reacts late. Her weight tips back, momentum breaking the wrong way. One arm flies up on reflex, the other drops the gauze, and blood smears her palm. Signals jam as adrenaline thins to static. But her body remembers enough.

She ducks.

The Wanderer's blade carves through where her head had been. It slashes the corridor wall instead, exploding through plaster, frame, and molding. Shards cascade around her like shrapnel. The force rips through the wall and into one of the vertical support columns, cracks racing down its spine.

She doesn't look up. Slides under its towering frame while it yanks at the trapped arm, metaflux slashing past. Her hands slip on tile, slick with blood. Knees flare as she pushes through—between its legs, out the other side.

A violent heave—its blade wrenches free with a crack. The support beam groans, fractures veering deeper before the whole frame buckles. The Wanderer twists, already keyed to her path.

It lunges again. Arms poised.

But the strike never hits. 

Sylus' hand is already up. Black-red tendrils shear through the space—one coils the bladed arm mid-swing and locks it at the joint. Another slams across its torso, crushing inward. A third lashes low, snares both legs, and yanks them together in a brutal, final lurch.

It staggers. Then seizes—limbs wrenched back, and torso bowed.

Despite the restraint, she doesn't relax. She tries to stand, but her legs buckle, nerves sparking out of sync. Across from her, the creature's head strains her way, still locked on. Her breath drags shallow, blood seeping at her side.

That's when Herman barrels in.

Footsteps hammer the marble. "Explain yourselves immediately," he snaps, voice rising before he even clears the stairs. "And what have you done with Mr. Raymond?"

He hits the western wing at full stride. Eyes rake the ruin: glass, broken stone, a shimmer warping both. Then he sees it. Stops.

The bravado dies mid-step.

His spine slackens. Shoulders dip. Hands fall loose at his sides, like the instinct to flee has already hollowed him out.

"…Mercy," he says, too soft for anyone but himself.

She tries again to stand. No luck.

Zayne catches her before her knees hit the floor. One hand slips under her arm, the other steadies her back, right below the shoulder blades. He crouches beside her, not pulling, just giving her someone to lean into.

"Don't fight me," he murmurs. "Just move."

She shifts anyway, resisting. But her limbs listen to him more than her. His posture takes the weight she can't hold. He adjusts, one arm locking around her waist, the other braced at her shoulder, and lifts her in one fluid motion.

Pain flares down her side. Blood's still seeping through the wound. She draws a sharp breath, but doesn't speak. Zayne tightens his grip, keeping her upright.

He guides her toward Herman, his decision already made.

"Evacuate the estate," he instructs, watching the Wanderer as it writhes deeper into the bind. "Lock it down once it's clear."

Her head lifts, eyes wide. She can't leave, not when she's this close. Raymond is nearby. He has to be. She can feel it. A pull in her gut that won't let go. If she turns back now, she'll never know. She just has to find him. Just has to—

A scream punches through the broken windows, spilling from the rooftop.

She flinches, head whipping toward the shattered stretch of glass where wind stirs small shards across the floor.

"That's Raymond," Herman breathes. "That's Mr. Raymond's voice."

A crack splits the air behind them. The fractured column gives. It slams down past the bedroom, right where the separate staircase begins. The floor jolts on impact, a shockwave ripping through the corridor. Debris bursts out, choking the hall in dust and rubble. 

The tremor ripples toward them. Zayne's hand firms at her back.

"Herman," he says, sharper now, nudging her closer to the butler. "You two need to go. Now."

Herman doesn't answer, standing there with his lips parted and gaze locked on the windows as if he can still hear the scream echoing.

Behind them, the creature in Sylus' grip thrashes. Tendrils cinch harder, crushing inward until the plated body caves in on itself. Yet before Sylus can finish it off, the thing vanishes.

A blink later, it snaps back into view, a pace off—like time skipped a beat.

Sylus clicks his tongue. His hand drops to his side as a new noise grinds out from the bedroom. A second shape claws halfway through the ruined doorway, limbs still dragging from the pool of Metaflux, plating rasping against stone.

