The walls followed me.
Every step, their seams stretched, shadows sliding like oil across stone. Faces flickered in the edges of my sight—eyes too wide, mouths too sharp—gone when I turned.
I told myself it was exhaustion, the toll of running, fighting, bleeding. But the whispers disagreed.
They rose from the cracks, soft and layered, hundreds of voices all speaking over one another. My name tangled through them, stretched and broken.
—Sora—
I pressed my hands to my ears, but the sound burrowed deeper, threading through bone. It wasn't sound at all. It was inside me.
I staggered forward, vision swimming. Shapes bent at the edges of the glow—my brother's face, his smile split wrong, his eyes wide and hollow. He mouthed words I couldn't hear, then melted back into the stone.
"No," I rasped. My voice barely carried. "You're not real."
The tunnel pulsed at that. Once. Twice. A rhythm in time with my faltering heartbeat.
The whispers grew louder.
—you are ours—
—you were always ours—
—stop running—
I clutched the wall to steady myself, nails splitting against the damp stone. My legs buckled. My head throbbed with each syllable, as if the words themselves were chiseling into me.
But beneath the voices, I heard something else. A steadier beat, faint but there. My own defiance, dull and stubborn, pushing back against the tide.
I forced myself to breathe through clenched teeth, forcing their rhythm out, clinging to mine.
For a moment, the whispers cracked—like a signal cut short. The air stilled, heavy and trembling, as if the tunnels themselves were holding breath. I could almost feel them listening, waiting to see if I would break.
When I opened my eyes again, the faces were gone. The whispers dulled to a hiss.
The tunnel stretched on ahead. Empty. Silent.
But the walls still leaned close, their shadows pulsing faintly with my every breath.
I knew they hadn't left.
They were waiting.
And this time, they knew my name.