Chapter 7
LIORA
I’m bone-deep tired.
Not the cute kind of tired that gets fixed with a stimshot and a protein bar. No, this is the kind that settles behind your eyes like concrete and whispers mean little things into your ear like “maybe it’s better if you just lie down and rot.”
We’ve lost another civilian today.
That makes… too many.
Her name was Tanley. Brown hair, bad teeth, a weird laugh that kind of grew on you if you let it. She got sick of waiting. Said she could hear something clicking behind the wall and figured she could override it. I told her not to touch anything without clearing it through me first.
She didn’t listen.
The panel slid open so sweet, like it was inviting her in. Then snap—trapdoor.
She fell screaming into a chasm full of spinning blades that looked like they belonged in a kitchen appliance from hell. We didn’t even hear the thump at the bottom. Just blood splashed back up onto the ceiling tiles like a goddamn Rorschach test.
Dravven muttered, “Guess that’s what we call a trust fall.”
Dirk’s Maze Master flashed up in neon color above the gap. “CONGRATS, PLAYER TANLEY! YOU’VE WON THE DARWIN AWARD!” Digital confetti sprayed out of the wall like bile. “May your genetic material rest in pieces!”
Borzen didn’t say a word. Just stared at the place where Tanley vanished, his fists clenched tight enough to bend steel.
I’m trying not to think about it. Really trying. But every time I close my eyes, I see the blur of her falling. The way her fingers scraped the wall on the way down.
People keep dying.
And it’s my game. My blueprints. My levels. My monsters.
Even if Dirk twisted it, even if he made it worse, it still came from me.
We find a safe room two hours later. I almost cry when the scanner confirms no trap triggers. Just a single door. A vent I can override. Four hard cots. A water spout with an actual mineral filter.
It’s too good to be true. So I poke around, hands trembling.
Takes me twelve minutes to find the gas lines in the walls. Sleep vapor, slow release. Probably kicks in at midnight game-time.
Dirk never gives anything away for free.
Borzen eyes me from the corner. “Can you disable it?”
“Temporarily.” I wipe my face. “I’ve redirected the gas release into the waste valve. It’ll buy us maybe eight hours before it reboots.”
Dravven lets out a low whistle. “Goddess, I’m starting to believe you really made this thing.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say flatly. “Teen genius turned live-action death architect. Somebody get me a damn trophy.”
Borzen checks the corners like a soldier sniffing for snipers. “We sleep in shifts.”
“No point,” I mutter. “Even if someone stays up, there’s nothing to stop. The gas floods no matter what.”
“But at least,” Dravven adds, “if we sleep, we dream of better deaths.”
I look at him. He’s lounging on the far cot, one arm behind his head like he’s on a beach somewhere. But there’s something tight around his mouth. Something haunted.
“You always this chill?” I ask.
Dravven lifts a brow. “Spent three years in a prison cell on Arkos Prime. Only game they let us play was a demo loop of Monstrous Mazes. I used to pretend I was inside it.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“Better graphics now,” he says with a wry smirk. “But worse perks.”
For a second, I don’t know whether to be flattered or throw up. “So I basically gave you the fantasy of running for your life from plasma saws.”
“I mean, it beat watching the ceiling mold grow.”
He closes his eyes. Borzen grunts in disapproval and stays standing near the door like a brick wall with daddy issues. I sit down on the edge of a cot and start to pull off my boots. The gel from earlier still clings to my legs in patches—sticky and sour-smelling, like burnt marshmallows.
My body’s aching in places I didn’t know could ache. Muscles trembling. My hands have cuts I don’t remember getting.
I stretch out on the cot. Cold. Thin. Feels like sleeping on a pizza box.
Still. I’ll take it.
I don’t think I dream, exactly.
But I float.
In the dark, there’s a pulse—steady and low. A drumbeat I don’t recognize. It’s not mine. Too heavy. Too deep. Like the echo of something older than cities.
Jalshagar.
The word brushes across my skin like breath.
I shiver and open my eyes.
And there it is.
In the corner of the room, near the maintenance panel, is a mark.
A symbol I didn’t code.
I sit up slowly, every bone in my back protesting. Dravven snores softly across the room. Borzen hasn’t moved, still standing, arms crossed, but his eyes are closed now. He trusts me, at least a little.
I pad barefoot across the room, crouch low beside the symbol.
It’s carved into the wall. Not digital. Not projected.
Physically cut into the alloy with claws or something stronger. The metal’s curled back at the edges, rough to the touch. Still faintly warm.
It glows, faintly—white against the dark. Not enough to be seen unless you’re looking for it.
Reaper glyph.
I can’t read it. But I feel it. Deep in my chest. Like a tuning fork was struck against my ribs.
I don’t know why, but I whisper, “You were here.”
It’s stupid. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe Dirk was screwing with me, sent some actor in a monster suit to make the game more interesting. Maybe I imagined the whole thing and I’m going delirious.
But my gut says otherwise.
This mark is real. This moment is real.
And he saw me.
He wanted me to know.
I press two fingers to the glyph. It tingles, like static on skin. Then I walk back to the cot and curl up again.
I don’t sleep much.
But the fear doesn’t feel quite as sharp now.