They had been walking for what felt like hours, though none of them could say for certain how long it had truly been. Time inside the corridor had always been suspect—looping, stretching, folding in on itself—but something about this stretch felt different. The warmth that once pulsed through the walls in time with Lana's heartbeat had gone still. The corridor had changed. Not in structure, but in presence. Before, it had felt like a living thing—curious, almost affectionate in its invasive way. Now it felt colder. Not in temperature, but in attitude. The walls no longer hummed in tandem with them. They felt watchful instead. Silent. Measuring every step. As if the corridor had seen what it needed to see and was no longer interested in hiding what it thought about them.
Jason walked behind Lana with the kind of tension that made even his footsteps sound cautious. His eyes tracked the flickering bioluminescent veins that ran along the corridor walls. They weren't pulsing in sync anymore. They blinked now—sporadically, in clipped bursts, almost deliberate in their rhythm. At first, he thought it might be random. But after a few minutes, he slowed, narrowed his eyes, and spoke just above a whisper. "It's Morse code," he muttered, as if saying it too loud might offend the walls themselves. "It's trying to say something."
No one responded. There wasn't much point. The last time Jason had tried his scanner, it had blinked once and gone black, like even the circuitry inside knew it didn't belong here anymore. The corridor had learned too much too quickly. It had become something else—something that adapted not to survive, but to shape the people moving through it. And worse still, it had grown confident. That confidence hung heavy in the air now, thick and unspoken.
Kieran reached out a hand, perhaps out of habit, perhaps out of defiance. His fingertips brushed the wall for only a second before the surface pulled back from him—just a fraction of an inch, but enough to make him recoil. The corridor's reaction wasn't violent. It was disappointed. Or maybe disgusted. He dropped his hand and flexed it, the muscles in his forearm twitching as if the claws beneath his skin had sensed the insult too.
"It doesn't want us here anymore," he said, and though his voice was steady, Lana heard the strain underneath. Kieran was built for endurance, for violence, for containment. But this place had found the part of him that was still searching for permission to exist, and it was beginning to press on that bruise.
Lana didn't say anything. She could feel it too. The heart she had taken from the echo back in the Womb Room was still beating inside her, but the rhythm had changed. It had slowed—not in a way that suggested weakness, but something more unsettling. As if it were no longer hers alone. As if the corridor had reached inside her and found that last sliver of self that still resisted and claimed it.
The corridor narrowed—not physically, but emotionally. With each step, Lana felt the space press in tighter, as if movement required more effort. Not because she was tired. Not because they were deep underground. But because the corridor didn't want them to leave. It wasn't building walls. It was building weight. It wanted them to forget what outside had ever felt like.
They came upon another room, smaller than the ones before. The space was damp and close, and the air had a bite to it—not cold, but clinical. Wet metal. Old breath. The walls were slick with condensation, and strange machines protruded from the surfaces in twisted harmony with bone. Terminals that looked grown rather than built jutted from the corners, and skulls—split neatly down the middle—had been fitted into the walls like shrines. Each glowed faintly with internal light, but nothing here looked meant for human hands.
At the room's center stood a tall, dark column. It looked solid at first glance, like a monolith, perfectly smooth. But as they drew closer, Lana saw the slow, rhythmic movement just beneath its surface—an inhale, an exhale. It was breathing. And inside it, obscured but unmistakable, floated a body.
It was Kieran.
Or rather, a version of him. One untouched. One unbroken.
The Kieran inside the column looked younger, though not by age. His body was whole. No implants. No scars. No mutations. This was who he could have been if Evelyn hadn't gotten her hands on him. If Noctis hadn't carved its mark into his spine.
The moment Kieran recognized the figure, he moved forward. Just one step. That was all it took.
The column split open without sound. Fluid drained away with a whisper, and the alternate Kieran stepped out with a smile so gentle it felt unnatural. There was no malice in it. No menace. Only invitation. A promise of what might have been.
Jason tensed immediately and reached for a weapon that wasn't there. "What is that?" he asked, his voice thin, unsettled.
Nyx stepped forward slowly, eyes calm. "A possibility," she said. "One he left behind."
Lana stayed where she was. She understood it already. This wasn't a fight. It wasn't even a trick. It was a moment. A mirror.
The two Kierans stood opposite one another. The real one—the one who had bled and shifted and survived—breathed heavily, his stance slightly hunched, his body twitching as if unsure of how to contain itself. The other was still. Serene. Waiting.
Around them, the corridor stirred again. Veins slithered toward Kieran like vines, wrapping around his ankles with unnerving grace. They weren't restraining him. They were reeling him in. The corridor wanted him back—to reshape him, maybe to reabsorb him into something simpler.
Lana stepped forward instinctively, but Nyx caught her wrist. "This is his," she said. "You can't interfere."
"What's happening?" Lana asked, even though she already knew the answer.
"Reintegration," Nyx said softly. "Or replacement."
The corridor's intention became clearer. The other Kieran lifted a hand, palm open. The real one gasped. His breath came in ragged pulls. His body began to shake as though some internal thread had been pulled taut. His knees hit the floor.
Jason moved, but Lana raised a hand and stepped between them. "Don't," she said. Her voice carried weight now. Authority. Not loud—but final.
The other Kieran stepped forward again, and for a heartbeat, it looked like they would touch. Like the corridor was seconds away from rewriting him.
Lana moved before it could happen. She placed her hand on Kieran's shoulder, steady and firm.
The pulse in the room stopped.
Everything held its breath.
"You were never broken," she said.
The clone faltered, its smile fading into something more human—regret, maybe. Then its form shimmered, wavered, and slowly began to dissolve, as if the corridor had finally received the answer it had been looking for and no longer needed the proof.
The column behind it sank back into the floor. The walls softened. The corridor exhaled.
Kieran sat in silence, staring at his hands. His claws were gone. But something else had left him, too. He looked at Lana, eyes full of something unspoken, and whispered, "I don't know who I am anymore."
"You don't have to," Lana replied gently. "Not yet."
A new door opened. Light poured through—not pulsing red or biological pink, but bright white. Clean. The kind of light that didn't feel like a trick.
They stepped through together.
The next chamber was empty, shapeless. Just light. No walls, no sound.
And in its center stood Specter.
Not flesh. Not hallucination. Something between.
Her voice came softer now, gentler than before, but still laced with that familiar bite of expectation. "You could have been so much more."
Lana's feet didn't stop moving. She met the imprint's eyes and replied, without heat, "I'm already enough."
Specter tilted her head. "You think you're leading, but it's still shaping your steps."
Lana shook her head. "No. I shape myself."
And with that, the room collapsed. She was back in the chair. Strapped down. Evelyn leaning over her again, whispering the same old lies.
But this time, Lana didn't panic.
She tore herself free. Not delicately. Not quietly. She wrenched out of the memory by force. The straps broke. The illusion shattered.
The corridor was back.
Specter was gone.
And ahead—the final door stood open.
Outside wind rushed in like a greeting. The scent of earth and air was overwhelming.
Jason stepped up beside her. "Is it over?"
Nyx, now behind them, replied without hesitation. "The corridor ends. But you don't."
They stepped into the sun. It burned.
The world greeted them like strangers.
Above them, the broken ruins of Noctis crowned the cliffs like a memory trying not to die.
And below, in the distance, a city waited. One that had forgotten its name.
They didn't look back.
There was nothing behind them anymore that could speak louder than what waited ahead.
Only the shape of who they would become.
Only the war to come.