Sandra had never known true silence until now.

  It was not the quiet of an empty room or the hush of snowfall in winter. It was not the fragile peace that settled over Black Hollow before dawn, nor the deadened stillness that had filled the town when they first returned. No, this was something else entirely.

  This was the kind of silence that listened. The kind that waited. The kind that came before something irreversible.

  She stood frozen in the town square, the warped remnants of Black Hollow stretching around her in a nightmare parody of what it had once been. The buildings had twisted themselves into impossible shapes, leaning toward the center of town like gnarled fingers reaching for her, their doors yawning open into cavernous voids that had not been there before. The cobblestones beneath her feet breathed, shifting subtly like something enormous and unseen had begun to stir beneath the earth.

  And the cult—the things in the black robes that had once been men—had finally moved.

  They stood in a perfect circle now, their hoods tilted downward, hands clasped in silent reverence. They had never been the true power in this town, but they had served something that was. And now, that something had come to claim what was promised.

  Sandra's breath came fast and shallow, her heart slamming against her ribs as she took a slow, careful step back. She had spent so much time fearing the Market, running from it, imagining its presence as something distant and untouchable.

  But now it was here, woven into the bones of Black Hollow itself, bleeding through the walls, curling through the air like an unseen hand reaching for her throat.

  The Market wasn't just a place. It had never been just a place. It had been alive. And now, it was ready to feed. A single figure stood at the center of the robed cultists. Tall. Unmoving. Draped in the deepest black. The same figure that had spoken in the Market. The one who had demanded payment. The one who had opened the gate.

  Sandra's stomach clenched. She did not want to hear its voice again.

  But it spoke anyway. "You have run long enough." The words came from everywhere and nowhere, filling the space around her, slithering into her ears like something physical, something real. "You were promised." Sandra shook her head. Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching for a weapon, for something to hold onto, but she had nothing. No knife. No escape.

  Nothing but the truth, curling its way into her mind like a sickness. This had never been about the children they had stolen. It had never been about the trade, or the rules, or the weight of the deals they had made. This had always been about her.

  The Market had been waiting for her. Sandra forced herself to move. Her feet felt like they were sinking into the stones, the ground clinging to her with invisible fingers, pulling, dragging, claiming. She gritted her teeth, shoving through it, stumbling backward as her eyes darted to the only person who might still save her.

  "Lea—" The name caught in her throat. Because Lea was gone. The memory of her still burned behind Sandra's eyes, the image of Maddox tearing into her flesh, the wet sound of ribs breaking, of teeth crunching, of blood painting the streets in thick, dark ribbons.

  But the part of her that had still hoped that maybe, somehow, she had survived? That part died now. Lea had been a warning. A message. No one escapes the Market.

  Sandra's pulse slammed against her ribs. She turned wildly, eyes darting through the nightmare that had become her home, searching for any way out. And then she saw her. Standing just outside the circle of the cultists, watching with that same, infuriatingly patient expression, lips curled into a knowing smile: Gemini. Sandra's stomach twisted.

  She wasn't afraid. Not even a little. She hadn't run. She hadn't fought. She had stood there, waiting, watching, like this had always been the plan. Sandra's voice broke. "You knew."

  Gemini didn't deny it. Didn't pretend. She only sighed, tilting her head as if she was bored of watching her struggle. "Of course I did." Sandra's nails dug into her palms. "Why?" Gemini smiled. Not wide. Not cruel. Just certain. "Because you are the final offering."

  The words settled over the town like a death sentence.

  The cultists inhaled in unison. The Market exhaled. And the ground beneath her feet split open. Sandra screamed as the stones cracked, as the earth beneath Black Hollow yawned apart like something splitting at the seams, revealing a void beneath—a deep, pulsing, breathing darkness that was not absence, not emptiness, but something else entirely.

  Something alive. She tried to move. Tried to run. But the void had her now. The Market had waited long enough. And it would not let her go. Sandra was falling.

  Not through air, not through space, but through something thicker. Something that stretched and pulled at her like unseen hands, grasping at her limbs, wrapping around her ankles, winding through her ribs. It wasn't gravity that dragged her down—it was hunger. The Market had opened. And now, it was swallowing her whole.

  She gasped, twisting in midair, trying to reach for something—anything—but there was nothing solid, nothing real, only the vast, yawning blackness beneath Black Hollow that had been waiting for her.