"If Raymond screamed, he's still alive," Zayne says to Herman, already turning, heading back down the corridor where the next threat is. "Now make sure you are, too."

That pulls Herman back in.

"Yes—yes, of course," he stammers, spinning on his heel. Two fingers lift to his earpiece. "All wings, all floors—full evacuation. Staff and contractors, clear the premises. This is not a drill."

His shoes strike the marble as he turns down the western wing, voice still going. He slows, just a breath, looking back at her.

"This way," he says quickly, gesturing toward the spiral staircase. 

She doesn't move.

He turns anyway, stiff with fear, almost running. He doesn't look back again. 

But she does.

Back to Sylus, his Evol drags the escaped Wanderer back. He doesn't brace. Just steps in, draws his hand into a fist, shoulder cocked like he's ready to end it. No flourish. Just raw, close-range violence—the kind he was born for.

Back to Zayne, already advancing on the second one. Ice fans beneath its feet, a razor-thin frost that catches joints mid-step and locks weight where momentum should carry. Every strike made to delay, disarm, or outthink.

They don't notice her, too busy fighting their own battles.

And now it's her turn.

Her chest rises, then holds. Everything in her is screaming to run away. But that's the world's voice, not hers. 

She thinks of Richard, the footman she choked out. How his hand caught her leg. How he whispered his name like it was the only thing he had left to give. A last line in the sand to prove he was here. Because the world erases people like him, and he didn't want to vanish quietly.

That's what happens.

You speak up, and they call you dramatic. Laugh too loud, and you're too much. Ask questions, and you're in the way. Care too deeply, and they tell you to stop—like feeling is a flaw. Don't ramble about stories. Don't get attached to characters. Don't write anything too indulgent. Don't be weird about what you love. Don't let it matter.

So you stop.

You stop asking. Stop laughing. Stop taking up space. You shrink yourself down to whatever makes you easier to tolerate. You quiet the parts that spark and burn, and call it survival. But it's not. It's erasure.

Richard followed the rules, and it still swallowed him. Because the world doesn't care who obeys, it only cares who fits.

He didn't. Neither does she.

She doesn't know why the cats gave her nine lives. But if she had to guess, it wasn't to help her blend in better, but to give her the space to become. They didn't drag her back to disappear more politely. They brought her back because they knew, eventually, she'd have to choose.

You don't get to decide how many lives you're given. But you do get to choose how you spend them. And she chooses to live them like they're hers.

And maybe she wastes them. Maybe she burns every chance, gets it wrong more times than she gets it right. But that's what living is. You don't get meaning without risk. You don't get to be real if you're too afraid to take up space. A perfect life isn't a life—it's a performance.

And if she follows Herman, that performance never ends. She disappears into a script that was never hers to begin with. But she was never meant to play a role that erases her.

She lifts her head. Straightens her spine. Presses down the pain—side, knuckles, knees—and turns her back on the staircase.

One hand clamps over her ribs. Blood slicks her palm. 

She steps forward. Her boots scrape tile. 

Another.

The corridor ahead ripples with cold and ruin.

Just past Sylus and Zayne, the path to the rooftop staircase lies buried under rubble and twisted steel, with nowhere to go but elsewhere.

She scans the corridor, searching for what the collapse didn't take.

Then her eyes catch on the windows lining the opposite wall. A breeze slips through the shattered panes, threading a hush through the wreckage. One gapes wide, its glass sheared to blades. Beyond it, the mansion's outer wall rises—ivy climbing in thick, overgrown strands across stone.

That's her way up.

She moves. First a walk. Then faster. Strides lengthen, balance rediscovered in motion. Her pace builds—heartbeat in her ears, boots hammering the floor. Blood sticks to her hand, sweat beads her forehead, but she doesn't slow.

To her side, the fight rages on. Sylus steps in close, fist driving into the Wanderer's chest with a crack like shattering armor. The creature reels, barely upright, before ice lances across the floor. Zayne's strike hits clean—frost climbs its limbs, freezing it mid-motion.  

