(Flashback)
Warm light spills across a hallway that no longer exists.
Jason hears laughter before he sees her.
"Don't look so serious," Mara says, brushing past him, curls bouncing, voice soft like it's always been. "You'll scare people."
"What?" he replies quickly. "I am?" He squints.
She stops, turns, studies him with that easy smile. "There you go again."
"What?"
"Trying." She taps his chest. "You don't need to."
The lockers gleam. Dust floats lazily. Everything feels slow enough to stay forever.
Jason exhales. "That's kind of the problem."
Mara laughs, warm and effortless. "You're impossible."
"You say that like it's bad."
"I say it like it's comfortable." She leans closer, fingers grazing his sleeve. "Why do you want to make things harder?"
"I don't," he says. "I just…"
"Just what?" She cuts in, eyes searching his face, not demanding, never demanding. "You're just fine."
The words sink deep.
Jason looks around. The hallway waits. Nothing pushes him forward. Nothing asks more.
"That's it?" he asks quietly. "I stay still and it works?"
Mara smiles. "It's better this way."
His chest tightens. "You never wanted me to change."
She shrugs. "Why would I?"
The warmth flickers.
Jason steps back. "Because it's comfortable," he says. "And that's the problem."
"That's overrated," Mara chuckles.
The scene ripples. Light folds inward.
Jason feels the pull, sharp now. Sweet. Familiar.
"Jason," she says, reaching for him.
A mark burns across the air between them.
A word presses itself into the space, heavy and final.
Temptation.
—
(Present - Within the Construct)
Jason plants his feet.
"Let's do this," he says.
The clearing answers with silence.
He inhales. Slow. Counts under his breath. "One. Two."
His shoulders burn. He adjusts his grip, loosens it, grips again. The symbols etched into the bark ahead pulse faintly.
"Show me," he whispers.
He strikes. Precision over speed. The symbol shifts.
Jason freezes. "Did you see that?"
No answer. He nods and keeps going.
His muscles protest. His mind offers excuses. He pushes through both.
Another strike. The symbol tightens.
Jason's breath steadies. His movements sharpen.
"That's it," he says softly.
Sweat drips down his temple. Dust clings to his skin. His hands demand rest. He doesn't give it to them.
"Stop hesitating," he snaps at himself. "No hiding."
He resets. Strikes again. Cleaner. Closer.
"Not yet," he breathes.
The clearing seems to hold its breath with him.
Another strike. Then another. Each one sharper than the last, the symbol responding to the rhythm of his conviction rather than his strength. The pain in his arms becomes background noise, necessary, earned, something that proves this matters.
"You don't get to escape anymore," he tells himself. "Not today."
A soft chime hums at the edge of his awareness.
He blinks. A thin bar of light inches upward, barely noticeable.
+30xp
Jason stares at it, breath caught.
"Did I just level up?"
The light holds. Then fades.
The cabin smells of dry wood and dust.
Jason sits on the floor by the small table, breaking stale bread in half.
"This is depressing," he says. "No offense."
Silence answers.
He chews. Swallows.
A voice slips in without opening anything.
"You think you've learned?"
Jason stiffens. He doesn't turn around. "I didn't invite company."
"You never do."
He turns.
A figure stands by the closed door. Tall. Spare. Her frame looks carved rather than grown. Skin so pale the light slips across it without settling. Her eyes are too large, silver-gray, bright but empty, reflecting whatever faces them yet finding nothing to hold on to. Her straight black hair is drawn tightly into a neat bun at the back of her head, leaving her face fully exposed, the severe knot sharpening features that might otherwise soften into shadow.
She appears no older than thirty. Timeless. Suspended.
"And you are?" Jason says, standing.
She steps closer, encircling him with a slow, measured pace. Her eyes never leave his.
"You persisted," she says calmly. "How strange."
"You're not impressed." Jason says.
"I do not measure intention." She pauses across from him. "But I observe patterns. You still seek comfort before strength."
Jason's jaw tightens. "That's not true."
She moves again, circling. "When you're exhausted, your mind wanders to softer places."
"Don't," Jason warns.
"You train until fatigue arrives. Then you rest." Her voice is gentle but clinical, like she's reading a ledger. "You call this balance."
Jason's gaze drifts toward the window without his permission.
Outside, a silhouette waits in the dark. Still. Patient. Watching.
His breath catches.
"You thought growth erased consequences," Sister Hollow continues, still circling. "You were wrong."
Jason whispers, "Why now?"
Sister Hollow stops. She doesn't look away from him.
"Oh. It's just begun."
The silhouette shifts.
Jason feels something tighten in his chest, not fear. Recognition.