He didn't fall this time.
That should've been a relief.
But it wasn't.
Because falling meant gravity still worked.
And when gravity worked, at least you knew which way was down.
Down.
Now? He just ... stopped. Mid-step. No warning. No drag. Just this strange stillness, like a misstep in a dream.
The incline beneath his boots flattened—not with a jolt, but gradually. Too gradual. Like the ground had simply decided it was done.
The trench didn't groan. Didn't creak or hiss, or do any of the things you'd expect a sane structure to do when it shifted.
It just went... silent.
That kind of silence that makes you tap the side of your helmet, thinking maybe your comms cut out.
The kind of silence where every breath suddenly sounds way too loud.
He moved his foot, dragged his heel. No sound. Not even a scuff.
The floor wasn't muffling noise — it was ignoring it. Like Like it didn't recognize sound anymore.
Even Galieya had gone quiet. No buzz. No shift of weight. Not even that faint tick it made when memory stirred in the chamber.
Nothing.
It just hung on his back like a relic. A dead thing.
And that—the silence of her—that's what got to him. More than anything.
He scanned the corridor. It looked narrow, clean. Measured.
But it felt... off.
Too wide, maybe. Or too aware.
Like walking through a space that forgot how big it was supposed to be.
Still, he walked. Because standing still meant thinking. And thinking—he shoved that away.
He passed a wall panel. Half-melted. Warped back like someone had shouted at it hard enough to make the metal recoil.
His hand twitched toward it. Hesitated. Didn't touch. Didn't need to.
But he caught himself wondering—would it be hot? Cold? Would it hum?
He used to record stuff like that. Sensory notes. Precautions. Details.
That was before.
Before the third log wiped itself clean.
Before Maldrin's entry looped into madness:
"You forgot. You forgot. You forgot."
The trench didn't erase memories. It just waited for you to do it yourself.
The corridor curved. Not a sharp turn—just a soft inward spiral.
He didn't question it. Not anymore.
Every time you questioned the trench, it answered.
And the answers were worse than the silence.
At the center of the spiral, on a low platform:
A chair.
Old. Bowed in the middle like it had been carrying grief for years.
The Vault configuration. He recognized the layout.
But it was... wrong.
No clamps. No interface. No faint blue glyphs flickering like ghosts.
Just a chair. Waiting.
Until there were three.
He blinked —and there were three.
One dead center. One turned slightly left. One turned away, facing the wall.
No labels. No instructions. Just implication.
He didn't sit in the obvious one. Didn't even go for the clean lines or the symmetry.
He chose the chair facing away.
Because that's the one he' wouldn't have picked before.
And the trench? The trench fed on patterns.
The seat was warm. But not kindly warm.
More like... fever trapped in steel.
He stiffened. Reflex. The body still fought even when the mind was tired.
Then:
TRIAL:HESITATION
No build-up. Just the words blinking at the top of his HUD.
The trench wasn't playing around anymore.
It just wanted answers.
His vision blurred.
Not like a camera glitch or that artificial flicker where pixels lag. This was slower. Thicker.
Like being dragged through syrup with your eyes open.
Then it cleared. Sort of.
He knew where he was before the resolution caught up.
The air did it first—too hot, but dry, like the inside of a vent that forgot what circulation meant.
And that faint metallic tang... familiar. Like burnt copper and something just shy of ozone.
Layer 4.
He'd been here before.
Didn't even need to see the hallway angles to know.
They were always wrong. Just slightly too narrow near the ceiling, like the architect ran out of math.
That flickering light in the far corner—the one that buzzed on a four-second loop—it was still there, like some kind of ambient torture.
But he wasn't observing it this time.
He was in it.
He was—
Hero.
Or something wearing that name like a second skin.
The movements were his, sort of, but filtered. Slower. A half-beat behind muscle memory. Like input lag, but personal.
Every step landed just off-center. Every block came too late. Not enough to fail, but enough that it should have been noticeable.
Except the person fighting him—Nahr, the real one—wasn't reacting like he noticed.
He was just... trying. Hard. Trying to keep up with something that had already decided it wasn't going to stop the hit.
And that was the thing.
This version of Hero didn't want to win.
He wanted the wound.
That one hurt to admit.
Even now, watching it happen again, he could feel it:
The way the body moved toward pain like it owed it something.
Like suffering was the proof that guilt still mattered.
There'd been a quote once. Something a captain said
during pre-deployment psych briefs.
"Guilt's just love that doesn't know where to go."
He'd laughed back then.
He wasn't laughing now.
This Hero—the trench's Hero—wasn't hesitating because he was overwhelmed.
He was hesitating because some part of him thought:
This is what I deserve .
Nahr shouted something. Or maybe he tried to.
But this version of Hero didn't hear it. Didn't want to hear it.
The body didn't know how to scream. It only knew how to brace.
Then—
REPLAY:PHASESHIFT
COREIDENTITY:NH−1082∴3iterationsback
He groaned. Out loud.
Not in pain. Just... tired.
The kind of tired that settles behind your ribs like rust.
"Not this again," he muttered. To no one. Or maybe to himself. Wasn't clear.
