Side Story 5 – Just One More Chance

The apartment was small, cramped, and dusty—a relic of better times that had long since faded into memory. The wallpaper, once a cheerful floral pattern, had yellowed and peeled at the edges, revealing the cracked plaster beneath. The furniture was worn, the cushions sagging from years of use, the wooden frames scratched and stained. A single lamp cast a dim, amber glow across the room, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the still air.

Danny stood in the center of the room, his hands hanging limply at his sides, his shoulders slumped with the weight of a thousand failures. He was a middle-aged man, his salt-and-pepper hair thinning at the temples, his square jaw shadowed with stubble that he hadn't bothered to shave in days. His clothes were clean but worn—a button-up shirt that had seen better decades, trousers that had been patched more times than he cared to count.

Before him stood his wife, Stacy.

She was crying.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving glistening trails in the dim light. Her long blonde hair, once so carefully styled, was pulled back in a hasty ponytail. Her hazel eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. She wore a simple dress—the same one she had worn for the past three years, the same one she had mended and patched and made do with because they couldn't afford anything new.

Beside her stood a suitcase.

It was packed full, the clasps straining against the contents within. Danny could see the corner of a photograph poking out from the top—a family portrait, taken years ago, back when things had been good. Back when they had been happy.

Stacy: "Danny, I just can't do this anymore."

Danny felt his heart lurch in his chest.

Danny: "Babe, believe me. This will be the one. Just one more chance, and I'll prove it to you. I'll prove that I can make this work. You'll live better than a noble after this job. You won't have to worry about money ever again."

He reached for her, but she pulled away.

Danny: "Just one more chance. You'll—"

Stacy turned away.

She bent down and picked up the suitcase. She didn't look at him. She didn't say a word. She simply walked toward the door.

Danny: "Stacy, please—"

The door opened. Then it closed

And Danny was alone.

He stood in the center of the empty apartment, the silence pressing in on him from all sides. The clock on the wall ticked steadily. The lamp flickered, casting dancing shadows across the peeling wallpaper.

And unlike all the times before—all the times she had stormed out and come back an hour later, all the times she had threatened to leave and then relented, all the times he had promised to change and then failed—this felt different.

“She's really gone,” he thought. “She's really gone this time.”

And I have no one to blame but myself.

♦♦♦♦♦

Danny jerked awake as the vehicle hit a bump in the road, his head snapping forward and his eyes flying open. For a moment, he had no idea where he was—the world was a blur of motion and noise and confusion, and his mind was still swimming in the murky waters of sleep.

He looked around, his heart pounding, trying to piece together his surroundings.

He was sitting in the back of a transport truck—a large, covered vehicle with metal benches bolted to the floor and equipment lashed down with ropes and straps. The interior was dim, lit only by the faint light that filtered through the canvas covering.

Not too far from him, slumped against the side of the truck, was Frank.

Frank was a slightly bigger man, his frame softened by years of sedentary living, with a thick beard that was streaked with gray and a balding head that he tried to hide with a cap. He was Danny's oldest friend, his most loyal companion, the man who had stuck by him through thick and thin, success and failure.

They had started a business together—Danny and Frank Footwear, a successful brand of shoes that had sold well in the early years.

And then, through a series of bad decisions and unfortunate circumstances, they had lost it all.

Danny had been the one to make those decisions. He knew that. Frank had gone along with them, had supported him, had believed in him even when everyone else had given up. But the failures were Danny's. The mistakes were Danny's. The loss was Danny's.

And now, here they were, riding in the back of a truck to some godforsaken excavation site, chasing one last chance at redemption.

Frank noticed that Danny was awake. He straightened up, his expression shifting from drowsy to alert.

Frank: "Hey, Danny. You okay? You were out cold there for a while."

Danny rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering fog of his dream.

Danny: "Yeah. Just... just having a weird dream. That's all."

Frank raised an eyebrow.

Frank: "What kind of weird dream?"

Danny was silent for a moment, the memory of the dream still fresh in his mind—the dusty apartment, the tears on Stacy's face, the emptiness of her departure.

Danny: "It was about Stacy."

Frank's expression softened.

Frank: "Oh. Were you dreaming about coming back successfully from this trip? Seeing her smile again? Wait, no—you said it was weird. So it wasn't that kind of dream?"

Danny shook his head.

Danny: "It was the last conversation we had before I left," he said, his voice flat.

Frank winced.

Frank: "So, less of a dream and more of a memory," he said.

Danny: "Yeah. Something like that."

Frank was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought.

Frank: "How did that conversation go?" he asked carefully.

Danny took a deep breath, steadying himself.

Danny: "Not well. Not well at all. She said she couldn't keep waiting for me to change."

Frank shook his head, a look of genuine disgust crossing his features.

Frank: "What an ungrateful broad," he muttered. "Doesn't she recognize that you're doing this for her? That you're trying to get back on your feet so she can have the life she deserves? All those weeks we spent together, day in and night out, trying to get a new business going—and she didn't appreciate any of it?"

Danny sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair.

Danny: "That was the problem, Frank. I didn't spend enough time with her and the kids. She begged me—she actually begged me—to just give up on this business pursuit and get a normal job. Something that would give me enough time to be with our son and daughter. To be a real father."

Frank's expression hardened.

Frank: "Come on, you? Danny Rono, get a normal job? She knew what she was getting into when she married you. She knew you were a dreamer, a risk-taker, a man who wasn't content to just sit behind a desk and collect a paycheck. She knew all of that."

Danny shook his head.

Danny: "Maybe," he said. "But maybe she was right. Maybe I need to give up on the whole business tycoon thing and just... look after the homestead. Be proper father-like and all that."

Frank scoffed.

Frank: "That's loser talk. That's the kind of talk that comes from people who have given up. And we can't quit now, Danny. We're so close. We're almost there."

Danny looked at him, his eyes tired and defeated.

Danny: "But it just hasn't been going well for us, Frank," he said. "Everything we've tried has fallen apart. Every opportunity we've chased has turned out to be a dead end. I'm running out of hope. I'm running out of energy. I'm running out of... of everything."

Frank leaned forward, his expression intense.

Frank: "This time it's different. I know I've said that before. I know you've heard it a hundred times. But this time it really is different. It's the big one, Danny. We get this job done, and we're golden. I can feel it."

Danny looked at his old friend, at the earnestness in his eyes, the stubborn optimism that had carried them through so many failures.

Danny: "Frank," he said quietly, "Stacy left me. That was what the dream was about. She took the kids with her to her parents. She said she couldn't do it anymore, and she meant it. She's not coming back this time."

Frank's expression shifted, the bravado fading to something more serious.

Frank: "Oh, fuck. You didn't tell me that part."

Danny nodded slowly.

Danny: "That's why, after this—after I give this whole business thing one last chance—I'm done. We're either going to get in the black or go bust. You hear me? This is it. The last shot."

Frank was silent for a long moment, processing his friend's words.

Frank: "I hear ya, man," he said finally, his voice subdued. "I hear ya. And you're right. Once we get this job done, once we have the capital we need, we'll be able to make our shoemaking business rise once more. We'll be able to pay off our debts, rebuild our lives, and prove everyone wrong."

He paused, a hint of his old optimism creeping back.

Frank: "It's going to work, Danny. I promise you. It's going to work."

Danny nodded, though he didn't quite believe it.

Danny: "Run it by me again. The job we're doing. Some of the details are a little fuzzy to me. I'm having a hard time recalling some of the events that led up to me being here."

Frank raised an eyebrow.

Frank: "Better not be going senile on me," he said, a hint of humor creeping into his voice. "I can't afford to have my partner losing his marbles."

Danny: "Just get talking," Danny said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite everything.

Frank leaned back, settling into the familiar rhythm of storytelling.

Frank: "My cousin—Conrad, remember him? The archaeologist?—he has this big expedition to some sealed ruins in the middle of nowhere. I think he called the ruin Fo-gaalza, or something like that. It's some ancient site that's been buried for centuries, and he's got permission from the local authorities to excavate it."

He paused, scratching his beard.

Frank: "He was feeling bad about what happened to our business. He offered to give us some funding for our next venture, but in exchange, we needed to help out on this expedition. Provide some extra muscle, some extra hands, whatever he needed. And he said that how much money he could lend us is based on what discoveries we make during the search. The more successful this trip is, the bigger the bonus he'll get—which means more capital for our business."

Danny nodded slowly, the pieces clicking into place.

Danny: "So what you're saying is," he said, "this whole trip could be for nothing if we don't find anything interesting."

Frank waved a dismissive hand.

Frank: "Stop being a downer," he said. "We'll find something. We always do. Conrad says there's something big buried there, something that could change everything. And I believe him."

Danny was about to respond when the vehicle jolted violently, the brakes screeching as it came to a halt.

Frank: "It sounds like we've reached our destination," he said, rising to his feet with a grunt. "Showtime, partner."

He moved toward the back of the truck, throwing open the canvas flap and letting in a flood of bright, dusty light.

Danny followed behind, his heart heavy, his mind racing.

♦♦♦♦♦

For the next several hours, Danny worked.

It was mindless labor. It didn't require anything except the willingness to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving. He carried boxes of supplies off the transport trucks, stacked them in designated piles, and then went back for more.

The caravan they were traveling in was made up of eight transport trucks, each one loaded to capacity with equipment and supplies for the expedition. There were tents and bedrolls, cooking equipment and food stores, scientific instruments and excavation tools. There were also things Danny didn't recognize—strange metal contraptions, boxes marked with symbols he couldn't read, crates that were sealed so tightly he couldn't even guess at their contents.

Conrad had been thorough. Whatever this expedition was, whoever had funded it, they had spared no expense.

The clearing they had chosen for their camp was in the middle of an untamed forest, far from any road or settlement. The trees were ancient and gnarled, their branches interlocking overhead to form a dense canopy that blocked out most of the sunlight. The ground was thick with underbrush—thorny bushes, tangled roots, and a carpet of dead leaves that muffled every footstep. Several members of the group were busy cutting down the underbrush, creating a patch of open space in the heart of the wilderness.

Danny carried a box of canned goods toward the food stockpile.

As he set the box down, he paused and looked up.

There it was. The reason they were all here.

It was unimpressive.

Just a cave in the middle of some woods. The entrance was a dark, jagged maw in the side of a rocky outcropping, partially obscured by hanging vines and moss-covered boulders. There was nothing grand about it. It was just a hole in the ground, dark and uninviting.

But apparently, in that cave, there was a ruin called Fo-gaalza.

“Fo-gaalza,” Danny thought, turning the name over in his mind. “What kind of name is that? It sounds like something a child would make up. Or something from a bad adventure novel.”

He wondered if Conrad had given the ruin its name or if it was related to some sort of historical document. He hoped for the latter, because if Conrad had named it, that meant Frank's cousin had a truly terrible naming sense. Fo-gaalza. It was clunky and awkward.

“Maybe it's from an old language,” he thought. “Maybe it means something in whatever tongue the original inhabitants spoke.”

All around Danny, the camp was taking shape.

Tents were being erected, their canvas sides flapping in the occasional breeze. A cooking area was being set up near the center of the clearing, with a portable stove and a stack of firewood. A communications tent had been erected at the edge of the camp, with antennae and equipment that looked far too sophisticated for a simple archaeological dig.

Everyone had their own job to do, and they did it with the quiet efficiency of people who had done this kind of work before. Some were unloading equipment. Others were clearing brush. A few were setting up a perimeter, stringing rope and marking boundaries with stakes.

The sun beat down on them from high overhead, its rays hot and unforgiving. Sweat dripped down Danny's forehead, stinging his eyes. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his back. His arms ached from carrying boxes. His legs were tired from walking back and forth across the clearing.

He thought about Stacy.

He thought about the kids.

He thought about the life he had lost, the life he was trying desperately to reclaim.

And then he pushed those thoughts aside and got back to work.

♦♦♦♦♦

After a couple of hours, the unloading was finally complete. All the supplies had been moved off the trucks and sorted into their designated piles. The camp had taken shape—a small village of canvas and rope, nestled in the heart of the wilderness. And enough trees and underbrush had been cleared to create a defensible space, with clear sightlines in all directions.

Conrad called everyone together.

The group of about fifty people gathered in a loose semicircle around the expedition leader. They were a motley assortment—researchers and laborers, scholars and adventurers, people from all walks of life who had been drawn to this expedition for reasons of their own. Some were clearly academics, with their wire-rimmed glasses and their careful, and the technical equipment they carried. Others were laborers, their hands calloused and their shoulders broad.

