"Break time's over. You got a strategy?" 777 stretched and sat up.
"Yeah, sure. Like I know everything," Rick muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Let's just go with the flow."
"Finding Nemo? Nah. Finding Tobey—yeah," 777 mumbled with a dry smirk.
Rick raised a brow. "What about you? Any leads?"
"Nah. I passed out. Had a weird-ass dream, but no time to get into that."
"Alright then. Let's search."
Translation:Let's get the hell out of this place.
They stepped out of the van.
Night.
The air felt heavier than it should've. Like it had secrets.
They both paused, staring at the sky that should've been blue.
They looked at each other, silently asking the same question:
"Is this real?"
"It's night out… Let's search tomorrow," Rick said, his eyes scanning the treeline like something might blink back. "Could be dangerous animals around. Let's just head back to the hotel."
777 didn't respond at first. Just stood there.
Listening. Watching.
Then finally, "Okay… but the van's not working?"
Rick shrugged. "No worries. Jennifer already fixed that."
777 in his head: "I don't know how. But I've got no fucking option."
"Okay," he muttered.
They climbed in—Rick slumped into the driver's seat, exhaling hard.
777 dropped into the passenger seat like gravity had doubled.
No words. Just tension.
Rick twisted the key.
The engine growled to life.
"Alright. We're out of this place," Rick muttered, eyes narrowing.
The van rolled forward, tires crunching over gravel and dried leaves.
They passed the same rusted, bent sign:
"DO NOT ACKNOWLEDGE IT."
Rick didn't look at it.
777 did. For a second too long.
But said nothing.
The road curved out of the village, the trees slowly giving way to early morning haze.
The farther they got, the easier it was to breathe.
"Jennifer, is GPS working now?" Rick asked.
Static. Then her voice—glitchy but present.
"Yes, sir. Navigation online."
777 glanced at his watch.
"How the fuck is it 6 a.m. already?"
Rick didn't even flinch. "No fucking idea."
He let out a long, gravel-throated sigh, tension leaking from his shoulders like steam.
"Anyway… Jennifer, take us to the nearest café. We sit. We breathe. We talk."
The van cruised down the fog-wrapped road. Fields and concrete blurred into unfamiliar scenery. Finally, a small neon sign flickered into view through the mist:
"CAFÉ SOMNIA."
The building was tucked between a closed pharmacy and an empty convenience store.
Yellow glow spilled from its windows, cutting into the dim morning haze.
Jennifer's voice, now clearer than ever:
"You have reached your destination."
Rick parked. Both men just sat for a moment.
Not because they were tired—but because their brains hadn't caught up yet.
777 opened the van door.
The wind outside was cool now. Normal.
The metallic taste was gone.
They stepped out in silence and pushed open the café's door.
A soft bell rang.
Warm air hit their faces—smelling like roasted beans, burnt toast, and something vaguely sweet.
Inside, it was almost too normal.
Muted jazz played from an old speaker in the corner.
A single ceiling fan spun slowly.
There were only three other people inside. Silent. Staring at their mugs like they held answers.
Rick and 777 found a booth by the window.
They sat opposite each other.
Backs sinking into the vinyl seats.
No words. Just breathing.
Then a waiter in a tan apron walked over, notepad in hand, eyes a little too wide for this early in the day.
"What will you two gentlemen be having?"
His voice didn't crack. But it almost did.
777 didn't hesitate.
"A cappuccino, an espresso… and 95% cocoa dark chocolate. Thanks."
The waiter blinked once. Jotted it down. Nodded.
"Coming right up."
As the waiter walked away, Rick raised an eyebrow.
"That chocolate gonna summon a demon too?"
777 leaned back into the booth, arms folded.
"If it does, I'm eating it anyway."
Rick chuckled, but it was dry. Heavy.
"Anyway… back to the topic of madness. Did we escape?"
"It seems so," Rick muttered, almost too casually.
777 tapped his fingers on the table.
"Do you think things were—"
"—were in a different dimension. Yes," Rick cut in, eyes not leaving the window.
777 hesitated.
"It's stupid to ask, but… how can we confirm?"
"No idea," Rick said. "We just have to keep acting like this is the real one until it kills us or proves otherwise."
777 leaned forward, whispering now.
"Did you ever see the photo of that missing kid? From that old case—what was the number?"
"Case 23642 to be exact." Rick's voice dropped.
He stared at the wood grain on the table like it was a map.
"I think the kid went in there… That place. Can't say for sure, but the case can probably be closed now."
777's eyes sharpened.
"Do you think Tobey's in there?"
Rick shook his head.
"Nah. That didn't feel like Tobey's kind of chaos. That place was… curated. Ritualistic. Tobey's chaos is raw."
A moment of silence passed.
777 finally said,
"Did you figure out how that dimension worked?"
Rick sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Yes and no. Here's my theory.
It doesn't follow time, location, or logic. It reacts to us. Like a mirror crossed with a machine—it bends to observation.
When we questioned it, it twisted. When we believed something, it responded. Lies mattered more than truth in there. Reality wasn't stable—it was interpretive."
777 blinked slowly.
"So it's not a place. It's a behavior."
Rick nodded.
"Exactly. We didn't leave it—we just got out of its reach. For now. It's like an algorithm looking for triggers. It needs someone to see it, believe in it, and lie to it."
"And the black figure?"
Rick's jaw clenched.
"Could've been a filter. A gatekeeper. Or maybe just something the place made because we expected it to."
777 slumped back.
"That's worse than I thought."
"Yup." Rick leaned forward, voice low.
"It means anyone who thinks too hard can fall in. Maybe that's what happened to Case 23642's kid. Maybe that place waits for people who can't stop asking questions."
Just then, the waiter returned with two steaming cups and a small dish of 95% cocoa dark chocolate.
He set them down wordlessly, like he already knew they wouldn't say much.
The jazz still played—soft horns, a lazy upright bass. The ceiling fan turned with a gentle hum above them, stirring the warm aroma of roasted beans and fresh bread.
Rick wrapped his hands around his cup, letting the heat seep into his skin.
777 leaned back into the cushioned booth, eyes closed for just a moment, breathing in the calm.
The café felt like it was wrapped in a blanket. The world outside—the bleeding windows, the cut-off limbs, the distorted dimension—it all felt like a memory from someone else's nightmare.
They sipped their drinks.
Bitterness hit first, then warmth, then clarity.
777 broke the silence, eyes still on the swirling foam in his cappuccino.
"Will we go back there?"
Rick didn't look up. He blew lightly on the rim of his espresso.
"Yeah." A pause. Then he muttered, "But the place won't be there, I bet."
"How do you know?" 777 asked, raising an eyebrow.
Rick smirked faintly, the kind that held too many layers.
"Horror movie logic, I guess."
He took another sip, then added,
"Places like that don't wait around. They find new shapes. New bait."
777 quietly broke off a piece of the dark chocolate. It cracked sharply against the porcelain plate. He let it melt slowly on his tongue—bitter, grounding.
Outside, morning sunlight filtered through the café windows, painting everything in gold.
And for a few quiet minutes, the world felt safe.