They move in sync: Sylus, all force. Zayne, all control.

Neither of them looks her way.

Good. They can't stop her. 

She staggers to the window. Wind brushes her face—cool, constant, and higher than it should be. It carries the hush of altitude, like the air knows how far there is to fall.

Below, part of the courtyard stretches into view. Shattered tile. Fractured stone. Dust still clinging to the outline of where the first Wanderer collapsed—long since vanished, leaving only a scar in the scene.

She doesn't look again.

Instead, she wipes her palms on her pants, smearing blood into the fabric for grip. One hand braces the jagged frame. Carefully, she angles through the opening. Her boots find the ledge—narrow, slick with dust and ivy sap, but solid.

Her shoulder grazes the polished composite. She stills. Breathes once.

Then moves.

She edges toward the vines that cling to the mansion's facade in ropes thick as her wrist. One hand reaches out. Fingers hook around the largest bundle. It holds—coarse and knotted with age and sun, roots sunk so deep into the wall they feel fused to the structure.

The mansion's surface gives nothing but sleek panels and vertical joins. Her boot finds purchase only on the recessed seams.

She clenches the vine, rolls her weight forward, and climbs—because there's no way back.

One arm. One leg. Then again. Higher. 

But—

She makes the same mistake. Looks down. 

Her gut reels.

The third floor yawns beneath her. A fall from here wouldn't kill her fast—just hard. It would crack her spine. Crush her lungs. Let her heart stutter until another life kicks in. Her fingers tighten. A chill needles its way up her back. Not from the wind. 

She blinks the fear away.

From this angle, she can see the front courtyard's edge. Staff and workers are gathering in small clusters, heads tipped up in slow realization. Zayne's car still waits at the front steps, untouched.

Amid the distant noise of chatter and scuffles, a low rumble rolls in.

A motorcycle glides into the courtyard's edge, like the story catching up one beat too late. It pulls up to the gates. Cuts the engine.

She stops cold at the sight. Mind blank in its wake.

The rider stays mounted, balanced in the pause between seconds. Everything around them stalls as the world holds its position. Then, as if released from a freeze-frame, a boot drops. The stand kicks out. A leg arcs over the seat. Each action plays out like perfected choreography, the body tracing steps it never forgot.

The helmet stays on.

But she already knows. 

A heartbeat passes. The world contracts.

The rider lifts it—

And her heart plummets three floors.

Serenophe.

The protagonist. The heroine. The real main character.

She doesn't walk. She enters. And the scene tilts to meet her. Each step hits the ground like it owns it.

This isn't an arrival. It's a handoff, picking up the story mid-stride. Forward momentum with no room for deviation. Motion that doesn't ask. It takes.

Halfway through her stride, Serenophe stops.

Her head turns. Chin lifts.

She looks up.

Right at her.

Even from this distance, their eyes meet. Two stories tangled on a page that was only written for one. From below, Serenophe stares, lips parted, brow drawn, her face tightening around a recognition that hasn't taken shape—seeing a glitch the world is trying to erase.

She sees her.

Three stories up, lungs hitch in the body pinned to the mansion wall.

The spell breaks.

She rips her focus back to the climb. Keeps going.

Blood pulses hot from her side, soaking into the waistband of her clothes. Her grip slips, then tightens. Hands shake. Boots skid in the narrow grooves. Her arms burn, and her ribs scream.

But she climbs anyway.

Higher. Faster.

The air thins as the wind turns harsh. Sweat chills along her neck. 

Above, the sky splits open: "—you don't understand! This is what it takes! This is how we transcend—"

The world is catching up.

And the end is near. 

Her fingers catch the rooftop's ledge. She grabs hold like it's the last solid thing left.

With one final push, she hauls herself over the edge. Steel tears through her sleeves as she scrapes across the rooftop lip, soles grinding over the rooftop's polished edge before finding grip. She plants herself upright.

The sun bears down, hot on her shoulders, heavy on her back. Yet the wind slaps her cheeks cold. It feels wrong, like two seasons fighting for control.

