Turns out, "next time" came with a concussion and someone kicking my leg like it owed her money. I cracked one eye open to dust, heat, and the sight of her—half-covered in ash, hair like a bird's nest, and fury radiating off her like it was an
aura.
"Seriously?" she hissed, kicking me again. "That was your plan? Catch me with your face and crater the earth?"
"I was trying to help," I muttered, dragging myself upright.
"You didn't exactly stick the landing."
She shot me a glare through the ash.
"You didn't exactly catch me."
I coughed, tasted dust.
"Next time I'll remember to grow a second spine."
She crossed her arms, exhaling through her nose.
"Next time, just… catch better."
She looked around slowly, eyes scanning the damage. Her hands trembled as she wiped soot from her palms.
"Okay," she breathed. "We're not dead. That's…something."
I sat up, stiff and aching. "Felt close enough to count."
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then I looked at her—really looked.
Her coat caught the light, dark violet so deep it was nearly black, trimmed with fine silver along the sleeves and collar. The fabric shimmered faintly when she shifted, too precise, too clean to be anything practical. It looked ceremonial. Like something worn for a ritual, or worse—a performance.
I finally decided to break the silence. Hoping to get answers.
"You're not normal," I said, eyes still on the shimmer of her coat. "So what are you?"
She didn't look at me right away. Just kept dusting off her sleeves like the question hadn't landed. But something in her jaw tightened.
When she finally did speak, her voice was quiet. Controlled.
"That depends," she said. "Do you want the easy answer, or the one that'll make you wish you hadn't asked?"
"I wouldn't have asked if I wanted the easy one."
She went still for a moment. Then, with a quiet breath, she looked at me—like she was deciding whether I was ready for the truth, or just stubborn enough to keep asking until I got it.
"You can call me Miyako," she said.
I didn't respond right away. Just nodded once.
"Averic."
Her eyes flicked to me—like she already knew.
"And this place… we call it the Plateau. It's where stories are made."
I stared at her. "Where stories are made?"
The words tasted wrong coming out.
She held my gaze.
"Yes. Because everyone who ends up here has one left to tell."
I didn't look away.
The words sat heavy between us. I already knew what I was about to ask—I just didn't want to hear it out loud.
"…Am I dead?"
It came out low. Flat. Like saying it any louder might make it more real.
Miyako didn't answer right away. Her eyes dropped to the ground, then back to me. Something in her expression shifted—barely.
"Yes," she said quietly. "You are."
I didn't move.
The words just sat there—quiet, final, impossible. They didn't echo. They didn't fade. They just stayed.
I felt the pressure in my chest before I felt the breath leave it.
Then—after a moment:
"Was it her?"
Miyako looked up, but didn't answer.
"The woman I saw," I said, voice rougher now. "The one who shoved her hand into my chest like it was nothing. Was she the one who killed me… and brought me here?"
Miyako nodded once.
"Yes."
I stared at her.
"…Why?"
The word came out smaller than I meant it to. Not angry. Not desperate. Just hollow. Like the space she left behind.
Miyako didn't flinch.
"Because she felt like it," she said.
My stomach turned. Something low and cold coiled under my ribs.
"No purpose. No warning. Just curiosity and boredom. She wanted to see what would happen."
I stopped breathing. Not because I meant to—because I forgot how.
"She knew it would send you here. That was the part that mattered."
My fingers twitched against my thigh. I hadn't realized I'd clenched them into fists.
"Everything else… was just her playing with something she didn't think could break."
I didn't break. Not out loud.
But something in me shifted. Bent wrong. Quietly.
And Miyako didn't notice—
—until she did.
She went still. Not like she'd seen something—but like she felt it.
Her breath caught, just barely. Her gaze snapped to mine, searching. Not for pain. Not for fear.
For something else.
Something older. Something worse.
"Averic," she said carefully. Not a question. Not a warning. Just my name, like she was testing the weight of it.
Whatever she was seeing in me—it unsettled her.
She didn't speak again. Didn't move. Just watched me like she was waiting for something to surface.
And maybe she wasn't wrong to.
Because something was surfacing.
A pressure in my skull. A shift behind my eyes.
Not a voice. Not yet. Just presence. Familiar. Coiled. Wrong.
I clenched my jaw, hard enough to hurt. Tried to push it down, bury it like I always had. But the edges were sharper this time. Hungrier.
"Let me out," it said.
It wasn't spoken aloud. It never was.