Conrad stood at the center of the semicircle. He was a middle-aged man with glasses perched on his nose and thick muttonchops framing his face. His hair was black, streaked with gray at the temples, and his eyes were sharp and intelligent behind his lenses. He wore the standard clothing of the expedition—a light beige bush jacket, shorts that reached just below his knees, and a pith helmet that sat slightly askew on his head.

He looked like an explorer who belonged in adventure novels and old movies.

Conrad: "Great job, everyone. We managed to unload the supplies and set up our camp swimmingly. Hardly any time wasted." He nodded, pleased by their progress. "Now then, let me explain what we will be doing going forward."

He paused, letting the words sink in.

Conrad: "We will be setting up our main camp on the outside, which will serve as our base of operations. From here, we will check the surrounding area and establish a safe perimeter around the entrance to Fo-gaalza. But the tunnels leading into the ruin are quite difficult to traverse and go fairly deep into the earth. It would be impractical to travel back and forth from the surface multiple times a day."

He gestured toward the cave entrance, its dark maw seeming to swallow the light.

Conrad: "Instead, we will be setting up a forward research camp in the ruins themselves. This will allow us to work more efficiently, without wasting time on the journey in and out. Does anyone have any questions?"

A murmur rippled through the crowd. People exchanged glances, shifting their weight from foot to foot. Then a man raised his hand and stepped forward.

He was on the younger side, perhaps in his late twenties. He wore the same beige bush jacket as everyone else.

Researcher: "Sir Conrad, we didn't bring any ventilation equipment with us. It might not be safe to set up a camp right in the ruins if it is as deep as you suggest. There's a risk of suffocation without proper air flow"

Conrad smiled—a warm, reassuring expression that seemed to put the young man at ease.

Conrad: "Don't worry, my boy," he said, his voice carrying a note of confidence that was almost infectious. "There was an initial survey that looked into these ruins long before we got here. The survey team found that the ruins are populated with glow moss."

He paused, turning to address the rest of the group.

Conrad: "For those of you who don't know, glow moss is a wondrous plant capable of filtering out most harmful gasses and converting them back into safe, breathable air. It's a natural filtration system, one that has been used in underground environments for centuries. And we are fortunate that Fo-gaalza is the perfect environment for this plant. It's thriving there."

He smiled again.

Conrad: "So there is no fear of suffocation or dangerous gases. Additionally, the glow moss will serve as an additional light source. As we move deeper into the ruins, the moss will glow brighter in response to our presence."

The young researcher nodded, his expression easing.

Researcher: "That does calm my concerns, Sir Conrad," he said. "Just one more question, if you don't mind. How many of us will be sent into the ruin?"

Conrad considered the question.

Conrad: "I plan to select twelve people from the group to come with me into the ruins. I don't want too many people in the tunnels themselves. The tight spaces might complicate things, and I'd rather have a smaller, more manageable team."

He looked around the group, his eyes scanning the faces of his assembled crew.

Conrad: "The rest of you will remain here at the main camp, maintaining our base of operations and conducting surface surveys. We'll rotate personnel as needed, but the initial team will be the core of our exploration."

After the meeting, Conrad explained a few other miscellaneous things—the schedule for the next few days, the rotation of duties, the protocols for communication between the surface camp and the forward camp. Then everyone dispersed, returning to their respective tasks.

Danny lingered.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, staring at the entrance of the cave. He didn't know why, but something about it felt familiar. There was a pull, a tug at the edges of his consciousness, like a half-remembered dream that he couldn't quite grasp. It was like he had been here before.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the feeling.

“Stop being ridiculous,” he told himself. “You're just tired. You've been working for hours. Your mind is playing tricks on you.”

But the feeling wouldn't go away.

He stared at the cave entrance, at the darkness that seemed to swallow the light, and he felt a chill run down his spine.

Danny: “I hope I don't have to go in there.”

♦♦♦♦♦

Danny cursed himself as he squeezed through the narrow gap.

The tunnel walls pressed in on him from both sides, rough and damp, scraping against his shoulders and back. He had to turn sideways to fit, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as he inched forward. The rock was cold against his skin, and the air was thick with the smell of wet stone and something else.

He had been one of the twelve people Conrad had selected to accompany him into Fo-gaalza.

Danny: “If I hadn't said anything,” he muttered under his breath, “I wouldn't have ended up here. If I had just kept my mouth shut and didn’t tempt fate”

But it was too late for that now.

The group—Danny, Frank, Conrad, and ten others—were making their way through a dark, damp tunnel, their path lit by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows on the walls. They walked in single file. Their footsteps echoing in the confined space.

The tunnel was not as dark as it could have been.

As Conrad had promised, the walls and ceiling were covered in glow moss—a strange, luminescent plant that gave off a gentle, dim green light. It clung to the rock like a living carpet, its tendrils pulsing faintly with an inner radiance. The light was soft, casting the tunnel in an otherworldly glow.

Danny had never seen anything like it.

As he moved through the tunnel, he was amazed by the way the moss seemed to respond to his presence. The closer he got, the brighter it glowed, as if it were trying to help him see his way forward. It was a beautiful phenomenon, one that made him feel like he was walking through a dream.

In reality, the moss was simply responding to the carbon dioxide he was exhaling. It absorbed the gas and used it as fuel, glowing brighter in the process. It was a simple biological reaction, nothing more.

He heard a constant dripping sound coming from somewhere further down the tunnel—the slow, steady rhythm of water falling on stone, echoing through the darkness like a heartbeat.

Frank walked in front of Danny, his bulk barely fitting through the narrow passage. His shoulders scraped against the walls, and his breathing was labored from the effort of squeezing through the tight space.

Suddenly, the glow moss near Frank flared bright—much brighter than it should have been.

Danny frowned, confused by the sudden increase in light. Then he smelled it—a foul, pungent odor that seemed to fill the entire tunnel.

Danny: "Frank! Did you just fart?!"

Frank's shoulders hunched.

Frank: "Damn it," he muttered. "I didn't think you would notice."

Danny: "Of course I'm going to notice! We're in a tight space! If you're going to pass gas, at least don't do it when I'm standing right behind you!"

Frank: "What do you expect me to do? This tunnel is too narrow for me to move away from the group! It's not like I can just step aside and let everyone pass!"

Danny opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a laugh echoed from behind him.

He turned to see Liam, the laborer who had been walking at the back of the group. He was in his early thirties, with hard muscle and a weathered face that spoke of years of physical labor. He had been assigned to their group during the journey, and the three of them had gotten to know each other during the long, tedious hours of travel.

Liam: "Hahaha. You two are a real riot! I haven't laughed this hard in weeks!"

Danny scowled.

Danny: "You wouldn't be laughing if you were the one standing behind Frank," he said.

Liam: "Maybe not," he admitted, still chuckling. "But I wouldn't be complaining, either. Nothing smells as bad as baby poop. Trust me. I've had plenty of experience with that lately."

Danny blinked.

Danny: "Isn't that oddly specific?"

Liam grinned, his teeth white in the dim glow of the moss.

Liam: "Well, my wife just gave birth to our daughter a little while ago. And the smell reminded me of all the times I had to change her diapers. You get used to it after a while. It's just part of being a parent."

Danny felt a pang of something—longing, perhaps, or regret.

Danny: "You just had a baby?" he asked. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be at home with your family?"

Liam shrugged.

Liam: "Money. Why else? The pay for this expedition was really good. Way better than anything I could make back home. And my mom was kind enough to help out while I'm out here. She's been watching the baby and helping my wife adjust."

Danny nodded slowly, a weight settling in his chest.

Danny: "Take my advice, Liam. From a father who didn't make enough time for his family. Don't waste the time you have on this world with work. Spend that precious time with your family, especially with your newborn. You might think you have all the time in the world, but it goes by faster than you realize."

Liam's expression shifted—a flicker of something that might have been understanding or might have been dismissiveness.

Liam: "Yeah, yeah," he said, waving a hand. "I'm going to. After this job, I should have enough money to spend the next year with my wife and the baby. That's the plan."

His tone was dismissive, as if he wasn't really taking Danny's advice seriously.

Danny felt a pang of frustration.

“He's going to make the same mistake I did,” he thought.

But before he could say anything else, a voice echoed from further down the tunnel.

Conrad: "By the Light! It's massive!"

The three men exchanged glances, their earlier banter forgotten.

They pushed forward, their pace quickening, their hearts pounding with anticipation. The tunnel opened up ahead, the walls widening, the ceiling rising, the glow moss growing brighter and more abundant.

And then they stepped into the cavern.

The space was vast—larger than anything Danny had expected.

The cavern stretched out before them like a cathedral carved from the earth itself, its ceiling rising high overhead, lost in shadows that the glow moss couldn't quite penetrate. The walls were covered in the same luminescent growth, casting the entire space in a soft, greenish glow.

And there, built into the wall of the cavern, was the structure that had made the voice cry out in wonder.

It was a temple.

Massive columns rose from the floor, their surfaces covered in intricate carvings that seemed to tell a story that Danny couldn't quite read. Faded statues stood at intervals along the facade, their features worn smooth by centuries of time, their poses frozen in expressions of devotion or supplication. The architecture was unlike anything Danny had ever seen—strange angles, unfamiliar proportions, a sense of scale that made him feel small and insignificant.

The temple was built into the rock itself, as if it had grown out of the stone rather than been constructed by human hands. The entrance was a massive archway, its keystone carved with symbols that Danny didn't recognize. The darkness beyond was absolute, swallowing the light of their torches and the glow moss alike.

It's like the ruins from the books, Danny thought, his mind racing. The pictures I saw in those old books, the ones I used to read when I was younger.

Conrad stood at the head of the group, his face illuminated by the green glow of the moss. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open, his expression one of pure, unadulterated wonder.

Conrad: "Amazing," he breathed. "Simply amazing! To build such a structure underground, in a cavern like this... how did they do it? Why did they do it? The answers to those questions, and so many more, may very well be waiting for us inside."

He turned to face the group, his eyes bright with excitement.

Conrad: "This is what we came for, everyone! This is the discovery of a lifetime! We are the first people to lay eyes on this temple in centuries—perhaps millennia! Whatever secrets it holds, they are ours to uncover!"

A murmur of excitement rippled through the group. People were smiling, their earlier fatigue forgotten, their spirits lifted by the magnitude of the discovery.

But Danny couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

He stared at the temple, at the dark entrance that seemed to swallow the light, and felt a chill run down his spine.

“There's something about this place, he thought. Something familiar. Something I can't quite place.”

“And it's not good. It's not good at all.”

♦♦♦♦♦

Danny and the others began to explore the temple proper.

The hallways were much larger than the cramped, claustrophobic tunnels they had traveled through to reach this place. Here, the ceilings soared high overhead, lost in shadows that the glow moss couldn't quite penetrate. The walls were wide enough for two people to walk side by side—though with the amount of debris that littered the floor, even that was a challenge. Crumbled stone, broken pottery, fragments of what might have once been furniture or statuary—all of it lay scattered across the ground like the aftermath of some ancient catastrophe.

The researchers had created designated pathways through the debris, marking them with small flags and ropes to ensure that no one accidentally stepped on anything of historical significance. It was slow going, picking their way through the ruins, but the researchers seemed to have endless patience for the work.

Danny, on the other hand, did not.

As he and the other laborers moved through the temple, he couldn't help but notice the contrast in attitudes. Some of the workers were genuinely interested in what they were seeing—they paused to examine the carvings, to speculate about the purpose of the rooms, to wonder about the people who had built this place. Others were clearly bored, their minds elsewhere, their movements mechanical and unenthusiastic.

But all the labours shared one question: why were they even here?

It seemed like the researchers should have been able to handle things on their own. They were the experts, the ones with the training and the knowledge.

After a few hours, the answer became clear.

They were pack mules.

The researchers would direct them to lift, move, and carry all kinds of objects—large stones that needed to be shifted out of the way, crates filled with broken pottery that needed to be cataloged, heavy equipment that needed to be set up in specific locations. The laborers were there to do the work that the researchers either couldn't or wouldn't do themselves.

Danny found himself carrying a particularly heavy chunk of carved stone—some kind of frieze, he guessed, though he couldn't make out what it was supposed to depict. His arms ached, his back protested, and his mind wandered back to thoughts of Stacy and the kids.