The rooftop opens around her. Brutalist and wide, it's framed in black steel and tempered glass. Off to the side, a stretch of reinforced plating breaks from the main deck, just wide enough for a helicopter to land.

Below her, through the glass ceiling, she can see straight into the heart of the mansion. The Lemurian skeleton waits in its tank. Hollow-eyed. Still. Staring up like it always knew she'd come. 

Jaw tight, she swallows and pulls her eyes away.

Raymond stands at the center.

He paces in crooked loops, one foot dragging behind him like he's forgotten how to walk. He hasn't noticed her. Not yet. Words spill from his mouth in broken attempts to explain himself. But it's aimed at no one. 

It's just her and him, alone on the rooftop, with nowhere left to go. 

In one arm, Raymond cradles a massive canvas, wider than his chest. The edges are smeared from his grip, and the painting is chaos—an ocean tearing itself apart, veins of red laced through impossible shades of blue. Like a mind unraveling underwater.

And in his other hand, loose in his grip, tapping against his thigh—

A gun.

His pacing halts. He stands with his back to her, scratching at his temple with the barrel like it's always been part of him.

"You don't get it," he mutters, to no one. "They never get it."

A breathless laugh cracks through his throat. 

"They called it cruel. But this? This is mercy. Immortality isn't about outlasting death. It's control. Legacy. You keep what matters. Cut the rest."

He wipes the gun down his face, sweat smearing across his cheek like war paint.

"The world survives on rules. On limits. You don't save the future by clinging to outliers. You erase them before they spread. That's how you build eternity. That's how you live forever."

Frozen in place, her breath chills with the wind. The rooftop feels suspended in unreality. There's no rustling trees, no staff murmurs, no clash of the fight below. Just the hammering in her chest.

She edges toward the center.

"Raymond," she says gently.

He whips his head around.

His pupils are blown wide. The canvas crushes to his chest like a shield. The gun jerks upward, trembling until the barrel pins her in place.

She freezes.

Both hands lift, fingers spread, trying to hold the tension steady. She has nothing to offer—no weapon, no proof. Only a name. And sometimes, that's all there is to say: I exist. I'm not a threat.

"I'm not here to hurt you," she says carefully. "You don't know me, but my name is—"

A bullet tears past—sound trailing like a whipcrack.

Pain ignites across the side of her head. A white-hot line scorches beneath her ear, flaying skin from cartilage. Her knees collapse, and she falls into a crouch, one boot sliding, the other bracing just in time. Her hand flies up, clutching her ear.

Warmth gushes between her fingers. The world shrinks to the ringing in her skull, blood trailing down her neck as the sky above splits wide into a grin.

"I don't care what your name is—" Raymond shouts, his voice cracking under its own fury. "Tell me who sent you—who are you working for?!"

No answer comes, only pressure. Her hand stays clamped to her ear, blood pooling beneath her nails, heartbeat pulsing against her palm. Her jaw moves, but the words snag on blood, breath, and the burn behind her eyes.

"There's no one else up here but us," she says, louder than she means to. The wind carries her voice through the haze. She tries to rise, but the rooftop lurches beneath her like it's turning against her too. "No one sent me. I just want to talk."

Raymond's eyes dart past her shoulder, tracking motion that doesn't exist. "They're behind you," he mutters. "Don't pretend. I know you see them. In the glass. In the halls. In my skin—"

The canvas bucks. He jams its edge into his arm, grinding down until skin splits, paint and blood smearing into a mess of color and flesh. The gun hangs low, forgotten as his fingers plunge into the raw line he's carved, nails scraping deeper like he's digging out rot no one else can find.

"They followed the ocean back," he rasps, torn between warning and worship.

She holds still. The ringing distorts everything. His voice warps in and out, pieces breaking off, but the direction is clear—he's faster than she can keep up.

The gun snaps up again, aimed near her center, trembling in his grip like it wants to fire on its own. Raymond glances down through the ceiling. The Lemurian skeleton stares back. He flinches, then spins toward her, jaw locked like it's holding back a scream.

