Chapter 27
LIORA
Istep onto the studio set and the smell hits me first—cheap smoke machines, stale coffee, and that unmistakable scent of synthetic fabric rubbed raw.
My character is supposed to be terrified of the “Reaper” villain.
I glance over and see him: Kane DeSoto, chest puffed, plastic armor clinking, horns wobbling dangerously like they’ll fall off and bonk him in the skull.
I suppress a grin. It’s hard to be terrified when your nemesis looks like a budget cosplay gone wrong.
“You shall fear me, human!” he snarls, his voice echoing in the oversized boots of the crew. “The Reaper’s rage shall scorch the heavens!”
I tighten my grip on the script—which I insisted we call a “draft” even though I have zero control over the final cut. I’m supposed to tremble. Instead, I just feel tired.
“Please…” I say, forcing my voice to shake. “Spare me.”
“Cut!” Miles Maximus, our director, roars from above the monitors. He’s perched like a hawk, vibrating with caffeine and wild energy. “Brilliant! But more terrified, Liora! Look like you’ve just seen the end of everything. Kane, give me vulnerability. Make me feel the abyss!”
Kane breaks character to adjust his crotch plate. “Got it, boss. Abyss. Vulnerability.”
I walk to the edge of the set to grab my water.
A snack pouch rustles to my left. Pepper sits just off-camera on a prop crate, her feet dangling.
She’s wearing the tiny image inducer strapped to her temple, hidden by a messy bun.
It hums softly, masking her true nature, keeping her eyes a safe, human brown.
She watches Kane wobble around. She leans toward the crew photographer. “Is that my real dad?”
The photographer snickers. I freeze, shooting her a warning look. She just grins, jam on her cheek, blissfully unaware of how dangerous that question is.
“Five minute reset!” the AD yells.
I kneel beside Pepper. “Hey. Be good.”
“I am good,” she says, kicking her heels against the crate. “But the horn man looks silly.”
“He’s an actor, bug. It’s pretend.”
“You look scared, though,” she says, studying my face.
“That’s acting, too.”
Is it? Or is it just the memory of the real Maze clawing its way out?
“Action!” Miles yells.
I step back into the lights. Fog rolls in. Kane strides forward again, his plastic scythe squeaking as it swivels.
“Your screams are but an echo!” Kane shouts, raising a fist.
He steps too close. The blocking is wrong. He’s invading my space, looming over me in a way that triggers a muscle memory I thought I’d buried. The smell of the fake rubble, the flicker of the strobe lights—it all snaps into focus. For a second, I’m back in the tunnels. Back in the dark.
I stumble back, genuine panic spiking in my chest. “Get back!”
Kane grins, thinking it’s part of the scene. He lunges.
And then the air changes.
It’s subtle at first. A shift in pressure. A scent cutting through the fake smoke—ozone. Hot metal. Old blood. Real blood.
A shadow detaches itself from the darkness behind the lighting rig.
“That’s not how a Reaper moves,” a voice growls.
It’s low. Gravel and thunder. A sound that vibrates in the floorboards.
Kane freezes. The crew goes silent. Miles stands up so fast his chair tips over.
I stop breathing. I know that voice. I’ve heard it in my nightmares. I’ve heard it in my dreams.
A figure steps into the circle of stage light. He towers over Kane. His armor isn’t plastic; it’s scorched, scarred alloy that has seen orbital re-entry and war. His horns aren’t glued on; they spiral back from his skull, dangerous and regal.
Gyon.
He’s here. Alive. Real.
Kane DeSoto squeaks—actually squeaks—and drops his scythe.
Gyon ignores him. He ignores the cameras. He ignores the stunned crew. His eyes—glowing with that familiar red predatory light—lock onto mine.
“Hello, Liora,” he says.
My knees give out. I sink onto a prop rock, my hands shaking.
“Cut!” Miles screams, but this time it sounds like a cheer. “Keep rolling! Nobody cut! This is gold!”
I don’t hear him. I don’t hear anything but the blood roaring in my ears.
He came back.