The sky is wrong.
It hasn't gone dark not fully but it's dimmed in that sick, dying way, like the sun is being smothered rather than setting. Light bleeds through the clouds in thin, choking strands, struggling to exist. Beneath it, the world stretches out in crimson glass, a path carved straight through emptiness.
I open my eyes and realize I'm already walking.
The glass beneath my feet crunches softly with every step, veins of color pulsing faintly under the surface, as if something alive is buried beneath it, breathing just slowly enough not to be noticed. At first it's red—deep, arterial crimson—but the farther I go, the darker it becomes. The color drains. The veins thin out until the glass turns black, slick and reflective like frozen oil.
This place is changing.
No—
it's adapting.
My thoughts drift back to the monster.
Gashadokuro no Ōkami.
I don't know how I know its name, only that the sound of it settles uncomfortably in my bones. Fear clings to it. Not simple terror—not screaming, running fear—but something deeper. The kind that roots itself inside you and whispers when you're alone.
Fear that knows you.
Maybe that's its ability.
Not creating fear.
Revealing it.
Dragging it into the open and forcing you to look at it until you break.
I rub the back of my neck, trying to think through the fog. Shadowveil techniques… I still don't understand them. I never saw anyone shout commands or activate anything outwardly. Even my own power—fire doesn't come from words. It comes from intent. From will.
So maybe fear works the same way.
You don't summon it.
You fall into it.
The path stretches endlessly, guiding me like a cruel suggestion. The air grows heavier the farther I walk, thick enough that each breath feels borrowed. Somewhere ahead, faint sounds echo—muffled, distorted, like screams trapped underwater.
My pace quickens.
The sound grows clearer.
And then I see him.
Camron is crumpled against the glass wall, knees pulled to his chest, arms locked around himself like he's trying to keep from falling apart. The black glass behind him pulses violently, its veins burning a violent, unnatural purple—brighter than anything I've seen so far.
His lips move.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please—please don't—"
I kneel beside him carefully. "Camron."
The moment my hand touches his shoulder—
Pain detonates.
The world folds.
I'm ripped forward, slammed into something unseen, and suddenly I'm not beside Camron anymore.
I'm inside him.
The smell hits first—stale food, sharp alcohol, fear-soaked air. The walls are too close. The ceiling feels like it's pressing down. A plate shatters somewhere behind me.
Then the voice.
"Are you stupid?"
A shadow looms.
Camron—smaller, younger—flinches violently as something strikes him. The sound is wet and sharp. He cries out, arms raised too late to protect himself.
"I didn't mean to," he sobs. "I'm sorry—I won't do it again—"
Another hit.
Harder.
I feel it in my ribs like it landed on me.
My chest tightens. My vision blurs. This isn't a memory—it's a prison, looping endlessly, replaying until fear replaces reality.
"No!" I shout, forcing myself forward.
The shadow turns.
Its face is wrong. Featureless. Hollow-eyed.
I step between them without thinking.
The blow comes anyway.
It crashes into my side, knocking the air from my lungs. Pain explodes through me, real and vicious, enough to make my knees buckle. My ears ring.
This place hurts.
Camron stares at me in disbelief. "W–William?"
"It's me," I manage, forcing myself upright. "This isn't real. He's not here."
The shadow recoils, shrieking—not in anger, but denial.
Camron shakes violently. "I—I can feel it. It feels real."
"I know," I say, voice raw. "That's how it traps you. But you're not here anymore. You're safe."
The walls crack.
The shadow fractures.
Camron's breathing slows, shallow but steady. His eyes finally focus. The room collapses inward, folding into itself like burning paper—
—and we're back on the path.
Camron gasps, collapsing forward. I catch him before he hits the glass.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
Then he whispers, "Thank you."
We walk together after that.
The silence between us isn't empty—it's heavy. Fragile.
After a while, Camron asks quietly, "What was your fear?"
I don't answer right away.
"My biggest fear?" I finally say. "Everyone dying. My mom. My dad. Jordan. Maya. You. All of you… because I wasn't strong enough to protect you."
He looks at me like I just cracked something open inside him.
We keep moving.
The path twists. The darkness thickens. The air dims further until the sun is nothing more than a suggestion overhead.
Then the glass turns black.
The path disappears.
And suddenly—we're not outside anymore.
We stand in a massive, lavish house, its beauty cold and sterile. Marble floors. Tall walls. A staircase that curves upward like a spine. The sound of a piano echoes faintly through the halls.
Pictures line the walls.
A little girl with red hair and brown eyes.
Always composed.
Always serious.
Never smiling.
The piano leads us upstairs.
The melody is beautiful at first.
Then it accelerates.
Maya sits at the piano.
Her posture is perfect. Too perfect.
Her fingers move faster and faster, blurring as they strike the keys relentlessly. Behind her stands her mother, hands clasped, eyes sharp.
"You must never slow down," her mother says calmly. "Fear is weakness."
"Yes, Mother."
The tempo increases.
Blood appears.
At first, it's just a smear.
Then a drip.
Then a stream.
Maya's fingers are splitting open, skin tearing as they grind against the keys. Red stains the ivory, soaking into the music itself.
She doesn't stop.
"You're rushing," her mother snaps.
Her hand slams down on the piano.
"That was not perfection."
"I'll be better," Maya whispers.
"No food today."
The piano screams.
Camron reaches her—
And the world collapses again.
Darkness swallows us whole.
The piano floats in the void, Maya still playing, blood raining down into nothingness. Shadows coil around her, whispering failure, disappointment, worthlessness.
"I have to," she sobs. "If I stop, she'll hate me."
Camron fights through the pressure, every step agony. He grabs her wrists.
"Maya," he says, voice shaking. "Look at your hands."
She looks.
Really looks.
The piano shatters.
The darkness screams.
The fear recoils.
We're thrown back onto the path as Maya collapses into Camron's arms, shaking, broken, alive.
Somewhere far below, Gashadokuro no Ōkami watches.
Waiting.
Learning.
And smiling.