"Stand up," he says.

She already is, knees bent from the stumble, one hand still pressed to the ear where skin splits beneath her fingers. Blood sticks warm against her palm. But the command is clear. She straightens slowly, careful not to startle the shaking barrel trained just off her chest. 

The gun stays raised. So does his suspicion.

His pupils twitch from point to point, and his chest rises in shallow breaths.

"I don't know who you are," he mutters, stepping forward, the weight of the painting hitching higher against his chest. "But you're one of theirs, aren't you? Some reject they scraped off a gurney in one of their blacksites? How many others did they bury before landing on you?" 

She draws back without meaning to. Pain claws her neck, but her hands rise in surrender, blood streaking down one arm. She can't make sense of what he's saying. "Whatever you're seeing—I'm not it. I'm not your past, and I'm not your enemy." 

Raymond barks out a laugh. "You say you're not part of my past. But you're the product of mercy over logic."

Another step closer. The rooftop, bleak and wind-scoured, keeps shrinking.

"You think I don't know what they're doing? I've seen the reports. The footage they scrubbed. What they kept breathing. What they let live." 

His voice stutters, then barrels on.

"They weren't cured. They were tolerated. That's the part they hide—who made it, and what they looked like after. I don't need a name tag to spot one of their patched-up success stories."

Her hearing stutters back, static scraping through her skull like a jammed transmission. Then the paper in her pocket crackles. It strikes through the noise, ripping her back into the notebook in an instant.

Now it makes sense.

He doesn't see a person. He sees a return. One of the test subjects brought back wrong. A reminder of what they tried to erase.

Just like Rafayel's paintings—built to haunt the people who tried to forget what they destroyed. That's what she is to him. A message that survived. 

She opens her mouth—he cuts her off.

"Don't. Don't pretend you're not. I know what you are." The barrel lifts higher. "You're what happens when people try to humanize failure. And call it a second chance."

She doesn't lower her hands. The rooftop presses cold against the soles of her boots. 

"They don't want me gone because I'm wrong," he scoffs. "They want me gone because I know what forever takes. Humans didn't always have Evols. The gene showed up like a glitch—rare and unpredictable. Now? Still rare, but growing. That's how evolution speaks." 

She's near the ledge now.

The courtyard sprawls beneath her, farther than it should be. Like each word he speaks peels the ground further away. She risks a glance down, not over the ledge, but through the glass beneath her boots, where the Lemurian is suspended by threads so fine they almost don't exist.

"We call it a miracle, but it's just failure repeating in the right direction," he continues. "Nature didn't mean to make Evols—it tripped, and we built a shrine around the fall. Mortality's no different. Just the next flaw to fix. Because immortality isn't myth, and godhood isn't belief—it's architecture. Correction. Progress."

Raymond stops.

The gun lowers slowly, like scaffolding coming down after the last nail's been set. But he's not looking at her. Not really. His eyes drift past her, as if the rooftop's already empty and he's alone again. Somewhere else entirely. Somewhere deeper.

She sees the shift immediately.

The drop in tension. The way the canvas sinks against his chest, slumping like something gutted of meaning. His fingers twitch along its corners, smearing more red into the blue.

"You don't grieve the dead," he mutters. "You dissect them. Strip them down. Take what still works. And if something survives the collapse, you pull it out and keep it breathing."

His head dips. The fire gutters out of his voice—what's left sounds like ash.

She doesn't waste the moment.

Pain still throbs throughout her body, but she still manages to move carefully. Her foot eases forward, peeling from the edge like it might scream if she pushes too hard. The rooftop holds. Raymond doesn't react. Her heel touches solid ground again—the kind that doesn't end in freefall. But she doesn't exhale.

Not yet.

He just keeps staring through her, lost in thought brighter than daylight.

"...Is that really so unforgivable?" he asks, quieter now. "To want to outgrow the limits we never chose?"

She closes the distance. Her hands lower as her eyes stay locked on the gun, now hanging limp at his side. His grip is no longer knuckle-white, just pale with the memory of pressure. She doesn't reach for it yet.

