Obscured by the all-encompassing pine trees, the sun was now setting. Looming shadows stretched across the dirt path like tendrils, curling over the hills like sleeping giants. The sky had turned a solemn orange hue. One more house, and their deliveries for the day would be done.
Isaac looked back at the house, then at the two.
"Let's go," he said, and started walking down the now-foggy path.
He remained ahead of them, his eyes distant and unreadable. Isabelle and Ian trailed behind. Ian cradled the final delivery box in one arm, chewing on the last of the meat he'd smuggled into his pockets.
"One last box and we're done for the day, right guys?" Isabelle said cheerily.
Isaac didn't answer. His shoulders were stiff, his gaze lowered to the shifting mist ahead. Ian kept chewing, unfazed, focused on the distinct flavors of what was now definitely pocket-warmed meat.
Isabelle studied both of them—one silent, the other gnawing—and sighed. Out of the three, I guess I'm the only stable one left, she thought. She raised her hands toward the burning sky and twirled, trying to lighten the air around them.
"Look at that sunset! It's like a dying fire—" she began, but mid-spin, her foot caught her dress and she crashed into Ian's side. The meat tumbled from his hands into the dirt.
"Hey! Watch it, lady—what's the big idea?" Ian snapped.
"I'm sorry! I was just trying to—"
"Trying to ruin my dinner?" he muttered, bending down to salvage his food. "Whatever. Thanks a lot."
His voice had that familiar sting of mock-pain, half annoyed, half theatrical. Isabelle crouched down beside him, brushing dirt off the salvageable pieces.
"Here," she said gently, holding them out with a sheepish smile.
Ian raised an eyebrow, then took them with a huff. "Hmph" He bit into one and immediately winced, dropping his food again. "Oh goddamnit."
Looking past Ian she can see a figure in the distance clad in shadows. She watches as it slowly drags its feet toward them. Its movements, labored and fatigued. Ian continues picking up his food. Tapping him on the back of the shoulder produces no results and she resorts to yelling in hushed tones.
"Ian turn around, do you see that?" she taps him on the back a lot harder " Ian!"
He continues picking up his assorted meats, wincing in pain in the process stretching out an arm to rub his back " OW! What's your problem, haven't you done enough damage already?" he doesn't bother turning around, there are more pressing matters on his mind.
The figure drudges forward and Isaac was too blind to even notice it she thought. She has to save him from walking into his impending doom. It didn't seem to notice any of them yet but it was a lot closer now. She could make out more of its features, two heads and what seemed like four arms. It would shudder every so often struggling to stay upright and balanced. Trying to move ahead Isabelle's feet are glued to the floor. She calls out Isaac's name and reaches out but no sound is produced.
"Isabelle, what the hell are you doing?" Ian looks up from the floor, " You look ridiculous".
Only she could see it. Its footsteps were heavy and its breath labored, a low growl. She could hear it inside the center of her skull as if it were a parasite in her mind. Isaac was now completely out of reach and the figure grew closer. She closes her eye in terror as the silhouette of a monster raises its hand and stretches it out towards Isaac. She can barely make out what Isaac says to the creature. He's probably scaring the monster into submission, he'd never let it hurt me. It's not that he couldn't see it, he's just so brave he would never be scared in this situation. She opens up her eyes again.
It puts its hand on Isaac's head.
It's going to rip his head off, isn't it? Then it's going to do the same to me and Ian. All hope is lost and she drops down to her knees, her fingers digging into the ground. Ian watches from behind her in utter confusion and embarrassment.
"What in the world is going on?" Ian mouths to himself covering his mouth.
The footsteps become louder, thumping and scraping across the grainy dirt path. She closes her eyes, drawing out all the sounds from the outside world. Ian watches and the figure slowly climbs out of the shadows, revealing itself to be Jack. Maria is on his back like a sack of potatoes. He soon begins groveling on the floor as well.
"What the hell are you two doing?" Jack says, holding back laughter.
Isabelle perks up at the sound of his voice, embarrassed by her display, " Um, evening prayers that's all," she says, crossing her arms together.