After hours of exploration, they found a large central chamber, hidden at the heart of the temple complex. The room was vast, easily the size of a small cathedral, with ceilings that rose high overhead and walls that were covered in intricate carvings. Unlike the rest of the ruins, this chamber was in remarkably good condition. There was far less debris on the floor, and what remained seemed to have been deliberately placed rather than scattered by time and neglect.

The researchers were practically giddy with excitement.

Conrad: "This is it! This is the heart of the temple! Whatever secrets these ruins hold, they will be found here!"

He directed the laborers to set up equipment in the chamber, his voice carrying a note of barely contained enthusiasm. They set up tables and portable lights, unpacked delicate instruments and carefully calibrated devices. The researchers began to spread out, examining the murals on the walls, taking notes, and murmuring to each other in hushed, excited tones.

Danny found himself in the corner of the chamber, setting up some kind of device that was supposed to scan the structure for aetheric dislocation. He had no idea what that meant—it sounded like mage stuff, and he was definitely not a mage. But the device was heavy, and it needed to be placed in a specific location, and no one else was going to do it.

He grumbled under his breath as he adjusted the instrument's position, checking the level and making sure it was stable.

He heard Conrad's voice nearby and glanced up.

The expedition leader was standing in the center of the room, examining a pedestal that rose from the floor. Atop the pedestal was an iron bowl—large and rusted, its surface pitted with age, clearly designed to hold something. Fire, perhaps. Or water. Or perhaps even an offering for some ancient god.

Conrad circled the pedestal slowly, his eyes fixed on the carvings that covered its surface. His lips moved silently, as if he were reading words that only he could see.

After a moment, he straightened and looked around the room. His eyes found Danny, and he gestured for him to come over.

Danny sighed.

“What does he want now?” he wondered. “Another heavy object to carry?”

He did as he was told, crossing the chamber to stand beside Conrad. The man looked him up and down, his expression unreadable.

Conrad: "Your name is... Danny, right? The one who came along with my cousin Frank to help out?"

Danny nodded.

Danny: "Yes, sir," he said. "We talked a few days ago. About the funding for the business. About what we'd need to do to get back on our feet."

Conrad blinked, as if trying to recall the conversation.

Conrad: "Did we now?" he said, his voice carrying a note of vague surprise. "I'm sorry about that. I have been so busy lately that things keep slipping my mind. There's so much to organize, so many details to attend to, that I can barely keep track of the days."

He waved a dismissive hand.

Conrad: "But that's not why I called you over. I need your discernment."

Danny's brow furrowed.

Danny: "Sir, I'm not sure how much help I can be with that. I don't know anything about history or archaeology. I'm just a laborer. I carry things and set up equipment."

Conrad smiled—a warm, reassuring expression that seemed oddly out of place in the dim, ancient chamber.

Conrad: "That is the exact point," he said. "I need an outsider's perspective. Someone who isn't burdened by years of study and preconceived notions. Just look at this mural here and tell me what you think it looks like."

He pointed at the pedestal.

Danny did as he was told, bending down and bringing a torch close to the surface. The light flickered across the carving, illuminating details that had been hidden in shadow.

It was a strange image.

A disgusting worm—long and segmented, its body covered a sickly pale white—was wrapped around a man. The worm's coils encircled the man's body. The man was no notable feature to the carving of the man, but where the face would be was just smooth stone.

Danny felt a shiver run down his spine.

It wasn't just the image itself that disturbed him. It was something deeper. A fear that he couldn't explain or rationalize. Whatever he was looking at, it terrified him in a way he didn't understand.

Danny: "Is that..." he said slowly, "some kind of monster? Or something?"

Conrad's eyes lit up.

Conrad: "A monster? Hmm, I didn't see it like that. But maybe you're right." He pulled out a notebook and scribbled something down, his pen moving quickly across the page. "That's fascinating. Truly fascinating."

He tucked the notebook back into his pocket and looked at Danny.

Conrad: "You see, I know a lot about the culture and myths of the Gaalza people—the civilization that built this place. I have studied their history for years, read their texts, examined their art. I have seen countless murals from their temples and tombs, each one depicting scenes from their mythology and daily life."

He pointed at the carving.

"But in all my research, this thing has never appeared. Not once. I thought that maybe this was Conrad: supposed to represent the grave of the unknown—because in Gaalza culture, worms represent death and decay, and the faceless man might represent someone without identity. A stranger. A person whose name and history have been lost to time."

He paused, his expression thoughtful.

Conrad: "But you're saying you see this as a monster?"

Danny shrugged, uncomfortable.

Danny: "Um, that's just the first thing that came to my mind, sir. I don't know anything about Gaalza culture or their mythology. I just looked at it and thought it looked like something evil."

Conrad nodded slowly.

Conrad: "I see. Well, looking at it again, I can see how someone might find it disturbing. The way the worm is wrapped around the man... it's unsettling, isn't it?"

Danny nodded, his throat tight.

Danny: "Yes, sir. It is."

Conrad smiled again.

Conrad: "Thank you, Danny. You've given me something to think about."

Danny nodded and straightened, preparing to go back to setting up the equipment. But before he could move, Conrad turned back to the pedestal and placed his hand against the strange mural.

As Conrad palm made contact with the stone, there was a click.

The doors to the chamber slammed shut.

The sound was deafening—a booming crash that seemed to shake the very foundations of the temple. Everyone in the room froze, their eyes wide, their hearts pounding. The researchers stopped their work. The laborers stopped their lifting. Even the glow moss on the walls seemed to flicker in response.

For a moment, there was silence.

And then the room began to shake.

It started as a subtle tremor. But it grew quickly, intensifying into a violent shudder that sent people stumbling and equipment crashing to the ground. Dust rained down from the ceiling. Cracks spiderwebbed across the walls. The grinding sound of ancient mechanisms awakening echoed through the chamber, a sound like stone grinding against stone, gears turning for the first time in centuries.

Conrad: "Everyone, get down!"

But it was too late.

Danny felt himself growing light.

His feet left the ground, his body rising into the air as if the laws of gravity had simply ceased to exist. He floated upward, his arms flailing, his heart pounding with terror. Around him, he saw others experiencing the same phenomenon—researchers, laborers, equipment, even loose debris—all of them floating upward like leaves caught in a gentle breeze.

He saw Frank floating nearby, his face pale, his mouth open as he screamed. He saw Liam, the young father, reaching for something to hold onto, finding nothing. He saw Conrad, clinging to the pedestal, his expression one of wonder rather than fear.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.

Danny was slammed into the ground and black out.

♦♦♦♦♦

Danny eventually came to.

The first thing he noticed was the pain—a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to radiate from every part of his body. His head pounded, his shoulder screamed, and his hip felt like it had been crushed in a vice. He groaned, forcing his eyes open, and found himself staring up at a ceiling of dark stone.

He was lying on a bedroll—an uncomfortable mat that had been laid out on the floor of the chamber. Near him were about twenty bedrolls, and on bedrolls, were other people. They looked worse for wear than he did. Some had broken bones, their limbs wrapped in bandages and splints.

There were four of them in total, including Danny. The others were laborers, men he had worked alongside during the initial exploration. One of them had a gash across his forehead that had been hastily bandaged. Another had a twisted arm that was clearly broken. A third was unconscious, his chest rising and falling in slow, labored breaths.

Danny pushed himself up slowly, his muscles protesting the movement. He looked around the chamber, trying to piece together what had happened.

Not too far away, one of the researchers—a woman—was bent over another unconscious person, her hands glowing with a soft golden light. The light pulsed and flowed, entering the injured person's body, and Danny could see the wounds slowly beginning to close.

He recognized the woman. Her name was Lily. She was one of the researchers, a mage who specialized in healing magic. Danny hadn't realized there were mages as part of this group, but it wasn't surprising—most major archaeological digs had at least one mage on staff, if only to deal with the magical artifacts that were sometimes uncovered.

Lily finished her work on the unconscious man and straightened up, her expression tired but satisfied. She looked around the chamber, her eyes scanning the injured, and her gaze settled on Danny.

She walked over to him.

Lily: "Good, you're awake," she said, her voice carrying a note of professional relief. "You didn't have any serious injuries when I checked you earlier—just some bruising and a possible mild concussion. But you shouldn't go back to sleep for a while, just in case."

Danny blinked, trying to process her words.

Danny: "W-what happened? The last thing I remember is... is floating. And then hitting the ground."

Lily shook her head, her expression grim.

Lily: "That's what we're trying to figure out right now," she said, gesturing toward the far end of the chamber.

Danny followed her gaze.

At the far end of the chamber, Conrad and a group of men were working on the massive stone doors that had slammed shut. They had managed to shove a crowbar between the doors and the frame, and they were pushing against it with all their might, trying to pry the doors open.

Conrad was at the front of the group, a torch in one hand, directing the men with the other.

Conrad: "Put your backs into it!" he shouted. "All together now—one, two, three!"

The men grunted and pulled, their muscles straining. The crowbar groaned, the stone shifted, and with a grinding sound, the doors slowly began to open.

Just enough for someone to squeeze through.

Conrad's face lit up with relief.

Conrad: "Excellent!" he declared, his voice carrying a note of triumph. "We won't be trapped in here now!"

He took the torch and squeezed through the gap, emerging into the hallway beyond. The men who had helped him open the door followed, one by one, their footsteps echoing in the darkness.

Danny, still groggy from his concussion, pushed himself to his feet and followed.

He emerged into a hallway that was completely different from the one they had traveled through to reach the chamber. The architecture was more grand—taller ceilings, wider passages, walls adorned with carvings that seemed to glow faintly in the torchlight. The stone was darker, almost black, and there was no sign of the glow moss that had illuminated the tunnels above.

This was a different place.

Laborer: "Professor Conrad," one of the laborers asked, his voice carrying a note of confusion, "what's going on? Where are we?"

Conrad was silent for a moment, his eyes scanning the walls, the ceiling, the floor. He looked like a man who had just realized he had wandered into a maze and had no idea how to get out.

Conrad: "I'm... not sure," he admitted. "Let me look around."

He moved forward, his torch held high, the light casting dancing shadows on the walls. The researchers and laborers followed, their footsteps tentative, their voices hushed.

As they moved deeper into the hallway, something strange happened. Glow moss—hidden in the darkness, dormant and invisible—began to glow. It was subtle at first, a faint shimmer that seemed to come from nowhere. But as the group moved past, the moss grew brighter, as if it had been awakened by their presence after lying dormant for centuries.

Conrad stopped in front of a section of wall covered in strange symbols. He held his torch close, his eyes tracing the carvings with growing intensity.

Researcher: "Conrad, sir! This writing... it's not Gaalza. It's completely different."

Conrad nodded slowly, his expression troubled.

Conrad: "I know."

Researcher: "Does that mean there was another culture here before the Gaalza people settled? A civilization that predates them?"

Conrad: "Maybe. But, this writing... I feel like I've seen it somewhere before. I can't quite place it, but it's familiar."

He stared at the symbols, his brow furrowed in concentration. And then, slowly, recognition dawned on his face.

His expression shifted from confusion to shock. His face went pale, his eyes widening, his mouth falling open.

Conrad: "Everyone! Everyone, get back in the chamber now! And be very, very careful!" he yelled.

The workers and researchers in the hallway exchanged confused glances. They didn't understand his sudden panic.

Laborer: "Conrad, what is it? What's wrong?"

Conrad: "Just do as I say! Get back in the chamber! Now!"

One of the researchers—a young man with glasses and an eager expression—was too engrossed in the carvings to pay attention to Conrad's warning.

He was standing further down the hallway, examining a section of wall that depicted a figure in armor. The figure was tall, imposing, its face hidden behind a helmet with two empty eye holes that seemed to stare into nothing. The carving was exquisitely detailed, every plate of armor, every fold of cloth, every line of the figure's posture rendered with painstaking precision.

The researcher was ignoring Conrad, too focused on the carving to notice the growing tension in the group.

Conrad: "I said, get back here now!" he screamed, his voice echoing through the hallway.

The researcher winced, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from the carving. He decided to give it one last quick look before he returned—a final glance at the intricate details.

He took a step forward.

There was a clicking sound.

Before anyone could react, an arrow shot from the eyehole of the carving—a dark, iron-tipped missile. It pierced the researcher's neck, punching through his flesh and emerging from the other side in a spray of blood.

The researcher made a wet, gurgling noise that was half gasp, half scream. His hands flew to his throat, clutching at the wound, trying to stop the flow of blood that was already spilling between his fingers.

He fell to his knees.

