When I wake up, I'm on my back, staring at a ceiling that… breathes.
The surface above me rises and falls in slow, steady pulses like a lung. It's black and glossy, veins glowing faintly red beneath the surface. I try not to think about whether I'm inside a building or a creature. Because in this city? It might be both.
"You're awake," Clipboard says.
I flinch and look to my right.
They're still floating there — humanoid, molten-glass skin, eyes like pits, still holding that damn clipboard.
"I was beginning to think you were broken," it says, jotting something down with a pen that makes no sound.
"I don't know if you've noticed," I groan, pushing myself up, "but I'm very new to being… whatever this is. Dead. Undead. Breathing-adjacent. Whatever."
"You'll adjust," it says like it's talking about switching brands of toothpaste. "You biological types always do."
I rub my temples. "So, was that… thing… real? The big flesh-mountain with a thousand eyeballs? The… Heart?"
"Yes," Clipboard says. "And you should be grateful. The Heart doesn't personally summon just anyone."
"Grateful," I echo. "Right. I'll be sure to thank the giant meatball for scaring me half to death."
"You can't die twice."
"Comforting."
I swing my legs off the table — or slab, or whatever this thing is. The floor pulses faintly beneath me, like I'm standing on a massive drum. I need to stop noticing things that make me want to vomit.
Clipboard flips a page. "The Heart wanted me to brief you. You're… different. That's why you're still alive."
"Alive? Pretty sure I'm dead."
"You are. And you aren't. You're what we call a Glitch."
There's that word again.
"You've said that before," I say. "What does it mean? Why do I feel like a video game error?"
Clipboard floats closer. "Because that's exactly what you are. A data point out of place. You weren't scheduled to die. And yet, here you are."
I stare at it. "So you're telling me… I wasn't supposed to be dead at all?"
"Yes."
"And no one thought to, I don't know, send me back?"
Clipboard tilts its head. "Oh, we could. But the Heart decided you're more useful here. Glitches are rare. You can do things the rest of the dead can't."
"Like what?"
"That," it says, "is for you to find out."
I cross my arms. "That's a terrible answer."
"It's the only one I'm giving you."
Before I can argue more, the wall in front of us opens. Not a door. Literally opens — the flesh peels back like curtains. A figure steps inside.
They're tall. Thin. Robed in red-and-black like the ones who dragged me here. Their mask is different, though — smoother, with a single vertical slit glowing red where the eyes should be.
"Kael Idiran," the masked figure says. Its voice echoes, layered like it's several people talking at once. "The Heart has chosen you for trial."
Clipboard claps — or makes the sound of clapping without actually having hands. "Oh, good! Orientation is over. On to the fun part."
"Fun?" I repeat.
The masked figure ignores me and gestures. "Follow."
"I'd rather not."
Clipboard floats behind me. "You'd rather avoid being recycled? Then follow."
There's that word again. Recycled. I don't ask what it means this time. I already know it's bad.
---
The streets are busier than before.
Now that I'm outside, I can really see the City of Veins. And it's worse than I imagined.
The ground glows faintly under my feet, pulsing like a heartbeat. Streets twist and wind as if they're alive. Buildings twitch. Some turn their heads — actual heads — to watch me as I pass. A bus-like creature opens a mouth full of seats to swallow passengers. And everywhere I look, things are moving. Not just people. Creatures. Shadows. Constructs.
It's like someone took every nightmare I've ever had and built a civilization out of it.
Clipboard floats along like it's taking a stroll in the park. "First impressions?"
"Terrifying," I mutter.
"Good. Means you're paying attention."
We approach a massive gate — jagged teeth of black bone, wrapped in glowing red veins. Beyond it? An arena. Circular. Colosseum-like. And full of people. Or what passes for people here.
"Trial grounds," Clipboard says cheerfully. "Try not to die."
"Again," I add.
"Again."
---
Inside, the crowd roars.
They're not all human. Some are, but their skin is translucent, or cracked like porcelain, or covered in shifting patterns of light. Others aren't human at all — horned beasts, floating eyeless blobs, stitched-together abominations. They all chant the same word:
"Trial. Trial. Trial."
A pit opens in the center of the arena. The masked figure points to it. "Descend."
"Or?" I ask.
"You don't want to know," Clipboard says.
Great.
I climb down the fleshy ladder into the pit. The walls are warm. The floor is slick. This is fine. Totally fine.
A voice booms in my head. The Heart.
"Kael Idiran. You are a Glitch. You are unprocessed. You will prove your worth."
"Or be recycled," Clipboard chimes in from above.
"Not helping!" I yell.
The floor shakes.
Across the pit, a door opens.
And something crawls out.
It's huge. Eight feet tall, hunched, its skin a mass of writhing tendrils. Its face is featureless except for a wide, jagged mouth that splits open far too wide.
The crowd goes wild.
"Oh good," Clipboard says, floating down beside me. "A Devourer. Classic first trial."
"A what?!"
"Don't die."
The Devourer roars, and I realize two things:
One — this trial isn't about surviving. It's about fighting.
Two — I don't have a weapon.
"Clipboard," I say through clenched teeth, "how do I kill that thing?"
Clipboard scribbles something on its page. "You'll figure it out."
The Devourer charges.
And I run.