Ian doesn't get up from the dirt, he doesn't exist at this very moment. Jack raises one of his eyebrows and rebalances Maria on his back. She's peacefully snoring into his ears. Jack smiles and shakes his head, he was a long way from home and she was a lot heavier than she looked. He says his goodbyes and continues ahead.
"Are they gone?" Ian asks face still kissing the dirt.
Isabelle turns around " And what the hell are you so afraid of you idiot?"
Isabelle clasped her hands behind her back and drifted up beside Isaac.
"So... what were you guys talking about?" she asked casually.
Isaac didn't answer. His eyes kept flicking between the trees.
"Ian?" she tried again.
No reply.
The crooked pine trees leaned in around them, their long limbs stretching like they were trying to listen. Wind swept through the path. Isaac stopped walking.
"I don't want to scare you," he said, voice low, "but I've been seeing shadows moving through the woods this whole time."
The wind howled, bending the trees and kicking up dry leaves. The shadows danced, stretching like claws across the forest floor.
Isabelle shivered, hugging herself. "I didn't notice anything. You sure you're not just seeing things?"
"Of course you didn't," Ian muttered, glaring. "You were too busy ruining my dinner."
"I'm serious," Isaac said. "I'm getting a really bad feeling."
Well, at least he was talking again.
Ian grinned. "They say before this village was founded, these woods were home to a horrible cult."
"Yeah right." Isabelle rolled her eyes. "You're gonna have to try harder than that. Right, Isaac?"
Isaac paused. "No... I think he's right. My dad used to tell me stories about them."
Ian's eyes lit up. "Through hundreds of years of blood rituals and worship of a false god, the cult was marked by the Devin''Him himself."
"Blood rituals?" both Isaac and Isabelle echoed.
"Blood rituals," Ian repeated. "The elders would sacrifice a chosen child to a statue of their god—throw them into a hidden chamber, set it ablaze."
Isabelle's breathing grew louder. Isaac could feel her speeding up beside him, eyes darting nervously through the trees.
"Ian," Isaac warned, voice sharp. "That's enough. You're freaking her out."
"I'm fine," Isabelle lied, forcing a smile. "Really. This is... interesting."
Ian continued anyway.
"They'd throw a banquet, drink the child's blood, eat the flesh to stay youthful. Said it gave them strength. Vigor."
Isaac muttered, "Sounds like one hell of a banquet."
Isabelle let out a weak laugh. "You don't really believe that, do you?"
"My mom told me a few of them still live deep in the forest. That's why you need church clearance to go there."
Ian nodded. "Eventually, Devin''Him cursed them—disfigured their bodies to halt the spread of sin. Now they only come out at night. Hiding from anyone who might see their cursed flesh."
Isaac nudged Isabelle with a faint smile. "I don't know. Probably just a story to keep kids from getting lost in the woods."
Another breeze. Another shadow.
"Shit, Isaac—did you see that?" Ian whispered sharply.
Isabelle flinched. "W-what?"
"Alright, man, knock it off," Isaac said. "You're scaring her."
"I'm serious. I'm gonna check it out."
Ian walked casually into the trees, hands in his pockets, like he wasn't creeping everyone out.
Isabelle watched him disappear, chewing nervously on her fingernails.
Leaves rustled. Branches cracked. Then—silence.
Even the crickets had gone still.
"Okay Ian, you got us," Isaac called out, louder now. "This isn't funny anymore. Come out."
No response.
Isaac looked at Isabelle, then back into the green abyss. He started tapping his foot. Then—
A scream. Distant. Choked.
Isabelle jumped. Isaac stepped forward, only for her to grab his wrist.
"You're not going in there," she said, voice trembling.
"I have to. What if he's actually in trouble?"
Tears welled in her eyes. "Please don't leave me alone out here. Please."
"I promise I'll be—"
"Isaac," she growled, her voice suddenly vicious, "leave me here and I'll kill you."
He blinked, startled. Then gently pried her fingers off his wrist.
"I'll be right back, idiot." He gave her a weak smile, turned, and ran into the forest.
Walking through thick brush and dead branches, Isaac stumbles upon Ian face-down in the dirt.