And then, there was another clicking sound.

Spears shot upward from the ground. Long iron-tipped spikes that emerged from hidden slots in the floor. They impaled the researcher from below, piercing his body in a dozen places. He was lifted off the ground, his body suspended on the spears, his limbs dangling limp, his head lolling forward.

He was dead.

A moment of silence.

The group erupted into chaos.

People screamed, their voices rising in a chorus of terror. They scrambled backward, pushing and shoving, desperate to get away from the grisly scene.

Conrad: "Back! Get back! Back into the chamber! Now!"

The laborers and researchers didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled toward the gap in the door, squeezing through as fast as they could.

Danny was one of the last to move.

He stood frozen for a moment, staring at the impaled body, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. The spears were still there, still holding the researcher's body aloft, blood dripping from the tips and pooling on the floor.

A hand grabbed his arm, pulling him backward.

Frank: "Move, damn it! We have to get out of here!"

Danny stumbled backward, allowing himself to be pulled toward the gap in the door. He squeezed through, his body scraping against the rough stone, and emerged into the chamber on the other side.

♦♦♦♦♦

Back in the central chamber, the mood was one of dread.

The body of the researcher—Jimmy, his name had been Jimmy—had been carefully covered with a canvas tarp. The survivors huddled together in small groups, their voices hushed, their eyes darting toward the door they had pried open.

Conrad stood at the center of the chamber, his face pale, his expression grave. He had gathered the survivors around him, his voice carrying the weight of a man who knew he was about to deliver terrible news.

Conrad: "I'm not going to sugarcoat it. We are not in a good position. We are trapped, we have limited supplies, and we have already lost one of our own."

A worker—a burly man with a thick beard stepped forward, his face twisted with anger.

Laborer: "That's all you can say?" he shouted, his voice echoing through the chamber. "A person is dead! One of us is dead, and you're standing there talking like we're discussing the weather! What the hell is going on, Conrad? What have you gotten us into?"

Conrad held up his hands, a gesture of peace.

Conrad: "I understand your anger. I share it. But we need to stay focused if we want to survive. Panic will only make things worse."

The worker's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue.

Conrad took a breath, steadying himself.

Conrad: "I'm afraid, my friend, that it's a lot worse than you realize." He paused, letting the words sink in. "This room is not just a chamber. It's some sort of an ancient elevator. And I believe it goes far enough down to reach the Mythic Depths."

A ripple of fear passed through the researchers. They knew what that meant.

The workers, however, just looked confused. The term "Mythic Depths" had no meaning to them. It was just another piece of academic jargon.

Conrad could immediately tell that his group was divided—those who understood and those who didn't. He decided to explain, to make sure everyone knew exactly what they were facing.

Conrad: "In my field, the Mythic Era is an enigma—a period of history that we know almost nothing about. There are stories, of course—legends and myths that have been passed down through generations. But physical evidence? Artifacts? Remains? There's almost nothing."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

Conrad: "It's one of the greatest questions historians have been asking for generations: why are there so many stories about this era, but so little physical evidence? Why do we have legends of great civilizations, but no ruins to study? Why do we have myths of powerful magic, but no artifacts to examine?"

He looked around the chamber, at the faces of the workers and researchers alike.

Conrad: "The answer to that question was discovered in the last few centuries. The reason for so little remains from that era is right here. The Mythic Depths. The vast majority of the ruins and artifacts from that era are buried deep beneath the earth—far deeper than any normal excavation has ever reached. And only a number of sites you can count on one hand have ever accessed the Mythic Depths."

He gestured at the chamber around them.

Conrad: "And there are very few attempts to go this deep because it's incredibly dangerous. The seismic vulnerability from digging so far into the earth can lead to tunnel collapses. The ruins themselves are filled to the brim with traps to the burning abyss and back—both physical and arcane. And the deeper you go, the more dangerous it becomes."

He paused, his expression grim.

Conrad: "That's what killed poor Jimmy back in that hallway. He triggered a trap that had been waiting for centuries. And that's only the tip of the dangers here before we even get into something called Deep Psychosis."

A worker raised a hand, his brow furrowed.

Laborer: "Deep Psychosis? What's that?"

Conrad's expression grew even more somber.

Conrad: "It's a condition that affects people who spend too much time deep underground. The isolation, the darkness, the constant pressure—it can break a person's mind. People have been known to lose touch with reality, to experience hallucinations, to become paranoid and violent. People spending time in the Mythic Depths are particularly susceptible to it, according to the records we have. And we... we are now in that domain."

The chamber fell silent.

The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive.

Then another worker stepped forward, his voice carrying a note of desperate hope.

Laborer: "Then we need to get out of here!" he shouted. "We need to leave this place and never come back!"

Conrad nodded in agreement, his expression tired but resolute.

Conrad: "While I would love to explore this ruin—to study its secrets and uncover its mysteries—I agree. We are not equipped for this. We don't have the necessary supplies to explore the Mythic Depths. Our only option is to try to get this ancient elevator to work, to take us back to the surface."

He paused, looking around the chamber.

Conrad: "Otherwise, we'll have to wait for the others to come looking for us. If we don't send any communication back to the surface within a day, they'll send a rescue team. But that will take time."

Another worker stepped forward, his voice carrying a note of defiance.

Laborer: "Why wait for that? Let's just climb out of here ourselves!"

Conrad shook his head slowly, his expression one of pity.

Conrad: "The Mythic Depths is five kilometers below the surface," he said, his voice flat. "Five kilometers of solid rock. There is no climbing that with the tools we have. We either have to get this elevator working again, or we have to wait for help."

The defiance in the worker's face crumbled.

Chatter broke out among the group—both fearful whispers, and desperate arguments.

Danny sat nearby, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. He had been listening to Conrad's explanation, his mind racing with the implications.

“The Mythic Depths,” he thought. “Five kilometers underground. Trapped in an ancient elevator. No way out but to hope it works or for rescue.”

“This is it. This is how I die. Trapped in the dark, waiting for help that might never come.”

He reached under his shirt and pulled out a locket that hung around his neck. Worn smooth by years of handling with a small clasp that held it shut. He flipped it open, revealing a small mirror and a picture.

It was a photograph of himself and Stacy on their wedding day. They were young, happy, full of hope for the future. Stacy was wearing a white dress, her hair adorned with flowers, her smile radiant. Danny was wearing a suit that was slightly too big for him, his grin wide and genuine.

They looked so happy.

“Stacy,” he thought, his heart aching. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything. For not being there. For not listening. For chasing dreams that never came true.”

“I should have been there with you. I should have been there for the kids. I should have…”

He felt a weight settle on his shoulder. He looked up to see Frank standing beside him, his hand resting on Danny's shoulder, his expression one of grim determination.

Frank: "Don't worry, Danny. We'll get through this. We always do."

Danny looked at his old friend, at the man who had stuck by him through thick and thin, through success and failure, through everything that life had thrown at them.

He nodded, closing the locket and tucking it back under his shirt.

♦♦♦♦♦

Two days had passed since Danny and the others had been trapped in the Mythic Depths.

It felt longer.

The darkness pressed in from all sides, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the dim glow of their torches and the faint luminescence of the ancient moss that clung to the walls. The air was stale and cold, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and something else—something metallic, like old blood or rusted iron. The silence was punctuated by the occasional drip of water, the distant rumble of shifting stone, and the whispered conversations of people who were trying to stay calm.

Their attempts to fix the elevator had yielded no success.

The mechanism was completely broken—a stone gear that had been part of the machinery was shattered beyond repair, its fragments scattered across the floor. Without a replacement, the elevator wouldn't rise. They had tried everything they could think of—prying, pushing, even attempting to create a makeshift pulley system—but nothing worked.

They were trapped.

Leaving them with only one option: waiting for rescue.

The survivors had organized themselves into a rough routine, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy in the face of everything. Meals were shared in silence. Sleep was fitful and plagued by nightmares. Conversations were stilted, punctuated by long pauses and the heavy weight of unspoken fears.

A group of people were clustered around the elevator mechanism, examining the broken gear with a mixture of frustration and despair. They were trying to figure out if there was some way to jerry-rig it, to make it work with the limited materials they had on hand.

Laborer: "Maybe if we reinforce the broken section with some of the scrap metal.”

Researcher: "It won't hold," they replied, shaking their head. "The pressure on that gear is immense. Anything we jury-rig will just shatter again."

Laborer: "Then what do you suggest? We just sit here and wait to die?"

The researcher didn't answer.

People were obviously worried. The fear was palpable, a living thing that seemed to grow stronger with each passing hour. Many were trying to keep their minds occupied by doing miscellaneous tasks—sorting through the supplies, cleaning their equipment, anything to avoid thinking about their situation.

Liam, one of the laborers, was pacing back and forth near Frank and Danny. He looked like a mess—his clothes disheveled, his eyes red-rimmed and wild, his movements jerky and agitated. He had been like this for the past day, his behavior growing increasingly erratic.

Danny: "Calm down. We're going to get out of this. You'll get home to see your daughter. Just hang in there."

Liam stopped pacing and whirled on Danny, his face twisted with fury.

Liam: "Don't act like you know anything about me!" he spat, his voice venomous. "I don't have a daughter! I've never had a daughter! I don't know what you're talking about!"

He turned and stalked away, disappearing into the shadows at the edge of the chamber.

Danny stared after him, his brow furrowed.

Once Frank and Danny were alone, they exchanged a confused glance.

Frank: "Geez," he said, shaking his head. "Try to be nice, and they try to chew your head off."

Danny: "Yeah. But... am I crazy, or didn't Liam tell us he had a daughter waiting at home? Just a few days ago, he was talking about how his wife had just given birth, and how his mom was helping out. Now he's acting like he's never even heard of a daughter?"

Frank shrugged, his expression troubled.

Frank: "I don't know, man. Maybe he's just stressed. People say crazy things when they're scared."

Danny sat in silence, his back against the cold stone wall, his eyes fixed on the darkness at the edge of the chamber.

And then he saw her.

Stacy.

His wife.

She was standing at the far end of the chamber, her figure bathed in a soft, ethereal glow that seemed to come from nowhere. She was wearing the same dress she had worn on the day she left him—the simple one, the one she had mended and patched because they couldn't afford anything new. Her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders, and her hazel eyes were fixed on him with an expression of longing.

She raised her hand and gestured to him, her lips moving silently, forming words he couldn't hear.

Danny's heart clenched.

Stacy, he thought. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

He knew it wasn't real. He had known it from the first time he saw her, a day ago, when the hallucinations had started. She would appear at random moments, standing in the shadows, gesturing to him without making a sound. She would walk through the chamber, her footsteps silent, her gaze always fixed on him.

The illusion of Stacy waved to him one last time. Then she turned and walked through the doorway to the chamber—the one they had pried open days ago—and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

Danny stared at the doorway, his heart pounding.

He didn't notice Conrad approaching until the professor spoke.

Conrad: "Well," he said, his voice carrying a note of forced cheerfulness, "how are we holding up here?"

Danny's eyes snapped to Conrad, the illusion of Stacy fading from his mind.

Frank shook his head.

Frank: "Liam is acting strange," he said, his voice troubled. "Really strange. He's claiming he doesn't have a daughter, but just a few days ago he told us all about his newborn. Now he's acting like he's never even heard of a daughter."

Conrad's expression grew somber.

Conrad: "That might be a sign of Deep Psychosis," he said quietly. "One of the symptoms is memory loss—people start forgetting important aspects of their lives, sometimes without even realizing it. It's a defense mechanism, a way for the mind to protect itself from the stress of being underground."

Danny felt a chill run down his spine.

Danny: "I can't imagine ever purposely forgetting about your—" He stopped mid-sentence, his words dying in his throat.

Danny felt like a hypocrite.

He remembered the years when his business had consumed him, the years when he had pushed his family to the back of his mind. He had forgotten anniversaries, birthdays, promises made to his children. He had been so focused on success that he had forgotten what really mattered.

“And now look at me,” he thought bitterly. “Trapped underground, hallucinating about my wife, waiting to die. Some success story.”

Frank, oblivious to Danny's internal turmoil, continued the conversation.

Frank: "Is that serious?" he asked Conrad. "Deep Psychosis, I mean. Is it something we should be worried about?"

Conrad shook his head.

Conrad: "Normally, no. You have to spend weeks, sometimes months, deep underground before Deep Psychosis becomes serious. But as soon as we get back to the surface, Liam will return to normal. He'll remember his daughter as though he never forgot."

