Bharat stood at the corridor's edge.
Alone.
Mira's voice was gone.
The temple had stopped whispering. No more phantom screams. No more illusions of her bleeding out on marble floors. Just silence—the kind that pressed against your eardrums like water pressure at the bottom of a lake.
He'd passed the test.
Or failed it.
Couldn't tell which.
The corridor stretched ahead—longer than it had been moments ago, walls lined with mirrors that showed nothing, floors that seemed to breathe beneath his feet. The gold vault door waited at the far end. Close. So close he could see the seven locks gleaming in the dim light.
But the distance felt infinite.
Like the temple was stretching space itself.
Making him earn every step.
Bharat moved forward. Each footstep echoed wrong—sound coming from behind him instead of beneath, like the corridor was playing back his movements on a delay.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Not his own.
Coming from ahead.
He stopped.
The mirrors rippled.
Like water disturbed by something beneath the surface.
And she stepped through.
Mira.
Real.
Solid.
Here.
She wore the same clothes from the safehouse—blood-stained shirt, torn jeans, the Mark of Recall pulsing on her wrist like a second heartbeat. But her eyes were clear. Focused. Not the glazed look of someone trapped in the temple's illusions.
This was different.
This was her.
"You're still here," she said.
Not surprised.
Resigned.
Like she'd been waiting for him to catch up.
"Mira?" Bharat's voice came out rough. "How are you—"
"The corridor lets through what it needs to."
She stepped closer. Her movements were careful—measured, like someone walking on ice that might crack.
"I've been here before," she continued. "In dreams. Every night since the Mark appeared."
"The temple's been pulling you."
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Her smile was small. Sad.
"Would you have believed me?"
Fair point. Three days ago he wouldn't have believed any of this—temples that test you, corridors that stretch, marks that pull people through space like fish hooked on invisible lines.
Now he believed everything.
And nothing.
Reality had become negotiable.
"We need to move," Mira said. She held out her hand—palm up, fingers steady. "The corridor won't stay stable. It's already starting to shift."
Bharat looked at her hand. Then at the vault door beyond her.
"This is a trick."
"Probably."
"The temple's testing me again."
"Definitely."
"So why should I trust you?"
Mira's expression didn't change. But something flickered behind her eyes—hurt, maybe. Or understanding.
"Because you don't have a choice," she said quietly.
"And because I'm the only real thing in this corridor right now."
"How do I know that?"
"You don't."
She said it with the blunt honesty he'd come to associate with her—no sugar-coating, no false comfort. Just truth served cold.
"But you know me, Bharat. You know I don't lie."
He did know that. In the three days since this nightmare started, Mira had been the one constant—blunt, practical, refusing to pretend things were better than they were.
Even when she was dying.
Especially then.
"What happens if I take your hand?" he asked.
"We walk together."
"And?"
"The corridor accepts us. Or it doesn't."
"What if it doesn't?"
Her fingers trembled. Just once. Then steadied.
"Then we both die here."
Bharat looked at the vault door. Forty feet away. Maybe less. He could run for it—leave Mira, trust his own speed, hope the corridor let him through alone.
The smart move.
The safe move.
The move that would save exactly one person.
And condemn everyone else.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[CHOICE DETECTED: Solo Advancement vs. Shared Risk]
[SOLO SUCCESS RATE: 34%]
[SHARED SUCCESS RATE: 71%]
[RECOMMENDATION: Accept assistance]
Thirty-four percent alone. Seventy-one together.
The numbers made sense.
But numbers weren't why he reached for her hand.
He took it.
Her fingers closed around his—warm, solid, real. Her pulse beat against his palm, quick and strong.
"Together," she said.
"Together," he confirmed.
They moved.
The corridor didn't resist. Didn't fight. Just... accepted them. Like it had been waiting for this—for Bharat to choose connection over isolation, partnership over pride.
Maybe that was the test.
Maybe it had always been the test.
Their footsteps synchronized. Left. Right. Left. The mirrors on either side showed their reflections—two figures walking hand in hand through darkness, heading toward a light that might be salvation or destruction.
Impossible to tell which.
Impossible to care.
Twenty feet to the vault.
Mira's grip tightened.
"Bharat."
"I know."
"Something's wrong."
"I know."
The Mark on her wrist was glowing brighter—pulsing faster, like a heartbeat accelerating toward some terminal rhythm. Light bled through her shirt sleeve, painting her arm in shades of crimson and gold.
Beautiful.
Terrible.
Burning her from the inside out.
Fifteen feet.
"Keep moving," Bharat said.
"It hurts."
"I know."
"No."
She stopped. Her hand in his was shaking now—not trembling, shaking, like something inside her was trying to tear free.
"You don't understand. It's not just pain. It's—"
Her knees buckled.
Bharat caught her. Arms around her waist, holding her upright as her body tried to fold in on itself.
"Mira!"
"The corridor," she gasped. "It's showing me—"
"What? What's it showing you?"
"Everything."