Ian's muffled laughter shakes his whole body as he rolls side to side. Isaac tries to keep it together but fails, collapsing next to him and snickering under his breath. They lock eyes and burst out laughing all over again.
"Blood rituals, really?" Isaac wheezes.
"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" Ian says, still catching his breath. "You're pretty good at that, by the way. How'd you make it look so real?"
"What do you mean?" Isaac asks, still half-laughing.
"The shadows," Ian says. "How did you get the shadows to look so real?"
Isaac's smile fades. "The shadows?"
"Yes, the shadows." Ian props himself up on an elbow. "How did you do that?"
Isaac doesn't answer. His eyes are fixed on something deeper in the forest.
"Isaac?" Ian shifts his tone. "How did you fake the shadows?"
Silence.
"Isaac?" He says again, more urgently. "The shadows—how did you—"
Isaac slowly turns to him. "Ian?"
"Yeah?"
"…You made up the cult, right?"
"…Why?"
Something rises from the bushes behind Ian.
A long, wiry arm shoots forward, grabbing him by the back of the neck and lifting him clean off the ground.
"AHHHHHH!"
Their screams echo through the forest, startling the birds into the sky.
Outside the woods, Isabelle blinks slowly.
"I'm on a diet," she mutters—and faints.
Back inside the forest Ian is struggling to get loose, a prisoner at his execution. The hand, a noose around his neck.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Isaac scrambles for something, anything—his hands finally land on a thick branch. He charges, swinging it at the figure's leg.
It shatters on impact like glass.
The figure turns. Too tall. Too silent. Too wrong. Isaac backs away, forced smile twitching.
"I don't suppose… you wanna be friends?"
Ian, panicking, fumbles in his pocket and shoves the rest of his dinner where the creature's mouth should be. There is no face.
Unimpressed, the figure hurls him into a tree and lurches toward Isaac, hand raised again.
From deeper in the woods:
Footsteps. A sharp metallic scent. The tap-tap-tap of a cane.
Isaac squints into the dark. His vision adjusts just enough.
"…Gaius?"
The figure halts. Turns. Waits.
It's Marrible.
Isaac exhales hard, collapsing backward in the dirt.
From behind them:
"Can't a man piss in peace?" Gaius calls out. The steady stream is… unmistakable.
"Please cover up, sir," Marrible mutters behind her paper mask. "That is quite indecent."
Gaius chuckles. He finishes, adjusts his robes, and retrieves his cane.
"Sorry about that, fellas. Marrible—go on, tell them you're sorry."
She looks at the ground. "I'm… I'm sorry," she says, barely audible.
"Isn't she just the cutest?" Gaius beams.
Isaac nods rapidly. So does Ian, shakily.
"She's a little too enthusiastic sometimes. Hope you boys can forgive her." He pats Marrible's head. "We've got to get back to the church, sweetheart. Don't want you missing your ceremony."
Marrible bows and turns.
As Gaius strolls past them, whistling, he nods politely at Isabelle, who's still passed out.
"Isabelle," he says.
Ian's eyes brim with tears.
"She picked me up like I was nothing, Isaac."
Isaac helps him to his feet.
"I just want you to know this was entirely your fault."
"Shut up."
"…The bastard didn't even wash his hands," Isaac adds.
The two emerge from the forest and shake Isabelle awake. Their journey had taken a slight detour, but now it was time to finish what they started.
The walk to the final house was unusually quiet. Ian wandered ahead, kicking loose rocks down the path while Isaac and Isabelle lagged behind. None of them spoke.
Eventually, the house came into view.
A rusted swing hung crookedly from a tree in the yard, swaying gently in the breeze though no one had touched it. Beneath it lay a deflated rubber ball, faded by time and weather. The grass was patchy. The earth dry.
Isaac stretched out his arms and let out a deep yawn. Ian's stomach growled audibly.
They reached the front door. Isaac knocked lightly. No answer.
He knocked again. Still nothing.
From around the side of the house, a tall, broad-shouldered woman emerged—carrying a heavy stack of firewood balanced on one arm like it weighed nothing.
