PORTSTEAD — UNDERGROUND — THE DRAFT VAULT
The floor shook.
Not like an earthquake.
Like a book being slammed shut by an angry god.
Somewhere below us, the press thundered again—metal teeth biting paper, ink pumping like blood through veins.
Sera's silver eyes tracked the shelves that had sealed Mercedes away.
"She's not running," Sera said. "She's… publishing."
Mira swallowed hard. "Publishing what, exactly?"
Shadow signed: *"Something meant to spread."*
I tried to breathe normally.
It didn't work.
Because I could still see it—Mira dead in that Ending B draft. The image didn't fade like a normal fear. It clung like a splinter.
Sera didn't look at me, but her voice softened anyway.
"Kieran. Stay here. In this room. In this reality. Not in her drafts."
"Working on it," I said, which was a lie.
The vault lights flickered again.
The whispering books grew louder.
Not words.
Sentences forming.
Trying to be read.
Trying to be believed.