Her eyes rolled back. White. Empty. The Mark on her wrist flared so bright Bharat had to look away—light like staring into the sun, like watching something holy and horrific give birth to itself.
"Every death," Mira whispered. "Every version of me that died getting here. Every timeline where I didn't make it."
"That's not real."
"It is now."
Blood ran from her nose. Thin. Dark. The kind that meant something inside was breaking.
"The Mark," she continued, voice thick. "It's not just counting down. It's showing me all the ways I fail. All the ways you fail. All the ways we—"
She screamed.
Not pain.
Recognition.
Like she'd seen something so terrible that sound was the only response left.
Bharat lowered her to the floor. Gently. Carefully. Her body was rigid—every muscle locked, fighting something he couldn't see.
The Mark pulsed.
Brighter.
Brighter.
So bright the corridor walls started to glow in response.
Like the temple was waking up.
Paying attention.
Deciding whether to let them live.
"Mira, listen to me." Bharat gripped her shoulders. Made her look at him—even though her eyes were still white, still empty, still seeing things in other timelines.
"You're here. Right now. With me."
"I'm dying in seventeen different ways—"
"Not here. Not now."
"The Mark—"
"Fuck the Mark."
Her eyes focused. Just for a second. Just long enough to see him.
"Bharat?"
"I'm here."
"I can't—the visions—"
"Block them out."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can."
He said it with absolute certainty—the kind you use when you're lying to someone you love, when you know the truth would break them and the lie might save them.
"How?" she whispered.
"Look at me. Just me. Nothing else."
"The corridor—"
"Doesn't exist."
"The Mark—"
"Doesn't matter."
"Bharat, I'm bleeding—"
And she was. Blood ran from her nose, her ears, the corners of her eyes. Not much. Just enough to paint her face in thin red lines—like the temple was writing something on her skin in a language only it understood.
The Mark flared again.
Brighter.
So bright Bharat could see the bones in her arm through the skin.
See the way the divine magic was eating her from the inside.
Hollowing her out.
Making space for something else.
"What happens when it reaches full brightness?" he asked.
Mira's laugh was broken glass.
"I don't know. No one's lived long enough to find out."
"Then we'll be the first."
"Bharat—"
"Get up."
He stood. Pulled her with him. She swayed—legs like water, Mark blazing like a star going supernova on her wrist.
"I can't walk."
"Then I'll carry you."
"You can't—"
"Watch me."
But before he could lift her, Mira's hand shot out—grabbed his wrist with strength that shouldn't have been possible for someone bleeding from four different places.
"No."
Her voice was different now. Layered. Like multiple versions of her were speaking at once.
"I walk. Or we don't make it."
"Mira—"
"The corridor doesn't accept passengers. Only participants."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've died here before."
She said it like a fact. Simple. Undeniable.
"In the other timelines. The ones the Mark is showing me. Every version where you carried me? We both died. Ten feet from the vault."
"And the versions where you walked?"
"We got closer."
"How much closer?"
Her smile was blood-stained.
"Close enough to matter."
She took a step. Then another. Each one leaving a small red footprint on the marble—blood from somewhere, leaking through her shoes.
Bharat walked beside her.
Didn't touch.
Didn't help.
Just stayed close enough to catch her if she fell.
And far enough to let her stand.
Ten feet to the vault.
The Mark was so bright now it hurt to look at.
Like staring into a hole in reality.
Like watching the sun die and be born in the same moment.
Five feet.
Mira stumbled. Caught herself. Left a handprint of blood on the wall.
"Almost there," Bharat said.
"I know."
"You're doing it."
"I know."
Three feet.
The vault door was massive up close.
Gold.
Carved with symbols that hurt the eyes.
Seven locks.
Each one requiring a different key.
Keys Bharat didn't have.
But that was a problem for later.
If there was a later.
Two feet.
Mira collapsed.
Not stumbled. Not swayed. Collapsed—like someone had cut her strings, like gravity had remembered she existed and decided to collect all at once.
Bharat caught her. This time he didn't ask permission.
"Mira!"
Her eyes were open. But empty. The Mark on her wrist was blinding—pure white light that turned the corridor into a negative image of itself, all shadows and glare.
"The Mark," she whispered.
"What about it?"
"It's at maximum."
"What does that mean?"
"It means—"
Her body arched. Back bending like a bow pulled too tight. The Mark flared one last time—so bright Bharat had to close his eyes, had to turn away or go blind.
When he looked back—
Mira's wrist was smoking.
The Mark had burned completely through her skin.
Left a hole.
Clean.
Precise.
Like something had reached through from the other side and pulled out a piece of her.
And through that hole—
Light.
Not reflected.
Generated.
Coming from inside her.
Like she was becoming a doorway.
To somewhere else.
Somewhere the temple wanted to reach.
Bharat stared at the hole in her wrist. At the light bleeding through. At Mira's face—pale, unconscious, blood drying on her cheeks.
"What the fuck did they do to you?"
No answer.
Just the light.
Getting brighter.
And the distant sound of something unlocking.
Not the vault.
Something else.
Something worse.