Her forearms were corded with muscle. Her biceps dwarfed anything Ian had ever attempted in the gym.
She dropped the wood beside the porch and approached them, planting a rough, calloused hand on Ian's shoulder—and squeezed, just a little too hard.
"'Bout time you got here," she said, glancing at the door. "My husband's a little hard of hearing, y'know."
She took a long breath, then bellowed:
"DAVID! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE, NOW!"
The door swung open hard, wind curling around their ankles.
A lanky, pale man peeked out from behind it. His soft voice barely carried.
"Welcome back, honey," he said, beaming. Then, to the others: "Been a while. Please—come in, make yourselves at home."
The three took off their shoes and washed their hands in the sink—a ceremony not new to them. Ian's stomach rumbled, followed by Isabelle's.
"Sweety, do we have any leftover food for the kids?" David asked as he settled into his chair.
Alexandra scratched her neck, then shrugged. "No, sorry. Think I ate it all earlier."
Without a word, David got back up and began preparing sandwiches.
"No, really—it's fine, don't worry about us," Isabelle offered, but Ian nudged her sharply.
"You took everything from me," he muttered. His stomach growled again.
"It's really nothing," David said gently, already slicing the bread.
At the table, Isabelle slipped into the seat beside Isaac with expert maneuvering, leaving Ian stuck beside a lumbering Alexandra. She sprawled confidently, one arm draped over the chair's back.
"Ms...?" Ian asked nervously, hands tightly folded in front of him.
"Please. Just call me Alexandra," she replied, voice low and gravelly.
Ian froze. Isaac chuckled under his breath—until Alexandra turned her glare on him.
"Something funny?" she leaned forward.
"N-no, no. I was just admiring your table! Looks just like mine. Total coincidence. Haha..." Isaac fumbled, eyes darting around the room.
"Face me when I speak to you," she growled.
"Yes, ma'am," he whispered, sweating.
Alexandra smirked and leaned back. "Relax. I'm just messin' with you." She and Isabelle both laughed, and Isaac allowed himself a chuckle too.
"Hey, when's the food gonna be ready?" Alexandra called.
David returned just then, plates in hand. "It's not much—help yourselves."
Ian and Alexandra devoured their sandwiches in seconds. With a sigh, David went back to make more. Isaac and Isabelle ate more slowly, quiet.
"I heard your sister's being ascended today," Alexandra said suddenly, her voice sharpening. "That right, girl?"
Ian was still in his own world, savoring each bite. Isaac glanced toward Isabelle. David raised his hands with a shrug.
"You ever wonder what they do at those ceremonies?" Alexandra continued. "They hold them in town, right in the square—but we're not allowed to watch. I don't trust it. Watch your back, girl."
Isabelle straightened in her seat. "It's a test of faith and devotion," she said carefully. "We wouldn't be eating under this roof if it weren't for them, right?"
"I could build this damn roof myself," Alexandra scoffed.
"You did the first time," David said. "And it collapsed."
"That's beside the point." Her tone sharpened again. She jabbed a finger toward Isaac. "Ever since your father abandoned us, nothing's been the same."
Isaac's shoulders tensed. "What's your point?"
"Don't you want more?" Alexandra pressed. "When's the last time you did anything that didn't have the church's filthy hands all over it? Our homes all look the same. Our furniture. Our food."
Ian quietly reached over and stole half of Isaac's sandwich.
"I'm sick of the rations. Sick of being watched by those freaks."
Maribelle's mask flashed through Isaac's mind. Had she always been like that? He couldn't remember.
Isabelle clenched her fist beside him.
Alexandra noticed the silence. Her face softened. "Sorry, I've just been—"
A crash echoed from the back room. Glass shattering. Isabelle jumped. Ian finally looked up from his plate.
David shot out of his seat, Alexandra on his heels. The three followed behind, peeking into the hallway.
A boy, maybe a bit older than Isaac, was swaddled in blankets on the floor. Shards of plate and glass scattered around him. He struggled to rise. Wispy black hair framed his gaunt face. His cheekbones were sharp—too sharp.
What's wrong, baby?" Alexandra's voice softened as she scooped him into her arms like a child.