He paused, his expression troubled.

Conrad: "But this isn't normal. The symptoms are progressing far too quickly."

Danny, who had been listening quietly, decided to speak up.

Danny: "Um, Conrad sir," he said, his voice hesitant. "Is... is hallucination also part of Deep Psychosis?"

Conrad turned to look at him, his expression sharpening with concern.

Conrad: "Yes," he said. "Hallucinations are a common symptom. Have you experienced any?"

Danny nodded slowly.

Danny: "I... I keep seeing my wife. Walking around. Gesturing to me. She doesn't speak, but she's always there, just at the edge of my vision."

Conrad's eyes widened slightly.

Conrad: "So... it's not just me," he said quietly.

Frank's brow furrowed.

Frank: "Wait—cousin, are you hallucinating too?"

Conrad nodded, his expression grim.

Conrad: "I believe so. I keep hearing a tapping sound—a rhythmic tapping, like someone drumming their fingers against a wall. It reminds me of something from my childhood, something about painting, but I can't quite place it."

He paused, his eyes distant.

Conrad: "This is concerning. Hallucinations are not supposed to occur unless someone has spent over two weeks underground. And we've only been here for two days—at most. Unless we've collectively forgotten how many days we've been down here, something about these ruins has a stronger effect on causing Deep Psychosis."

He looked around the chamber, his gaze sweeping over the survivors.

Conrad: "I think that settles things. We're going to have to explore these ruins."

Danny felt his stomach drop.

Danny: "But you said that ruins in the Mythic Depths are filled to the brim with traps," he said, his voice carrying a note of protest.

Conrad nodded, his expression weary.

Conrad: "I did. And I still believe that. But I'm afraid we don't have much choice. Deep Psychosis isn't dangerous yet, but it's progressing far too quickly."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

Conrad: "We need to evacuate as soon as possible. That means we either need to find another elevator that can take us back to the surface, or we need to find a spare part that can fix the elevator we have. And the only way to do that is to explore these ruins."

He looked at Danny, his eyes pleading.

Conrad: "I know I'm asking a lot. I know this is terrifying. But I need volunteers to help me search. Will you join me?"

♦♦♦♦♦

Dan, Frank, Conrad, and four others moved slowly through the ancient halls of the forgotten ruins, their footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. The passageways were narrow and winding, their walls covered in strange carvings that seemed to shift and change in the dim light of their electric lamps. The air was cool and damp.

Everyone carried electric lamps, their beams casting long shadows on the walls. The glow moss that had illuminated the tunnels above was not active here, its luminescence dimmed by the lack of the gases it needed to thrive. Only as they walked past did the moss begin to emit a faint, greenish glow, awakened by their breath and the carbon dioxide they exhaled.

Conrad had made it clear that no one was to light anything flammable while they were down here. The fact that glow moss was still growing this deep but wasn't glowing meant that the oxygen levels in these ruins were high. A single fire could start an uncontrollable fire—or worse, an explosion. So they had left their torches behind and relied on the electric lamps.

They moved at a snail's pace, their progress painfully slow.

They were extremely mindful of traps, their eyes scanning the floor, the walls, the ceiling for any sign of danger. A long metal pole had been brought along for exactly this purpose, and the person at the front of the group would tap the floor ahead of them, testing for hidden mechanisms.

The pole would hit the right spot, and a trap would trigger—arrows shooting from hidden slots in the walls, blades swinging from the ceiling, spikes rising from the floor. The group would watch from a safe distance, their hearts pounding, as the trap discharged harmlessly into empty space.

Most of the traps they triggered were one-use, their mechanisms exhausted by a single activation. But a few reset themselves. Those were marked with small flags, a warning for anyone walking this path.

Strangely enough, as they made their way forward they found traps that seemed to have been set off already by something.

Danny and Frank were at the rear of the group, their lamps casting pale light on the walls behind them. They moved carefully, their eyes scanning the darkness, their ears straining for any sound that might indicate danger.

The pace was excruciating. Every few feet, they would stop, tap, wait, and move forward again.

But when they came across a pit trap—a wide, deep hole with spikes at the bottom, their tips still glistening with something that might have been poison—they were grateful for the caution. The pit was hidden by a cleverly designed cover, a false floor that would have given way under their weight.

“One wrong step,” Danny thought, “and I'd be at the bottom of that pit, impaled on those spikes.”

He shuddered and moved on.

As they walked, Danny heard something.

It was faint at first—barely audible over the shuffling of their feet and the distant drip of water. But it grew louder, more distinct, until he could make out the rhythm of footsteps echoing from somewhere behind them.

He turned quickly, his lamp swinging around to illuminate the darkness behind them. The light reached all the way to the end of the hallway, revealing nothing but empty stone and shadows.

But there was something else—a sound he couldn't quite identify. A wet, squelching noise. It made his skin crawl.

Frank: "Danny?" his voice was concerned. "Are you okay? You look spooked."

Danny hesitated, his eyes still fixed on the darkness.

Danny: "I thought I heard footsteps," he said slowly. "And something else. Something... wet."

Frank's brow furrowed.

Frank: "Are you hearing things too? Like my cousin?"

Danny shook his head, though he wasn't sure.

Danny: "Honestly, I have no idea anymore. It could be the Deep Psychosis. It could be my imagination. Or it could be something real."

He turned back to face the group, his heart still pounding.

Danny: "Either way, I don't want to be the one to find out."

Frank clapped him on the shoulder.

Frank: "We'll get through this, partner. We always do."

Danny nodded, though he didn't quite believe it.

The passageway opened up into a larger chamber, its ceiling high overhead, its walls covered in strange, organic growth.

The growth looked like tubing—long, sinuous strands that hung from the walls and ceiling like the tendrils of some ancient creature. They were pale and fleshy, almost translucent, with a texture that seemed to shift between plant and animal. Some were thin and delicate, others thick and rope-like, their surfaces covered in small, pulsing nodules that seemed to glow faintly in the lamplight.

The researchers were fascinated.

Conrad: "Remarkable. I've never seen anything like this. It's not a plant—at least, not any plant I've ever encountered. It has characteristics of both flora and fauna, as if it's something in between."

One of the laborers stepped forward, his face pale.

Labourer: "Professor," he said, his voice trembling, "do you see those faces? Growing on the ends of those tubes?"

Conrad squinted, holding his lamp closer.

Conrad: "I don't see any faces. Just nodules."

The laborer shook his head, his eyes wide.

Labourer: "They're faces," he insisted. "I can see them. They're watching us."

Conrad exchanged a glance with one of the other researchers, his expression troubled.

Conrad: "Deep Psychosis," he murmured. "It's progressing faster than I thought."

He turned to the laborer, his voice calm and reassuring.

Conrad: "Listen to me. There are no faces. Your mind is playing tricks on you. Focus on your breathing, on the here and now. You're going to be okay."

The laborer nodded, though he didn't look convinced as they moved on.

The chamber they had entered was massive—a vast, circular space with a ceiling that rose high overhead, lost in shadows. The walls were covered in the strange tubing, their pale surfaces pulsing with a faint, rhythmic light. Glow moss grew in patches between the tubes, awakened by their presence and emitting a soft, greenish glow.

At the center of the chamber stood two massive statues. They were figures of men in armor, their faces hidden behind helmets, their hands resting on the hilts of swords. They stood on either side of a stone box, their postures suggesting they were guarding something.

The stone box was about two cubic meters in size, its surface covered in intricate carvings. But it was broken—split in two, its contents scattered across the floor.

Conrad: "Fascinating. This is clearly a container of some kind. A sarcophagus, perhaps, or a reliquary."

The researchers nodded in excitement, their earlier fear forgotten. The laborers, however, just looked on with expressions of confusion.

“It's a box,” Danny thought. “A broken box. What's so exciting about that?”

But Conrad was already examining the carvings, his fingers tracing the symbols with reverent care.

Conrad: "Interesting," he murmured. "This container is different in its design compared to the surrounding architecture. And—what's this?"

He brushed his hand against the surface of the box, and his fingers came away covered in black dust.

Conrad: "Is this... soot?" he asked, his voice puzzled. "From fire or an explosion? There's no sign of burning on the surrounding walls, so whatever caused this was localized. Focused."

He looked around the chamber, his eyes searching for any sign of what might have caused the damage.

Conrad: "I wonder what happened here," he said softly. "What destroyed this container? And why?"

While Conrad was examining the stone box, Danny and Frank were looking around the chamber.

Frank: "Quite creepy. All these weird vines everywhere. They look almost... alive."

Danny nodded.

Danny: "Yeah. I wonder what they are. No one seems to have seen them before."

He moved closer to one of the walls, his lamp illuminating a patch of the strange tubing. It was thicker than the others, its surface covered in a pattern that looked almost like veins. He reached out to touch it, then hesitated.

He pulled his hand back.

While Danny was distracted, Frank let out a sudden yelp.

Danny turned to see his friend on the ground, his leg tangled in a mass of the strange vines.

Danny: "Frank!" he rushed over, dropping to his knees beside his friend. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Frank: "I tripped on those weird vines. I think I sprained my ankle."

The others in the group had noticed the commotion, but they didn't rush over. They could see that Danny was handling it, and they were too focused on the stone box to be bothered.

Danny: "Don't worry. I'll take you back to the others. Lily can patch you up with her healing magic."

Frank blinked, his expression confused.

Frank: "There was a healing mage in our group?" he asked. "I don't remember anyone named Lily."

Danny frowned.

Danny: "Of course there was," he said. "It's Lily. You talked to her before we came down here. She was the one who healed me when I woke up after the elevator dropped."

Frank shook his head, his expression troubled.

Frank: "What did she look like?"

Danny opened his mouth to answer—and stopped.

For the life of him, he couldn't remember.

He remembered talking to someone. He remembered a woman's voice, kind and professional, checking his injuries. He remembered her hands glowing with golden light. But her face—the details of her features—were just... gone.

Danny: "Um, you'll see her when we get back to the others."

Frank nodded, though he didn't look convinced.

Danny turned his attention to the vines wrapped around Frank's ankle. They were thick and tangled, and they seemed to have tightened around his foot like a snare.

Danny: "Hang on. Let me get you out of here."

He pulled out his knife and began to cut through the vines, working carefully to avoid nicking Frank's skin. The vines were tough, their fibers resistant to the blade, but he managed to slice through them one by one.

As he cut through the mass of vines and tossed them aside, something flopped out.

It was a hand.

A human hand.

Danny froze and stared for a few seconds.

He began to pull away more of the vines, his movements frantic. As he did, more of the body was revealed—an arm, a shoulder, a torso. The vines were wrapped around it tightly, their pale tendrils entwined with the corpse as if they had grown into it.

Danny: "Oh, God. Conrad! There's a corpse here!"

Conrad's head snapped up, his expression shifting from scholarly interest to alarm.

Conrad: "A corpse?" He rushed over, his lamp held high. "Really? No one has ever found remains from the ancient people of the Mythic Era! This is the discovery of the—"

He stopped mid-sentence as his light fell on the body.

It was wearing the standard clothing of the expedition—the same beige bush jacket, the same shorts, and the same sturdy boots. The face was young, unlined, peaceful, as if the man had simply lain down and fallen asleep.

But he was dead.

And he was recent. Very recent.

Conrad's expression shifted from excitement to horror.

Conrad: "That's not ancient," he said quietly. "That's... that's someone from our expedition."

The group gathered around the body, their lamps casting a harsh light on the corpse. Everyone was silent, their faces pale, their eyes wide with shock.

Conrad quickly did a head count, his lips moving silently as he counted the members of their group.

Conrad: "Everyone I brought with me is here," he said, his voice hollow. "All six of us. But this person—I don't recognize him. I've never seen him before."

He looked around at the others.

Conrad: "Does anyone know who this is? Has anyone seen him before?"

Everyone shook their heads. The body was unfamiliar.

Conrad's face grew even paler.

Conrad: "Then who is he?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "And how did he get here?"

Danny stared at the body, his mind racing. He then heard the footsteps again.

They were louder this time—closer. And with them came that wet sound again.

He turned, his lamp swinging around to illuminate the darkness behind him.

There was nothing there.

Just an empty space with pale walls and the shadows that seemed to stretch and writhe in the dim light.

♦♦♦♦♦

Danny walked back to the main group alone.

The decision had been made quickly—Frank couldn't continue with his injured ankle, and someone needed to get him back to the elevator where Lily could tend to him. Danny had volunteered without hesitation. It was the right thing to do, he wouldn’t abandon his friend.