"I don't think you're wrong to want more." Her voice carries softly through the dying wind. "I think the world taught you that was the only way to survive it."

His eyes don't move. But his fingers tighten on reflex, squeezing the handle as if holding onto the idea of control more than the weapon itself.

She pauses. Feels the throb in her ribs pulse hard. Then she moves again. Slower.

"You said immortality is control. That you build eternity by cutting out what doesn't fit." Her tone stays level despite the chaos around them. "But maybe the problem isn't the outliers. Maybe it's the design that needed people like me to disappear."

His jaw ticks. The canvas in his arms buckles, creasing under his grip.

She knows the risk. But the words keep coming.

"You didn't just watch what they did—their experiments on animals, on people, on Lemurians." Her voice stays low, but her words narrow. "You knew. And you stayed. You profited. You kept quiet because you thought shaping the future would make the wreckage worth it. That history would forgive you if the ending looked clean." 

Raymond flinches, shoulders tighten like a hinge drawn too far.

Before he can recoil, she places one hand lightly on the corner of the canvas. Not in forgiveness. Not even in sympathy. Just a mark of recognition.

"I'm not excusing you," she says. "I know what it cost. But damage doesn't earn you forgiveness. Legacy isn't about preserving what's left. It's about admitting what was lost." 

Her other hand hovers, close to brushing his wrist.

A breath shudders out of him. His grip spasms. For a moment, she thinks he'll raise the gun.

But then his hand loosens.

She swallows hard. "If you want to build something that lasts, you can't do it by pretending none of this happened. The past doesn't vanish just because you survived it. And whatever future you're chasing, it won't hold if you won't face what it cost."

He doesn't respond. Just breathes. Trembling.

Then his fingers fall open.

And the gun slips from his hand.

She catches it and pulls back from Raymond. With a click of her thumb, she flips the safety on. Silence holds as she ejects the magazine and racks the slide. Two bullets drop, one hits the glass, the other rolls toward her boot. She stops it with the edge of her sole. 

The gun feels lighter now. Hollowed.

She crouches, sets it near her heel, then slides it out of reach so that he'd have to dive for it.

Then she rises. 

Raymond hasn't moved. His arms hang slack, the painting dragged low against his chest. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Whatever words he meant to say, they don't arrive until the silence starts to tighten.

"You think that changes anything?" His voice is rough, like it had to fight its way up his throat. "You think unloading the gun rewrites what I've done?"

His tongue drags over cracked lips. Then he lets go of the painting. It slaps face-down against the rooftop—too loud for how empty he looks now. His mouth works around another thought, but the words tangle.

"They'll erase me anyway," he mutters. 

She doesn't answer. Not right away.

The wind has settled. Somewhere beyond the mansion's edge, the low churn of rotor blades rises. A rescue chopper. Zayne and Sylus must've handled the Wanderers. Which means reinforcements. Extraction. The end.

Or maybe not the end—just the part where the story wraps up without her.

She should look toward the courtyard. Toward the place where the script closes and the real protagonist waits. But she can't bring herself to meet Serenophe's eyes again. Not like this. Not with scraped knuckles, bruised knees, blood still warm down her ribs and ear, and the weight of another life pressing behind her lungs. 

Instead, she answers him.

"That's not up to you."

His eyes meet hers.

She holds his stare. "It never was."

His expression changes. A breath pulls in. Something settles.

Her voice drops. "Whatever comes next... that belongs to the people still living with what you left behind."

Raymond turns back toward the sound of the approaching chopper. The distant whir grows louder. A few minutes tops before they touch down. He turns back to her, and for the first time, he doesn't look like he's bracing.

Just… still.

His shoulders don't twitch. His jaw doesn't tremble. The wildness drains from his stare as pupils steady. He looks neither redeemed nor remorseful, only like a man who finally ran out of speeches. 

Then he glances past her shoulder.

And something cracks.

It starts small: a twitch in his cheek. Then his spine coils, realigning like a wire's been pulled tight. His fingers curl into half-formed fists. Pupils shrink. Breath staggers.