"Let go of me! I can get up on my own!" the boy snapped, squirming weakly against her grip. It was no use.
David knelt beside them, quietly sweeping up the shards of broken plate. "Sorry for the mess," he said softly.
"You're burning up," Alexandra whispered, brushing his hair aside. She peeled back the blankets—and froze.
Beneath was a skeleton draped in skin. Purple bruising mottled his limbs. His ribs pressed visibly through his chest. Patches of skin looked sunken, like old wax melting off bone.
Isaac quietly stepped out of the room. In the kitchen, he wet a towel and returned. Wordlessly, he handed it to Alexandra. As she took it, the boy stared at him. For a moment, their eyes locked.
There was no life behind the boy's eyes. Just the flicker of someone who had already left. A hollowed-out soul is what remains of him.
Isaac turned away and ushered Ian and Isabelle back to the kitchen. They sat in silence. Outside, the world had turned completely black.
When Alexandra and David returned, her voice was tired but sincere. "He's asleep," she said. She glanced at Isaac. "Thank you for the towel."
Isaac gave a quiet nod. "Sorry about earlier."
David sighed. "He's been like this for months. The church ran tests—said they couldn't find anything. He can't eat. Can't walk. Can't even stand light."
Alexandra looked toward Isabelle. "I know your sister is Gaius's favorite. She's always with him. Maybe... maybe you could ask her to speak to him? I know he knows something. No man stays young that long."
She stepped forward and took Isabelle's hands. Her voice trembled.
"Please. I've tried everything. They've all given up on him."
Silence took the room.
Isaac gently rested his hand on Isabelle's shoulder.
She nodded once. "I'll talk to her."
All their deliveries were finally done, and the sky above them was starless. A pale ribbon of moonlight guided them down the dirt path home. Ian peeled off first, but not before Isaac handed him the extra food Jack had given them.
Isaac and Isabelle walked alone.
Isabelle didn't mind. For once, she was grateful for Ian's absence. Though her legs ached, she still added a bounce to her step, just to lighten the air.
"Remember," she said through a yawn, "my sister's ceremony is tonight. Don't forget—you're not supposed to look out your window, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," Isaac mumbled, thumbing his necklace. "I know."
Then, softer: "How would they even know?"
"What was that?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "Nothing at all."
She smiled and nodded. "Good."
Silence followed, not awkward—just soft.
Isaac reached into his pocket, pulling something out and holding it up to the moon. The silver ring shimmered in the low light.
"Hey… about the ring," he said.
"Yeah?" she answered, swaying slightly as she walked.
"I don't think I should carry it anymore. If my mom saw it…" He paused. "I just don't think I'm ready. It's too much right now. Think you could hold on to it for me?"
He stopped walking. "Open your hand?"
She did.
Isaac placed the ring in her palm and gently folded her fingers over it.
"Just keep it safe," he said. "I'll ask for it when I'm ready."
She didn't reply.
"Isabelle?" He looked up. "Belle?"
She'd fallen asleep, standing straight up, her hand still clenched protectively around the ring.
Isaac laughed softly. No amount of prying would get it back now.
Isabelle stirred awake, fingers still curled tightly around something warm. She opened her hand. The ring.
It hadn't been a dream.
Light from the hallway spilled gently into the room. At her bedside sat her mother, softly combing her fingers through Isabelle's hair.
"You must've been exhausted," she whispered. "Isaac carried you all the way back."
Isabelle blinked up at her, eyes still heavy.
"Be sure to thank him in the morning, okay?"
Her mother leaned in, kissed her on the forehead, and rose to leave.
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
The door creaked closed behind her, and the soft hush of the room returned. Isabelle rolled onto her side, clutching the ring close to her chest.
Ian slipped through the door of his home and was met with nothing but silence.
No footsteps. No greeting.
Just the hollowness.
The curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the moonlight, swallowing the room in thick, unnatural dark. He navigated by feel, tracing the cracks and familiar textures on the walls until he found the oil lamp. The flame hissed to life, casting trembling shadows across the room.
In the corner, someone sat perfectly still.
