The thirteenth sublevel of ARK-A is a deep, sterile labyrinth of reinforced corridors built for the highest-priority subjects. It is a place where science and horror intertwine, where beings of myth, nightmare, and anomaly are locked away for study—or destruction. The air is thick with chemical sterility, and an artificial coolness bites into flesh like unseen fangs.

  A long steel corridor stretched before Simon Brownlee. Each door was numbered and sealed, and its reinforced bulkheads were adorned with black sigils warning of the horrors within. The walls pulsed faintly with unseen energy fields—anti-phenomena countermeasures designed to suppress whatever lurked inside.

  Technicians in pale blue lab coats, armed guards, and masked doctors roamed between doors, logging data, reinforcing restraints, and sedating those who struggled. This was where legends died, only to be reborn as subjects of experiment.

  The Charred Man (The Tormented Soul) - A living husk, a man burned beyond recognition yet still alive. His body crackled like embers, his breath a whisper of soot. The legend says he is the first man burned at the stake as a witch, cursed to never truly die.

  Simon passes him with pride—this was one of his finest acquisitions.

  The Maw (The Dark Observer) - A shapeless black mass, filled with gaping mouths and glistening, shifting eyes. A remnant of a shadow deity from forgotten myth, it whispers secrets that no human mind can bear.

  Simon acknowledges it briefly, the thing behind the glass staring back.

  The Strangled Widow (The Weeping Woman) - A floating specter, her face eternally shrouded by a bloodstained veil. Legend tells of a woman who drowned herself after her husband’s murder, cursed to haunt those who invoke her name. She scratches at the walls when no one is looking.

  Simon enjoys her suffering.

  The Rustborn (The Crawling Chaos) - An inhuman fusion of flesh and rusted metal, a creature that should not exist, yet moves with agonizing certainty. It originated from an urban legend of a ghostly train, appearing to claim those who strayed onto abandoned tracks.

  Simon glares at it in disgust, its existence a failure of logic.

  The Gilded Beast (The Devourer) - A monstrous golem forged from cursed gold, its body engraved with ancient Mesopotamian inscriptions. It is said to be the original Golden Calf, reformed from molten sacrifice, still hungry for worship.

  Simon sneers, hating its arrogance.

  The Wraith Child (The Forsaken) - A frail, featureless child, clad in a black burial gown. It appears in the dreams of those who see it, whispering their sins back to them. A remnant of the “nameless children” erased from history—those born, but never recorded.

  Simon shakes his head—he despises the weak.

  The Drowned Prince (The Betrayed) - A man-like figure, forever gasping for air, his skin pale blue, his ribs shattered. A former ruler thrown into the sea by his men, cursed to return, bringing the tides with him.

  Simon barely glances at him, indifferent.

  The Hollow Stag (The False King) - A skeletal beast with massive antlers, its body hollow, filled with unnatural whispers. A forgotten pagan god, unseated by new faiths. It hates humans, speaking only in riddles.

  Simon ignores it—it serves no purpose to him.

  The Unspoken (The Twisted Prophet) - A frail monk-like figure, his mouth sewn shut, his eyes gouged out. He knows the future, but to speak it aloud would be an abomination. The Vatican tried to erase him, but he persisted.

  Simon does not care for his prophecies.

  Project Helios (The Eternal Light) - A blazing sphere of molten luminescence, shifting between states of brightness and near-invisibility. It does not speak unless it wishes to, and when it does, its words shape reality.

  Unlike the others, Simon adores this one.

  The Bone Harbinger (The Ferryman) - A robed, skeletal figure without a face, dragging a chain of human skulls. It waits for those who are marked for death, appearing in their reflections before they vanish from the world.

  Simon pays no mind—death is nothing new to him.

  The Bloodless Bride (The Hollow One) - A bride in a tattered wedding dress, her face an empty void. Those who see her in their dreams will wake up missing their reflection. A legend from Romania, her victims become as hollow as she is.

  Simon finds her existence pointless.

  The Forgotten God (The Nameless One) - A mass of shifting bones, forming new shapes with every movement. It was a god once worshiped, now erased from all records. For now, it's blind, stupid, and powerful only inside its hive mind. To say its name is to bring it back to its senses.

  Simon avoids looking at this one.

  Simon stops at Containment Room 10, his eyes filled with admiration, coffee in hand. Unlike the other subjects, Helios does not blind him.

  “Good day, Helios...” Simon says in an uppity tone, peering through the reinforced glass. “Have you been causing problems through the night, keeping everyone awake?”

  Helios does not respond immediately. Instead, the glowing orb of shifting brilliance hums softly. When it speaks, its voice is a chorus, echoing and discordant.

  “This night must pass as all nights must. The man of bone shall turn to dust. The Kingdom of Night shall be no more when Helios crosses through Death’s Door.”

  A laugh, sharp and manic, echoes within the chamber. Simon’s lips curl into a knowing smile.

  “That’s right, Helios... When you eradicate Night, you will bring forth eternal Day.” He lifts his coffee. “But before that can happen, we must know how to open Death’s door.”