  The town above had vanished. No buildings. No roads. No sky. Only Gemini's voice, echoing from somewhere above, distant and amused, laced with something almost tender. "You should stop fighting, little bird."

  Sandra clenched her teeth, her nails biting into her palms, her body twisting against the pull. She wouldn't stop. She wouldn't let it take her—not like this. Not when she still didn't understand. She had spent so long fearing the Market, running from it, believing it to be a place, a thing—something with walls, with borders, something she could escape.

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  But it had never been that. It had never been something you left.

  Because the Market wasn't a place. It was a body. A thing that lived and breathed, that waited and whispered, that bargained and fed. And now, she was its final meal.

  The air—or whatever this was—tightened around her, the weight pressing deeper, forcing its way into her lungs. Sandra tried to breathe, but there was no air, only the thick, wet pulse of something alive. The Market was breathing her in.

  She choked. Then she felt the impact. Not a slam. More like she was pressed down, pinned, absorbed into something vast and endless. The darkness wasn't empty. It was moving. Shifting.

  The walls—if they could even be called walls—undulated like the inside of something's ribs, stretching and contracting in a slow, terrible rhythm.

  Sandra pushed up onto her elbows, gasping, her fingers sinking into the floor—no, not the floor. The flesh. The Market was made of flesh. Her stomach lurched, bile rising in her throat as she staggered to her feet, the ground shifting beneath her, pulsing in time with something deeper. It was wet. Warm. The scent of salt and copper filled her lungs, thick and suffocating, wrapping around her ribs like the promise of something ancient. She wasn't alone.

  She felt them before she saw them. Figures. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands.

  Some were whole, standing silent, still, their bodies pressed into the living walls of this place, their eyes open but unseeing, their mouths hanging slack like marionettes waiting for their strings to be pulled.

  Others were half-there—arms fused to the walls, torsos stretching into the floor, faces disappearing into the shifting mass like they had been swallowed alive and had never stopped screaming.

  And then there were the ones that were still moving. They crawled. Twisted. Shifted through the darkness like shadows given form, their limbs too long, their hands too many, their eyes gleaming with the hunger that had built this place. Sandra's breath came in short, sharp gasps. This was what the Market had been feeding. The realization hit her like a blade to the ribs, carving through her thoughts with cold, surgical precision.

  It had never been about goods. Never been about gold, or trinkets, or even the bodies they had sold. The Market had never been trading. It had been growing. And every life it had taken, every deal it had made, had been for one purpose—to make this.

  To make itself.

  Sandra staggered backward, slipping against the wet, pulsing ground. "No," she whispered, her voice too thin, too weak, vanishing into the heavy, waiting air. "No, no, no—"

  A hand touched her shoulder. Sandra whirled, heart hammering against her ribs, eyes wild— And there she was. Gemini. Standing calm, composed, utterly at home in the middle of this nightmare, her expression soft, fond, like a mother watching a child take their first steps. She didn't flinch when Sandra wrenched away from her and didn't react to the fear in Sandra's eyes.

  She only smiled. "I told you," Gemini murmured, tilting her head just slightly. "You were always meant to be here." Sandra shook her head, taking another stumbling step back. "You knew." Her voice cracked, raw and furious. "This whole time, you knew."

  Gemini sighed, almost wistful. "Of course." Sandra's hands curled into fists. "You lied to me." Gemini's gaze softened, like she truly, genuinely pitied her. "No, Sandra," she whispered. "I just never told you the truth." Sandra's stomach turned. "Why?" Gemini stepped forward, her bare feet making no sound against the pulsing flesh beneath them.

  "Because you weren't ready." Sandra's breath caught. "For what?" Gemini reached out, her fingers almost gentle as they brushed Sandra's cheek. "To understand."

  Sandra shoved her away. "Understand what?"

  Gemini only smiled. And the Market breathed. A slow, heavy exhale rippled through the space around them, making the walls tremble, the figures shift, and the crawling things pause and turn toward them. Sandra felt it then. Not fear. Not anger. Not even grief. Just acceptance.

  She had never been escaping. She had been walking toward this moment her entire life. And now, the Market had finally, finally come to collect. The Market exhaled again. A slow, wet breath that rolled through the cavernous dark, heavy, and damp, curling around Sandra's limbs, seeping into her lungs, pressing against her skin like invisible hands wrapping, squeezing, claiming.