A woman in a tattered white dress, black hair frayed and wild. She rocked slowly, not reacting to the light, not reacting to him. Ian set the parcel of food on the table without a word.
As he approached, the woman recoiled from the flame, shielding her eyes like it burned. Slowly, cautiously, she dropped her hand and looked at him. For a split second, their eyes met—then she snapped her head away, trembling.
Ian knelt in front of her.
"Hey," he said gently, his voice crisp and deliberate. "It's okay. I'm here now."
She stared past him, breath shallow, eyes blank. Ian reached out and gently took her arm. He pulled the frayed sleeve back. Beneath it, her skin was chewed raw—scarred and torn, crusted in old blood.
The scent hit him. Copper. Rot.
She didn't seem to notice. Her face twisted, and she snatched her arm away. Her whole body pulsed with panic—her heart hammering beneath skin like wet paper.
Ian tried to meet her gaze again. Nothing.
Slowly, he reached forward to brush the tangled hair from her eyes. As his fingers touched her cheek, she looked up.
Eyes wide. Tears falling.
Her mouth moved.
But all Ian heard was static.
He jerked back. The sound warped and swelled, crashing like a wave inside his skull. She leaned forward, lips trembling, trying to speak again. The static howled.
Ian clutched his ears, crying out.
Then—
Wet warmth spilled through his fingers.
The lamp went dark.
And something touched his hair.
"...Mom?"
Mom?"
No response.
Isaac walked into her room to find her already asleep, sprawled sideways across the bed. One leg dangled off the mattress, her hair a tangled mess over her face.
He smiled, tucked her leg in, and gently brushed the hair from her eyes.
Back in his own room, Isaac pulled off his shirt and lay on the mattress. He couldn't sleep.
Flashes of light pulsed through the curtains.
Shadows stretched long fingers across the wall—dancing, flickering, twisting in silence.
He rolled onto his side, back to the window.
"I guess the ceremony's starting," he whispered, clutching his necklace.
More flashes. The shadows sharpened, swirled.
"I'm only getting up to get a drink," he muttered. "I just... happened to glance out the window. That's all."
He waited.
Then got up.
Just a glance. Just one.
He parted the curtains—
And the wind slammed them open.
He froze.
Outside, the church stood like a wound in the world. An orb of fused flesh and countless eyes, each one moving in perfect unison. Gaius stood at its heart, blurred and formless, a shadow of robes and impossibility.
His cane struck the ground.
And Isaac's skull split open from the inside.
He felt it—not heard it. The cracking of stone, the screaming of light.
His knees gave. The air warped green and yellow, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Something reached into him.
His body jerked sideways. The room twisted, like gravity had changed its mind. Heat surged, pressure mounted—until it vanished.
Silence.
Isaac lay still, panting. He touched his arms, legs. Intact. Everything... fine?
Then—
The creak of a door.
He turned.
From the top right corner of the room, a hand slipped through the crack.
Then a head.
Too tall. Eyes hidden in shadow. The figure ducked under the doorframe, its skull brushing the ceiling.
Isaac blinked—
—and it was a boy.
Blonde hair. Green eyes. A calm, childlike smile.
He raised his hand. Gave a small, gentle wave.
"Who are you?" Isaac asked.
The boy tilted his head.
"Hello," he said. "My name is Isaac."
Isaac Faints.
He opens his eyes and realizes hes elsewhere.
The sky is stitched from moving fabric. The horizon rearranges every time he blinks. Pews grow out of stone. Trees bend to whisper into nonexistent ears. His body feels hollow. His breath echoes.
At the center of it all sits a man reclining on a throne made of mismatched chairs—like a king in a kingdom built by liars. His coat is a patchwork of priest robes, theater curtains, and caution tape. His smile looks like something stolen from another face.
CAIRN SOLIS:
Look who finally flopped into the in-between.
(He claps once. The sound is muffled, like clapping in a dream.)
Honestly, I expected you sooner.
But hey—trauma's a hell of a GPS.
(He lifts a cup. The tea inside is pitch black. It stares at Isaac.)
ISAAC:
Where am I?
