"How long have I been here?"
The thought struck Ren abruptly, drifting through the silence like a ripple on still water.
After testing his powers, his vessel had drained completely. He'd been forced to sit and wait in the quiet, letting it replenish. But now…
He wasn't sure how long it had been.
Whether time moved the same here, in this abyssal plain, or not at all.
He looked around—the endless stretch of pale, lifeless ground, the darkness beyond it frozen. Silent.
"How do I get back?" he murmured.
His eyes flicked to the Whisper Script hovering faintly beside him.
It remained silent.
Ren sighed. Still seated on the cold floor, he leaned back on his hands and closed his eyes, just for a moment. Maybe less.
Then—
A sound. Faint. Subtle. Like fish swimming through water.
His eyes opened.
The pale abyss was gone.
In front of him: the soft blue glow of his fish tank. The quiet hum of electricity. The subtle warmth of his room.
He blinked.
Then turned, confirming it. The same dresser. The same faint rain tapping on the windows outside. The air smelled like damp cotton and ozone.
One minute, he had been deep in the realm—untethered and submerged in something vast and unknowable.
The next… he was just home.
No blinding light.
No wrenching shift in space.
No dramatic soundscape.
Just silence, and then—this.
Ren yawned and stretched, arms reaching toward the ceiling.
"…That's kind of anticlimactic," he muttered, voice dry.
He pushed himself off the floor, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked toward the bed. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed faint red:
2:41 AM.
Another yawn slipped out of him. His body felt heavier than usual—like someone who hadn't slept in days, like the journey had soaked deeper into him than he realized.
He collapsed onto the mattress with a quiet thud, face-first into the covers.
Before a single thought could settle in his mind, sleep took him.
***
Later in the morning. Time: 11:12am
Anya's room…
——
Anya's fingers trembled slightly as she wiped a stray mark from the canvas.
She wasn't trying to be good. She just needed to breathe—and this was how she remembered how.
The soft scratch of brush on canvas was the only sound in her room, save for the distant murmur of the city beyond the glass.
The painting wasn't remarkable—just a muted landscape of a girl standing beneath a cracked sky, pale blue bleeding into gray.
But it was enough.
She had been painting more lately.
She needed the distraction. She was still struggling.
Since the incident in District 6—since her mother and father were both taken from her in a single day—something inside her had gone dark. More than grief. More than shock.
She didn't cry anymore.
Didn't scream.
Just… went still.
For years, she'd only ever spoken to three people—Ren, her mom, her dad. Now, only one remained.
So she painted.
It helped.
She usually posted her work on a quiet artist's platform. She liked it there. People gave tips—sometimes praise, sometimes kind suggestions. No one knew who she was. No one asked.
It made her feel normal.
Four days ago, she'd gone to show Ren her latest piece—something she always did before uploading. But when she reached his room, he looked... strange. Distant. Like he was in a trance. And he wouldn't wake, no matter how hard she shook him.
Worried something was wrong, she ran to Sami. He was the only one in the apartment at the time. Aika and Marie were both away for work.
However, when Sami came with her to check on Ren, he had just smiled, tapped her gently on the head, and told her Ren was fine.
In fact, better than fine.
Something about him finally being initiated into his nature. She didn't understand what that meant. But then, she hadn't really understood much of anything lately.
Sami also said Ren would wake up whenever he was ready, so she should relax while she waited.
Four days later, and he still hadn't woken up.
So she went ahead and posted her picture this morning—around 09:00 a.m.—and had already started painting a new one.
A soft ping drew her attention away from the canvas.
Her phone buzzed on the nearby desk—Sami had gotten it for her when she first moved in. She padded over in her thick slippers, hoodie sleeves flopping as she picked it up.
A gentle smile tugged at her lips when she read the notification.
She'd been running out of paints, so she'd ordered new ones. And now—they had arrived.
Finally.
She tugged her hood tighter and stepped out of her room into the lounge. Sami was by the tall wall of glass, standing on a stepladder as he carefully suspended a new glass sculpture from the ceiling.
Fractured shards spiraled outward like a frozen explosion, catching the light.
Sami glanced down and smiled warmly.
"Hey, Anya."
She didn't speak, but gave him a big, respectful nod.
He nodded back, just as solemn.
Then she held up her phone, showing him the message saying she was going to pick up her paints.
"Oh, do you want me to help you? I can go grab it for you," Sami offered, already beginning to step down from the ladder.
But Anya immediately waved her hands in a way that said no—she wanted to do it herself.
"Okay, but let me know if you need help with anything else.
Password to the cabinet is 3210."
Anya nodded.
She moved past him toward the elevator. The silver doors whispered open with a soft chime.
As the doors closed behind her, she wrapped her arms around herself.
The air inside the shaft always felt colder—like it knew it was ferrying people between worlds they didn't belong in.