But I heard it—felt it—like heat under my skin.
"Let me out, Averic," it persisted.
Unfortunately…I did.
It surged up—fast, vicious, eager. Like it had been pacing just beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest crack.
And I gave it one.
The world didn't blur. It sharpened.
Colors deepened. Sounds pulled taut. My body felt boundless—but wrong. Unstable in a way I couldn't fix.
I was still there, somewhere, but buried. Watching.
And "he" stepped forward.
His breath came out of my lungs, slow and deliberate. His smile wasn't mine. It stretched too wide, like he'd missed wearing it.
Miyako tensed. Just slightly. Like prey scenting something it couldn't name.
"Finally," he said, voice low and smooth. "You keep me locked up too tight, Averic. You're starting to forget how much fun we used to have. And still, I come back smiling. Isn't that loyalty?"
He rolled my shoulders like he was testing them. Like I was clothing he hadn't worn in years.
Miyako took a step back.
"Who… are you?" she asked, voice quiet but sharp.
He tilted my head at her. "A better question," he said, grinning, "is what happens next."
Miyako didn't move.
Didn't blink.
"Fine," she said.
"Then tell me—what are you?"
He laughed—quiet, amused, like she'd just asked him if fire knew it burned.
"What am I?" he echoed. "I'm the part Averic pretends doesn't exist. The one who kept him breathing when everything else told him to stop."
He tilted my head slowly, the grin sharpening just enough to show teeth.
"You don't crawl out of what he lived through without growing something ugly. I'm that ugliness. The part that bites back."
He took a step toward her—measured. Intentional.
"He made me without meaning to. Piece by piece. Every time he stayed silent. Every time he let something break him and didn't fight back. I was the thing building in the cracks."
His voice lowered—not softer, just heavier.
"And whenever I spoke, he buried me. Locked the door. Pretended I was gone."
Another step. Eyes fixed on her.
"But I'm still here."
The grin returned—wider. Meaner.
Miyako didn't respond. If anything, she watched his every move—carefully.
He lifted my hand—slow, deliberate—and flexed the fingers like he was checking if the bones still remembered him.
"Feels good to be real again."
He looked at her then. Not as a threat. Not as prey.
Just…curious.
"Don't worry," he said, voice smooth as glass. "I'm not here for you. Not yet at least."
Miyako's eyes narrowed.
"…What does that mean?"
He smiled again, but this one didn't try to be kind. It just bared itself—sharp, quiet, real.
"It means your safety depends on whether you're on his side… or theirs," he said, voice quiet now.
"And if you're not with him, then you're something I need to remove."
He tilted my head just slightly, as if studying her through a distorted lens.
"I'm not the villain here, Miyako."
"I'm what's left when no one shows up. When he has no one else to go to."
He took a slow step forward, and the air seemed to tighten around him—like even the Plateau was holding its breath.
"I don't care what you are. What you've done. Why you're here."
He tapped my temple once—sharp, deliberate.
"I only care about him. The part he hides from everyone. The part that kept screaming when no one listened—and never stopped bleeding, even when he pretended it did."
His voice dropped to a near whisper.
"So if you ever lie to him—use him—hurt him…"
The smile didn't falter. It widened.
"…I'll make sure whatever this place has in store for you—" The smile shifted—slowly, coldly—like it belonged to something that had never been human."—feels merciful."
There was a long pause. No sound but the wind sifting through ash.
Then, finally—quietly
"Is that all?" Miyako asked.
Her voice didn't shake. It wasn't defiant. Just… steady. Like someone reaching through a cage, not to fight what was inside, but to see if it could still feel.
"If you've said your piece… can you let him go now?"
He didn't move.
Then he exhaled—slow. A sound more like pressure bleeding off than breath.
"I'll go," he said.
"But not before you give her a message for me."
His eyes narrowed, sharp and cold.
"The one who reached into his chest like he was hollow. Like he wasn't real."
He leaned forward slightly, just enough to cast a shadow.
"Tell that bitch I haven't forgotten."
"Not her face. Not her voice. Not the way his body hit the ground."
A pause.
"I'm going to find her."
"And when I do—I won't stop at killing her."
"I'm going to unmake her."
The smile returned. Barely there. Nothing kind in it.
"And when she begs for whatever she gave him…"
He smiled—barely. A fracture. Nothing human in it.
"…I'll make sure she chokes on it."
Then he was gone.
No flash. No sound. Just a drop in pressure, like the world itself recoiled.