The corridor widened.
Not the way a hallway normally does, with corners and doors and predictable architecture. No, this was something else entirely—something more intimate and unnerving. It widened the way a throat does when it's about to speak… or scream… or swallow something whole.
Lana didn't turn around.
She couldn't.
The passage behind them had sealed itself shut. No sound. No hiss of closing hydraulics. No whir of mechanical locks. It was simply… gone. What had once been a way out was now nothing but fading memory. The seamless walls gave no hint that they'd ever opened at all.
She kept moving forward, step after deliberate step. Her feet touched dry, steady ground now—no more pulsing moisture or meaty resistance. It was as if the corridor had stopped testing her. No, not stopped—decided. Chosen.
This wasn't comfort.
It was acknowledgment.
The corridor had recognized her.
She didn't know what that meant. But her body did.
She could feel it in the way her scar itched again, a slow burn at the edge of sensation. It had stopped bleeding. But it hadn't healed. The warmth there wasn't blood.
It was memory.
Jason's voice came quietly from behind her, tight with unease. "I don't like this place. Every step feels like it's listening."
Lana didn't answer. Neither did Nyx. The girl moved without hesitation, like she belonged to this place more than she ever had to the world above.
Kieran brought up the rear. He hadn't spoken in minutes. Lana didn't need to hear his voice to understand what he was thinking. There was something in his silence now that hadn't been there before—something quiet and heavy, full of resignation. Not fear. Not admiration. Something closer to the weight of realization.
She didn't need to look at him to know: he was beginning to understand that this path no longer belonged to him.
They reached a chamber.
Round. Low ceiling. Organic in shape and structure, like they'd walked into the belly of some great sleeping animal. Red, pulsing veins curled along the walls, lighting the space with a dull glow. The air was warm, close, stale in a way that made Lana feel like she was standing inside someone's memory rather than a room.
And in the center—
A figure waited.
At first, she thought it was someone.
Then it moved.
And she knew she was wrong.
Its limbs were all wrong. Arms bent in too many places. Legs slightly too long. The way it stood, the way its neck turned—gliding, unnatural, disjointed. Like someone had tried to make a person from a dream they'd only half-remembered.
Jason gasped. "That's—"
"Me," Lana said before he could finish.
The figure looked like her. Almost. Not exactly. The face was close enough to make her chest tighten—cheekbones shaped like hers, the curve of the jaw, the eyes… or at least something trying to be eyes. They were copies of her gaze, only hollow. Like glass blown without breath.
The thing didn't speak.
Not at first.
It simply drifted toward her, its feet gliding across the ground without ever lifting. It stopped inches from her, raised one trembling hand toward her face, and paused there—fingers hovering in the air.
Then the voice came.
Not from its mouth.
From inside her head.
A wet, static-laced whisper.
"I am what she left."
The words didn't startle Lana. She had been expecting something like this without knowing it. She inhaled slowly. Exhaled once. No panic. No confusion.
Just understanding.
This wasn't a ghost.
It wasn't a clone.
It was a memory. A mistake. A version of herself that hadn't made it all the way through.
Kieran stepped up beside her. "What is it doing?"
Nyx's voice was quiet. Measured. "It's not attacking. It's offering."
Jason looked pale, sweat forming along his temple. "Why does it look like Lana?"
Nyx glanced at him. "Because not all of her made it out of the chair."
The figure—the echo—shivered. Then its chest opened. Quietly. Without pain. No tearing, no sound of bone cracking.
Just… unfolding.
The ribcage peeled apart like the petals of a flower. Inside, carefully nested, was a small bundle.
A heart.
Wrapped in gauze blacker than ink. It pulsed faintly, its rhythm slow but unmistakable.
It didn't bleed.
It waited.
Lana's breath caught.
She stepped closer.
Stopped just short.
She stared at it—at the strange, silent thing that should not have existed. Her hands were trembling now.
"What happens if I take it?" she asked, though part of her already knew.
Nyx looked at her with soft certainty. "Then you'll finish what they started."
"And if I don't?"
Kieran's voice was low. "Then you'll always be incomplete."
Jason said nothing.
But his silence was a plea.
Lana closed her eyes. Inhaled.
And reached forward.
Her fingertips touched the gauze.
The heart pulsed once—
And dissolved into her palm.
No blood. No weight. Just warmth. Presence.
And the corridor responded.
A low vibration rolled through the walls, rising into something like a sound, but not quite. It wasn't noise. It was breath. A hum. The pulse of something old and sentient exhaling in relief.
Then came the scream.
Not from her.
Not from the echo.
From the corridor itself.
A reverberation deep in her bones.
Lana staggered.
Dropped to one knee.
Her heart beat.
Then paused.
Then beat again—synchronized now with something beyond herself.
Nyx helped her up. No words. Just touch.
Kieran watched her like he was seeing something sacred. Or dangerous. Maybe both.
Jason looked like he was going to be sick.
The echo collapsed.
Not in pain.
Just… ceased.
It folded in on itself. Silently. Like a thought being unthought.
No blood.
No death.
Just memory. Finished.
The corridor ahead shifted.
It didn't open forward.
It spiraled down.
A smooth, slow descent. Like the neck of a bottle—curved, old, familiar.
Lana stepped toward it.
This time, the floor pulsed beneath her feet. The corridor was responding to her—not reacting. Matching her rhythm.
The others followed.
Jason glanced back. "Is it over?"
Nyx looked ahead.
Her voice was barely audible.
"No. It hasn't even begun."
They began to descend.
Step after step.
The light dimmed behind them.
And beneath them—
Something stirred.
Something alive.
Something listening.