But now, as he made his way through the dark, winding hallways, he regretted it.

The silence was oppressive, pressing in on him from all sides. The only sounds were his own footsteps and the faint, rhythmic drip of water from somewhere deep within the ruins. The air was cold and damp, carrying the scent of ancient stone and something else that smelled like decay.

He was careful as he made his way back, his lamp held high, his eyes scanning the floor for any sign of traps. He had seen what had happened to Jimmy and had no intention of sharing that fate.

The darkness around him felt suffocating. The walls seemed to press in on him, the ceiling seemed to lower, the shadows seemed to reach for him with grasping fingers. He passed by statues that seemed to stare into his soul, their empty eye sockets following him as he moved.

After what felt like an eternity, he saw it—a familiar light source at the end of the tunnel. The steady glow of electric lamps, illuminating the entrance to the elevator chamber.

Danny felt a surge of relief. He picked up his pace, moving as quickly as he dared, his eyes still scanning for traps. He reached the doorway, squeezed through the gap they had pried open days ago, and emerged into the chamber.

The elevator was just as they had left it—a large, circular space with the broken mechanism on one side and the scattered remnants of their camp on the other. The five people who had been left behind were sitting around quietly, their faces pale, their eyes hollow.

One of the researchers—a woman wearing glasses, sitting in the corner—looked up as Danny entered. She stood up and approached him, her expression a mixture of relief and concern.

Women: "Your name is Danny, right?" she asked, her voice tentative.

Danny nodded, still catching his breath.

Danny: "Yes, and you're Lily, right? The mage with healing magic?"

The woman shook her head, a puzzled frown crossing her face.

Rachel: "My name is Rachel. I'm a researcher, not a healer. I don't do magic."

Danny blinked, confused.

Danny: "But there's someone named Lily, right? A woman who can use healing magic? She was here when I woke up after the elevator dropped. She healed me."

Rachel shook her head again, her expression growing more concerned.

Rachel: "There was no mage that came with us into Fo-gaalza," she said slowly. "I'm not sure why we didn't bring one—it seems like a bad idea now that I say it out loud—but I'm certain we didn't."

Danny stared at her, his mind racing.

That's impossible, he thought. I remember her. She was here. I know she was here.

But as he tried to hold onto the memory, it slipped away—like water through his fingers.

Rachel continued to ask questions, her voice carrying a note of growing anxiety.

Rachel: "Did you and the others have any luck finding something that could get us out of here? Did you find a spare part for the elevator? Another exit? Anything?"

Danny shook his head.

Danny: "No, we didn't find anything useful. But while we were searching, Frank hurt his ankle. I brought him back so you could—" He stopped, his brow furrowing. "Wait. Where's Frank?"

Rachel tilted her head, confused.

Rachel: "Who's Frank?"

Danny opened his mouth to answer—and stopped.

Frank. His best friend. The man who had stuck by him through thick and thin, through success and failure, through everything life had thrown at them. The man who was supposed to be with him right now.

But he wasn't.

Danny looked around the chamber, his eyes scanning the faces of the five survivors. None of them were Frank. None of them were even close.

He looked beside himself at the empty space where Frank should have been.

I forgot him, he realized, his heart pounding. I forgot my best friend. I was supposed to bring him back, and I just... forgot him.

I left him behind.

Rachel was watching him, her expression a mixture of concern and fear.

Rachel: "Danny, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Danny: “No, I’m not.”

He looked around the chamber, his eyes counting the bedrolls that were laid out on the floor.

Twenty bedrolls.

Twenty.

He counted them again, just to be sure.

Danny: "Rachel, why are there twenty bedrolls laid out?"

Rachel frowned, confused.

Rachel: "Huh? What's the problem? We need to sleep on something."

Danny: "We came down here with a dozen people. "So why are there twenty bedrolls?"

Rachel opened her mouth to answer—and stopped.

Rachel: "I..." she began, her brow furrowing. "I don't..."

She pressed her hand to her forehead, wincing as if in pain.

Rachel: "I don't know," she said finally, her voice carrying a note of fear. "I don't know why there are twenty bedrolls. I don't remember setting them up. I don't remember—"

Their conversation was interrupted by a sound—a low, disturbing chuckle that seemed to come from the shadows at the edge of the chamber.

Both Danny and Rachel turned toward the sound.

A figure was sitting in the corner, rocking back and forth, its body hunched over, its hands clasped together. It was wearing the same beige bush jacket as the rest of the expedition, but its face was hidden in shadow.

Danny: "Who is that?" Danny asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rachel shook her head, her expression confused.

Rachel: "I... I don't know. He was someone else from the group who went out to explore. He came back a while ago, but no one knew who he was. He just... sat there in the corner and didn't talk to anyone."

Danny approached slowly, his lamp held high, his heart pounding in his chest. The figure continued to rock back and forth, its chuckles growing louder, more manic.

And then, as Danny drew closer, the figure turned its head.

Danny froze.

It was Conrad, sitting there rocking back and forth with his signature mutton chops on the side of his head.

His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot and wild. His hair was disheveled, his clothes torn. There was a mad gleam in his eyes that Danny had never seen before—a look of pure, unhinged terror.

Danny: "Conrad?!" he shouted, dropping to his knees in front of the professor. "What happened to you? Why are you here? Where are the others?"

Conrad's head lolled to the side, his eyes unfocused.

Conrad: "The bones," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "Bones buried deep. They whispered to me. They told me secrets that she keeps from us."

Danny grabbed Conrad's shoulders, trying to get his attention.

Danny: "Conrad, listen to me! You need to focus! What happened to the others? Where did they go?"

Conrad's eyes snapped into focus, locking onto Danny's face. A wide, manic grin spread across his features.

Conrad: "It takes what you see," he said, his voice carrying a note of singsong madness. "It takes wHat You sEe. It tAkes what you seE. It taKes what yOu see. It takeS what you See. It TAKES youR MemorY!!!”

He suddenly stood up, knocking Danny to the floor. Before anyone could react, he was running—sprinting toward the doorway, his laughter echoing behind him.

Danny: "Wait! Conrad, come back!"

But Conrad was already gone, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.

Danny hesitated for only a moment.

He ran after Conrad.

♦♦♦♦♦

The hallway was dark, the shadows deep and impenetrable. Danny's lamp cast a weak, wavering light that seemed to be swallowed by the darkness ahead, its beam barely penetrating the oppressive gloom. The air was cold and still.

Danny was running through the ancient deep ruins as fast as he could, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The light he carried cast harsh, dancing shadows against the walls of the ruin, making the carvings seem to move and shift with every step. He didn't know how long he had been running.

And then, slowly, he began to slow down.

His pace slackened, his breathing steadied, and a strange sense of calm settled over him. He stopped running entirely and stood in the middle of the hallway, his lamp held loosely at his side, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Why was he running?

He tried to remember. Had he been trying to get somewhere? Had he been running from something? The answers were just out of reach, like words on the tip of his tongue that refused to form.

Danny: "Why... was I running?" he asked himself, his voice echoing in the silence.

He shook his head, frustrated.

“Keep moving,” a voice whispered in the back of his mind. “Just keep moving forward.”

He didn't know why, but he obeyed.

Danny slowed his pace but kept walking. He didn't stop moving forward, though he had no idea what he was walking toward. He just knew that he needed to keep going, that stopping meant something terrible.

“What am I looking for?” he wondered. “What's waiting for me at the end of this tunnel?”

He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything.

As he walked, Danny tried to recall the past, but the memories came in fragments—flashes of faces, snatches of conversation, moments that didn't quite connect.

He couldn't remember why he had come to these ruins. He couldn't remember the name or face of the friend who had brought him here. All he could recall was that this friend had a cousin named... Conrad?

But the rest was gone.

He didn't know how he had gotten here. He didn't know how long he had been here. He didn't know if he was alone or if there were others.

Am I dreaming? he wondered. Is this some kind of nightmare?

It felt like one.

He pushed the thought away and kept walking.

As he rounded a corner, Danny came across a body.

It was lying on the ground, its limbs splayed at awkward angles, its face tilted toward the ceiling. The man was middle-aged, with pronounced mutton chops on either side of his face and a thick mustache that looked like it had once been carefully groomed. His eyes were wide open, staring at nothing, and there was a smile on his lips—a strange, unsettling smile that seemed to suggest he had found something amusing in his final moments.

Danny didn't recognize him.

He bent down, his lamp illuminating the body, and examined it more closely. There were no visible wounds—no blood, no bruises, no signs of violence. The man had simply... died. As if he had lain down and decided to stop breathing.

Who is this? Danny wondered. Why is he here?

He noticed that the man's hand was clutching something—a piece of paper, crumpled and stained. Danny pried it free gently, unrolling it with careful fingers.

The writing was in blood: “DON'T LOOK AT IT!!!!!”

The words were scrawled in a frantic, desperate hand, as if the writer had been in a state of extreme terror.

Danny stared at the message, his heart pounding.

Don't look at what? he wondered. What am I not supposed to see?

He looked around the hallway, but there was nothing there—just the same dark stone, the same carvings, the same oppressive silence.

His locket had slipped out from under his shirt and was dangling in front of him, its silver surface catching the dim light. He reached up and took it in his hand, his fingers tracing the familiar contours.

He opened it.

Inside was a photograph—a picture of him and Stacy on their wedding day. He was younger, thinner, wearing a suit that was slightly too big. She was beautiful, with blonde hair and hazel eyes and a smile that could light up a room.

Stacy.

The name came to him like a gift, a fragment of memory that he clung to desperately.

“Stacy. Her name is Stacy. She's my wife. I love her.”

“And I need to get back to her.”

He closed the locket and held it tight, the metal warm against his palm.

Despite his fragmented memories, despite the confusion and the fear, he held onto that one thought—that one certainty.

“I will get back to her. I will make things right. I will—”

He heard the footsteps again.

And with them, that strange wet sound—the one he had heard before, the one he couldn't quite identify.

But this time, he knew what it was.

Squirming.

It was the sound of something squirming. Something crawling. Something moving through the darkness with a terrible purpose.

The sound was coming from somewhere behind him, down the hallway he had just traveled.

Danny's blood ran cold.

He looked at the message again—DON'T LOOK AT IT!!!!!—and then at his locket. Beside the photograph of Stacy was a small mirror.

An idea formed in his mind.

He held the locket up, angling the mirror so that it reflected the hallway behind him.

What he saw made his heart stop.

It was a horror of nightmares.

The creature was pale—sickly, corpse-pale, its skin stretched tight over a skeletal frame. It was shriveled and emaciated, its body lacking an abdomen, its limbs thin and spindly. White maggot-like bugs crawled all over its body. Their pale bodies writhing and squirming.

And where its face should have been, there was a hole.

A gaping, black void that seemed to suck in all light, all hope, all existence. Danny felt like he was staring into an abyss that stared back, a void that wanted to consume him.

The creature was walking slowly, its movements jerky and unsteady, its head tilted at an impossible angle. It was following him.

It had always been following him.

Danny screamed.

He dropped the locket and ran, his legs pumping, his heart racing, his mind filled with a single, primal terror.

“Don't look at it. Don't look at it. Don't look at it.”

He ran through the tunnels with wild abandon, no longer caring about traps or dangers or anything except getting away from that thing. The squirming sound grew louder behind him, more insistent, as if the creature was accelerating.

He passed by red flags that were set up in the hallway—flags he didn't remember placing, didn't understand the meaning of.

And then he heard it.

The grinding of gears.

He looked up just in time to see massive spikes crashing down from the ceiling, their iron tips gleaming in the dim light. He threw himself forward, trying to avoid them, but he wasn't fast enough.

The spike caught his leg.

Pain exploded through him as the iron pierced his calf, pinning him to the ground. He screamed and tried to pull himself free. Blood poured from the wound, pooling on the stone floor.

Get up, he told himself. Get up and run. It's coming. It's coming.

He struggled desperately, his hands slipping on the blood-slick stone.

And then he felt it—a cold chill that seemed to seep into his very bones.

He looked up.

The creature was standing over him.

It's face—or rather, the void where its face should have been—was directly above him. He stared into that black hole, and he felt pieces of himself being sucked away. Memories. The things that made him who he was.

He forgot how to move his legs.

He forgot how to scream.

He forgot his own name.

A new maggot formed on the creature's body, pale and writhing, and crawled over to join the others.

Danny flopped onto his back and felt a burning in his chest. He couldn't remember how to take a breath. The rhythm was just... gone.