When the elevator slid open again, she stepped out onto the secured lower level. The corridor was sleek—chrome and black—lit by soft floor LEDs that led to the private storage area. Everything gleamed.
Rows of cabinets for different floors lined the walls.
She walked toward the cabinet for Sami's apartment.
Unit 43.
She keyed in the passcode. The door unlocked with a soft hiss.
Inside, the cabinet was bare—just one package resting at the center, as if it had been waiting for her. She stooped to pick it up, curling her hands around the box with quiet care, clutching it like something precious.
Her smile deepened.
The label confirmed it was hers: the specialty paints she'd ordered a week ago. She'd waited so long.
She rubbed her hands over the pink box, admiring it.
Just then, her phone pinged again.
She paused, one hand still gripping the box.
With the other, she lifted her phone and glanced at the screen.
A message.
[UNKNOWN: i saw your painting. the one with the girl and the broken sky. it made me cry a little.]
Her breath caught.
She blinked at the screen. The message was simple. Innocent, even.
But she had only posted that painting a little over two hours ago.
Her fingers hesitated, then typed:
[Who is this?]
A pause.
Ping.
[UNKNOWN: oh. sorry. i live on the 41st floor. i'm in the parking lot right now. i just got back from an art gallery. can i show you something? it won't take long. i promise.]
Her chest tightened.
That floor was close to theirs.
Too close.
But that wasn't what made it scary.
Whoever this is said they lived on the 41st floor. That meant they knew she lived in this building too.
But she barely ever went out. Hardly anyone saw her.
So how did they know?
Had they seen her during one of the times she came down to pick up her deliveries?
Her pulse quickened. A cold pit began to open in her stomach. She stepped quietly into the corridor outside the storage room and looked around.
It was empty. Silent. Just chrome and light.
Ping.
[UNKNOWN: we could share tips. i paint a lot too. i bet you'll love the painting i have with me. it's almost similar to yours but feels different. by the way, it was inspired by your work. i hope you don't mind.]
Her legs felt heavy.
She looked down at the box of paints, then back at the message.
Something about the phrasing. The lowercase typing. The eerie familiarity.
Her work inspired someone?
Then she heard it.
A low engine rumbling from deeper down the hall.
This corridor led to the parking levels on the lower floors—just beyond a side exit.
She hesitated.
'They painted too? And they liked mine? They even tried to copy it…?'
A quiet curiosity stirred in her chest.
She wanted to see their painting.
'Should I? Just a quick look… just for a second. That wouldn't be bad… right?'
She looked back at the message.
It didn't seem threatening.
Just strange.
She stood there for a moment, thinking.
Then… she made up her mind.
She was going to look.
Just a peek.
Just to see if it really did look like hers.
Slowly, she began walking toward the side exit—the one that opened into the luxury parking lot.
A wide, echoing floor of smooth obsidian tiles and parked high-end vehicles.
The overhead lights cast a soft amber glow over the polished cars, and everything smelled faintly of ozone and wax.
She stepped forward, box still clutched in her arms.
A soft honk broke the stillness.
A sleek, blue supercar in the far corner flashed its headlights once. A figure waved from inside.
He looked young. Probably eighteen.
He was handsome. Relaxed.
Anya's steps slowed.
The silence felt louder here. Like the air itself was holding its breath.
She took another step.
Then another.
Something in her chest screamed at her to turn back.
But something else—something more curious—kept her moving.
The boy smiled as she neared.
He leaned slightly out of the driver's side window and held up what looked like a rolled canvas.
"I brought something to show you," he called softly, voice warm, coaxing.
"Just for a second. You'll love it. Promise."
Anya froze.
Her instincts shrieked now. Her legs wavered.
Then—without warning—something struck her side with brutal force.
White-hot pain tore through her ribs, stealing the air from her lungs. Her knees buckled beneath her as she collapsed, the world tilting and spinning around her.
Her phone slipped from her hand and clattered to the ground.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
She couldn't even scream.
Then hands—strong and fast—snatched her arms and yanked her up like she weighed nothing, then threw her down. Hard.
She landed with a dull thunk.
It was dark. The space around her was cramped, the walls pressing in like a sealed box.
A car trunk.
She didn't need to see to know.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, the shock crashing over her like a wave. The paint box—once cradled in her hands—was gone.
Darkness swallowed her as the trunk slammed shut above her.
No sounds. No screams. Just her heartbeat, pounding against the dark.
Outside, the car reversed smoothly, gliding out of the lot like any other luxury vehicle returning home.
Inside the penthouse, Sami hung the last of his sculpture.
He paused, glancing toward the hallway Anya had gone down.
Something in the air felt… wrong.
But he shook it off.
Anya was quiet. She always was.
And besides… she was only going to get her paints. Nothing dangerous about that.
Right?