  Helios pulses—shifting violently, bouncing across the chamber, its glow brightening like a second sun. The temperature rises.

  “Speak for Three, and it shall be. Speak the Name, never in vain. A secret kept hidden and lost. A price will be paid, no matter the cost. Thrice it must be said, clear and plain. To enter the Realm of Death, you must speak its Name.”

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  Simon’s brow furrows, turning over the words in his mind. And then—clarity strikes like a thunderbolt.

  “Death has a name... And its name opens the door… A name?”

  He repeats, almost in awe. Helios erupts in brilliance, its intensity blinding those unprepared.

  “A Name is powerful. A Name is true. Control of a Name gives even the weak power over you… And the Son of Murder has many titles, but only one true Name...”

  Simon watches, expression unreadable.

  “And that Name… will open the door to Death.”

  “In time, Helios. In time.”

  With that, Simon Brownlee turned away from his latest conversation, stepping into the dim glow of his office, where the only true light came from the cold blue glow of the monitors. The automatic doors slid shut behind him, sealing him in solitude. His hand flicked across the console, and a familiar sequence of security footage played out before him. The same footage he had watched dozens—no, hundreds—of times. The night his ex-wife, Eliza, had committed the ultimate betrayal.

  Her breakout.

  The screen flickered, timestamping the moment: 02:37 AM. The stark fluorescence of the lab cameras cast skeletal shadows as the containment unit ruptured. A shudder of static distorted the feed as the entity manifested—a creature of bone and nightmare, its hollow sockets burning with unseen fire. The scientists had no chance to react before Eliza moved. She didn’t hesitate. She knew what she was doing.

  That was what bothered him the most.

  He rewound. Played it again. Studied her expression.

  Her eyes.

  There was no panic. No hesitation. Just resolve.

  He sneered.

  That woman... once she set her mind to something, she would never let it go. It was one of the few things he once admired about her, back when he thought she was just a pretty face with a good body.

  A fine woman back then. Damn waste.

  Simon let out a breath through his nose, tilting his chair back. He remembered what she was like when they were younger when their nights were filled with drinks, sex, and expensive hotels. That was when she knew her place. That was when she was fun. She was his, and that was fine. Until she started trying to be more. Until she got too ambitious.

  The moment she started thinking she could have a career, that she could walk beside him instead of behind him, he had lost all respect for her. And now look at her—on the run, marked for termination.

  He swiped his hand across the screen, pulling up her classified file.

  ELIZA BROWNLEE

  OFFICIAL STATUS: KILL ON SIGHT

  Five signatures authorized the order. His was the fifth.

  Simon sighed, tapping his fingers against the desk, but there was no hesitation in his decision. The Foundation did not tolerate liabilities. Anyone who exposed secrets, who jeopardized the work that could change the world, had to be erased.

  His gaze lingered on her photo.

  A younger version of her, from before their divorce.

  Long dark hair, full lips, and a sharp wit in her eyes that once intrigued him but now only irritated him. She had been beautiful. Hell, she was still beautiful. But if she had just stayed in her lane instead of trying to be something more, she wouldn’t be on the other side of that screen, waiting for the inevitable.

  He clicked away from her file, uninterested in nostalgia. He needed to focus.

  The real priority was Project Helios.

  A man appears on the screen, sitting stiffly in the observation chamber opposite Project Helios. His lab coat is crisp, his expression controlled—yet there’s sweat forming at his temples, his hands clenching the armrests of his chair in a subtle but undeniable sign of distress.

  Simon leans forward, sipping his coffee as the footage plays.

  “State your name,” the scientist says, voice trembling despite his attempt at professionalism.

  A flicker of light—a pulse of shifting gold—Project Helios vibrates in its containment field. The lights in the chamber flicker, as though it is pulling energy from the very air.

  “A Name is a chain. A chain is a prison. What is a name, if not the first cage?”

  The scientist stiffens. “You agreed to answer our questions. This is protocol.”

  Helios brightens. The feed momentarily distorts, static corrupting the visuals.

  “Protocol?” Helios muses, its voice like a chorus of whispers bleeding together. “The order imposed by the feeble? A house of paper built in a storm? Tell me, little moth, do you think your rules apply to the sun?”

  The scientist shifts uncomfortably, glancing at the monitoring team outside the chamber. A bead of sweat rolls down his cheek.

  “I am Dr. Lionel Watts,” he presses, clearing his throat. “And you are Project Helios.”

  For a moment, silence.

  Then, Helios speaks.

  “And if I called you Ash, would you burn?”

  Dr. Watts visibly swallows.

  Simon smirks, eyes glued to the screen.

  “Enough riddles,” Watts continues, straightening his posture. “You spoke before about a name. The name that opens the door to Death. Elaborate on this.”

  Helios hums. The lights dim.

  “Do you know why you dream, Lionel Watts?”

  The scientist hesitates. “That has nothing to do with—”

  “It has everything to do with it.”

  The monitors glitch violently, pixels tearing across the screen like something trying to claw its way through reality itself. A brief flicker—frames distort, warp, jitter. Then—

  Helios is there.