CAIRN (mock gasp):
Oh, darling. Starting with the classic.
"What is this place?" "Who are you?"
Real first-week-of-the-hero's-journey energy.
(He hops off the throne. Doesn't land—just floats one inch above the ground.)
CAIRN:
This, my fragmented friend, is the bruise behind your thoughts.
The static between choices.
Where things go when you repress them just right.
And I?
(He bows flamboyantly.)
CAIRN:
I'm Cairn Solis.
Possibly your conscience.
Possibly a holy virus.
Possibly what happens when denial gets lonely and builds a puppet out of godlight and bad decisions.
(He flashes a grin, then softens, voice lowering just slightly.)
CAIRN:
You saw something you shouldn't have.
And now there's… room for me.
(Isaac backs up a step. Cairn notices. He giggles—not kind, not cruel, just delighted.)
CAIRN:
Careful, Isaac. Back away too fast and you'll fall out of metaphor.
And you do not want to see what's under that.
(He gestures. The floor beneath Isaac turns to stained glass. Images flicker: Isabelle's face, twisted in fear. Ian laughing under sunlight. A ring. A knife. A shadow with Isaac's eyes.)
ISAAC:
What do you want?
CAIRN (mock-offended):
Why do you people always ask that like you're not the one dreaming me up?
(He spins a coin that wasn't there. It floats, splitting into two faces: Isaac's, and Ian's.)
CAIRN (teasing):
Your little trio's getting interesting, huh?
Isabelle—so fragile, so bright. You really should've told her sooner.
Then again… maybe she already knows. Maybe she always knew.
(He flips the coin. Now it's Ian's face on both sides.)
CAIRN:
And Ian—ugh.
Adorable.
Tragic.
Charming like a star about to explode.
He reminds me of someone I used to be. Or date. Or consume. Memory's weird here.
(He pockets the coin. The air warps.)
CAIRN (calmer now):
Since you're here, how about a story?
(The sky dims. A stained-glass dome forms overhead. Cairn snaps, and a small model of the universe spins between them.)
CAIRN (softly):
Once, before time got addicted to linearity, there was a spark.
Not a god. Just an idea with too much ambition.
It didn't want worship. It wanted witnesses.
So it broke itself into billions of pieces and called the fragments "people."
Each one believed they were whole.
Each one wandered through life pretending their masks were skin.
And that spark?
It watched.
And wept.
Because they forgot.
They forgot why they were broken.
(Cairn picks up a shard of mirror. In it, Isaac sees his own face—but smiling a smile he's never made.)
CAIRN:
You? You're just starting to remember.
And remember this: the system hates remembering.
They'll call your truth selfish. Dangerous.
They'll ask you to give it up. For love.
For peace.
For her.
(The glass cuts Cairn's finger. He bleeds gold. He licks it, frowns.)
CAIRN:
Tastes like nostalgia. Gross.
(Suddenly, his face darkens. The dream stills.)
CAIRN (low, no smile now):
If you give them what they want, Isaac…
you'll live a very long time.
But you'll be buried alive inside yourself.
And one day, something will dig you up.
And it will not be kind.
(Pause. The threat hangs—not screamed, but known.)
Then, as if nothing happened, Cairn shrugs.
CAIRN (cheerfully):
Anyway!
I'll see you again when the next lie breaks open like an egg on hot pavement.
(He starts to walk away. The sky opens into a spiral staircase made of old memories. Just before he disappears, he turns back—grinning.)
CAIRN:
Oh—and before you ask?
No, I'm not the devil.
…At least, not on this side of the dream.
Then again…
(He tilts his head.)
I forget sometimes.
(Snap. He's gone.)
His neck throbbed—stiff and bent at a crooked angle. The back of his head was damp with sweat, or maybe something colder. Java stood on his chest, whining softly, pawing like he was trying to dig Isaac out of something invisible.
The room was dark. The candle had burned out.
Silence pressed against the walls.
He sat up slowly, wincing. The window was shut, but the leaves outside were still swaying—softly, gently, as if stirred by a wind that wasn't there.
He reached up and touched his face, making sure it was still his.
To be continued.