Stacy, he thought desperately. Stacy. I need to remember Stacy. I need to—

Her face was fading. Her smile. Her eyes. The sound of her voice.

Everything was fading.

He was dying.

And then, without warning, something happened.

Black tentacles shot out from the darkness—thick, sinuous appendages that seemed to be made of shadow and nightmare. They wrapped around the faceless horror, constricting its shriveled form, and yanked it into the darkness without a sound.

The creature was gone.

Danny lay on the ground, his body broken, his mind shattered. He heard footsteps approaching—slow, deliberate footsteps accompanied by a wooden tapping sound, like an old man walking with a cane.

A figure emerged from the shadows.

He was old, with eyes that glowed with a soft, crimson light. He wore a long coat and carried a wooden cane with skull pommel that tapped against the stone floor with each step.

He stopped beside Danny and looked down at him.

Danny stared up at the old man, his vision fading, his thoughts scattered.

But before he could find the answer, he felt something slip away—the last fragments of his memory, the last traces of who he was.

The last thought he had was of Stacy. Not her face—he couldn't remember that anymore—but the feeling of her. The love. The regret. The desperate need to beg for one more chance.

Danny: “Just... one... more... chance…” he mumbled with the last of his breath.

The red eyes stared down at him.

And then everything went dark.

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The apartment was small, cramped, and dusty—a relic of better times that had long since faded into memory. The wallpaper, once a cheerful floral pattern of pale pink roses and soft green vines, had yellowed and peeled at the edges, curling inward like dying leaves.

The furniture was worn, the cushions sagging from years of use, their fabric threadbare in places where generations of elbows and backs had pressed against them. The wooden frames were scratched and stained, rings from forgotten coffee cups, scuffs from shoes that had been kicked off in frustration. A single lamp sat on a side table, its shade yellowed with age, casting a amber glow across the room.

Danny stood in the center of the room, his hands hanging limply at his sides, his shoulders slumped with the weight of a thousand failures.

Before him stood his wife, Stacy.

She was crying.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving glistening trails in the dim light. Her long blonde hair, once so carefully styled, was pulled back in a hasty ponytail, strands escaping to frame her face in a disheveled halo.

Beside her a suitcase.

Stacy: "Danny," Stacy said, her voice cracking like thin ice, "I just can't do this anymore."

The words hit him hard, driving the breath from his lungs.

Danny felt his heart lurch in his chest, a painful spasm that made him gasp. He stepped forward, his hands outstretched, reaching for her as if he could pull her back from the edge of the cliff she was standing on.

Danny: "Babe," he said, his voice cracking with desperation, "believe me. This will be the one. Just one more chance, and I'll prove it to you. I'll prove that I can make this work. You'll live better than a noble after this job. You won't have to worry about money ever again. We'll have everything we ever wanted—a house, a garden, a future for the kids. Just give me one more chance."

He reached for her, his fingers brushing against her arm, but she pulled away as if his touch burned her. Her eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes, were filled with a sorrow that cut him deeper than any knife.

Danny: "Just one more chance," he repeated, his voice rising, his desperation making him careless. "You'll—"

Stacy turned away.

She bent down and picked up the suitcase. The weight of it seemed to drag her down, her shoulders bowing under the burden. She didn't look at him. She didn't say a word. She simply walked toward the door, her footsteps echoing on the worn wooden floor.

Danny: "Stacy, please—"

Her hand reached for the doorknob. Her fingers closed around the cold metal.

Danny: "Stacy, don't—"

The door opened.

She stepped through, her silhouette framed against the dim light of the hallway beyond.

And then the door closed, the latch clicking into place with a sound that was soft and final, like the closing of a coffin.

Danny stood alone in the empty apartment, the silence pressing in on him from all sides. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the passage of time he could never get back. The lamp flickered, casting dancing shadows across the peeling wallpaper. The dust motes continued their lazy dance, indifferent to his pain.

He opened his mouth to speak, to call her name, to beg her to come back—but no sound came out.

He was alone.

Completely, utterly, irredeemably alone.

And then the dream ended.

[̵̬̜̦͇̪̲͈͓̞͖̤̈̽͌̌̏̑́͂̀̒̿̚O̶̧̧͓͛̀̎̽̾̔̊̑͗́̀͠ͅn̵̡̢̻̘̣̣̲̻̩̙̺̗̻̰̒̈́̚͝ȩ̷̛̳̪̲̥̖̳͖̰͖̙̈́͊̒̇̊̓̓ͅ ̷̦͎̇̀̄m̶͍̮̬̦̖̤̺͍̯̀̋͐̽̄̄͘͜ͅo̵̧̪̖̦̝̙͍̦̯̎̓r̸̛̠̱͉̝̭̎̂͆̓͌̄̀̄́̎̽͝ȅ̴̢̝̯̂͐̏̌́̽́͒͝ ̴̪̓̌͒̐̾͒̈́͗́̾̎C̵̲̹̪̲̰̊̂̓̆̐͌̔͗͜h̴͎͍̱͚́̓̎̀͝ą̸̢̡̭̝̹͎̱͔̩̩̜̄̊̾̉͜͜ͅn̵̨͖̬͎̜̣̿̽͆̐̓̊̐̃̒̈́ç̴̡̢̞͔̤̼̤̯̠̻̠̠̻͍̿̌͘ẽ̷̛̖̬̭̯̰̙̝͔͙͉́̌̉̀̌͊̿̀̀͋̚̕͝ͅ]̵̛̤̥̘͓̞̪̫̝̙̿̊͒̒̏̂͗͜͜͝

Stacy: "Danny, I just can't do this anymore."

The words hung in the air between them. Danny felt his heart lurch in his chest, a painful spasm that made him gasp. He had heard her say these words before—or variations of them, shadows of them, echoes of conversations that had played out over and over again in the years since their happiness had begun to crumble.

Danny: "Babe," he said, stepping forward, his hands outstretched, reaching for her as if she were a fading mirage he could somehow pull back into reality, "believe me. This will be the one. Just one more chance, and I'll prove it to you. I'll prove that I can make this work. I'll prove that I'm not the failure you think I am."

His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue.

Danny: "You'll live better than a noble after this job. You won't have to worry about money ever again. We'll have everything we ever wanted. You don't have to mend the same dress for three years because we can't afford a new one. Just give me one more chance. Please."

He reached for her, his fingers brushing against her arm, desperate to make contact, to feel the warmth of her skin, to remind himself that she was still here.

But she pulled away as if his touch burned her.

Her eyes—those beautiful hazel eyes that had once looked at him with such love—were filled with a sorrow that cut him deeper than any knife. They were red-rimmed and swollen, the tears still glistening on her cheeks.

Danny: "Just one more chance," he repeated, his voice desperate, the words tumbling out of him like a prayer, like a plea to a god who had long since stopped listening. "You'll—"

Stacy turned away.

She bent down and picked up the suitcase. The weight of it seemed to drag her down, her shoulders bowing under the burden of everything she was carrying away.

She didn't look at him. She didn't say a word. She simply walked toward the door, her footsteps echoing on the worn wooden floor, each step a hammer blow to his heart.

Danny: "Stacy, please—"

Her hand reached for the doorknob. Her fingers closed around the cold metal.

Danny: "Stacy, don't—"

The door opened.

She stepped through, her silhouette framed against the dim light of the hallway beyond. For just a moment, she paused—hesitated—as if she were waiting for him to say something that would change everything. Something that would make her stay.

But no words came.

The door closed.

And Danny was alone. Again.

Again?

The word echoed in his mind, a bitter refrain that seemed to mock him. Again. Again. Again. How many times had he failed the ones who mattered most?

And then the dream ended.

[̵̬̜̦͇̪̲͈͓̞͖̤̈̽͌̌̏̑́͂̀̒̿̚O̶̧̧͓͛̀̎̽̾̔̊̑͗́̀͠ͅn̵̡̢̻̘̣̣̲̻̩̙̺̗̻̰̒̈́̚͝ȩ̷̛̳̪̲̥̖̳͖̰͖̙̈́͊̒̇̊̓̓ͅ ̷̦͎̇̀̄m̶͍̮̬̦̖̤̺͍̯̀̋͐̽̄̄͘͜ͅo̵̧̪̖̦̝̙͍̦̯̎̓r̸̛̠̱͉̝̭̎̂͆̓͌̄̀̄́̎̽͝ȅ̴̢̝̯̂͐̏̌́̽́͒͝ ̴̪̓̌͒̐̾͒̈́͗́̾̎C̵̲̹̪̲̰̊̂̓̆̐͌̔͗͜h̴͎͍̱͚́̓̎̀͝ą̸̢̡̭̝̹͎̱͔̩̩̜̄̊̾̉͜͜ͅn̵̨͖̬͎̜̣̿̽͆̐̓̊̐̃̒̈́ç̴̡̢̞͔̤̼̤̯̠̻̠̠̻͍̿̌͘ẽ̷̛̖̬̭̯̰̙̝͔͙͉́̌̉̀̌͊̿̀̀͋̚̕͝ͅ]̵̛̤̥̘͓̞̪̫̝̙̿̊͒̒̏̂͗͜͜͝

Stacy: "Danny," she said, her voice cracking like thin ice over deep water, "I just can't do this anymore."

The words hung in the air between them. Danny felt his heart lurch in his chest, a painful spasm that made him gasp.

Danny: "Babe," he said, stepping forward, his hands outstretched, reaching for her as if she were a fading mirage he could somehow pull back into reality, "believe me. This will be the one. Just one more chance, and I'll..."

He stopped.

The words died in his throat.

Something was wrong.

He had done this already. He had said these words before, in other times that blurred together into an indistinct haze of deja vu. He could feel the shape of the conversation, the rhythm of it, the way it was supposed to go.

He reached for her, his fingers closing around her hand.

Danny: "Just one more chance," he repeated, his voice desperate, the words tumbling out of him like a prayer, like a plea to a god who had long since stopped listening. "I'll make it right. I swear to you, I'll make it right."

Smack!

The slap came out of nowhere.

Stacy had pulled her hand away and her palm connected with his cheek with a sharp, stinging crack. The force of the blow snapped his head to the side, his eyes widening in shock.

Stacy: "How many times have you said that?" Stacy yelled, her voice raw with tears. Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving glistening trails in the dim light. "How many times have you stood there and promised me that this time would be different? That you would change? That you would finally be the husband I needed you to be?"

She was shaking now, her entire body trembling with the force of her emotion.

Stacy: "You always ask me to give you another chance. And I always do. I give you a chance and I believe—I actually believe—that maybe this time it will be different. Maybe this time you'll keep your promises. Maybe this time you'll finally see that I'm not just a piece of furniture in your life. Maybe you’ll finally remember your family."

She took a shuddering breath.

Stacy: "And every time, you break my heart. Every, single, time."

Danny opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself, to offer another promise—but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

Stacy: "I realize now that you will never change. That's not a criticism. That's just... that's just who you are. You're a dreamer, Danny. You always have been. You dream of success and wealth and a better life, and you chase those dreams with everything you have. But you forget that the people who love you aren't dreams. They're real. And they needed you to be real with them."

She looked at him, her eyes filled with a sorrow that cut deeper than any knife.

Stacy: "But that doesn't mean I can't change. I've spent years waiting for you to become the person I thought you could be. Years hoping that if I just loved you enough, supported you enough, believed in you enough, you would finally see what you were doing to us. But I can't keep doing this to myself. I can't keep hoping for something that will never come."

She shook her head slowly.

Stacy: "That's why there are no more chances with me."

She bent down, her movements stiff and mechanical, and picked up the suitcase. The weight of it seemed to drag her down, her shoulders bowing under the burden of everything she was carrying away. The clasps strained against the contents within, and Danny could see the corner of a photograph poking out from the top—a family portrait, taken years ago, back when things had been good. Back when they had been happy.

She didn't look at him. She didn't say a word. She simply walked toward the door, her footsteps echoing on the worn wooden floor, each step a hammer blow to his heart.

Danny: "Stacy, please—"

Her hand reached for the doorknob. Her fingers closed around the cold metal.

Danny: "Stacy, don't—"

The door opened.

She stepped through, her silhouette framed against the dim light of the hallway beyond. For just a moment, she paused—hesitated—as if she were waiting for him to say something that would change everything. Something that would make her stay.

But no words came.

The door closed.

And Danny was alone, once again.