Whatever quiet had surfaced rips itself apart—and the frenzy surges back with a vengeance. 

She sees it too late.

Her eyes track his line of sight, braced for another curveball, a final piece of the script arriving to tie off the nightmare.

But there's nothing.

Just rooftop. Sky. The ledge.

"You're right," he breathes. "It's not mine to decide."

Her stomach twists. She turns—and he's already lunging.

"Raymond—!"

His hand snaps around her wrist and yanks. The socket strains—hot pain lancing through her shoulder as her body jerks forward. She pitches into him, ribs colliding with his chest.

"Let go!" she gasps, her knuckles slamming into him. One, two—but the blows feel dull, her scraped fists weak with blood loss. Her boots skid for traction. No grip, no grounding. Her heel bounces off the rooftop, and she nearly buckles.

His arms lock around her in a tight, full-body embrace. Like a bear trap closing around a wounded animal.

Her knee snaps up into his thigh. She claws at his coat, fingers slipping across buttons slick with blood. Her nails tear into his neck, scraping skin, drawing more red. But he only grunts. Not stopping. 

They stagger together in a warped, ugly rhythm—her body sagging, his dragging forward with singular, unhinged purpose.

It isn't a struggle. It's a forced descent.

The ledge is only steps away.

She tries to twist sideways, but her side cramps. Her ribs scream. The flayed edge of her ear stings with every shift. She rakes her fingers down his cheek, grabbing a fistful of hair, yanking until it nearly comes out at the root.

Still, he keeps moving. 

His hand drives between them, and he stabs two fingers straight into the open cut along her ribs.

Her scream is louder than the chopper closing in. 

It tears from her throat without warning. Her body spasms in his grip, knees buckling hard. Vision erupts in white, then black. Her lungs seize.

He twists his fingers inside the wound.

She sobs. The pain is blinding—blood pools down her side, soaking through already-clotted fabric. Her legs give again. Her fingers dig into his wrist, nails embedding deep—but he just keeps twisting. 

"Please—" she chokes, lips wet with spit and tears. "Please—just let me go—"

But his mouth is at her ear now, voice slurred, syllables pulling apart. "I know what they'll decide."

Her heels drag behind, stripping her farther from herself with each tug. Her bruised knees buckle again and again, but he holds her up like deadweight. The ledge creeps closer. 

She fights with what's left—fingernails gouging into his jaw, punching blindly, grabbing skin, twisting fabric, biting down on anything she can reach. Her whole body shakes with it.

None of it matters.

He's too strong, or maybe she's just too spent.

"I'm just finishing what they started," he mutters.

Behind her, the rooftop vanishes.

And so does everything else.

Air punches around her.

Her body snaps forward, yanked by his weight. His arms tighten. Elbow crushes against her collarbone. His breath scalds her cheek.

Wind strips past her face, slicing into the flayed edge of her ear, dragging tears from her eyes. Her arms flail. Legs kick. Pain screams from her ribs, her knees, her raw, bleeding fists. Blood loss blurs her vision—but not the hurt.

She plummets past glass. Steel. The tank.

Her mouth opens, but no sound. Only wind. And the ground rushing up.

In the half-second before impact, she sees it—

How the sky widens above, teeth bared, waiting to finish what it started.

Then—

Everything rips away.

No jolt. No rib snap. No skull split.

She's lying flat.

The bunk's fabric sticks to her back, soaked through with sweat. She jerks upright, breath caught between a gasp and a choke. Her chest heaves and her body trembles. Her skin hums like she's still mid-fall, like gravity hasn't let her go yet.

Her eyes dart across the room, searching for the ledge, the rooftop, the man who pulled her down with him.

But none of it's there.

Low lighting presses against her eyes. Prefab walls close her in. That familiar, low whine of a generator nestles behind the walls. Steel bunks. Scuffed lockers. The smell of gun oil and instant coffee.

She knows this place.

Across from her, a figure stirs beneath a blanket.

"…Kennedy?" The name cracks from her throat.