  She staggered backward, shifting mass beneath her, but there was nowhere to go—only the endless, breathing blackness, the undulating walls of flesh that surrounded them, stretching, shifting, waiting. Gemini stood still. Unbothered. Serene.

  Sandra's breath came in shallow gasps, her fingers shaking, her pulse hammering against her ribs like a trapped thing desperate to escape. But there was no escaping. Not anymore. Because Gemini had never been a prisoner here.

  She had never been trapped, never been caught in the Market's grip, never been another pawn like Sandra had believed. No, she had been something else entirely. Something worse. Sandra's voice cracked, raw, and trembling. "You—" She swallowed, shaking her head violently. "You made this."

  Gemini's lips curled, slow and knowing. She tilted her head slightly, watching Sandra with the kind of patience a mother might have for a child throwing a tantrum—amused, indulgent, unshaken. "You're only just realizing?" Sandra's stomach twisted.

  No, this wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

  The Market was old. Ancient. It had always existed, always lurked beneath the world, hidden in the cracks between reality, feeding on those foolish or desperate enough to bargain with it. It was bigger than Gemini. It was bigger than everything.

  And yet, as she stood there, staring into Gemini's dark, glinting eyes, into the smug, almost fond expression she wore, the certainty Sandra had always clung to—the belief that the Market had simply been there—began to unravel. Gemini sighed, taking a slow step forward. "You still don't understand, do you?"

  Her voice was smooth, lilting, touched with a quiet amusement that made Sandra's skin crawl. "The Market didn't just happen. It didn't rise from nothing. It didn't form out of the air, out of the dark, out of hunger."

  She stepped closer and Sandra flinched. Gemini's smile deepened, and she whispered, "I built it." Sandra froze. Her stomach twisted. Her thoughts buckled. Her knees almost gave out beneath her. "No," she whispered. "You—" She shook her head frantically, voice breaking. "You couldn't." Gemini's gaze gleamed. "But I did. And your Family loved to help."

  Sandra's breath hitched, and she felt it then—the weight of it, the truth sinking into her bones like rot spreading through wood. The Market wasn't some ancient thing. It wasn't some nameless, faceless entity lurking in the shadows of the world. It had been created. It had been built. Brick by brick, bone by bone, bargain by bargain. And Gemini had done it.

  Sandra shook her head, her hands trembling, her entire body recoiling from the knowledge, from the sheer wrongness of it. "Why?" she gasped. "Why would you—" Gemini hummed softly, tilting her head. "Because I was hungry."

  The words settled into the air like poison, curling into Sandra's ribs, burning. She had spent so long fearing the Market, hating it, blaming it for everything it had taken from her—her home, her freedom, her family. But it hadn't been the Market.

  It had never been the Market. It had been her.

  Sandra's hands curled into fists. "You lied to me."

  Gemini's expression flickered with something almost genuine—a small tilt of the mouth, a half-sighed breath, the closest thing to regret that Sandra had ever seen from her. "I didn't lie," Gemini murmured.

  "You never asked the right questions." Sandra's vision blurred with rage. "You let me believe—" Her breath shuddered out of her, raw and furious. "You let me believe we were trapped here. That we were victims. That we had to escape."

  Gemini's gaze darkened. "We were trapped," she said quietly. Sandra flinched. "What?" Gemini exhaled, slowly and measured. "I built the Market," she murmured. "I shaped it, I fed it, I made it strong. But I was never supposed to leave." Her eyes flickered, something old shifting beneath them.

  "And neither were you." Sandra's stomach twisted. "What are you talking about?" she demanded. Gemini smiled—small. Sharp. Sad. "The Market was always meant to have us," she whispered. "We're not just its creators. We're its final offering."

  The world lurched. Sandra stumbled back, her lungs squeezing tight, her pulse slamming against her ribs like a war drum.

  No, this wasn't happening. Gemini had brought her here. Gemini had led her to this moment. But Sandra was the offering. She was the final piece. She was what the Market had been waiting for. The realization hit her all at once, cold and sick and suffocating. Her entire life had been a path to this. Every choice she had made, every step she had taken—it had all led her here. To be fed. Sandra screamed. She lunged, fist flying, aiming straight for Gemini's face.

  But Gemini didn't move.

  She only smiled.

  And the Market swallowed Sandra whole.