[̵̧̲͖̠̞͚̼̩̭͒̄̒̄̚͘͝͝͝J̸̝̳̹̰͓̖̬̼̠̝͎͉̰̀̒̍́̍̾̀̀͋̔̕͘͠ų̵̘̟̗͎̹̯̫̅̒̎̽̅̅̋̀̈́̇̔̚s̶̛͇̥̬̰̗̀̑̎̀͒̐̓̄̍t̷͖̞̠̤̞͕̬̦͙̘͒̈́̈́́͑̋̃̒̅̈́͂̚͠ͅ.̶̛̪̞͎̮̗͔̩̾͂́̿̇̓̃̔̈̚̚͘.̵̢̢̗̼̋ͅ.̶̧̛͙̬͖̤̖́̄̀̂̐̆̄ ̷̢̛͎̼͉̾̆̅̕ơ̵̧̜̱̗̟͙̏͒̓̽͛̒̾̓̓̀͝͝n̸̢͕̖̪͗̿̇͐̓̇̈́͐̒͒͂̒͠ė̶̢̨̺͔̙̞̦̟̪̟̤̖̘̹͓̈.̸̛̙̬̠͉̹̞̻̗̙͓̏̆̀̂̅͂͂͋̑͌͜͝͝ͅ.̷̞̘̹͉̟̞͎̤̆̌̈̄̎͐̋̓̀͌́̈́́͛͘ͅ.̸̡̘̭͍͕̦̟̫̼̖͑̾̌̚͜͜ ̸̡̧͍͎̫̻̤̮͔̏̇̀̚͜m̴̼̰͇̓͛̃̈́͒̾͗̿̎̓̽̀͂̕o̷͍̪͙̩̎͐̏r̸̺̳̮̥̪̝̖̮̔ȇ̸̫̾̈̐͆̿́̐͝.̴͉̞̤̞͖̩͎͔͉͓͇̳͔̙̰͐̋̑̀̂͘͘͝.̵̢̡̡̯̺̝͔̠͉͋̃͋́̇̈̈́͌͑̂͘̕͝.̴͓̬̜̳̩̓͊͂͌͑̋̀͠͝͝͝͠ ̸̛̙̏̔̿ć̴̡̖̥͈̯̯̹̥̻͚̻̠̘̂͌́̄͑̇̍͛̋̀̐̉h̵̢̨͓̭̣̼̯̯̩͖̻̯̓͌̎͗ą̶͈̙̘̏̄̊̀͋͜n̷̨͚̺̟̝͕̦̫͔̈̏̏͆̕ͅc̸̜̈̿e̸̢̗̝̳̼̘͙̟̲͔̭̐͛̇̅̒͑̈̓̀̇̀͜͝ͅ…̸̡̧̤͕̜͓̹͕͇͈͓͈̹̃̾̋̒́͊̒̐̀̋͘̕ͅ]̵̧͙͍̪̪̻̘̲̖͙̲̮̭̗̺̀̔̆͐͐̌̃̑͒͆̅͒̕͝

Danny: "Stacy, please—"

Her hand reached for the doorknob. Her fingers closed around the cold metal, her knuckles white with tension.

Danny: "Stacy, don't—"

The door opened. She stepped through, her silhouette framed against the dim light of the hallway beyond.

The door closed.

And then the feeling hit him.

It was a wave of deja vu—a profound, bone-deep certainty that he had done all of this before. He had stood in this same spot, felt this same pain, watched this same door close.

And then came something else.

A feeling.

A compulsion.

A desperate, overwhelming urge to chase after Stacy.

It wasn't just the normal grief of losing someone he loved. It was something deeper—a primal instinct that told him if he let Stacy leave like this, he would never see her again. He would never have the chance to fix his mistakes. He would never be able to make things right.

And worse—somehow, inexplicably—he would be trapped.

I can't let her go, he thought, the certainty burning in his chest like a flame. I can't. I won't.

He threw away the rhythm of what he would normally do and ran after Stacy. His hand shot out, grabbing the handle of the door, and he pulled it open with a desperate force that nearly wrenched it off its hinges.

Danny: "Stacy, wait! I—"

The words died in his throat.

The door didn't open to the hallway of their apartment.

Instead, it opened into an infinite black void.

The darkness stretched in all directions, endless, with no walls, no floor, no ceiling. It was a darkness that seemed to swallow light itself, a black so deep and complete that it felt like a physical presence. And yet, somehow, Danny could see—could make out the details of the space around him, could perceive the shapes and shadows that moved in the void.

There, sitting in the center of the emptiness, was a desk.

Dark wood, polished to a gleaming shine, with no papers or objects on its surface. Behind the desk sat a man. He was elderly. His hair white and wispy. He was well-dressed, wearing a suit that looked like it had been tailored for him, its fabric dark and luxurious. His eyes glowed with a soft, crimson light.

Beside the desk, leaning against the table, was a cane with a silver skull pommel that gleamed in the dim light. The skull seemed to stare at Danny with empty eye sockets, its grin frozen in a perpetual smile.

And near the desk, floating in the void yet somehow solid, was an empty chair.

The chair was old-fashioned, with wooden arms and a cushioned seat, and it seemed to be waiting for him.

Onyx: "Ah," the old man said, his voice low and dry, like the rustling of dead leaves. "You've arrived here once again. That makes it 20,345 times you have come here out of 70,984,382 attempts."

Danny stared, his mind struggling to process the words.

Danny: "W-what is going on?" he stammered, his voice trembling. "Who are you? Where are we?"

The old man smiled—a strange, unsettling expression that seemed to be an imitation of a human smile, a mask stretched over something alien. It was hard to tell if the man was being playful or mocking him. But something about the smile felt artificial, like a performance, a copy of something real. And yet, beyond that disturbing feeling, you wouldn't be able to tell something was off.

Onyx: "Why don't you take a seat," the old man said, gesturing to the empty chair.

The chair seemed to pulse with invitation, as if it were alive, as if it had been waiting for him all along. Danny felt a strange pull toward it—a compulsion that was almost impossible to resist. He had so many questions, so many fears, so much confusion.

He walked forward, his feet finding solid ground on the invisible floor, and sat down.

The chair was comfortable. Too comfortable. It seemed to mold itself to his body, to hold him in place, to make him feel like he could sit there forever.

Onyx: "Would you like some tea to drink?" the old man asked, reaching into the air with a casual gesture.

Danny shook his head.

Danny: "No. I want to know what is going on."

The old man's smile didn't waver.

Onyx: "Strange. You always say that." He paused, his crimson eyes drifting to the side as if he were considering something. "I copied a certain being that likes to help others. And when he does, he usually offers tea. They don't refuse. Maybe it has something to do with the bookshelves in that store. Maybe I should add some bookshelves to this layer the next time you come."

He looked around the black void, his gaze sweeping across the emptiness as if appraising a room that needed redecorating.

Danny felt a chill run down his spine.

Danny: "That doesn't answer my question," he said.

Onyx: "No," the old man agreed. "I suppose not."

He leaned forward, his crimson eyes locking onto Danny's.

Onyx: "This one of many is known as Onyx," he said, gesturing to himself. "And we are in your dream. Or on it? Or around it?" He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Hmm. Mortal vocabulary is too limiting for this kind of discussion."

Danny: "A dream? So none of this is real?"

Onyx chuckled—a dry, rattling sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep within its chest. It was a laugh, but it felt wrong, like an echo of laughter rather than the real thing.

Onyx: "Dreams are no less real than reality, Danny. They are simply... different. The boundaries between them are thinner than you might think."

Danny: "Then what does that mean? What is going on? Why am I here?"

Onyx leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him.

Onyx: "Well, that's a long story. I think it's a long story, anyway. Time is such a strange concept. At least, I think it’s strange?"

Danny: "I don't care. I just want to know what is going on. And what is with this feeling of deja vu. Why does it feel like I've done all of this before?"

Onyx was silent for a moment, his crimson eyes studying Danny with an intensity that made him feel like he was being dissected.

Then, with a casual gesture, he reached into the air and pulled out a small creature.

It was horrific—a tiny octopus-like thing with too many tentacles and glowing purple eyes that pulsed with a sickly light. It wriggled and writhed in Onyx's grip, letting out a high-pitched screech that made Danny's ears ring. Onyx squeezed the creature, and green juices were expelled from its body, flowing into a teapot that had materialized from nowhere.

The creature shriveled and faded, disappearing into nothingness.

Onyx poured the green liquid into a teacup and took a sip, his expression thoughtful.

Danny gulped, suddenly very glad he had declined the offer of tea.

Onyx: "Normally," he said, setting the cup down, "I would begin this story at the start. But the last time you were here, you didn't appreciate me explaining the formation of the &%()# and the )##)00 that then lead to the creation of &%*#( that leads to the world you understand."

Some of the words Onyx spoke sounded like static—a crackling, distorted noise that made Danny's head ache. He winced, pressing his palms against his temples.

Onyx: "Don't worry about that. Those words are beyond your comprehension. They would break your mind if you tried to understand them."

He paused, then continued.

Onyx: "I'll skip ahead instead. Past the Sisters. Past the Creation Era. Past the Founding Era. Past the Age of Discord and the Mythic Era. Past most of the current Final Era. All the way up to the moment you had—or are having—this dream."

Danny's head spun. He had heard of the Mythic Era, but the rest—the Sisters, the Creation Era, the Founding Era—were completely unknown to him. And the Final Era? He didn't even know he was living in an era called the Final.

Onyx: "The story begins after you wake from this dream," Onyx continued. "You go to Fo-gaalza in an attempt to get the capital to restart your business. An accident occurs, and you and twenty other delvers find yourselves trapped in what you call the Mythic Depths."

He paused, his crimson eyes fixed on Danny.

Onyx: "After a day, you and the others decide to explore the depths. You find a stone container—an ancient box, sealed by the Gaalza people. Driven by the need to discover what is inside, several of the delvers use explosives to crack it open. And inside, they find a 'Forgotten.'"

Danny's blood ran cold.

Danny: "A ‘Forgotten’? What is that?"

Onyx smiled—that same unsettling, artificial smile.

Onyx: "A creature from beyond your world. A thing that was locked away by the Gaalza people for a reason. When you and the others released it, the ‘Forgotten’ took your memories of seeing it—all of them—and no one would remember releasing it. You returned to the elevator with the ‘Forgotten’, completely unaware of its presence."

His voice dropped, becoming softer, more intimate.

Onyx: "One by one, the ‘Forgotten’ took more and more of your group's memories. Every time they saw the ‘Forgotten’ they would lose the memory of seeing it. It made you forget each other. It made you forget why you were there. It made you forget that you had already explored the ruins, so you explored them again, and again. It took more and more, until people forgot how to breathe. They suffocated to death—but you didn't realize it, because you had forgotten that."

Danny's face went pale.

Onyx: "You were the only one to realize what was truly happening. You discovered that a ‘Forgotten’ can't take your memories if you look at it through a reflection. You tried to run away, but you triggered a trap you forgot about and it pinned you down. The ‘Forgotten’ was about to take all of your memories—and then I showed up."

He paused, his crimson eyes glowing brighter.

Onyx: "I removed the ‘Forgotten’ from existence. As part of an agreement we made with another party—to remove all outsiders from the world who don't follow the new rules. It was a simple thing for me to do. And as you lay on the ground, dying, you begged me for one more chance."

Danny felt a lump form in his throat.

Onyx: "I gave you another chance. I recreated a new reality—a new iteration—for you to attempt another outcome. Sometimes you take a slightly different path, like you did here by getting to this place. Sometimes you survive a little longer than you did last time. But it always ends the same. In the 70,984,382 attempts, you're always there laying on the ground, begging me for one more chance."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Onyx: "And every time, I give you one."

Danny froze, unable to process what he was being told.

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and incomprehensible, like a language he had never learned but somehow understood on a primal level.

The rational part of his brain rejected what he was being told. It was absurd. Impossible. This was just a dream. A vivid, disturbing dream brought on by the stress of his situation. Any moment now, he would wake up.

But the other half of his brain bucked in horror.

Onyx smiled once again, and something about it felt profoundly wrong.

It wasn't the smile of a malicious being, nor was it the smile of someone who found amusement in Danny's suffering. It wasn't even the smile of someone who understood what they were doing. There was no malice behind it, no amusement, no cruelty. Just something alien—something that Danny could not, and would not, fully understand.

Onyx: "But maybe this time it will be different," he said, his crimson eyes studying Danny's face. "So, tell me Danny. Would you like one more chance?"