The lump groans. A braid-tangled head emerges, eyes squinting, face scrunched with sleep and confusion. "What the—? You havin' a damn heart attack? Do you even know what time it is?"

Everything in her stills.

Her lungs forget what to do. Her ribs feel too tight, like they're bracing for another impact that never comes.

No. This isn't possible, she thinks. Kennedy is dead. She died the same day I did.

Grabbing her own wrist, she checks her pulse: frantic, but real. It’s wild beneath her fingertips, insistent in a way that makes it true.

The blanket comes off in a single shove. She swings her legs over the side. Her bare feet hit the floor hard, jolting her knees. But there's no ache. No bruises. No sting in her ribs. Just the cold, biting up through her soles like proof.

She stumbles to the end of the bunk and drops down hard beside her duffle. The bag sits just where she left it, canvas soft with wear. Her hands close around the strap. She drags it forward, tears it open, and starts rifling through like her life might still be folded somewhere inside.

Shirts. Socks. A half-eaten ration bar. Her old tactical gloves. The familiar clutter of a soldier's downtime. Her fingers keep digging until they close around a rectangular shape.

Her phone.

Behind her, Kennedy groans, then pushes upright in bed, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. "Hey." Her voice is rough but alert. "Seriously. Are you okay?"

No answer. Just the bright blue glare of the lockscreen as it lights her face. She squints against it, blinking fast as the time and date adjust into focus.

Then she stops. Stares.

One week.

One week before the city falls. Before the cratered streets. Before the shot to her chest and the kitten's thank-you.

Her thumb trembles over the glass.

What is this? A lucid dream? A hallucination? Did the world actually erase me, like I was never really there? I feel like I'm back, but I don't know how. Or if it's real. Or if I'm supposed to be here.

Fingers clumsy, she opens the camera, stands, and crosses the room in halting steps. The prefab creaks beneath her, but her legs don't give. At the window, she peels back the blackout flap. Moonlight splits through the gap, laying cold silver across her face and shoulders.

She lifts the phone. Angles the lens toward her face. Stops.

It's not Serenophe.

It's her.

Her own face—real, alive, unedited.

A sound punches out of her. Half-laugh. Half-gasp. Almost a sob.

Behind her, Kennedy shifts again. "Okay," she says slowly. "Do I need to get the doc? Or are you gonna tell me what's going on?"

Still holding the phone, she turns. Her voice cracks on the way out.

"How do I look?"

Kennedy blinks. "Is that a trick question?"

"No." Her throat works around the word like it hurts. "I just… I need to know."

Kennedy studies her longer now, sensing the weight behind the question but not the shape. Then shrugs, unsure what else to do. "You look the same as always. Like shit."

She laughs.

It shouldn't undo her, but it does.

Something breaks open.

She lets out another sound, closer to hysteria than relief. Then another. And another. Until she's laughing hard, and it won't stop. Her shoulders are shaking, and tears slip down her cheeks before she realizes she's crying.

The phone drops from her hand, thudding softly to the floor. Her whole body folds inward, breath torn between too many feelings at once. Tears run hot down her cheeks as her knees start to buckle.

Kennedy is off the bed in an instant. Blanket dropped. Bare feet whisper over cold flooring. She doesn't ask questions, just pulls her into a hug and holds her up.

"I got you," she mutters, even if she doesn't understand what's happening. "I got you."

She clutches Kennedy like she might vanish again. Her fingers dig into her friend's back, gripping cloth, skin, proof. Her face presses into Kennedy's shoulder as the sobs keep coming, louder now, deeper. She cries like she'll never stop. Like all nine lives are leaking out at once.

Because this shouldn't be happening.

Because Kennedy died.

Because she never got to say goodbye.

And now she's here, holding her friend again.

She doesn't know how long they'll stay like that. How many sobs it takes. How many breaths slip between them. How long she's allowed to stay in a moment that feels borrowed.

But just for now, she's not Serenophe, or a stray, or a mistake in someone else's story. She's just herself, hugging someone she already lost.

And it feels like the life she lost still knows her name.