Another memory. Another fragment from whatever cold filing cabinet the trench used to store broken versions of him.
And there he was.
Younger. Straighter. Cleaner voice. Less weight behind the eyes.
Holding Galieya like it was a symbol. Not a sentence.
That version looked up. Didn't flinch. Didn't scowl. Just—looked.
Met his gaze across the dimensional veil like it had always been a mirror.
And then, it asked:
"Why didn't you stop me?"
He flinched.
Because he had answers.
Stupid ones. Old ones. Ones built out of mission protocols and probability math and all the things you tell yourself so you can sleep for two hours without waking up choking.
But none of those answers mattered.
Because they were all the same thing, really:
Fear.
Regret.
A choice that felt inevitable until it wasn't.
The younger version blinked. Didn't smile. Didn't cry.
Just faded.
Not like a ghost…
Like a file getting overwritten.
The trench didn't erase memories. It just made you throw them away yourself.
Then the static came.
Not static like interference- -static like snowfall.
Not cold, but bright. Too bright. Like someone cranked the exposure on existence.
A dozen versions of him flickered in and out of view.
Some crying. Some laughing. Some shouting. One of them screaming what sounded like math.
Some looked happy. Which somehow hurt worse.
And somewhere in that blizzard of selves:
A voice.
His voice.
That laugh.
That awful, too-clean laugh.
From before the fall.
Gods, he hated that laugh.
Because it sounded like someone who still believed in consequences.
The HUD snapped back into focus:
TRIALCONCLUSION:HESITATIONLOGGED
FRACTUREREGISTERED:CORE−SELFINCOMPLETE
He inhaled like it was a reflex someone had reinstalled.
The chair under him pulsed. Once.
Not to release him—just to let him know it was still there. Still watching. Still waiting.
He blinked. Harder than he meant to.
The spiral corridor unfolded around him again, but...
Wrong. Slightly tilted left. Not enough to trip over. Just enough to feel.
Every step felt like gravity had been adjusted by a few decimals.
He stood. Half-stood, really. The chair clung to his back like it didn't want to let go yet.
And then, it did. Not retracting. Not melting.
Just... gone.
The HUD lit up again:
TRIAL:STILLNESS
BEGINSECONDARYSEATREPLAY
No countdown. No prompt.
Just that low, quiet permission.
Like the trench had decided:
You failed to move before. Let's see what happens if I freeze you this time.
Darkness.
Not visual. Not just black screen or lights-out.
Real darkness. The kind that erases thought.
He floated in it. Couldn't even feel his skin.
Then:
A sound.
Not in the room. Not even in the world.
It came from somewhere... behind his spine?
Soft.
And a voice.
Not his. Not any of the others.
New. Or old?
"I didn't mean to pull you this far," it said. "I just... I needed you to choose this time."
The tone was wrong.
Not female. Not male.
Just processed, almost—like something built from broken recordings.
But it knew him. That was the terrifying part.
And in the back of his mind, Galieya buzzed.
Soft. Faint.
Like memory hadn't given up completely.
He gritted his teeth, the static inside his skull buzzing louder than before. The silence pressed in, heavy and unforgiving. It was like trying to hold onto a fading dream, that sharp edge of memory slipping through his fingers.
The corridor twisted again, folding in on itself. This time, the walls weren't just too wide or too narrow—they felt like they were breathing, expanding and contracting with a pulse he couldn't sync with. The lights flickered irregularly, casting shadows that didn't mathc the angles of the metal beams. It was disorienting, like trying to read a language you almost knew but never really learned.
Galieya hummed low, a faint, steady thrum against his spine. It was the only constant in the chaos. The HUD blinked back to life, glowing faintly in the dim light: FRACTURESTABILIZED. GALIEYA CHARGE CHANNEL: UNLOCKED. NEW ABILITY REGISTERED: MOMENT BEFORE STRIKE.
He didn't look up the rune glossary. Not yet. Right now, it was about movement—just forward, steady and sure. His breath came sharp, quick, like a spark reigniting a dying flame.
The corridor sloped upward, just enough to shift the mood from oppressive to hopeful. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but it was there—an incline curling under the spiral like a secret promise.
Ahead, something caught the light—a glint of metal resting on the floor. He slowed, wary of traps or illusions. The blade
was old, worn around the edges but unmistakable. He knelt, feeling its weight, the cold steel pressing against his palm. It wasn't ceremonial, just a tool. Practical. Familiar.
For a moment, the grip seemed to hum in sync with Galieya's quiet buzz—like recognition flickering through memory, not approval, just acknowledgment.
A prompt flickered beside the blade: DO YOU REMEMBER HOW TO USE THIS?
He didn't answer. The trench wasn't looking for answers anymore. It was watching how he moved through the silence, waiting for the choice that mattered.
He stood, leaving the blade where it was, stepping past questions and ghosts.
The ari grew thinner, sharper as the corridor curved upward toward a distant, uncertain light.
This wasn't about proof or systems.
It was about choice.
His step was steady now. No hesitation. Just the weight of everything behind him, and the trench—always listening, but no longer leading.