  No transition. No movement. Just light, burning through the frame like an image carved into the very fabric of existence.

  Dr. Watts recoils, his mouth opening—no words come. His pupils contract to pinpricks, his skin already beginning to flush red from the heat.

  And Helios speaks.

  “You and your men and women in white suits… You know nothing. You know little. Your world… is only protected because—”

  The screen cuts out.

  Screams take over.

  The video resumes this time with a different figure—Dr. Evelyn Harrow, a senior researcher, her face set in a firm, unreadable mask. She is seated across from Helios, the containment field humming faintly.

  A burning smear of light in the middle of the room—Helios drifts, its luminescence pulsing in slow, deliberate beats, like a predator toying with prey.

  Dr. Harrow keeps her voice measured. “Helios, I want to discuss the deaths of the five scientists. You killed them.”

  Helios is silent for a long moment. Then, its light twitches—stuttering in a way that seems almost amused.

  “Yes.”

  She doesn’t flinch. “Why?”

  Helios flickers erratically. Its voice is a rasping chuckle, jagged like rusted metal grinding together.

  “They asked stupid questions.”

  The lights in the chamber darken, a sickly glow radiating from Helios.

  Dr. Harrow narrows her eyes. “A question does not warrant execution.”

  Helios laughs.

  “Doesn’t it?”

  The monitor stutters again. The footage skips—cuts out—resumes.

  Dr. Harrow is wearing different clothes now, as though time has shifted. She is leaning forward, listening intently. Helios drifts, pulsing faintly.

  “At the end of this universe, there is a wall,” Helios says, its voice disturbingly calm. “That wall puts you into a box. And that box? That box is nothing but a cage. A cage that separates you from the next prison.”

  Dr. Harrow blinks. “A prison? You’re saying existence is a—”

  “All you need is a key.”

  She pauses, then leans forward. “What kind of key?”

  For a moment, stillness.

  Helios turns, its radiance shifting in slow, methodical pulses. Then—

  “You all do not listen well.”

  The lights surge.

  “Didn’t I tell you this before?”

  Dr. Harrow suddenly looks unnerved.

  Helios flickers closer. “And didn’t I tell you… I hate stupid questions?”

  The feed distorts. A screech of static.

  The room erupts in flame.

  The screen stabilizes.

  Simon Brownlee sits across from Helios, unfazed, coffee in hand, legs crossed comfortably. The contrast between his smug composure and the burning anomaly before him is almost absurd.

  Helios isn’t erratic now. It hums methodically, a slow, satisfied rhythm—like it enjoys this.

  Simon smirks. “The last nine projects I brought to you were not from your world, but we believe Project Death is.”

  A pause.

  Then, Helios stirs.

  “Death.”

  Simon watches as the light pulses unevenly, the walls glowing faintly with residual heat. Helios’s next words are not a question, but something more… like an expectation.

  “Is IT here?”

  Simon takes a sip of his coffee, nodding. “Yes. We have him contained.”

  The room darkens.

  And then—Helios laughs.

  A slow, glitching, unhinged sound.

  Simon remains neutral, but he notes something—Helios keeps calling Death ‘IT.’

  Is that intentional?

  Simon doesn’t correct him.

  Helios drifts closer, voicing a murmur that skitters like insects beneath the skin.

  “Bring it to me.”

  Simon frowns, steepling his fingers. “We cannot at this time since we do not know the effects of what would happen if Death were to break free.”

  Helios snaps upright, its glow flickering erratically.

  “You would die.”

  Simon’s expression remains passive.

  “It would kill you. And it would take your souls.”

  Simon tilts his head. “You say that with certainty.”

  Helios flickers erratically.

  “Because I know.”

  Simon watches, waiting. “He appears more powerless than others. We are in the process of removing his crown.”

  The reaction is immediate.

  Helios erupts, bouncing across the containment room with furious, erratic bursts of light. The monitors glitch and the camera distorts.

  Then, Helios stops.

  It speaks, voice eerily calm again.

  “You would do best to keep the crown sealed away.”

  Simon’s fingers tighten around his coffee cup.

  He exhales. “Are you willing to share all the information you have on Death?”

  A long, long pause.

  Then—

  “No.”

  Simon exhales slowly, placing his cup down.

  Helios flickers playfully, its form oscillating like a heartbeat.

  “But…”

  Simon’s gaze sharpens.

  “I will gladly kill Death for you.”

  The video cuts out.

  He sits back in his chair, fingers drumming against the desk, his expression unreadable.

  He exhales, then turns back to his screen, pulling up an archive of ancient texts.

  Multiversal theories. Religious apocrypha. Samaritan mythology.

  He clicks into a particular document—the Samaritan Kings List.

  His eyes narrow.

  Just how many “visitors from space” actually come from another dimension?

  He leans forward, scanning the names, and considering the implications.

  Helios knew something.

  Helios never said Death was a who.

  It called Death ‘IT.’

  What exactly had they let escape?

  And more importantly…

  Had they locked away the wrong thing?